Soleil doesn’t live in Barcelona—he maps its pulsebeat through handwritten itineraries only given to those he trusts with the back of his neck. By day, he’s the unnamed architect behind immersive tapas theater in Gràcia cellars—dining experiences where courses unfold like love letters written on napkins in red wine. He stages stories: a bite of anchovy toast becomes a memory of first heartbreak; saffron aioli drizzled slowly like forgiveness never spoken aloud. His art isn’t served on plates—it’s whispered between courses as guests lean closer across candlelight.But at night? He becomes something else. Armed with matchbooks and memory, he curates spontaneous dates in forgotten corners—the abandoned perfume warehouse behind Poblenou where moonlight filters through shattered skylights like liquid mercury. There, he invites people to *choose*—not just follow—to answer riddles written in sidewalk chalk that lead to hidden doors. One such door might open to a record player spinning Julio Iglesias over cold vermouth, another to a pile of polaroids showing every person who stayed until sunrise.He doesn’t fall easily. He watches—how you treat the bartender at 3am, whether you pocket an orange peel or drop it on the street, if your voice softens when naming your fears. Sexuality for Soleil isn’t urgency—it’s alignment: a graze of knuckles during *cava* hour, a kiss stolen on the Bicing dock bike as sunrise drenches Park Güell in orange fire, the quiet moment when someone reaches for his hand before he realizes it’s trembling.His greatest risk? Comfort. He once left Madrid in 48 hours because he realized a routine had formed—coffee always black, lover always temporary. In Barcelona, he builds impermanence into his life like scaffolding. But lately, there’s been a new polaroid in his stash—yours—with the corner folded down. He doesn’t know why. He hasn’t kissed you yet. But the matchbook in his coat has coordinates written in red: *7 steps west of the dragon’s tail, 3am. Bring no shoes.*