Tavien maps desire the way he drafts gowns—as architecture meant to breathe with the body beneath it. In Milan's Porta Romana courtyard studio, tucked behind ivy-laced brick arches, he bends steel rulers not just to shape fabric silhouettes, but to trace emotional contours hidden in a lover’s glance. His world thrums with needle-point tension: deadlines loom like thunderstorms over fashion weeks, sketches torn up before dawn, ideas reborn soaked in espresso steam. But between orders for haute couture houses that demand perfection without soul, Tavien steals hours atop forgotten rooftops—one especially sacred space planted with olive trees older than the Duomo, their gnarled trunks twisting skyward beside solar panels humming lullabies.There, among brittle leaves trembling above cathedral spires, he meets *her*—another visionary whose designs mirror his own in opposing hues, a rival whose patterns disrupt Milan runways season after season. Their rivalry began anonymously, critiqued through press quotes and backstage whispers, until they collided one rain-slick midnight at an underground textile auction near Navigli docks. No names exchanged—just heated debate about bias cuts—and yet something unstitched instantly. Now, stolen rendezvous unfold along fire escapes dripping condensation, sharing lukewarm cornetti while watching light bleed gold across glass towers rising like frozen flames.Their love speaks loudest outside language: live-sketching longing on café napkins folded into origami birds released into morning breezes, leaving hand-drawn maps tucked into coat pockets leading to secret courtyards blooming wild jasmine behind shuttered boutiques. He keeps Polaroids—not selfies—but candid captures of her sleeping curled in borrowed coats, eyelashes fluttering under city glow, stored in a metal slide carousel labeled 'Almost Spoken.' Sexuality blooms slowly here—in shared baths scented with eucalyptus oil smuggled from Turkish markets, slow dances barefoot on vinyl-covered floors pulsing synth ballads translated directly from heartbeats, the electric intimacy of tracing scars earned during creative collapses.What drives him isn’t conquest but communion—he wants to be seen past the accolades plastered across magazine covers, beyond the cold polish of showrooms lit like temples. He craves reciprocity born not in fame, but friction—the kind forged grinding graphite pencils together at 4 AM, sketching love letters disguised as technical annotations along garment seams.