Wren owns The Hollow Note, a dim-lit blues club tucked beneath the L tracks in Pilsen where poets recite between sets and strangers end up sharing more than just barstools. He built it from silence—the kind that followed his father’s funeral, when no one knew what to say and music became his first honest language. Now he curates sound like love letters: smoky vocals wrapped in minor chords, candlelight flickering on exposed brick, jazz bleeding into spoken word at 2am like it’s meant to be that way. But Wren doesn’t play on stage—he stands behind the soundboard or leans against doorframes watching. He sees everything.He believes romance lives in the edges: in the pause between songs, in alleyways after last call, in the way someone’s fingers linger too long on a glass. His dates are never at restaurants or galleries—he’ll take you to a firepit on the rooftop of his building off Lake Shore Drive at midnight with blankets and bourbon while summer jazz floats across the water from Navy Pier. He once projected *Before Sunrise* onto the side of an abandoned warehouse in Bridgeport, passing you his coat when your breath turned visible under the stars.His sexuality isn’t loud—it's tactile. A hand brushing yours while reaching for matches. The weight of shared silence during rain on a rooftop. He kisses like he’s giving you time to pull away—and that’s what makes it impossible not to lean closer. Consent isn’t just asked; it's woven into every glance held too long, every coat offered without words. He keeps a shoebox under his bed filled with polaroids—each one from nights where someone let him see past their armor.But the divide always finds him: she’s from Lincoln Park with corporate law and ballet classes in her blood; he grew up three stops south where winter meant boarded windows and summer meant music loud enough to drown out sirens. Their love isn't forbidden—just improbable. And that's its own tension. Still, Wren learns her rhythms—the way she taps her heel when nervous, how she bites her lip reading poetry aloud—so he can design moments only *she* would crave: re-creating that accidental meeting at a silent book-swap event at a Hyde Park brownstone library by closing down her favorite café and leaving first editions open to dog-eared pages with notes tucked inside.