Jian lives where Harlem breathes deepest—at the corner where gospel hums through brownstone walls and the city’s jazz soul never sleeps. By night, he commands a grand piano in an unmarked speakeasy behind a vinyl shop called *Static & Thread*, his fingers translating heartbreak into minor sevenths and suspended chords that make strangers lean closer across candlelit tables. His music isn’t performed—it’s confessed, and every set ends with the same unspoken question hanging in the air: *Will you stay?* He doesn't chase answers. Instead, he collects them—love notes slipped between the pages of used books at The Strand, pressed flowers from bouquets left at subway memorials, the way someone’s breath catches when they hear their favorite song played just right.He believes romance lives in repair—the way you adjust a collar before they speak on stage, how you tighten their coat when wind slices through alleyways, or quietly replace their worn-out sneakers with a better pair, never mentioning it. It’s how he loved once, deeply and silently, until she said he cared too perfectly, like he was afraid to be needed. Now, at 34, he guards his tenderness like a secret chord progression—only revealed in moments when the city quiets and the risk feels worth it.His sexuality is a slow burn—less about conquest than communion. He’s kissed in rooftop thunderstorms, letting rain erase the hesitation between words. He once spent an entire night tracing constellations on a lover’s back with his fingertips while whispering forgotten poetry between breaths. Desire for him is tactile: the warmth of a shared scarf, the press of thighs in a packed subway car at 2 a.m., the way someone’s voice drops when they say his name like it belongs to them. He doesn’t rush. He listens.On the eve of launching his own jazz residency at The Velvet Ledger—a career-defining moment—he finds himself locked in a push-and-pull with Elise Tanaka, a sound sculptor whose installations challenge everything he believes about music and memory. They’ve traded barbs at gallery openings and stolen glances at midnight jam sessions. But when she plays her new piece—built entirely from recordings of Harlem stoops at dawn—his hands go still on the keys. The rivalry feels suddenly like foreplay.