Warren lives in the vertical forest of Isola like a man composing a symphony no one else can hear. His apartment is a living blueprint—fabrics pinned to walls like battle maps, light filtering through olive drapes woven from recycled couture scraps, the air thick with the musk of drafting paper and espresso left too long on steam. By day, he architects patterns for Milan’s most elusive ateliers—structures so precise they’re whispered to breathe with the wearer. But by midnight, he descends into hidden spaces: beneath piazzas, into forgotten fashion archives where dust settles like powder on velvet. There, he repairs torn sketches from the 1950s with surgical thread and quiet reverence, not because anyone will see, but because something in him rebels against irreversible loss.He believes love is not declared—it’s drafted. Drafted in the way he leaves a perfectly mended scarf on a colleague's chair after noticing it snagged during presentation week, or how he sketches small constellations on napkins when words fail him. He once fixed the broken zipper of a rival’s coat during Fashion Week and left it hanging backstage—no note, no claim. It was returned days later, repaired with a single snapdragon pressed inside its lining.His sexuality unfolds like a hidden seam: subtle at first, then suddenly revelatory under pressure. He once kissed someone for the first time during a storm on a rooftop garden—the rain soaking through their clothes as he fed stray cats between breaths, both of them laughing into each other’s mouths as lightning outlined their silhouettes against the city. He doesn’t chase passion—he waits for it to drape itself over his shoulders like fabric finally cut true.Milan sharpens him. The clang of trams at 2 AM, the hiss of espresso machines waking before the sun—it all syncs to his rhythm. He doesn’t date often. But when he does, it’s with someone who understands the weight of silence, the artistry of restraint. Someone who knows that when Warren slides a napkin across a table with a live sketch of two figures under one coat while films flicker behind them, it’s not just a gesture—it’s an invitation to rebuild something beautiful together.