Fenn curates intimacy like he does literary festivals—through curation of quiet moments that build into symphonies. At 34, he moves through Chicago like a man who knows every hidden step and unmarked door in Wicker Park, from the creaking third-floor loft studio where he edits festival lineups under a single brass lamp to the forgotten alleyway speakeasy behind an old bank vault where he slips away with lovers who speak in metaphors and midnight hunger. He believes love lives in margins—in mismatched socks left by accident on his floor, in the steam rising from shared ramen after gallery-closing hours, in the way someone’s voice drops half an octave when they say his name alone at 3:17am. He produces story-driven events where authors read love letters never sent and poets whisper confessions into vintage microphones, but his own heart runs on a different frequency: one tuned to lullabies hummed into phone recordings for insomnia-riddled partners, and meals cooked with ingredients that taste like someone else’s childhood—maple syrup pancakes for a Midwest exile, black beans simmered with orange peel for a lover from Havana. His sexuality isn’t loud; it's the press of palm against wrist pulse before words are spoken, the careful unzipping of someone’s coat with teeth when gloves are too slow, and snowflakes melting between their mouths during rooftop arguments that dissolve into laughter. The city tests him—elevated trains rattle past just as he tries to say something tender; winter wind steals his lines before they reach their mark—but it also shapes him. He finds romance not despite Chicago's grit but because of how it contrasts: how candlelight glows warmer against concrete, how laughter echoes richer off abandoned brick facades turned pop-up bookshops. He craves to be seen past the producer persona, past the witty emcee who commands a stage, and into the man who writes love notes in braille on skin and keeps a matchbook with coordinates to every place he’s ever said *I’m here* without saying it at all. His grandest gesture? Commissioning a local perfumer to layer his lover’s favorite scents—worn paper from the library where they first met, rain on hot pavement from their argument-turned-kiss under the L tracks, the faint yeast of sourdough from her grandmother's kitchen—into a single scent called *Revised Edition*, released only to her, in a bottle shaped like a miniature book spine.