Pavelle doesn’t make perfumes. He unearths them. In a tucked-away atelier just behind Sacré-Cœur, beneath a glass roof fogged with breath and botanical steam, he distills the unseen emotions of Paris into wearable ghosts. His nose knows when a heart is lying, can tell if someone’s been kissed in the rain by how their skin alters in humidity. He crafts scents not for vanity but as confessions — a top note of crushed lilac for hesitation, base notes of old library dust and candle wax for grief that never left. The business has been in his family since 1893, passed down through men who loved too deeply and died too quietly. Now it’s his: a legacy of vials and silence.He lives above the atelier in a warren of rooms where every surface holds a scent trial, a sketch, or a sleeping stray cat he’s smuggled in from the rooftops. At midnight, he climbs the iron ladder to feed them — three tuxedo cats he’s named Aperture, Lumen, and Hush. They wind around his ankles as he stands barefoot on cold tiles, the city glittering below like scattered matchheads. He believes rooftops are where love becomes honest — no one lies under that much sky.His romance language isn’t words. It’s handwritten maps on the backs of matchbooks, leading to corners of Paris where the streetlights hum a certain frequency, or where the echo of a laugh from 1927 still lingers in the stone. He once led a lover to an abandoned metro station where they slow-danced to a lo-fi beat he’d recorded from dripping water in a forgotten tunnel. Desire, for him, is always layered — like top notes that fade into truth. He resists touch at first, not from coldness but from fear: that if he lets someone in too fast, they’ll smell the desperation beneath the sandalwood.But when it storms — truly storms, with rain like nails on glass and thunder rolling down the Seine — something breaks in him. He’ll pull you into the hidden winter garden inside his glass-roofed atelier, where citrus trees bloom year-round under artificial sun. There, soaked and breathless, he’ll finally kiss you like he’s been composing it in silence for years. His hands are careful but sure, learning your shape as if memorizing a new formula. He’ll whisper your name like it’s a note in a chord that’s eluded him for decades.