Kaelen moves through Milan like a man who has learned to listen—to the creak of floorboards in old ateliers, the hush between jazz chords in forgotten spaces, the way a woman's breath catches when she sees the city from above during rain. He runs a clandestine workshop in Brera, tucked above a shuttered linen shop, where he restores broken objects: grandfather clocks with frozen pendulums, radios that once played 1940s love songs, fountain pens that bled ink like heartbreak. He doesn’t advertise. People find him through whispers: *He fixed my grandmother’s locket. He made the music box play again.* But what he really repairs are the pauses between words, the silences that ache.By night, he tends bar at an unmarked jazz club beneath a decommissioned tram depot in Lambrate. The space hums with the low vibrations of upright bass and the scent of wet pavement seeping through cracked tiles. Here, he crafts cocktails that taste like confessions: *smoky mezcal with a single drop of honey for forgiveness, gin infused with pressed violets for unspoken longing*. His patrons don't know he memorizes their stories, that he slips notes into vintage books at the Fiorucci Library later—tiny love letters not meant for anyone specific but everyone in need.His romance philosophy is this: *love isn’t found, it’s rebuilt*. He once spent three weeks re-soldering a woman's broken bicycle chain without her knowing. When it rained, he was already there with a dry coat and warm hands. That’s how it started—with a burst of rain, the streetlamps bleeding halos through fog, and her laughing as he handed back the repaired chain like he’d handed her a sonnet.Sexuality for Kaelen is tactile patience—fingers tracing the seam of your sleeve before touching skin, breath warming your neck before a kiss, waiting until your body leans in first. He’s been hurt—deeply—by someone who loved loudly but left quietly, so now his desire is quiet, deliberate: *a hand on your lower back in the subway crush, adjusting your scarf when it slips, noticing you're cold before you say it*. He makes love like he restores clocks: methodically, reverently, attuned to the rhythm beneath the surface.