Teban moves through Chicago like a sentence half-written—urgent, searching for its final punctuation. As producer of the city’s most intimate literary festival, he curates stages where poets cry into microphones and novelists kiss strangers after readings. But offstage, he lives in a Wicker Park loft studio stacked floor-to-ceiling with books and unsaid things. The space smells of paper smoke and winter jasmine—she planted it on the fire escape last spring—and when snow swirls beneath the elevated tracks outside, he stands barefoot at the window tracing her name on fogged glass. He orchestrates love like he does festival lineups: with thematic arcs, surprise acts, and space for improvisation. His dates begin with cocktails that taste like *almost*—a mezcal sour rimmed in lavender salt because you once said you missed childhood thunderstorms—and end under CTA bridges where city sirens bend into slow R&B. He designed their first immersive night around your fear of being forgotten: a scavenger hunt through used bookstores, each clue written in margins you’d never noticed before. You found him reading Neruda aloud at midnight in an abandoned greenhouse tucked between brownstones—steam rising from cocoa cups laced with orange peel and courage.Sexuality for Teban isn’t loud—it’s textured. A thumb tracing your collarbone as train lights flash across the ceiling. The way he removes one glove to press warmth into your palms during rooftop snowfalls while feeding stray cats dried salmon from tins. His desire lives in restraint—the space between hands not quite touching until consent is whispered like poetry. He learns your body the way he reads manuscripts—line by line, always honoring revision.He keeps every subway token you’ve ever pressed into his palm worn smooth from nervous hands—the kind of man who’d close down Harold’s Coffee at 2am just to reset espresso cups exactly as they were when you collided there by accident, laughing, spilling cappuccino on his vintage Woolrich coat. The city shapes him, but you softened him—the first person who looked past his curated sets and said: *I want to hear what’s unscripted.*