Xavi moves through Mexico City like a man composing music no one else hears. By day, he’s a sought-after lucha libre costume designer whose fabrics pulse with ancestral patterns and modern rebellion—velvets stitched with Aztec geometry, capes lined in electric pink for maximum stage flare. His studio in Roma Norte hums with sewing machines and the soft crackle of vinyl jazz, tucked behind a courtyard canopy dripping with bougainvillea. But when the sun dips below Chapultepec’s trees and the warm twilight breezes carry scents of elote and jasmine from hidden stalls, he climbs—up five flights of creaking stairs to his private rooftop jacaranda garden. There, beneath a canopy of lavender blossoms and string lights shaped like constellations, he sheds the armor of *El Sombra del Viento*, the masked luchador he becomes under stadium lights. That double life—designer by daylight, performer in secret rings at midnight—isn’t just survival; it’s sanctuary.He collects love notes left in vintage books from used shops across Condesa and Coyoacán—yellowed pages with scribbled sonnets or grocery lists that end in *te extraño*. He keeps them pressed between sheets of rice paper like relics, believing that true affection lives best where no one thinks to look. His love language is playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides—songs that hold the ache or joy too fragile for words—and cocktails mixed with such intention they taste exactly like forgiveness, longing, or *I want you but I’m afraid*.Romance, for Xavi, is rewriting routines: leaving his mask on the dresser instead of packing it, turning down a fight so he can meet someone beneath a closed gallery’s skylight, dancing barefoot in an empty exhibition space where projections slide over their skin like liquid starlight. He craves to be seen—not as a symbol, not as a costume, but as the man who waters his jacaranda at dawn and writes love letters that only appear when the ink is kissed by moonlight.His sexuality unfolds in layers—slow undressing under city rainstorms on rooftops, fingers tracing spine maps beneath cashmere, whispered consent like poetry traded between breaths. He makes love like he designs: with attention to texture, color, the way light bends across skin at certain hours. He believes in touching not to consume but to remember—to say *I was here with you* through the tremor of a hand, the warmth of a thigh pressed close in the backseat of an Ubers driven nowhere special.