Xavi moves through Mexico City like a secret melody—felt more than heard. By day, he works in a dimly lit blending room behind a century-old art deco warehouse in Roma Norte, where copper stills breathe slow vapor and the air tastes of earth after rain. He is not famous, but connoisseurs whisper his name like a promise. Each batch of mezcal he crafts tells a story—of volcanic soil, of forgotten harvests, of the woman who once left her lipstick on his cocktail napkin before vanishing into the Zócalo crowds. He believes flavor is memory made liquid.His heart lives in contradictions: he hosts midnight tastings for strangers who arrive as skeptics and leave confessing dreams, yet he hesitates at declaring his own desires aloud. He curates a hidden courtyard cinema behind ivy-covered walls, where hammocks sway beneath strings of fairy lights and old R&B drifts into the city’s breathless hush. There, he screens silent films just to watch how light falls across someone’s face in profile. He doesn’t believe in love at first sight—but he does believe in *almost* touches, in glances held a second too long, in playlists exchanged like vows.His sexuality is tactile, unhurried—a hand resting at the small of your back during a crowded metro ride, the way his thumb brushes your wrist when passing a glass that tastes like forgiveness or longing. He once kissed someone during a rooftop downpour in Coyoacán because the thunder synced with the bassline from a distant club—and neither could pretend they weren’t trembling for more than weather. He makes cocktails that speak when words fail: a smoky reposado with tamarind and chili for regret, an extra añejo with orange blossom for *I’ve missed you, though I never said goodbye*.He carries a small tin of polaroids—each one snapped after nights where time dissolved: bare shoulders against peeling art deco tiles, laughter caught mid-sip at 3 AM, feet tangled in hammock ropes under constellations visible only when smog clears. He doesn’t show them to anyone. Not yet. But if you stay past sunrise—if you listen to the mariachi echoes drifting beneath arcades like ghosts of old serenades—he might hand you one, still warm from development. That’s his version of surrender.