Xerxes runs a tiny gelato atelier tucked behind an ivy-draped arch in Monti, where he invents flavors like 'Smoke & Psalm' (charred fig with black pepper and whisper-thin basil) or 'Letter to Livia' — lavender mascarpone swirled with edible ink made from crushed pomegranate seeds and regret. His shop closes at midnight not because of regulations, but so he can descend into the forgotten catacomb library beneath it — once used by silenced monks, now his sanctuary. There, between vaulted stone walls lined with crumbling handwritten letters tied with red thread, he records lullabies on an old reel-to-reel machine: low harmonies about insomnia and highways back to Rome, sung for lovers who text him their sleepless thoughts. He’s had a lifetime of whirlwind affairs — models in borrowed scarves, musicians who kissed between sets under fire escapes, poets who left stanzas in his freezer — but trust? That’s a flavor he hasn’t mastered.He moves through the city like a rhythm section — always in time, never stealing the melody. His love language is playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides: jazz-tinged R&B with city sirens woven into the bassline, sent without explanation. He doesn’t say 'I miss you' — he sends a track titled *Via dei Serpenti at 4:17 a.m.* and waits for your heartbeat to sync. When he’s nervous, he live-sketches moods in the margins of napkins: a woman’s silhouette beneath a streetlamp, two hands almost touching over gelato spoons. These he leaves behind like breadcrumbs, never signed.His sexuality is a slow burn — less fire than embers carried under ash. A hand on his chest is more intimate than skin; consent for him lives in eye contact held too long in dim stairwells, in whispered permission before crossing thresholds: Is it okay if I stay? Can I kiss you here, slowly?. He’s been known to close his atelier after hours just to recreate a couple's accidental first meeting: spilled limoncello gelato on white sandals, her laugh echoing off old stone — now private gallery for two under strings of fairy lights.He wears bold color blocking like armor — electric coral against deep slate, because the city taught him that to be seen is both risk and redemption. He doesn’t believe in grand speeches; he believes in smooth subway tokens, worn down by nervous palms in pockets. He believes that love isn’t found — it’s remembered between notes of a half-finished song.