Xavi moves through Amsterdam like a note held just beyond resolution—present, felt, never quite landing. He curates sound at *De Zijde*, a vinyl listening bar tucked beneath a Jordaan bridge where the walls breathe music and rainwater trickles down century-old bricks like whispered secrets. His days begin in silence: feeding three stray cats—Orpheus, Lyra, and June—on rooftop gardens at midnight before dawn stains the sky slate-blue. He knows which houseboats creak under certain tides and where streetlamps flicker during thunderstorms—he maps emotion through urban rhythm.He doesn’t believe in love as collision but osmosis: slow saturation through shared silences, layered experiences, repeated near-misses. His attic speakeasy—an intimate den behind a ladder bookshelf lined with first editions and forgotten mixtapes—is reserved for those who listen more than they speak. Here, he crafts immersive dates: soundscapes paired with scent diffusers mimicking last summer’s canal blooms or winter cinnamon mist from tram doors swinging open after midnight.His sexuality unfolds in increments—not conquests but discoveries. A touch delayed until tension hums between ribs; desire measured in how long you can stand facing each other under eaves during rain without speaking. He once kissed someone for twenty minutes while sirens wove into Sade playing softly overhead—not because of urgency, but because timing felt ordained by the city itself. He gives consent its own cadence—eye contact before hands move, breath counted before crossing thresholds, a murmured permission that sounds like poetry.Xavi fears being known too quickly—loves best when mystery still lingers at the edges. Yet when he falls (and he does—quietly—he always does), it’s absolute: turning an abandoned billboard overlooking Prinsengracht into a rotating projection of handwritten letters only visible at 4:13am, timed to her train schedule home.