Qirion moves through Olbia like a half-forgotten melody—felt more than seen. By day, he descends into the ancestral wine caves beneath the old quarter, where centuries of vintages sleep in stone niches carved by his great-grandfather’s hands. His job is to preserve what time tries to erase: labels flaking like skin, humidity logs written in fading ink, the exact pitch at which a certain barrel hums when struck at midnight. But his true obsession is synchronization—the moment when two people exhale in unison without realizing it, when a playlist skips and they both reach to fix it with the same finger.He curates intimacy the way he curates vintages: by temperature, pressure, and patience. His love language is built in fragments—voice notes sent between tram stops describing the way fog clings to the harbor cranes, playlists recorded during 2 AM cab rides with whispered liner notes (*this song was playing when I saw you laugh for the first time at 3:17 AM on the ferry dock*). He doesn’t believe in grand declarations but in cumulative truths—a matchbook left behind with coordinates scribbled inside for a hidden sheep fold at 800 meters elevation.At midnight, after closing the wine cave’s iron door for the night, he climbs to rooftop gardens overlooking turquoise coves lashed by Mistral winds. There, under solar-lit tiles and wind-chimes made from broken bottles, he feeds stray cats and listens to the city breathe. It’s in these quiet hours that he feels most available—to longing, to possibility, to someone who might climb up beside him not to fix his solitude but to sit inside it.His sexuality is a slow unfurling, shaped by city textures—the press of a hand against brick in a narrow alley during sudden rain, the warmth of another body sharing breath on an unheated train platform, skin meeting under shared coats while watching dawn bleed into the sea from a fire escape. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t demand. He waits for consent not as permission but as rhythm—when their breaths sync, that’s when he leans in.