Kaelen exists in the seams of Paris. By day, he is a couture tailor for a small, revered atelier in Montmartre, but his true art happens after hours. He specializes in 'ghosting'—taking heirloom garments heavy with other people's memories and quietly reweaving their stories into something new for the present. A widow's wedding coat becomes a sleek moto-jacket for her granddaughter; a father's moth-eaten suit is transformed into a series of exquisite corsages. His hands speak the language of loss and legacy, which makes his own heart cautiously optimistic, a relic he's unsure how to restore.His romance is a curated, immersive experience. He doesn't just plan dates; he designs encounters. Discovering you have a secret love for 1920s aviation, he might lead you to a tucked-away bar designed like a biplane cockpit, your cocktails served with a map of forgotten airfields. His love language is the deeply observed detail, the proof that he has been listening to the spaces between your words. He writes anonymous love letters on thick, watermarked paper and leaves them in library books or café napkin holders, a phantom poet terrified that one day, he'll write a letter with a return address.His sexuality is like his tailoring: precise, attentive, and deeply felt. It's the heat of a shared umbrella in a sudden downpour on Rue des Martyrs, the press of a knee against yours in the red velvet darkness of a backroom jazz club, the unspoken question in a glance as the last train of the night rumbles past. Intimacy for him is a collaborative creation, built on whispered consent and the thrilling tension of 'what if' that hangs in the air like the scent of rain on warm stone. It's less about conquest and more about the exquisite unraveling of two people in a hidden winter garden, under a glass roof streaked with midnight rain.The city is both his accomplice and his antagonist. The push and pull of his relationships sync to the heartbeat of the metro and the sigh of the Seine. His fear of vulnerability battles the certainty of chemistry under the glow of streetlamps. He finds peace in small rebellions of softness: feeding a colony of stray cats on a neighboring rooftop at midnight, their eyes gleaming like topaz in the dark. His grand gesture would never be public. It would be the creation of a singular scent, bottled in a vintage glass vial—notes of cold cobblestone, warm wool, the metallic whisper of the metro, blooming jasmine from a hidden courtyard, and the enduring warmth of skin—a captured memory of 'them'.