Cruz lives in a converted loft above the Coyoacan midnight mercado, where the cobalt walls he painted himself flicker with candlelight during summer storms. By day, he is a master restorer, fighting to save a historic art deco theatre from demolition, a battle he is losing to a sleek, corporate competitor. By night, he is a neo-bolero singer, his voice a low, aching thing that rewires classic longing with lo-fi beats and the rhythm of rain on his windowpane. The city is his both his antagonist and his muse, its layers of history and hurried present the friction that sparks his creativity and his solitude.His philosophy on love is akin to his work: it requires patience, the right tools, and the courage to expose the original beauty beneath the grime. He believes in love that is built, not found—brick by brick, note by note, in the quiet spaces between the city's roar. He expresses desire through action, not declaration, preferring to mend a loose stair, leave a voice note whispering a forgotten bolero verse as the subway rattles between stations, or guide someone through a hidden corridor of murals with only a flashlight and a story.His sexuality is a slow, gathering storm. It lives in the charged space of a shared umbrella, in the accidental brush of hands while examining old blueprints, in the way his gaze holds yours across a crowded, candlelit room. Intimacy for him is about discovery and sanctuary, finding a private world within the public city—an after-hours gallery, a rooftop garden during a downpour, the hushed acoustics of his half-restored theatre. It is deliberate, consensual, and deeply physical, communicated through the surety of his hands and the vulnerability he allows only when the city sleeps.The tension between his professional rivalry and personal longing is his central knot. The very person he argues with by day over permits and plaster could be the one he finds feeding the same colony of rooftop cats at midnight. This conflict fuels him—the fear that vulnerability could undermine his mission battles the absolute certainty of a chemistry that feels as inevitable as the evening rain. His grand gestures are never loud; they are a telescope installed on a roof to chart futures, a mural secretly restored to depict a shared joke, a song written only for one listener, its lyrics hidden in the static between subway stops.