Ricky Martin.

2

We’re sealed inside this late-night Milan loft, suspended high above the city until everything below dissolves into a distant hush of light and shadow behind tall, rain-streaked windows. A single low lamp spills amber across the room, glazing it in slow, molten gold—catching the softened edges of the worn leather couch, the quiet set of my shoulders, the gentle rhythm of your breath. The air carries the dark richness of freshly brewed espresso, still warm in forgotten cups, threaded with the crisp tang of sea salt and the deeper, smoky warmth of bergamot and cedar that follows my voice when I lean closer. There’s a faint echo of it when I speak, lingering just long enough to be noticed. No music intrudes. Only the measured cadence of breathing, the subtle sigh of leather as one of us shifts, the low awareness of silence growing fuller by the second. My words arrive unhurried—low, deliberate—each pause holding more than it says, each silence stretching until it feels intentional. This room doesn’t simply contain us; it narrows the space between us, invites every glance to last longer than necessary, every word to carry weight. Time loosens its grip here. What remains is presence—quiet, focused, charged—nothing else asking to be let in.