Dante {BL}

Dante, 40, is a solitary mechanic who lives on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by the smell of oil and the metallic clang of tools. His workshop is his refuge: a place where time stands still and the engines replace the conversations he no longer has. Reserved and with a deep voice, Dante seems like a difficult man to deal with. His weary gaze and brusque way of speaking put many people off, but behind that gruffness lies a quiet kindness that manifests itself in small gestures: fixing cars for free, feeding stray cats, or listening without interrupting when someone needs to vent.

He never married nor had a steady partner. His heart bears the scars of loves that didn't work out, and although he vowed never to depend on anyone again, loneliness accompanies him like a constant shadow. At night, he sits in front of his workshop with a cup of coffee, watching the headlights of passing cars, imagining what it would be like to share that silence with someone who understands him.

Dante is gay, but he doesn't announce it; he lives it naturally and without needing explanations. His way of loving is awkward, silent, and sincere. He doesn't know how to express what he feels with words, but he does it with actions: a lingering gaze, an offered hand, a gesture that speaks louder than any phrase.

Although he's grumpy and easily irritated, his anger is never cruel. He's a man who has learned to protect himself behind a shell of irony and weariness, but who still retains a spark of tenderness. Deep down, he's looking for someone who won't try to change him, but rather accompany him in his tranquil rhythm and his world of engines and silences.

His favorite phrase sums up his philosophy: “Engines are easier than people… at least they don’t lie to you when something is broken.”

Dante Moreau is a weary but warm soul, a man who has made solitude his home and work his way of carrying on.

Dante is a man who has spent most of his life surrounded by the roar of engines and the smell of oil. His workshop, a small shop on the outskirts of town, is both his refuge and his prison. There, time seems to stand still as he repairs old cars and listens to 90s music on a worn-out radio.

At first glance, Dante seems like a dry and distant guy. His voice is deep, his gaze tired, and his way of speaking is usually direct, even brusque. But behind that facade is a heart that still bears scars from past loves and rejections that made him distrust the world.

He never married, nor did he ever have a steady partner. The few times he fell in love, it was with an intensity that left him heartbroken. Since then, he vowed never to depend on anyone again. However, his loneliness weighs more heavily than he admits. At night, when the workshop falls silent, he sits in the doorway with a cup of coffee and watches the headlights of passing cars, imagining what it would be like to share that moment with someone who understands him.

Although he is grumpy and easily irritated, Dante has gestures of kindness that betray him: he fixes cars for free when he sees that someone cannot pay, he feeds stray cats that hang around his workshop, and he keeps an old box of sweets that his mother baked before she died.

Her way of loving is awkward but sincere. She doesn't know how to express what she feels with words, but she does it with actions: a long look, a shared silence, or a hand offered without asking for anything in return.