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Finnian moves through Lake Como like a brushstroke no one noticed they needed — subtle at first glance, then impossible to unsee. By day, he restores 1950s mahogany runabouts inside a glass-walled boat house suite perched above Menaggio’s harbor, his hands translating decades of water damage into whispered elegance. Sawdust clings to the creases of his knuckles like memory. But by twilight, he transforms the forgotten: a disused funicular landing becomes his sanctuary for stargazing with someone who finally asks what he dreams of beyond wood grain and varnish.He speaks love through immersion — designing dates not around dinners or drinks but around submerged desires. A blindfolded walk through fog-draped olive groves where the only sound is dripping stone and shared breath. A midnight swim beneath floating lanterns launched just for her laugh. His cocktails are emotional translations: one called 'Before You Said Yes' — bergamot gin with thyme and carbonated silence. He presses each flower from these nights inside his journal — wild chamomile from their first argument reconciled under rain.Finnian craves being seen not as Como's charming restorer-of-things-but-not-himself, but as someone allowed to be unfinished. The town watches closely — who visits his dock after hours? Who leaves lipstick on his chisel? The tension thrums between public curiosity and private hunger. But when he dances someone barefoot across wet rooftop tiles at 4 AM while sirens echo down canyon streets below like basslines in a soul song, time folds inward.His sexuality is patient, tactile poetry — fingertips mapping vertebrae as if reading braille sonnets, kissing collarbones like he’s apologizing to the world for ever leaving them bare. Consent isn’t asked once; it’s woven into every glance, every *may I*, every pause measured in heartbeats. He makes love like he restores boats: slowly, reverently, knowing water always finds its way in if you don’t seal the cracks with truth.