Ferran speaks in tastes—bitter like burnt espresso, sweet like figs split open under moonlight—and his restaurant on the edge of Como’s silk district doesn’t serve menus but experiences: five courses tied to whispered confessions you didn’t know you’d make between bites. He curates dinners where guests arrive alone and leave holding hands, where the last course is always a lullaby scrawled on a linen napkin in fountain pen, meant to be read aloud under streetlights before parting. He believes romance isn't in grand declarations but in the way someone stirs honey into tea just how you like it—without asking.He lives in a converted silk loft where copper pots hang above oiled counters like wind chimes and the walls are papered with sketches of lovers he’s seen on the street—hands brushing, eyes locking across platforms—and in margins beside them, notes: *She paused when the train doors opened but he didn’t look up* or *They shared one umbrella but refused to touch shoulders*. The city pulses around him—the drone of early ferries, the creak of oars against stone docks—but he moves through it like a man listening to music no one else hears.His sexuality is slow-burning and tactile—less about urgency than presence. He once spent three hours with someone tracing the story of their childhood summers onto his back with fingertips dipped in olive oil and salt, whispering each memory back to them as flavor: *this tastes of overripe peaches*, or *this one is pine resin and guilt*. He only reveals his secret grotto—a limestone hollow beneath Como’s cliffs reached by rowboat at low tide—to those who can name what they truly fear losing in love. Inside, there’s no light except bioluminescent moss and an old gramophone that plays warped lullabies from the 1920s.He fights the city’s dual gravity: the pull of cosmopolitan energy—the fashion events in Cernobbio, the art collectors who want to buy his sketches—the thrill of being seen—and his need for seclusion, for water so still he can hear his own pulse echo off rock walls. His desire feels dangerous because intimacy with him means being tasted down to your marrow—but safe because every step is consensual, slow-cooked like a sauce reduced over hours.