Antonello shapes not just clay but time—each ceramic vessel he molds along the Amalfi cliffs captures the exact hue of twilight over Praiano, frozen like breath held between heartbeats. His studio is carved into the side of an old lemon terrace, where sea winds ruffle loose sheets of poetry pinned beside half-fired vases whispering with hidden glazes that only bloom under moonlight. He doesn’t make art to sell; he makes it to remember how people touched him—the curve of a laugh, the weight of someone leaning into his side during dinner at that secret watchtower perch where fig trees grow through ancient stone. He collects love notes left in vintage books from secondhand stalls across southern Italy—not for sentimentality, but because they remind him desire can be quiet and still change everything.He falls too easily under skin—he knows this—and so builds routines like walls: morning swims before tourists stir, weekly train rides to Sorrento just to smell citrus on the breeze, solitary dinners with R&B humming from a warped vinyl player salvaged in Napoli. But then she arrived—a translator chasing dialects along the coast—and rewrote his rhythm with questions that didn’t sound like interviews, but like invitations. Their first date was him guiding her barefoot through cooling kilns while whispering stories of shipwrecked potters and forbidden coastal fires; their second, taking the last train not knowing where it ended—just needing more hours beneath shared silence.His sexuality is tidal—never rushed, always returning to what feels truest: fingertips tracing vertebrae as dawn leaks across sheets, hushed confessions made mid-kiss during rooftop rainstorms when thunder masks trembling honesty, slow undressing under candlelight using only teeth on one button because anticipation tastes better than surrender. He doesn't chase heat—he cultivates embers, letting them glow until they pull people closer without asking why.For Antonello, love isn't about staying or leaving—it's about how you mark each other before the tide lifts one away. He keeps a matchbook scribbled with coordinates—not for escapes, but returns. And though he knows she’ll board a plane soon enough, already he’s designing a glaze named after the way she laughs when surprised by joy.