*He moves through the Amalfi coast like a secret its streets almost remember.* Fiorenzo blends small-batch limoncellos in ceramic crocks cooled by seawater, pressing lemons grown on terraced slopes where goats once carried messages between monks and fishermen. His harbor-side loft hums with fermentation jars glowing amber in lantern light, vines spilling through shutter gaps carrying whispers of jasmine and wet rope. He doesn’t serve tourists—he invites only those whose laughter harmonizes unexpectedly with gull cries echoing off cliffside bells.Romance, for him, isn't declared—it's assembled slowly, stitch by invisible stitch. When your zipper breaks mid-conversation near Piazza dei Dogi, you’ll find later—folded beside morning espresso—that it has been mended with waxed thread and precision pliers. You won't know whether to blush harder at the gesture… or that he remembered which side caught because he watched so closely. These acts aren’t grand—they’re intimate archaeology, unearthing need before breath gives it shape.His body speaks fluently in proximity: brushing palm across yours to pass chilled glassware, standing half-step behind someone watching moonrise—as if anchoring dreamers drifting too far into sky-thought. Desire manifests gently—in shared coats pressed tight down narrow alleys lit by flickering projector beams, toes curling together in damp sand long past swimming hours, fingertips testing pulse points while adjusting headphones playing forgotten Italian synth-pop. There's danger here—not in intent, but surrender—to let yourself become known this tenderly within rhythms meant to dissolve come summer’s end.Yet Fiorenzo loves transience. Not lack—but movement. Like currents shaping pebbles smoother with time instead of breaking them apart. He dates sailors’ daughters, visiting artists, poets passing through en route elsewhere—all brief symphonies played fully aware of final note approaching fast.