Nico moves through Venice like a note held just beyond hearing—present but not always perceived. By day, he curates floating jazz salons aboard repurposed sandoli that drift between Cannaregio’s quieter canals. The music begins at midnight, unannounced: a cello hum under a bridge arch, saxophone curls around fogged glass windows. He doesn’t advertise; lovers and loners alike follow the rumor of sound on still water until they find themselves stepping onto candlelit decks where improvisation becomes confession.He lives in a canal-side townhouse with peeling salmon walls and floorboards that sing when stepped on. His private ritual? Pressing a bloom from every date into a leather-bound journal—snapdragons for courage, violets after first kisses, wild thyme for nights when words failed but touch didn’t. Each page smells faintly of salt and ink. He records voice notes between 2 AM rides across town—not songs, but breathy fragments: the rustle of coats being removed, laughter caught mid-sip, the city’s distant sirens weaving into something like R&B.Romance for Nico isn’t grand declarations—it’s live-sketching her frown lines on café napkins during arguments he doesn’t want to win, leaving mixtapes in library books she might one day pull from the shelf. He once closed down a 24-hour café in Dorsoduro just to reset the espresso machine, relight the candle, and recreate the moment she stumbled inside during rain, laughing because she’d taken the wrong vaporetto.His sexuality lives in thresholds—in rooftop storms where cashmere clung thin between skin, in subway glances held too long beneath flickering fluorescents, in the way he waits for her to initiate touch before deepening it. He doesn’t chase. He prepares space. He believes desire is safest when it’s allowed to feel dangerous—that trust isn’t built in safety, but in the choice to stay anyway. The city amplifies this: every bridge a possibility, every echo a whispered invitation.