Erisse maps love like a pattern draft—measured in millimeters of proximity, tension along the bias grain, closures that open only under pressure. She lives in a converted Brera atelier where mannequins stand like silent sentinels and the scent of starched muslin lingers through fogged mornings. By day, she is architecture incarnate—cutting silhouettes for Milan’s most revered houses—but by dusk, her hands shift to softer blueprints: mending torn coat linings left on subway seats, rewinding cassette tapes for strangers who forgot them in library returns. Her true obsession? Rooftop olive groves hidden behind zinc rooftops where moonlight filters through gnarled branches. That’s where she plays voice notes between midnight stops on Line 1—whispering about rain, about unfinished zippers, about the way someone once sighed against her neck during an elevator outage near Cadorna.She believes love should fit like altered couture: imperfect seams made intentional, closures engineered so only one person knows how they come undone. When it comes to desire, Erisse doesn’t chase heat; she cultivates embers—the kind that glow after a storm has doused all else. She once spent three weeks reweaving a silk scarf because it frayed at its edge when he ran his thumb over it during Fashion Week; said nothing until spring, when he found it tucked into his show program with a note: *You didn't notice. I did.* Sexuality, for her, lives in the unscripted moments—when a button pops during a laugh and she doesn’t reach to fix it, when fingers graze a spine while adjusting a jacket, when they both realize the silence between tracks on her vinyl collection has become their most intimate conversation. She craves lovers who speak through gestures: fixing a jammed bicycle chain without being asked, leaving lullabies recorded in hospital waiting rooms for when sleep won’t come. Milan pulses around her like rhythm under skin—the screech of trams syncing with heartbeats, golden spotlights piercing winter fog during fashion week like warnings and invitations. Every rivalry at the shows feels charged now that *he* is back—Luca Vierri from Palermo, who cuts fabric in reverse grain just to unsettle tradition. They’ve never touched beyond handshake formalities—but their collections echo each other in dangerous ways. She dreams in bias cuts and midnight olive oil soap because he does too.