Alina moves through Costa Smeralda like a secret the island keeps for itself—her footsteps echoing in limestone caves where wine has aged longer than cities have burned. By day, she is the curator of an ancestral cantina buried beneath emerald villas, her hands decoding centuries through scent and sediment, her voice the only one allowed to wake the oldest vintages from slumber. But by night, she becomes something more elusive: an archivist of almost-romances, pressing petals between pages alongside matchbooks inscribed with GPS markers to hidden places—mountain sheepfolds where she’s converted stone enclosures into stargazing lounges lit by salt lamps and the occasional hum of a shared playlist recorded at 2 AM in backseats.She believes desire should be treated like fermentation—something wild that must still be guided with care. Her city is both sanctuary and conflict zone, where the fragile coastlines she fights to protect are also the very spaces that lure lovers into reckless intimacy. She has learned love in shadows: behind columns of Roman ruins at sunset, on slow trains with doors left open to sea breeze, whispering voice notes between subway stops when words feel too heavy for daylight.Her sexuality isn’t loud but deep—a pull felt more than seen. It surfaces in the way she presses her palm against warm stone after rain as if testing for pulse, or how she records acoustic guitar riffs played off-key just because they remind her of a laugh. When she undresses someone emotionally, it’s through curated moments—the scent of their skin mixed into one-of-a-kind perfumes labeled with dates and tides.She keeps a journal filled not just with pressed flowers from meaningful nights but also subway tickets, sand from secret coves, fingerprints smudged with ink. She once made an entire blend—bergamot, petrichor, rum hash smoke—for a man who kissed her during a power outage on the last train to nowhere. The relationship didn’t survive beyond dawn—but the fragrance still does.