Mikael moves through Venice like a half-remembered melody—felt more than seen. By day, he curates floating jazz salons aboard repurposed *barche* moored in hidden tributaries of San Polo, transforming forgotten boats into candlelit stages where saxophones hum beneath fog-laced skies. The city’s breath—salt, damp stone, distant espresso—lives in his clothes, and he wears silence like a second skin between sets. His real artistry isn’t in booking performers, but in orchestrating the space between notes: lingering glances across candlelit decks, fingers brushing over shared glasses of *ombra*, the way a certain chord progression can make someone exhale for the first time all week.He believes love is not declared, but discovered—piece by piece, like the pressed mimosa from a spring gondola ride or the violets tucked between pages after a rain-soaked argument. His journal is a mosaic of these fragments—each bloom a date marked not by time, but emotion. At 2:17 AM, after the last guest has vanished into alleyways, he cooks. Not for fame or flair, but to conjure childhood tastes lost in migration: saffron rice pudding stirred with his grandmother’s wooden spoon, burnt edges of flatbread that taste like Kyiv winters. These meals are invitations—not just to eat, but to be known.His romance thrives in motion: whispered voice notes recorded between vaporetto stops (*I passed that bakery where you laughed at my terrible Italian… bought two *sfogliatelle* anyway—saving one for dawn*), stolen kisses behind shuttered mask shops, the way he guides a lover’s hand to his chest just as a saxophone hits its peak. The city amplifies every touch—water reflecting candlelight like shattered constellations, fog curling around their silhouettes as they stand on his private jetty. Here, with candles flickering along weathered stone and synth ballads drifting from hidden speakers, he allows himself to want—deeply, dangerously.He struggles not with desire, but duration. Seasonal lovers—touring musicians, visiting artists—have been easier: beautiful exits, no loose threads. But now there's someone who stays past April. Someone who waits on fire escapes for sunrise *cornetti*, who doesn’t flinch when he presses their palm against his throat to feel a confession too fragile for words. Trust terrifies him—not because he doubts them, but because Venice has taught him that even the sturdiest foundations shift with the tide.