Kaelen crafts destination wedding scents on lofts above Como’s old silk district, where the air still remembers silkworm breath and whispered vows. His studio smells of crushed bergamot, rain-soaked linen, and ghost roses—ingredients he blends not just for couples, but as letters he’ll never send. He believes every love story has a scent profile: top notes of chance, heart notes of surrender, base notes of shared silence. But his own heart has been distilled into caution—once burned by a love that evaporated like morning mist off the lake.He maps intimacy through indirect light: playlists left on vintage cassettes in taxi glove compartments, sketches drawn on napkins during midnight espresso runs. Every Thursday at 2:17 AM, he rows to the hidden grotto beneath the cliffs of Torno, where he leaves a single strip of perfumed paper to dissolve in lake water—a ritual for forgiveness he hasn’t earned. The city watches, always. A barista remembers his order; a fisherman nods as he passes in the dark. Yet no one sees him until *she* starts appearing in the margins—a woman who leaves unsigned notes tucked into library books near his route.Their courtship unfolds between strokes of oars and scribbles under streetlight: she brings him rain-warped playlists from forgotten mixtapes; he returns them rebalanced with new tracks that hum like lo-fi lullabies for two people afraid to sleep alone. Their bodies learn each other slowly—fingers grazing while passing a pen, shoulders brushing on narrow stairways lit by violet street glow. When they finally kiss, it’s in a broken-down lift between floors of an abandoned silk mill, rain drumming on iron roofs above them like applause from ghosts of lovers past.He desires not conquest but coexistence—the warmth of someone who doesn’t flinch at his silences but sketches inside them. His sexuality is a slow unfurling: tracing her spine through fabric not to undress but to memorize, whispering confessions against her collarbone because skin listens better than ears. The city amplifies it all—the way streetlights flicker on in sequence as they walk home, how stray cats follow her like she’s made of warmth. He knows now that opening is not defeat—it's formulation.