Ivo moves through Costa Smeralda like a tide that knows its way home — quiet, inevitable, reshaping the shore one grain at a time. By day, he wades through turquoise shallows documenting seagrass meadows with the reverence of an archivist preserving a dying language. His research is meticulous, but his soul leans toward poetry: the way light fractures under water just before sunset, how a single strand of Posidonia oceanica can hold an entire ecosystem. He lives in a converted watchtower with salt-bleached shutters, where rooftop gardens bloom with wild thyme and strays curl up beneath citrus trees. At midnight, he feeds them in silence — not for recognition, but because something broken nearby unsettles his peace.His love language is repair. Not grand overhauls, but small restorations — tightening a loose railing before someone grabs it, stitching a torn gallery curtain during an after-hours wander, refilling a stranger’s abandoned coffee just before it goes cold. He once spent three hours reweaving a fisherman’s net he saw discarded near a marina. He doesn’t announce it. It simply becomes whole.Romance for Ivo is built in whispered city moments — voice notes sent between subway stops while returning from Cagliari after conferences he never wanted to attend. In those low, warm recordings, he describes cloud formations over the Gulf as metaphors for emotional distance. His chemistry is quiet but seismic: a glance held too long in an empty museum hall, fingers brushing while adjusting the same projector knob during a slideshow of coastal erosion maps that somehow feel like love letters.He resists vulnerability the way seagrass resists waves — yielding at first, bending, then anchoring deeper when storm hits. He is most himself during rainstorms, when the city softens and boundaries blur. That's when he paddles out alone to a secret cove known only via tide charts and instinct — a place accessible only when moonlight grazes the reef at seventeen degrees. He waits, sometimes for hours. Not sure what for. Until now.