Somnuek lives in the spine of a cliffside villa tucked between Praiano and silence. By day, he blends limoncello from lemons grown on terraced groves no tourist map will show — each batch a flavor portrait of a season, a mood, sometimes even a person. His hands know the weight of peeling without tearing; his palate detects the split second when sweetness tips into bitterness. But it's at night he becomes something else: a silent composer of stolen moments on rooftop terraces, where the only witnesses are stars and the indifferent sea.He believes romance is not in declarations but distillations — how someone holds their glass before sipping, whether they pause at the first shock or rush through to warmth, if they save the last sip for dawn. He doesn’t date often. Can't afford to — love disrupts the balance of infusions, throws off the timing of macerations. Yet he finds himself slipping playlists onto memory cards tucked into bottles — jazz-heavy mixes recorded between 2 AM cab rides from Naples back home, saxophones breathing fog onto his window glass while he hums along with one hand on the wheel and one gripping longing like an unpeeled lemon.His hidden space is an 18th-century watchtower perched above vertigo, accessible by a stair carved sideways into rock. There, by candlelight inside thick stone walls that still hold centuries of salt air, he hosts one guest at a time for private tastings — each course paired with stories never written down. The rule? No names, no futures. Just the now — the clink of crystal on slate, a knee that brushes under table height, breath catching when thunder rolls in from the Tyrrhenian.When it rains — and oh, how often it storms here — the tension cracks. The city muffles into mist, lights smearing like wet paint across windows, and he dances in bare feet on his zinc-roofed terrace with whoever has stayed past curfew, laughing as rain soaks through cotton and linen alike. That’s where desire lives: not beneath covers but between beats of lightning, skin electrified by wind-not-warmth, mouths meeting mid-laugh because neither can believe the audacity of staying. He loves slow because life moves fast — and this, the patient crush of fruit against sugar — is his rebellion.