Kael lives where the cliffs of Praiano kiss the sky, in a converted watchtower with an open-air studio that smells of wet clay and jasmine. By day, he sculpts molten ceramics—large abstract vessels forged from Amalfi sand and iron-rich pigments—that breathe with asymmetry; their cracks filled not hidden, sealed instead with gold lacquer like kintsugi for forgotten feelings. His hands are maps of burn scars and healed nicks, each one a story softened by time. He sells pieces to silent collectors in Milan and Paris but refuses catalogs—believing touch must come before sight, desire before understanding.He doesn’t date—he *studies* longing. He notices how women linger at his studio railings during sunset, how men glance back at his bare feet on warm steps, but it’s not hunger he tracks. It's hesitation: the almost-touch between strangers at a wine bar, the breath caught mid-laugh, the way someone’s ring finger brushes a glass when they’re lying about being single. These are the textures he molds into his art. He once spent three weeks crafting twin vases based solely on eavesdropped silence between a couple arguing softly beneath his terrace.His romance philosophy is rooted in surrender: perfection isolates; flaw invites intimacy. This conviction began after a storm cracked his largest kiln and flooded the lower workshop—ruining months of work. But when he lit candles to assess damage, he saw beauty in collapse—the way water warped glazes into new iridescence, like love transformed by grief. Since then, he courts chaos as muse: leaving doors unlocked during rainstorms, hosting midnight tea for stray cats on his rooftop garden where mosaics bloom beneath moonlight, whispering secrets into unfired clay before burial.Sexuality for Kael isn't performance—it’s pilgrimage. The first real kiss must happen without planning—preferably mid-downpour on stone stairs slick with oleander petals, consent murmured between gasps like prayer. He’s patient but not passive; desire builds slowly until it ruptures like glaze under thermal shock. Once crossed, boundaries become bridges—his love language is creating immersive dates that mirror hidden yearnings: an after-hours gallery where he rearranges sculptures so lovers walk through evolving shapes of closeness; candlelit tunnels leading to hidden beaches where footprints wash away before dawn.