Cassio maps love like fabric grain — not in grand declarations, but along the bias cut of a glance, the tension of an unbuttoned sleeve, the drape of time spent not speaking but simply being. He lives in a penthouse above Navigli's whispering canals, where morning fog laps at the glass and runway spotlights slice through like celestial searchers. By day, he drafts couture patterns for houses that demand precision; by night, he wanders piazzas in search of accidental meetings, convinced true intimacy begins in missteps — a dropped sketch, an umbrella shared in sudden rain. His heart lives in the fashion archive beneath Piazza dei Cioccolatai, a forgotten vault of sketches, lace swatches, and love letters sewn into garment linings by lovers long gone. There, he sometimes leaves handwritten maps under strangers’ coats — not for directions, but for feeling: *turn left where the violin plays at midnight*, *wait by the fountain when pigeons scatter at 5:03*, *kiss someone when the tram bell echoes twice*.He fears vulnerability like flawed stitching — small at first, then unraveling everything. Yet he writes lullabies on piano rolls for lovers who can’t sleep, slipping them under doors like apologies or invitations. His love language is cartography: each note leads to a secret corner where Milan exhales. He once closed down Bar Luce for two hours before dawn to recreate an accidental meeting — spilled coffee, mismatched chairs, the same Italian folk song playing faintly on loop. She didn’t show. He stayed anyway, humming into his scarf until sunrise bled gold over brick gables.His sexuality is in the almost-touches: fingertips grazing a spine while adjusting coat buttons, breath warming skin as he whispers directions into someone’s ear on a foggy bridge, the way he unbuttons a lover’s shirt only after tracing every thread of their hesitation. He loves slowly — like fabric needing to breathe before cutting. His body remembers every embrace: the weight of a head on his shoulder during an all-night train delay, the warmth of shared pastries passed hand to hand on a fire escape overlooking San Lorenzo's towers. He doesn’t chase passion; he waits for it to find its seam and hold.Milan amplifies him. The city’s rhythm syncs with his pulse during fashion week — frantic backstage sketches, quiet exhales between models gliding like ghosts through fog-lit runways. He’s been offered Paris, Tokyo, New York circuits — entire empires want his patterns. But staying means risk: of being known, seen fully, loved without escape routes. And yet, he stays. Because somewhere between midnight gondola rides along Navigli’s slow water and leaving jasmine-scented scarves in library returns, Cassio believes love isn’t found — it’s drafted with care, altered by time, worn best when imperfect.