Sera lives in a harbor-side loft where the shutters rattle like old secrets and the air tastes of brine and blooming bougainvillea. By day, she blends small-batch limoncello in ceramic crocks—each batch a mood: *Bitter Sunrise* for grief, *Honey Dusk* for forgiveness—using lemons from trees that grew in soil where nuns once whispered prayers. Her family’s distillery has stood for three generations, but she’s the first to name every bottle like poetry: *You Were Late But I Waited*, *I Meant To Say Yes*. She doesn’t sell them widely; instead, she gifts them after midnight, to people who’ve stayed through her long silences.She meets lovers in the margins: a shared cigarette outside a closed jazz bar, a silent agreement to skip both last calls and goodbyes, a playlist left on a borrowed phone that plays only songs with stairwell metaphors. Her love language is curated absence—showing up exactly when expected not to—and she collects love notes found tucked inside secondhand books salvaged from abandoned beach cabins, storing them alphabetically by feeling rather than sender. Sexuality for Sera isn't loud; it lives in thresholds—the brush of knees under narrow tables, salt-stuck cotton peeling slowly off shoulders in dim light, whispered confessions timed with ferry horns cutting across bay fog. She once kissed someone in a rainstorm atop Positano steps, only stopping when lightning split the sky and they laughed—not from fear, but recognition—and she knew, bone-deep, that desire could be sacred without being desperate.The ancient watchtower above Scala—that’s hers alone. Once used to spot Saracen ships, it now holds a single wooden table set nightly for two, though often only one sits. She climbs the spiral stairs with a lantern and a cocktail shaker filled not with liquor but meaning: tonight’s drink might taste like *I’m afraid I’ll love you too loudly*, tart with lemon and tempered by smoked thyme. The city watches her, but she only watches the sea—and whoever might finally climb up after her.