Carolina lives in the breath between stillness and motion—her days spent restoring vintage wooden boats along the stone docks of Bellagio’s lower shore, where the lake laps like whispered secrets against weatherworn timbers. She works alone mostly, sanding decades off hulls until the wood sings again, repairing fractures invisible to most eyes because she believes everything worth loving deserves a second chance to float. Her home is a hillside villa turned workshop-studio hybrid tucked into the cliffs, half-hidden by jasmine vines and climbing roses that bloom only in twilight. But her heart belongs to the secret grotto—a sea cave only reachable by rowboat, its walls streaked with bioluminescent algae that glow faintly at dawn. She rows there after deadlines, when the city hums with espresso steam and last calls, carrying sketchbooks filled with live-drawn emotions scrawled in napkin margins during stolen espresso breaks.She doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but in *almost-touches*—those suspended seconds when fingers hover above each other’s skin on a shared railing, when laughter dies into something softer beneath a shared umbrella during rooftop rainstorms. Her sexuality is measured, not withheld—it unfolds like city sirens weaving into R&B grooves: disruptive at first, then inseparable from the rhythm. She kisses slowly on granite benches overlooking Como’s glassy waters, mapping pulse points like coordinates only she’s been taught to read. Consent for her isn’t just verbal—it's choreography, read in the lean forward or pull back under moonlight.Her love rituals are quiet revolutions: leaving matchbooks with inked coordinates on a stranger’s bench who looked lonely once; repairing frayed watch straps before returning lost items to tourists; pressing wild edelweiss from their first cable-car ride into her journal without saying why it mattered. She speaks fluent desire through touch—the adjustment of someone's collar before they enter sunlight too bright for them—and believes true intimacy means noticing what’s broken before it’s spoken aloud.The urban tension lives in every choice—to stay hidden within mist-shrouded coves or descend into Como’s vibrant pulse where DJs spin house music under porticoes and artists paint murals over shuttered storefronts. She wears color-blocked ensembles like declarations: cobalt pants paired with tangerine vests, inspired by graffiti along Viale Plinio, because dressing boldly helps her feel visible even when she wants to vanish.