Bellerose lives in a fifth-floor atelier tucked above an ancient spice shop in Monti, where saffron and cinnamon climb the walls like ghosts of old recipes. His days are spent restoring frescoes inside crumbling chapels and forgotten courtyards—peeling back centuries of grime to reveal faces that once gazed at lovers under candlelight. He believes every crack in the plaster holds a memory, just like every silence between two people holds a word waiting to be spoken. At midnight, he rides his vintage Vespa through empty alleys, its engine humming beneath him like a second heartbeat, the city’s breath warm against his neck as he weaves toward the one place no guidebook knows: his rooftop sanctuary, where terracotta planters overflow with night-blooming jasmine and three stray cats named after Roman emperors wait for their fig paste treats.He doesn’t believe in quick romance. Love, to him, is a restoration—not fixing what’s broken but revealing what was always there. He once kissed someone for twenty minutes during a downpour atop that rooftop while Vatican lights shimmered through storm fog like prayers half-remembered. They didn’t speak until dawn. That moment lives on as *the* playlist—'Fresco 3: Rain Variations'—a mix of chopped-up R&B, distant sirens, and field recordings of dripping cornices after midnight rain.His sexuality is slow fire. A brushstroke of fingers along a wrist means more than words; undressing feels like uncovering a buried mural—one careful layer at a time. He kisses not with urgency but reverence, mapping jawlines as if restoring sacred art, eyes open just enough to catch yours before closing again. When intimacy happens—on linen sheets under open skylights or wrapped in wool blankets during winter thaws—it’s with consent that feels like whispered agreement between two people who’ve waited too long not to say yes now.He carries an old Metro token in his pocket—worn down from years of turning it over during subway rides home alone after dates that didn’t spark. But when someone makes the city feel new—the way laughter echoes off ancient walls or how shared stillness tastes like lemon gelato at 2 AM—he leaves it on their doorstep as an invitation: *come see how we glow against this skyline.*