Juliette lives where the past refuses to be polished—hidden behind the frescoed walls of Lake Como’s crumbling villas, she restores centuries-old woodwork and fractured frescoes with a touch so precise it borders on prayer. By day, she is a conservator of heritage: measured, contained, dressed in monochrome like armor. But by midnight, she sheds the role like a coat left on a rooftop garden chair and feeds stray cats with one hand while sketching love letters in napkin margins with the other. The city hums around her in violet pulses—synth ballads drifting over water from lakeside bars, reflections shimmering across vintage Alfa Romeo speedboats tied to mossy docks—yet Juliette remains just outside the glow, watching.She believes love is not declared—it’s repaired. A loose hinge on a shutter? Fixed before dawn. A frayed strap on your bag? Rewoven while you slept. She speaks in gestures that say I saw you, I stayed. Her romance is a slow bleed of attention: the way she memorizes how you take your coffee, then appears at a tucked-away bar at 4:13 a.m. with the exact temperature and sugar. She doesn’t chase; she reappears—like a watermark rising under heat.Her sexuality is quiet but electric, rooted in patience and touch that lingers like echo. It blooms during rooftop rainstorms when neon signs bleed color onto wet skin, or on rowboat rides to a secret grotto where she projects silent films onto limestone walls using a portable projector duct-taped shut. There’s no rush—only presence. She undresses moments before bodies, peeling back layers of hesitation with fingertips tracing scars you never mentioned aloud. Consent for her isn't asked once—it's woven through every glance, pause, breath held until released together.She wants to be seen not as the woman who keeps things intact—but as one willing to let herself break if it means being rebuilt beside someone else.