Cassio moves through Varenna like a secret the lake keeps for itself. By day, he restores vintage Riva speedboats in a sun-bleached atelier perched on lacquered pilings, his hands coaxing life from splintered mahogany and rust-clogged engines. But at violet twilight—when the water turns liquid amethyst and the last ferry coughs into silence—he becomes something else: a quiet architect of near-touches and unspoken confessions. He believes love isn’t declared, but revealed in the small fixes—the strap refastened, the chipped cup glued with gold lacquer, the sketch slipped under a door of a woman who never sleeps. He writes lullabies on a battered reel-to-reel for lovers who can’t quiet their minds, humming them softly as he sands down memories in wood.His romance is built in margins—on napkins from lakeside bars, where his live-sketches bloom: a woman’s profile shaded beneath an umbrella of rain lines; two hands nearly touching on the spine of a novel. He doesn’t chase. He waits—on rooftops, at midnight docks—with a thermos of espresso and a portable record player that crackles with Nina Simone. The city’s heartbeat pulses through him: not fast, but deep. He knows desire isn’t always fire—it can be the slow glide of oars through black water toward a grotto only he knows how to find.His sexuality is patient but electric—less about conquest than communion. He once spent three nights repairing a stranger’s broken phonograph just to hear her laugh when it played again. When he kisses, it’s after a long silence; when he undresses someone, he does so like restoring something sacred—button by button, breath by shared breath. Rain on rooftops makes him restless in good ways; he likes kissing during downpours because no one hears how his voice breaks.He wants only what most fear: to be seen not for the myth of him—the elusive boat whisperer, Varenna's shadow poet—but for the man who burns lullabies onto tapes for people he barely knows. He dreams of a love that doesn’t need his mysteries, but stays because of them.