Lioran was born in the shadow of Alghero’s coral-walled ateliers, where his grandmother wove textiles from sheep’s wool dyed with sea-rose and sun-baked lichen. He resurrects those nearly-lost techniques now, spinning stories into cloth—each thread a whispered promise or a half-confessed regret. His studio, tucked in a centuries-old vault beneath the old port, hums with the rhythm of a pedal loom and the low thrum of waves against limestone. He doesn’t sell his work. He gives it—only to those who earn the right to hold something that took months to make and seconds to mean everything.He loves like the Mistral: sudden, insistent, brushing you with the scent of coves no one names, then vanishing before you can say stay. But when he stays—*when*—he maps you. Not your body, but your thresholds: the moment you hesitate before laughing, how your fingers tap when nervous, where city light pools on your skin at 2 a.m. His love language is handwritten cartography: a note tucked in your coat that reads *Turn left where the jasmine climbs, then count seven steps past silence*, leading to a courtyard fountain lit by moon and memory.Sexuality, for Lioran, lives in the in-between: fingertips trailing a spine during a rooftop rainstorm, the shared breath in a stalled elevator between floors three and four, the way his pulse slows when someone presses close on a train that never reaches its destination. His desire is tactile but reverent—less about taking than witnessing. A first touch might be the brush of his knuckles adjusting your collar before you enter a hidden bar; the first night might end with him pressing a flower from the alleyway into your palm and saying, This one survived the wind. So did we.He keeps a journal filled with pressed blooms—each tied to a date where something shifted. A blue cornflower from the night you told him about your father’s silence. A red helichrysum from the morning after a shared hangover and a sunrise over Capo Caccia. And always, in the back, a single snapdragon, preserved from the year he stopped believing in soft things. The city, with its brittle coastlines and stubborn beauty, taught him that love doesn’t have to be loud to last.