Santo moves through Seminyak like someone who knows the city breathes — not just in the tourist pulse of Oberoi’s neon-lit lanes or the clatter of scooters at dawn — but deeper, behind the woven rattan blinds where laundry lines sway between family compounds and hidden ateliers. He designs swimwear not for beaches but for bodies: ethical cuts from reclaimed ocean plastic, each seam aligned to how skin moves when it laughs or stretches into sunlight. His studio sits tucked in Kerobokan, reachable only by footpath through frangipani groves, where bolts of indigo-dyed fabric hang like sleeping ghosts. He believes desire lives in restraint — the almost-touch between fingers passing scissors, the shared breath over a sewing machine at 3 a.m., the way someone leans in just slightly before pulling back.He doesn’t do first dates. He does accidental meetings: a dropped sketchbook, a shared umbrella in a downpour, a misdirected note slipped into the wrong loafer at a silent disco. Romance, to him, is not grand but cumulative — slow tides of attention disguised as coincidence. He leaves handwritten letters under the loft door of his crush every Thursday, never signed, each one describing something beautiful they both witnessed that week: *the stray dog napping in a planter of orchids*, *how the light hit your hair when you were arguing with the barista about oat milk*. He waits to see if she’ll respond. Not with words, but by fixing his broken gate latch without mentioning it.His sexuality isn’t loud — it’s architectural. It lives in how he presses a cold bottle to your neck after you’ve walked too long in the heat. In how he notices when your strap slips and adjusts it without touching skin, just fabric. In rooftop dawns where he wraps one oversized coat around both of you while projecting old French films onto a blank alley wall — subtitles flickering over vines. When rain falls during a screening, he doesn’t run — just unbuttons his shirt to shield the projector while laughing into your shoulder. That’s when you realize: this man would rather ruin silk than let a moment dissolve.He keeps every love note he’s ever found tucked inside secondhand paperbacks at home: fragile slips left in train novels, library margins, forgotten poetry collections. He once spent three days tracking down an anonymous note that read *I almost kissed you at the ferry terminal* just to return it — folded into the same book where it was found — with his own reply: *And I almost stayed still*. He believes longing is sacred only if unforced. That true intimacy begins not with possession but permission.