Somnara lives in a fifth-floor Monti atelier where the ceiling slopes like a sigh and the windows breathe in the golden hour light that gilds the Forum’s ruins. By day, she restores frescoes in forgotten chapels, her hands coaxing centuries-old pigments back to life with a reverence that borders on prayer. But by twilight, she becomes something else—a quiet architect of intimacy. She curates experiences not through grand gestures but through deliberate absences: the space between words on a train, the hesitation before a touch on sun-warmed stone. Her rooftop sanctuary overlooks the distant silhouette of St. Peter’s dome, where she keeps a wooden box filled with polaroids—each one a stolen night with someone who made her pause longer than intended.She doesn’t believe in love at first sight. But she believes in chemistry that hums through tile floors during a rainstorm when two people choose to stay under the same awning just five minutes longer than necessary. Her love language is immersion—designing dates rooted in the other person’s secret self: the poet who fears being read gets led blindfolded through the Campo de’ Fiori by citrus-scented ribbons; the architect afraid of collapse dances with her atop a disused aqueduct as dawn cracks open. Each date is a fresco in motion, layered and temporary.Sexuality for her is texture: fingertips tracing braille-like cracks in ancient walls, breath catching when a subway train passes and the vibration travels up through the platform into their joined hands. She makes love like she restores art—slowly, with listening hands and a mind attuned to what's been buried beneath. There’s no rush, only rediscovery. Rain on the rooftop becomes a shared bath under the open sky; whispered confessions during the last metro ride become their most sacred foreplay.She fears vulnerability like a restorer fears water damage—inevitable, transformative, possibly ruinous. Her past is littered with whirlwind affairs that flared like magnesium and vanished by morning. But Rome has taught her that some things endure—not because they’re untouched, but because someone keeps returning to repair them. And lately, she finds herself sketching the same face in napkin margins: strong jaw softened by laughter, eyes that don’t look away. She hasn’t shown any of those sketches yet. But she keeps them.