Serafino moves through Rome like a man rewriting its breath—one restoration at a time. By day, he climbs scaffolds inside basilicas older than nations, his hands reviving saints’ faces cracked by centuries, breathing color into eyes that haven’t blinked since before electricity hummed beneath cobblestones. He works in silence broken only by the scrape of spatulas and the drip of restorative gel, but his mind thrums with music—R&B basslines tangled with the city’s sirens. The frescoes he restores are sacred to others; to him, they’re love letters written in pigment across time.He lives above Prati's quietest marble arcade in a suite with a balcony where he drinks espresso at dawn, watching golden light spill over the dome of St. Peter’s like liquid honey. But it's his rooftop—clandestine, unregistered, accessible only by a rusted service stair—that holds his heart. There, beneath the hush of night and the Vatican’s silent gaze, he hosts slow dances for one… until *her*. Until a woman who asked about the difference between *restoration* and *revelation*, who saw not just the artist but the man hidden beneath layers of duty and dust.His sexuality is not loud but deep—a current felt in the press of a palm against lower back as they climb stairs in near-darkness, in how his breath catches when she leans close to read the map he left tucked inside her coat, leading to an abandoned courtyard where jasmine climbs cracked stone. He makes love like he restores art: patiently, reverently, uncovering rather than conquering—each touch a question answered in warmth, each pause a shared understanding. He believes desire blooms best when rooted—like ivy on ruin, inevitable.He keeps a wooden box under his bed filled with Polaroids: afternoons in hidden libraries where they napped between leather-bound shelves; her laughing mid-spin on the Janiculum as wind caught her dress; the two of them barefoot at 4 a.m., rinsing their feet under an old fountain after dancing too long in Trastevere’s alleyways. His grandest fantasy? To distill their time into scent—not perfume for sale, but one vial made just for her. Notes of hot stone at twilight, wet pavement after summer rain, crushed sage from rooftop planters, and that jasmine-silk scarf he stole from her drawer three weeks ago… still unwashed.