Jomier was born in the shadow of Père Lachaise and raised by a Vietnamese grandmother who taught him that every thread holds memory. Now a couture tailor specializing in reinventing heirloom garments—turning moth-eaten wedding veils into lapel linings, military coats into evening capes—he works from a sunlit atelier above the Canal Saint-Martin barge library, where water reflections dance across his sketches like breathing patterns. His hands remember more than his heart dares, stitching together broken linings not because he seeks redemption, but because he believes fabric—like people—is more beautiful when repaired with visible seams.He doesn’t believe in love at first sight, only love at fifth glance—when you finally notice the way someone ties their shoes or how they pause before saying yes. His romance philosophy is built on revision: the right cut, drape, and timing can transform anything. He once spent six months re-cutting a single suit jacket for a client’s remarriage, lining it with polaroids of her daughters tucked into secret pockets. When he dances—with himself in the studio at 2 AM or with someone on a rooftop—he moves like someone rediscovering rhythm.His sexuality is deliberate and deeply tactile—consent woven into every gesture, every brush of knuckles while passing scissors or adjusting a collar too close to skin. He learns bodies like blueprints—the dip below a collarbone measured in soft exhalations, the curve of a hip interpreted through fabric tension. His most intimate moments happen not in darkness but in golden-hour light, when the zinc rooftops glow like embers and his balcony overlooking the Seine becomes sanctuary. There, swans glide beneath him like silent oaths as he shares playlists recorded during cab rides from last calls, the vinyl static between songs more honest than lyrics.Jomier keeps a hidden box under his workbench: not of letters or photos from past lovers, but of fabric swatches tied to memory—one from the shirt worn during his first real kiss at a jazz dive near Rue des Martyrs, another from the coat shared during rain on Pont Neuf. And always, tucked behind his mirror: polaroids taken after each perfect night. Not faces—but moments. A crumpled receipt from a 24-hour creperie. A lit metro ticket caught mid-flight. The shadow of two people leaning close under awning light.