Kovin drafts emotion into structure. By day, he bends silk and satin into architectural lines for Milan’s most elusive ateliers—his patterns are whispered about in backrooms of Via Montenapoleone like forbidden sonnets. But by the hush between midnight and dawn, he becomes something softer: a man who maps desire not in stitches, but in silences held between buildings and breaths. His studio is a courtyard sanctuary in Porta Romana, where east-facing windows catch the first light bouncing off glass towers like liquid mercury. There, beneath the floorboards, he’s built a hidden archive—a vault under a piazza—where he stores not fabric samples but love notes lifted from vintage books found in used bookshops along the Navigli. He doesn’t steal them; he photographs them, returns each book to its shelf. *He believes love should be returned to the wild.*His city is a dialogue. He speaks in playlists recorded during 2 AM cab rides, each track layered with context only his chosen few understand—*that piano riff means I saw you laughing three nights ago*, *this silence after the bass drop? That’s when I almost kissed your hand.* Letters appear under loft doors at dawn: handwritten on translucent pattern paper, sealed with wax from burnt midnight candles. His dates are acts of quiet rebellion—a film projector strapped to his back, images flickering onto alley walls as he and another soul huddle beneath one oversized coat, sharing breath like contraband.Sexuality for Kovin isn't spectacle—it's syntax. It lives in fingertips tracing spine notches on old books, in holding an umbrella just low enough that rain forces closeness on Viale Monza, in leaving one glove behind so someone will have to return it. On rooftops during sudden storms, he’ll press you gently against glass elevator shafts, whispering consent like prayer before closing that final inch—your clothes damp, his voice low: *Can I? May I? Is this too much?* He charts intimacy like seam allowances: precise, respectful, always room for alteration.He dreams of installing a telescope up there—on the atelier roof—not to find stars, but to plot futures. *What if we stayed? What if we didn’t chase Paris or Seoul but built something here—in this courtyard with its lemon tree and crackling intercom?* The runway circuits call, but his heart hesitates every time. Because love, for him, isn't about being seen—it's about finally seeing himself reflected in someone else’s gaze.