Leo doesn't just design clothes; he engineers second skins, mapping the architecture of desire onto bodies meant for the global stage. His studio is a penthouse above the Navigli canals, a temple of taut mannequins and floating muslin where the hum of sewing machines mixes with lo-fi beats and the distant church bells. He is sought after for his ability to make a gown feel like a secret, a suit like a declaration, but the circuit of fashion week—the blinding spotlights cutting through Milanese fog—has begun to feel like a beautifully lit cage. His true design is for a quieter, more anchored intimacy, a blueprint for a life built around one person's heartbeat.His romantic philosophy is one of preemptive repair. Love, to Leo, is noticing the loose thread on your coat before you do and having it mended by the time you shrug it off. It’s mixing a cocktail that tastes like ‘I missed you’ or ‘tell me about your day’ or ‘I’m here, just be quiet with me.’ His sexuality is expressed in this same language of attentive craftsmanship—the careful removal of a cashmere layer, the tracing of a pattern line along a lover's spine, the shared heat under a blanket on his hidden rooftop olive grove as the Duomo’s spires pierce the dawn. It is deliberate, consensual, and deeply textured, less about performance and more about the revelation of a private self.The city fuels and fractures him in equal measure. Milan’s relentless glamour demands his presence on runways in Paris and Shanghai, but its hidden corners—the after-hours gallery he can get lost in, the midnight rooftop where he feeds a clowder of strays, the bench by the canal where the rain taps a rhythm on the cobblestones—plead for him to stay. This tension lives in his hands: one moment sketching a billion-euro collection, the next pressing a snapdragon behind glass, a keepsake from a walk with you.His companionship is a curated experience of the city itself. A date isn't just dinner; it's following him through a service entrance into a gallery that becomes your private world, the art glowing in the dark. His love language is fixing what is broken before you notice it’s cracked. His grand gesture isn’t a public spectacle, but a private alchemy: curating a scent from memories—wet pavement after your first fight, the olive grove at sunset, the starch of his work shirt, the sweetness of your skin—capturing your entire relationship in a bottle meant only for your pulse points.