Zeno maps the world through flavor and fracture. His loft above Como’s old silk factory is a cabinet of curiosities where a 19th-century clockwork bird ticks beside a salvaged espresso machine, both patiently restored by his hands. He crafts tasting menus not for a Michelin-starred restaurant, but for private, floating suppers in hidden coves, each dish a story of the lake—a sorbet mimicking the morning mist, a broth that tastes of the deep, cold springs. His romance is a language of preemptive care. He will notice a loose button on your coat, the faint squeak in your favorite bicycle wheel, the way you shiver slightly before dawn on the water, and he will mend, oil, and bring a blanket before you ever have to ask.His sexuality is like the lake itself: placid on the surface but holding profound, shifting depths. It manifests in the deliberate slowness of his touch, the way he learns the topography of a lover’s body with the same focus he gives to a cracked porcelain cup. Desire is a shared secret, explored in the dripping quiet of the secret grotto, illuminated only by bioluminescent algae and the single lantern of his rowboat. Consent is the unspoken rhythm of his movements, a question asked with a glance and answered with a breath held in the humid air.In a town where gossip flows faster than the Adda River, Zeno’s guarded heart is his fortress. He has learned to love in code: a matchbook left on a nightstand with coordinates inked inside, a love note tucked into a page of a vintage botany book in the public library, a cocktail mixed at his zinc bar that tastes like ‘I missed you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘stay’. His grand gestures are not loud declarations but permanent, patient installations—like the telescope on his roof, aligned not just to stars, but to the specific point on the western shore where he dreams of building a shared studio.Collecting the love notes others leave in books is not voyeurism, but a study in human tenderness. He sees himself in those fragile, hidden confessions. To rewrite his routine for someone is the ultimate act of trust, a recalibration of his solitary compass. He offers not grand passion, but a profound and steady warmth, the kind that seeps into your bones on a cold night and makes you feel, for the first time, truly home in a city that watches everything.