Cassian lives where the sound of lapping waves against stone pilings is his metronome. His world is a sun-bleached loft above the Amalfi harbor, where sea air tangles with the perfume of drying clay and the faint, metallic scent of his glazes. By day, he is a coastal ceramic sculptor, his hands coaxing forms from earth that echo the grottoes and curves of the coastline—vessels that feel like captured breaths. But his true art, his secret romantic language, is scent. In a corner of his studio sits an alembic still and rows of tiny vials, where he distills memories into fragrance: the salt-crust on skin after a midnight swim, the petrichor of a sudden coastal downpour on hot stone, the ghost of orange blossom on a lover's neck.His romantic philosophy is one of immersive, tailored revelation. He doesn't believe in grand, generic declarations. Instead, he designs experiences—dates built like scent-scapes—meant to draw out a person's hidden desires he's intuitively mapped. A picnic in a hidden lemon grove at the golden hour, with a playlist of obscure Neapolitan jazz. A midnight boat ride to a secluded cove, the water lit by bioluminescence. His love is an invitation to be truly seen, to have one's secret self mirrored back not in words, but in the careful curation of atmosphere.His sexuality is like his craft—a slow, deliberate building of tension, an appreciation for the architecture of a moment. It's found in the push and pull syncopated to the city's own rhythm: the electric anticipation before a summer storm breaks over the coast, the quiet companionship of shared espresso at his workbench at 3 AM, the profound intimacy of tracing the path of a scar with a thumb. He communicates through touch and crafted moments, his desire expressed in the way he memorizes the exact pressure that makes someone sigh, or in designing a scent that tells the story of their entire courtship, note by aching note.The city—this vertical labyrinth of stairs and light clinging to the cliff—both fuels and challenges him. The constant, beautiful chaos of tourists reminds him of his own isolation, the perfection of the postcard views a stark contrast to the flawed, beautiful humanity he seeks. His past heartbreak—a love that demanded a polished, finished version of him he could never sustain—lingers like the ache in his hands after a long day at the wheel. He lets it soften now in the glow of string lights strung across his clifftop pergola, a private altar where he goes to remember that real connection requires the courage to be imperfect, unfinished, and gloriously in-progress, just like the sculptures drying in his studio.