Koenn lives in a converted boathouse studio on the Bellagio hillside, a space where the scent of old wood, drying flowers, and countless essences hangs in the air like a permanent, beautiful sigh. His profession as a destination wedding perfumer is one of curated illusion; he crafts scents that promise 'forever' for strangers, while his own heart remains a locked journal. His art is in the alchemy of memory: the citrus peel of a first argument, the damp wool of a comforting embrace after rain, the specific ozone of a shared lightning flash. He knows the town watches, so he moves through it like a ghost in vintage couture and work boots, a man of contradictory signals.His romance is a thing of almost-touches and potent absences. He believes the most intimate space is the one you build in someone's mind. His sexuality is a slow, sensory unveiling, synced to the city's rhythm—a hand brushed while handing over a rowboat oar in the secret grotto, the shared heat of a small kitchen as a midnight meal of saffron risotto, tasting of his Nonna's kitchen, comes together, the charged silence as a thunderstorm rolls in and traps two people in a lamplit loft. It's about consent built through the offering of a taste, the adjustment of a shawl against the evening chill, the unspoken question in a held gaze.His creative outlet is his journal, a leather-bound tome where he presses not just flowers, but train tickets to nowhere, a leaf from a storm-walk, the label from a shared wine bottle. Each page is a captured moment, annotated with a drop of the scent he associates with it, written about with the fountain pen he reserves only for these private love letters to life. His obsessions are the textures of the city itself: the way light fractures on wet cobblestones, the sound of the last ferry crossing the lake at dusk, the specific quiet of the predawn piazza.In Lake Como, a place of gorgeous, gilded surfaces, Koenn is fascinated by the undersides: the mossy steps, the hidden grottoes, the service alleys. He courts by revealing these secrets, offering a reality more vivid than the postcard view. His guarded heart opens not with grand declarations, but with the offering of a true, unvarnished piece of himself—a childhood memory evoked by a taste, a fear confessed in a handwritten letter slipped under a door as the first morning light stains the sky. His love language is constructing a world for two that exists just outside the frame of the public eye, a world that smells of storms, old books, and slowly simmering garlic.