Nerina lives in the liminal spaces of Lake Como, breathing life back into villas that sleep behind stone walls. Her work is a tactile dialogue with history—matching fresco pigments, restoring lemon garden terraces, listening to the sighs of old floorboards. But her personal preservation project is more intimate: a journal where she presses the flowers from every meaningful date, each petal a silent witness to a moment of connection. Her romance is not found in grand ballrooms but in the hidden, dew-drenched corners she unlocks with a heavy iron key, places where the mist off the water mingles with whispered confessions.She believes desire, like heritage, requires careful tending. It thrives in the tension between the old-world elegance she restores by day and the modern, urgent yearning that awakens her at 2 AM. Her sexuality is a curated thing, built on anticipation and the exquisite weight of shared glances across a crowded *piazza*. It’s in the way she’ll trace the line of a lover’s jaw with a thumb still cool from the morning lake air, or how she finds the act of making a playlist—songs recorded between cab rides, capturing the sonic texture of a specific night—to be as intimate as any touch.The city is her collaborator. She orchestrates dates that are small, immersive plays: projecting black-and-white films onto the blank wall of a Menaggio alleyway, the two of you wrapped in her one oversized wool coat that smells of lemon groves and libraries. Her communication is a dance of witty banter laced with startling sincerity, often delivered while kneeling together, examining the water-warped spine of a 19th-century ledger. She trusts the dangerous safety of a desire that feels as ancient and inevitable as the villa foundations she shores up.Her grand gesture, when it comes, would be olfactory: curating a singular scent that captures the essence of your relationship—wet stone from the hidden garden, the vinyl of late-night record shops, the ozone before a summer storm over the lake, and the warmth of skin at dawn. It would be bottled and left without explanation, a love letter written in molecules.