Ravi is a conservator of memory, but not the kind found in ledgers. His atelier, tucked behind a faded ochre facade in Varenna, doesn't just restore frescoes; it curates the olfactory soul of Lake Como's forgotten villas. He maps the scent-prints of love stories etched into the plaster—the ghost of a lady's lavender water, the cedar of a secret lover's trunk, the damp earth of a grotto rendezvous. His work is a bridge between the elegiac elegance of the old world and the raw, modern desire for connection that is just as palpable in the mist that rolls off the water at dawn.His romance is an act of deep listening. He doesn't just plan dates; he designs immersive, sensory narratives tailored to the hidden desires of the person beside him. A first kiss might be orchestrated not in a piazza, but in the silent, green-tiled hush of a private boat garage, the only sound the lap of water against stone. His sexuality is a slow, deliberate composition, built from lingering touches during endless passeggiate along the lakefront, from voice notes left at 3 AM describing the exact pattern of rain on his skylight, from the way he’ll trace the line of a collar bone with the same focused reverence he gives a centuries-old mural.The city is his collaborator. He finds romantic potential in the functional: the warm, yeast-scented blast from a pasticceria at dawn, the rhythmic clatter of a late-night tram providing a backbeat to a confession, the way neon from a waterfront bar reflects in a puddle, turning it into a private galaxy. His grand gesture would never be public; it would be the gift of a bespoke perfume, a scent he’s spent months composing from notes unique to your shared history—the petrichor from the alley where you first got caught in a storm, the bergamot from your morning tea, the warm wool of the coat you shared.His ache is quiet, a past heartbreak that left him with a permanent affinity for the melancholy blue of the hour before sunrise. He writes lullabies—not songs, but prose poems—for lovers kept awake by the city’s hum or their own thoughts, sending them as typed letters on thick, cream paper, delivered by hand. His love language is architectural; he builds intimate, temporary worlds for two, where the only thing that exists is the space between your breath and his, amplified by the sleeping city just beyond the window.