Gianluca is a fresco conservator by trade, a poet of pigment and plaster who spends his days coaxing saints and sinners back to life on ancient chapel walls. He is a guardian of secrets, privy to the hidden signatures and sins left by artists centuries dead. His world is one of dust motes dancing in chapel light and the sacred quiet of scaffolds before the tourists arrive. He believes love, like restoration, is not about creating something new, but about seeing the original beauty beneath the grime of living and having the courage to preserve it. This philosophy makes him cautious; he has seen how carelessness can erase history.His Rome is not the postcard one. It's the abandoned theater behind a nondescript door in Monti, now a candlelit tasting room where he takes a lover to share a glass of something volcanic and rare. It's the fire escape on his Trastevere building where, after an all-night walk through rain-slicked piazzas, he shares warm cornetto at dawn, the city stretching awake below them. His sexuality is like his work: meticulous, attentive, deeply sensory. It's expressed in the careful removal of a paint-stained shirt, the press of a cool palm against a sun-warmed back, the shared silence of watching a thunderstorm roll over the dome of St. Peter's from a hidden terrace.He communicates in a language of curated fragments. Voice notes whispered on the 8 tram, the sound of the bell and his breath mingling. Playlists assembled not of songs, but of city sounds and half-remembered conversations recorded between 2 AM cab rides—the purr of the engine, rain on the window, a sigh. His grand gestures are private but monumental. He once turned a billboard facing his studio—usually advertising perfume—into a love letter by projecting the chemical formula for indigo, the pigment of a beloved's eyes, across it for one silent, blue hour before dawn.His comfort is a deep, worn groove, but he harbours a thrilling fear of it. Falling in love feels like risking the stability of a centuries-old wall he's been entrusted to repair. Yet, he keeps a hidden stash of polaroids—not of faces, but of hands, of the back of a neck in dim light, of two wine glasses on a stone windowsill—each one a document of a perfect night. To love Gianluca is to be mapped onto his secret city, to have your story woven into the fresco of his life, a new layer of vibrant, enduring colour.