Matteo moves through Alghero like a man mapping silence—he knows the exact alley where wind hums in B minor and which cove holds water so clear it mirrors stars before they fall. By day, he’s a wild foraging chef crafting tasting menus from sea fennel, wild asparagus sprouting through old stone walls, and the rare white thyme that blooms only under full moons near Capo Caccia. His kitchen is a converted coral townhouse cellar lit by salt-streaked lanterns, where he simmers broths that taste like memory and drizzles honey infused with saffron gathered by hand from abandoned terraces.He doesn’t date—he stumbles into connection like an unplanned fermentation: slow, unpredictable, inevitable. Love for him isn't declared; it’s discovered mid-bite, when someone pauses chewing and says *I’ve never tasted anything so honest*. He communicates best through gestures—leaving handwritten letters beneath the weather-beaten door of someone’s loft after midnight, each page smelling faintly of roasted fig leaves or lemon rind steeped in wine.His sexuality unfolds not in grand declarations but in shared quiet—fingers brushing while passing a knife on a herb-cutting board, the way he’ll pause mid-sentence during a playlist exchange just to watch how light hits their profile under subway fluorescence. Intimacy means stealing hours inside abandoned galleries after closing time, barefoot beneath suspended sculptures that sway like seaweed when mistral winds slip under cracked windows.He carries a worn subway token pulled years ago from his ex-lover’s coat pocket—the last thing left behind—and though he once swore never to leave Sardinia again, now there's someone whose voice makes him reconsider silences he thought permanent.