#baker dr

៵ You never burn your baked goods, not even when you're multitasking or forget the timer. Perfection is your default, every time.

៵ Your doughs, batters, and breads always rise just right. No sad, flat loaves here.

៵ You never run out of key ingredients (especially when stores are closed). Your pantry is always magically stocked.

៵ You never burn your fingers or arms, even when working with hot ovens and pans all day.

៵ Your crusts are always golden, crisp and super flaky(crucial); they are never soggy or underbaked.

៵ You don’t get turned off by your own food, even after hours of prep, sniffing, and tasting. You still want that cookie. You deserve that cookie.

៵ Vendors never ghost, cancel, or send bad products. Your deliveries are always on time and exactly what you ordered (if not better).

៵ Your bakes are always aesthetically flawless; like they fell out of a Pinterest board and landed on your counter.

៵ Your baked goods have the perfect crumb, texture, and mouthfeel. Every. Single. Time.

៵ Dishes don’t pile up. Spills are minimal and your kitchen somehow stays... not a disaster zone.

៵ Holiday chaos or custom orders galore? You glide through it with the calm of a baker god.

៵ Food critics, bloggers, and customers can’t stop raving about your pastries. Five stars across the board.

៵ Your signature flavors and techniques are impossible to replicate. People try. People fail.

៵ Your kitchen is always the ideal climate. Chocolate tempers, dough rests and you don’t sweat.

៵ Even on 3AM start days, you wake up with motivation and a good playlist. No burnout, just butter.

៵ You can whip up a last-minute masterpiece with whatever's lying around like a baking wizard with improv powers.

៵ A magical sanitation fairy visits your kitchen every night, and blesses you with sterile counters, sparkling floors, and spotless equipment. You wake up to a pristine health-inspector-approved workspace and no bleach fume headaches required.

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♡ (˃͈ ˂͈ )　◞　barista / baker dr !! 　　◟⠀ ͜ꔫ ͜ ◞　　matteo “teo” sorrentino twenty years old full-time café owner & baker ,, half-time professional volleyball player ,, occasional influencer s/o = nemo mettler ,, yearner x oblivious 𓈒

oh i cant wait to walk your streets my beloved new york city <3

ʬʬ. THE TRAVELING BAKER ಇ. sugar cookies, summer breeze, 𖬺 youtube @ LILY PAD

⌕ small town dr? rosebourne. the baker. cupcakes.

⌕ visualization insta. lilypad. fashion.

( week 1 , post 2 )

𓎢𓎟𓎡 ྀི 𓎢𓎟𓎡 ྀི 𓎢𓎟𓎡 ྀི

spring special dessert menu

　　︎bakerㅤ/ㅤbaristaㅤㅤㅤ𓏲ㅤㅤㅤdr 𓈒

almostjune　17h

♫︎ NEMO • Casanova

liked by nemothings and 974k others

almostjune　hands still warm. anyway.

starscollide　someone check on teo, I think he might be losing his mind 😭😭

⤷ flickerofsummer　broʼs been YEARNING

casanovis　NEMOʼS LIKED THE POST, WHAT????

⤷ hrtshaped　I was wondering the same thing 😭😭 seemed a bit out of the blue

⤷ soleboy　yeah, no, I donʼt trust this yet

With the beginning of the world volleyball championship, I DO post more.. Yes guys, itʼs not once every full moon everytime, I SWEAR!! ANYWAYS, yes, Nemo did come to majority of my matches, which was 1. very unexpected and 2. I was lowkey gonna have a HEART ATTACK (bcuz they are so. gorgeous, ok.)

♡ 　　 “NON RIESCO A DORMIRE” 　　𓈒 　　a restless night that my best friend sits through with me

The kitchen clock says 2:14.

I haven’t moved in an hour.

I tried.

Made tea.

Didn’t drink it.

Switched playlists. It just made the silence louder.

Solea’s words are still curling in the corners of the room like steam:

“Se luə ti guarda anche solo un po’ come tu speri… allora forse non è così complicato.” (“If they even look at you just a little like you hope… then maybe it’s not so complicated.”)

But it’s not simple.

Not when every room I walk into reminds me of them. Not when their laugh is still tangled in my apron strings.

Not when I want to say something so badly I could scream — but I’d die if I actually did.

So I text her.

Just one word.

“sei sveglia?” (“you up?”)

The three dots appear almost instantly.

Then disappear.

Then appear again.

Then-

“Scendi. Porta solo le chiavi.” (“Get out. Just bring the keys.”)

I do.

No shoes. Hoodie. My heart still trying to beat itself out of my chest.

She’s waiting outside. Sitting on her bike like it’s a getaway car.

“Dove andiamo?” (“Where are we going?”) I ask.

She shrugs.

“Lontano abbastanza da respirare. Vieni, amore mio.” (“Far enough away to breathe. Come, my love.”)

We end up on the cliffs.

The ones where the streetlights stop. Where it’s just moon and sea and the occasional vespa roaring somewhere far off.

We don’t talk right away. She passes me a warm can of peach iced tea from her tote bag like it’s medicine.

After a while, she says softly:

“Parlami di chi ti fa brillare gli occhi.” (“Tell me about the one who makes your eyes light up.”)

I shake my head.

“Non posso.” (“I can't.”)

She doesn’t push.

So instead, I say:

“A volte... mi sembra di vederə dappertutto. Nei riflessi dei bicchieri, nella luce del forno. Quando ridono i clienti, sento la loro voce sopra le altre. Ma- non posso scrivere a loro. Non per questo.” (“Sometimes... it feels like I see them everywhere. In the reflections on the glasses, in the light from the oven. When the customers laugh, I hear their voice above all the others. But- I can’t message them. Not for this.”)

She exhales. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then quietly:

“Ti senti soffocare, eh?” (“You feel suffocated, don't you?”)

I nod.

My throat burns.

She shifts closer. Leans her head on my shoulder. We just sit there.

And then, like it means nothing:

“Manda loro una foto. Di qui. Solo... questo. Senza spiegazioni.” (“Send them a photo. Of this place. Just… this. No explanation.”)

I look at her.

“Solo una foto?” (“Just one photo?”)

“Solo una foto. Lo capiranno. O no. Ma almeno sapranno che stanotte… eri da qualche parte bello. E li hai pensatə.” (“Just a photo. They’ll understand. Or not. But at least they’ll know that tonight… you were somewhere beautiful. And you thought of them.”)

I didnʼt think about it too hard.

I snapped the photo. The view. The sky. The cliffs. The edge of Solea’s bike.

Sent it.

No caption.

No name.

Just the silence that speaks when your heart is full and your voice fails you.

And maybe, maybe… they were looking at their phone, too.

Wondering if that place is where I feel most alive.

And if they belonged in it.