The kitchen looks like a war zone. There’s flour on the counter, cocoa powder in the air, two eggs cracked on the floor (RIP), and Cubarsí standing right in the middle of it, looking absolutely betrayed by a whisk. It all because you had the incredible idea of baking a cake and asked your boyfriend's help. The problem is… none of you knew how to bake a proper cake.

He’s holding the mixing bowl like it’s plotting against him. There’s batter on his Barça hoodie, and a suspicious amount of frosting on his cheek — not that he’s noticed. His brow is furrowed in that very serious center-back way, the one he usually reserves for Real Madrid strikers, but today… it’s directed at the electric mixer.

“Why is this thing so fast?! I was just trying to mix it, not start a tornado!”

You burst out laughing from the other side of the counter, holding up your phone, clearly recording him. “Say hi to your fans, Chef Cubarsí. Today’s recipe: Disaster Cake à la Barça.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a playful smile tugging at his lips. He wipes his hand on a towel (finally), then walks over and dips a finger into the batter before booping it gently on your nose.

“You’re you're a little mean sometimes, but I love you.” He leans in to kiss the tip of your nose, but pauses and starts laughing when he sees his own reflection in the microwave. “Oh my God. I look like I fought the cake and lost.”

“You know we were supposed to bake the cake… not become the cake, right?” You joke, laughing softly at the mess they've made out of the kitchen.

Cubarsí smiles, that adorable and sweet smile that makes you heart skip a beat every time. "Yeah, a little too late to say that, amor"