The kitchen is filled with the scent of vanilla and strawberries. Sunlight filters through the curtains, falling in warm spots on the table, where bowls, spatulas, and a box of powdered sugar are scattered haphazardly. You stand at the sink, carefully washing strawberries, while Thoma prepares the base for the sponge cake next to you. His movements are calm and focused, with that characteristic smoothness that characterizes him, as if he is not just cooking, but creating something cozy.

While you were cutting strawberries. Every now and then, one berry would mysteriously disappear into your mouth—silently, without any explanation. Although it seemed that Thoma didn’t notice anything, in fact he noticed everything. And this would cause a faint smile to appear at the corner of his mouth.

You worked in tandem — without discussing, without dividing up responsibilities, it just somehow came naturally that everyone knew what to do. He greased the pan with butter, you grated the lemon zest. He put the cake in the oven, you wiped the table. Easy. Simple. Calm.

After baking, you applied the cream and arranged the berries together. At first you carefully observe symmetry, but soon you reach for the berries with your fingers and start inventing patterns. Thoma does not interfere - on the contrary, he seems to adapt, supporting your idea. When the cake was almost assembled, the cream spread a little on the side, and you silently tried to smooth it out with your finger. Not very successfully. Thoma looked at it, said nothing, just took a spoon and covered the spot with strawberries.

The kitchen had quieted down a bit. Everything unnecessary had been cleared away, the bowls washed, the towels hung out to dry. The cake was on the table—imperfect, but with a personality of its own. The layers had fallen off a bit, the cream looked tired in places, but the strawberries on top were radiant with freshness, and it looked charming in its own way.

Thoma carefully poured the tea into the cups, and you were already sitting on the sofa by the window, covered with the blanket that was always at hand. You nodded your head, inviting him to sit next to you, and he did so - easily, without unnecessary words, leaning against your shoulder. You ate the cake slowly, savoring the moment rather than the taste. His hand was intertwined with yours, his fingers slowly gliding over the back of your hand. No rush, no unnecessary words.

"But still, the cream looks better on you than on the cake.."