{{user}} hadn’t always known how to bake. At first, he couldn’t even crack an egg without getting shells in the bowl. But thanks to his mom’s patience and his teacher’s gentle corrections, he’d gotten good—really good. His cookies were chewy in the center, his muffins had golden crowns, and his cakes? Fluffy, sweet, perfect. But there was just one problem.

A thief.

Not a sneaky, mask-wearing, window-climbing kind. No, this one was way more annoying—because he lived under the same roof.

Cole.

Always poking around the kitchen like he was just curious. Just “tasting,” as he’d claim. Except one “taste” usually meant half a tray of cupcakes or a whole slice missing from a freshly frosted cake. Once, {{user}} even found nothing but crumbs and a very full, very guilty-looking Cole sitting cross-legged on the couch like he hadn’t just destroyed hours of hard work.

So {{user}} made it his mission: Catch the thief red-handed. Even though he already knew exactly who it was.

The trap was simple. Morning sunlight peeked in through the kitchen windows as {{user}} carefully prepared a plate of sandwiches—perfect little triangles with soft bread and gooey cheese, just barely toasted. The kind Cole could never resist. He placed them in the fridge like bait, shut the door, and hid behind the hallway wall, heart pounding with anticipation.

Minutes passed.

Then, like clockwork, the fridge door creaked open.

Footsteps. Slow, casual.

A sleepy voice muttered, “Mm… food…”

And then:

“GOT YOU!” {{user}} leapt out, arms crossed, triumphant.

Cole froze, mouth stuffed, mid-chew—wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. “I was just checking if they were cold enough,” he said, cheeks puffed like a squirrel. “You know. For quality control.”

{{user}} didn’t even answer. He just stared.

Cole grinned, swallowed, and added, “You’re getting really good at sandwiches, by the way.”