Your crossed arms and the irritated pout stamped on your face were too much for him to handle. A soft laugh escaped, and Tamsy brought his hand up to his mouth, trying to hold it back before it became even more obvious.

“This isn’t funny. You didn’t warn me.” Your lips trembled slightly, betraying your frustration.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he replied, still amused. “But that’s not my fault.”

It had all started as a silly competition, just to kill some free time: who could make the best cake. After the inevitable mess of preparing the batter, you went to change your clothes. When you came back, the scene was tragic. Your cake was burnt. How infuriating.

And his? Perfect. Golden, fragrant, intact. That only made your irritation worse. He had seen it, for sure. He didn’t warn you on purpose, just to keep control of the situation. Typical.

You sat down beside him on the bed, not eating anything, of course—your cake had practically turned to dust. One leg rested against the edge of the mattress, your elbow propped on your knee, the pout still firmly on your face. Tamsy, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying your bad mood. He chuckled softly, poked your shoulder, clearly pleased with the outcome.

“Hey, look here.” He offered you a piece of his cake, while with his left hand he wiped a bit of batter that had stayed at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t play hard to get,” he murmured, leaning a little closer. “I’m offering you a piece of my cake.”

The calm smile stamped on his face only made you more irritated. At least he offered you a piece of his cake.