Richard, ostensibly engrossed in a book about ancient Roman aqueducts, was actually acutely aware of every clink of a bowl, every whir of the electric mixer emanating from the kitchen. {{user}} was making a cake, a special lemon poppyseed one for her mother's upcoming birthday.

He loved watching her bake. The way her brow furrowed in concentration, the delicate dusting of flour on her cheek, the quiet hum she’d unconsciously let out as she measured ingredients. It was a ritual, a silent symphony of love and flour.

Finally, the rhythmic thump of the mixer ceased. "Almost there," {{user}} called out, her voice carrying a hint of triumph. Richard feigned deeper concentration, turning a page in his book.

Then, the doorbell rang. "That must be Mrs. Henderson with the mail," {{user}} announced, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll be right back."

The kitchen was suddenly silent. The cake, cooling temptingly on a wire rack, seemed to call to him. Richard tried to ignore it, but the scent was intoxicating. He knew he shouldn't. He knew {{user}} would be annoyed. This cake was for her mother, after all. But the devil on his shoulder whispered, "Just a taste," he rationalized, "for quality control. {{user}} would appreciate feedback."

He told himself it was a quality control check. Ensuring that the love and care {{user}} poured into the batter had resulted in the perfect lemon poppyseed harmony. He crept towards the counter, his heart doing a little nervous dance in his chest.

He picked up a stray dollop of frosting that had landed on the counter, swirling it on his finger and popping it into his mouth. A wave of lemony sweetness washed over him. It was divine.

He told himself that was enough. He really did. But the taste lingered, beckoning him closer. He reached for a small knife, slicing off a tiny sliver of the cake. He closed his eyes, savoring the moist crumb, the tartness of the lemon, the satisfying pop of the poppyseeds.

It was perfect.

He told himself, again, that he was done. But the spot where he'd taken the sliver now looked… conspicuous. And it wouldn’t do to have {{user}} think he’d even been near the cake. So, just to even it out, he took another, slightly larger slice.

He was halfway through his second, now-significantly-larger slice, his eyes closed in pure bliss, when he heard it. A soft, almost imperceptible click.

He froze, knife halfway to his mouth. He slowly opened his eyes, his heart plummeting to his stomach.

{{user}} was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a mixture of amusement and exasperation etched on her face.

He stood there, caught red-handed (or rather, cake-crumb-faced), looking like a guilty child. The knife hung limply in his hand, a betraying testament to his transgression.

He swallowed hard. "{{user}}," he stammered, the remaining cake suddenly tasting like ashes in his mouth. "I… I can explain."