#they can simply give them a homecooked meal to eat 😋

[childrenofcain-if]

Oh my beautiful British royal M 😭 I love them so much, they've become one of my favourite Ros of all time ❤️

With my MC being an idiot sandwich (Gordon Ramsay hates to see them coming) of a cook, would M still appreciate the horrible dishes we cook for them 🥺

you woke up slowly, the world filtering in through the haze of sleep. a pale, golden light trickled in through the slatted blinds, painting the room in streaks of honey and shadow.

the first thing you noticed was warmth—the steady, undisturbed heat of another body beside yours. then came the sound: the faint rustle of sheets, the thrum of a radiator doing its best against the january chill. finally, your eyes fluttered open, and there they were.

M, still tangled in their dreams.

they laid on their side, their face half-buried in the pillow, their lips slightly parted in the vulnerability of sleep. you let your gaze wander, drinking in the details as though you were committing them to memory for some far-off day when their face might only exist in the corners of your mind.

their tawny brown skin glowed faintly in the morning light, warm and inviting as a hearth fire. thick brows arched naturally, perfectly framing their face, softening their otherwise regal features. long lashes, dark as ink, cast tiny shadows against their high cheekbones, delicate crescents that you found yourself wanting to trace with your fingertip. and their hair—oh, their hair: silky black even in their sleep, it spilled across the pillow in soft waves, catching the light in a way that made you think of ocean waters at midnight.

you couldn’t help but stare. how could you not? M, always so poised, so impossibly polished, looked achingly human like this. even now, with sleep slackening the angles of their jaw, the curve of their mouth, they carried a quiet elegance.

your gaze lingered on the faint rise and fall of their chest, the way their lips parted just slightly with each breath. it was a rare, unguarded moment, and you let yourself marvel at it, at them.

eventually, though, the tug of wanting to do something nice for your royal partner grew stronger than your desire to stay still. with a quiet sigh, you slipped out from under the covers, careful not to jostle the bed. M stirred slightly, their brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing again as sleep reclaimed them.

the air was warm against your skin from the radiator as you padded barefoot across the floor, your eyes drawn to the details of their space.

philosophy dominated the collection on their shelves—aristotle, nietzsche, kant—but there were other titles too on history and poetry. a worn copy of ‘pride and prejudice,’ bookmarks riddling a lot of its pages. a cookbook with smudged pages and handwritten notes in the margins.

a stack of notebooks, their spines worn with use, sat on the desk by the window. you could imagine M bent over them, their umber brown eyes focused, their hand moving in careful strokes as they wrote in their cursive handwriting.

your gaze fell on a framed photograph perched on the right side of the desk, and you picked it up, smiling softly at the image. it was a family portrait of the whitlock-singhs.

their mother, crown princess victoria, stood at the center, her regal bearing softened by the warmth in her eyes. beside her was ranveer, M’s father, his hand resting on her shoulder, his smile wide and infectious. on either side of them were charlotte, M’s older sister, her chin tilted with confidence, and jesse, the youngest sibling, grinning like they held a secret.

and there, in the middle, was M, caught grinning almost as wide as jesse. it was a side of them you rarely saw—a pure, unfiltered joy that made the corner of your lips lift even more.

you then set the photograph back down and tiptoed toward the dorm’s attached bathroom.

it was colder in here, and you shivered as you splashed water on your face, brushing your teeth with one of the extra toothbrush M had stashed under the sink just for you. you found yourself almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you hushed up since you didn’t want M to wake up.

when you returned to the dorm room, M was still asleep, their form barely stirring beneath the covers. you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should slip back into bed, but you knew that this was probably the only rare one of times you’d wake up earlier than them and you just had to make breakfast for your partner this once.

the kitchen of the suite was as pristine as the rest of the dorm, its sleek countertops and gleaming appliances untouched by the impending doom you were about to unleash on them.

you opened the pantry, your fingers brushing against cans of soup, bags of rice, and then there it was: a can of baked beans.

yes, you were about to make the quintessentially british breakfast classic: beans on toast.

you’d noticed the recurring dish, of course, tucked on their plate in the dining hall during mornings despite their protests that they “absolutely do not like it that much.” but the familiarity in the way they ate it, the subtle contentment, had not escaped you.

you knew better. you knew them better.

you gathered the ingredients quickly: bread, beans, butter, some spices. then, on a whim, you searched the cupboards for tea leaves.

you remembered M’s story—how their father, ranveer, used to make masala chai on cold mornings, filling their paternal home in birmingham with the scent of spices and steam. it seemed like the kind of thing that would definitely be a good start to the day.

the kitchen was soon alive with sound and motion—the clatter of pots, the soft scrape of a knife as you buttered bread. you followed a recipe on your phone for the masala chai, measuring out spices before that quickly gave way to guesswork. cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, ginger.

but it turns out, you’d find ways to reach a newer low with your culinary skills—or the lack thereof.

you misjudged the measurements, poured too much milk, and somehow managed to spill the cinnamon sticks across the counter. the scent of cardamom then filled the air, mixing with the faintly burnt smell of beans you’d left unattended.

the chai boiled over, spilling onto the stovetop in a hiss of steam. you scrambled to clean it up, only to knock over the box of sugar in your haste. the bread, forgotten in the toaster, began to blacken, smoke curling up in ominous spirals.

by the time you finished, the kitchen looked like it had survived two world wars and a great depression. the fire alarm went off in a sudden, piercing wail, shattering the morning quiet. you froze, your heart leaping into your throat as the kitchen filled with a thin haze of smoke because of the charred bread.

before you could do anything, M burst into the room, half-dressed and disheveled, clutching a fire extinguisher like they’d just woken up from a dream where they were a firefighter.

“what the bloody hell is going on?” they demanded, their accent even more prominent in their panic.

you held out the plate of completely burnt beans on toast with a sheepish grin. “breakfast?”

their gaze shifted from the plate to the mess behind you—the scorched pot, the spilled sugar, the faintly smoking toaster. they arched a brow, their lips twitching as though they were trying really hard to look exasperated as they set the fire extinguisher down.

they wordlessly moved to turn off the stove with a practiced ease. they then waved a dish towel at the smoke detector until it stopped its shrieking before turning to you.

M stared at you for a long moment, then let out a breathless laugh, the sound both incredulous and amused. “you almost burned the place down trying to make beans on toast?”

“and masala chai,” you mumbled.

they shook their head, running a hand through their dark hair to make it a little less dishevelled. “you’re an absolute menace, love.”

but there was a softness in their eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

the charred remnants of your attempted breakfast lay discarded in the trash bin. M had asked you to clean everything up while they freshened up in the bathroom, and you had complied happily as you did not want to lay your sights on the bioweapon you’d created.

when M re-entered the kitchen, they looked slightly more composed, though still half-dressed, their dark hair damp from a quick rinse, and their face glowing with renewed energy.

but even like this—rumpled and unfinished—they looked like they’d stepped straight out of a portrait.

you, on the other hand, with your flour-dusted hands and the faint smell of singed toast clinging to your clothes, felt more like the before picture in one of those ‘before and after’ glow-up makeover shows.

“right,” M said, surveying the semi-clean kitchen with a raised brow. they rolled up the sleeves of their ralph lauren ivory quarter-zip, revealing forearms you definitely didn’t stare at for longer than a second. “let’s salvage this. i’m teaching you how to cook.”

“do i have a choice?” you muttered, your lips tugging into a reluctant smile.

“not if you plan to survive in this kitchen unsupervised,” they replied dryly.

M wasn’t just good at cooking—they were extraordinary at teaching. they explained things with a clarity that no cookbook or youtube tutorial could ever achieve. their movements were precise, graceful, like choreography, and you tried—emphasis on the ‘tried’—to mimic them. but for every moment of triumph, there were at least three close calls where M had to swoop in to save you from some imminent disaster.

they caught you when you tried to add oil to a pan that was already too hot, yanking the handle out of your hand just before the smoke billowing from it could turn into an inferno. they stopped you from using a knife incorrectly—“oh my days, don’t hold it like that unless you want to lose a finger or two”—and gently redirected your attempts to measure spices with a far more practiced hand.

“this,” they said, holding up a spice jar, “is cumin. you don’t just throw it in like it’s fairy dust. measure it. smell it. taste it if you must. but don’t—” they caught your hand mid-shake, their fingers wrapping around your wrist—“dump it all in like you’re salting a driveway.”

their touch remained a moment longer than necessary, their fingers warm against your skin. you tried to focus on the lesson, nodding shakily as they released you and went back to demonstrating.

despite their guidance, there were still mishaps. a nearly burnt slice of bread here, an accidental poke at yourself from the knife there. each mistake was met with a sigh and a gentle correction, M’s patience never wavering.

by the time you finished, the final product was… well, ‘edible’ felt like a stretch, but it was at least recognizable as food. the toast was unevenly browned, the beans slightly overcooked, but the chai, thankfully, had turned out well—mostly because M had taken over halfway through.

M stood back, surveying the meal with a critical eye.

“you know,” they said, “i never thought teaching you how to cook would be this hard. you’re good at everything else—what happened here?”

you shrugged, a little embarrassed, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “never had to cook growing up. we had private chefs for that. i didn’t exactly have it as a priority either since i was mostly focusing on my academics and extracurriculars.”

their lips quirked upward, amusement lighting their features. “that explains it. well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

you groaned, leaning against the counter. “what if all my cooking ends up like this? what if i accidentally poison someone? or worse, what if it’s so bad that even pigs won’t eat it?”

how could that be possibly worse than poisoning someone, M didn’t ask. they simply chuckled, shaking their head. then, before you could react, they stepped closer, brushing the edge of your lip with their thumb. it took you a moment to realize they were wiping away a smudge of burnt toast that you had to taste test, their touch lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

their umber brown gaze met yours, encouraging and affectionate, and when they smiled, it felt like the first sip of tea on a cold morning—comforting, slow, and impossibly warm.

“if it comes to that,” they assured, their voice low enough that it felt like the words were meant to be tucked away in the most intimate corner of your heart, “i’ll cook for you every day. if that’s what you’d like.”

your face burned, a wave of heat surging from your chest to your ears. in all the time that you’ve been alive, no one had ever said something like that to you before. you tried to muster a response, but all you managed was a nod and a small smile that you were sure looked ridiculous to an outsider looking onto the scene.

“um… thanks,” you mumbled, your voice small as you tried not to propose marriage to them right then and there.

they laughed softly, stepping back to set the table. “come on, let’s see if this breakfast of yours is as bad as you think.”

finally, the two of you sat down to eat. the product of your combined efforts sat between you—a plate of beans on toast that looked... decent enough, you suppose. the masala chai was the star of the show, thanks to M.

overall, the food wasn’t great, but it didn’t look like it’d immediately give you indigestion either—a victory, considering your earlier disaster.

you took a bite, only to wince at how bland it was.

“i swear i put spices in,” you muttered, poking at the toast with your fork as though it might reveal where all the seasonings went to hide under scrutiny.

M, to your utter shock, ate the meal without a single complaint. this was particularly astonishing given their well-documented distaste for most americanised version of indian or british food.

they always had something to say about the lack of proper seasoning, the over-reliance on processed ingredients. but now, here they were, eating your lackluster beans on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone dining at a michelin-star restaurant.

“not bad,” they said finally, setting down their fork.

you stared at them in disbelief. “you’re lying. it’s terrible. come on, you can be honest.”.

“the fact that you even tried to make breakfast for me is more than enough,” they said as they leaned back on their chair. “yes, your culinary skills leave much to be desired, and no, i don’t think anybody is going to let you within ten feet of a restaurant kitchen anytime soon, but...” their smile softened, their eyes crinkling at the corners. “if all my meals were made with this much love, i’d eat whatever you make for me every day, meri jaan.”

you stared at them, your chest tight, your heart tripping over itself in an unsteady rhythm. the sincerity in their voice, the way they looked at you like you were something so precious to them—god, it was almost too much.

“though,” they added, a playful glint returning to their eyes, “i’ll definitely have to help you season the food next time. for both our sakes.”

you laughed, the sound breaking the moment’s intensity but not diminishing its warmth. and as you sat there, the morning sunlight streaming through the window, M across from you, their smile brighter than anything else in the room, you couldn’t help but think that maybe almost burning down the kitchen was worth it after all.