I woke up *way* earlier than my daily routine today. Not because I was refreshed—please, I still felt like an emotional disaster from last night—but because I had a mission.
Operation: Desi Breakfast.
After washing up and dressing properly (at least let me look sane even if I'm not), I quietly made my way toward the kitchen. Today, I was determined to create *at least one* normal thing from my desi household. If ancient stress won't kill me, the lack of parathas definitely will.
When I entered the kitchen, there were only two servants and one chef inside. All three stared at me like I just descended from heaven… or crawled out of the dungeon. Hard to tell. I simply smiled. You know, the *'I'm totally not here to disrupt your entire routine'* smile.
I glanced around the kitchen. Okay... rice, milk, flour, some kind of meat… and other ingredients that looked like they belonged in a potion class rather than cooking.
**Rice and milk.** My eyes sparkled.
"Perfect. Let's make paratha and kheer."
Yes, kheer. For anyone who has lived a miserable life without it—it's a sweet dish. Recipes vary, but mine is made with rice and milk. And guess what? I have both. Good sign from the universe.
I looked at the chef and asked for permission to use the ingredients. Did I need to? Probably not. Did I still do it? Yes. Why? Because trauma. He blinked twice, confused, but nodded slightly.
**Step 1:** Wash the rice. Let soak.
**Step 2:** Knead the dough for parathas. (My ancestors are cheering somewhere.)
Meanwhile, the servants observed me like I was performing black magic. Nothing new. When the rice was half-boiled—soft but not mush—you know, *"by touching the rice"* kind of instinct—I set milk to boil in a pan.
Then came the big question.
"Do we have something sweet?" I asked.
Chef disappeared for a moment then returned with… honey.
Oh hell… they have honey here?
I looked at him, deeply impressed. He didn't even know what I was making, and still brought the best option. Respect.
I normally never add honey to kheer, but desperate times, experimental ingredients. Let's just pray I don't emotionally break down in ancient China over ruined kheer.
After boiling the milk until it thickened slightly, I added rice and honey. Usually, I throw in half a kilo of dry fruits, but clearly, this isn't my mom's kitchen.
Key to a good kheer: stir like your future depends on it(because today… mine does). The chef silently observed while I stirred. That's when Xiaomei entered the kitchen, spotted me, and visibly relaxed.
Probably thought I'd run away or died. Now that I think about it—both valid possibilities.
Finally, I tasted the kheer.
It was perfect. Not too sweet, not too bland. Just perfect.
*One win for me.*
Now onto eggs. Cracked two, added a little salt, fried them. Then rolled a portion of dough and made **the very first paratha I would eat since arriving here.**
They don't have butter here. Tragic. But I can make some later—the things mama taught me are finally paying off.
When I took the paratha off the pan, it looked golden and crispy. I swear my soul ascended for a second. I sat quietly in the corner with my paratha and eggs, ready to take that first heavenly bite when—
…I felt eyes on me.
Slow turn.
Everyone. Was. Staring.
"What?" I asked.
And then it hit me.
*Oh crap. I didn't make parathas for them.*
There are like 200 people here including maids. I might have exaggerated here. But I cannot physically make parathas for the entire Royal China. But I also can't eat alone in front of them. I'd be haunted by guilt and ancient ghosts combined.
So I held out a piece and said to the chef, "Try it."
He panicked like I'd asked him to taste poison. I rolled my eyes and turned to Xiaomei.
She took a bite.
Her eyes lit up.
"I have never eaten something like this!"
I grinned, triumphant. Then the chef tried it too… and his expression said it all.
"It is so crispy but soft at the same time," he muttered in disbelief.
"I know, right? You should try *aloo ka paratha*," I replied casually.
Of course, the maids got to taste too. They stood there like they'd just discovered the meaning of life.
I asked them to pour the kheer for the family first and take some for themselves too. And after finishing *my* breakfast…
Let's just say…
I'm ready to take down absolutely anything. Then I went to dining hall as the family will have breakfast there.
By the time I entered the dining room, breakfast was already being served.
I didn't sit to eat—obviously. I was already full, eternally blessed by the paratha I had earlier. So, I just sat with the family, quiet and composed. A bit too composed for someone who emotionally malfunctioned two nights ago, but anyway.
At the table were my father and mother, along with the three brothers—Junhao, Junyue, and Yang Junjie.No outsiders, no royal audience. *Just family*, which honestly made this moment scarier.
Breakfast passed in silence. I simply sat with dignity, pretending that I wasn't low-key praying the kheer turned out good.
Just as planned, the staff brought the kheer at the end of the meal.
It was served in neat bowls. The subtle sweetness drifted through the room—a mix of milk, honey, and homesickness.
My mother was the first to taste it.
She paused.
Then looked at me.
"It's warm… soothing. Reminds me of home,"she said softly.
That hit me harder than it should have.
My father tried it next.
He nodded thoughtfully. "You made this?"
I nodded.
He didn't say much, but the slight upward twitch of his lips was enough. Approval registered.
Junhao tasted it next. His brows slightly raised.
"This is different. But I like it."
Classic Junhao—calm, composed, probably already analyzing ingredients.
Next was Junyue.
A faint smile appeared on his lips as he took the bite.
"It tastes like something meant to comfort someone."
He looked at me knowingly.
I blinked slowly. Not today, Sherlock.
Then came Yang Junjie—stone-faced, perpetually unimpressed Yang Junjie.
He took a spoonful.
Swallowed.
And simply said—
"Another bowl."
Internally: Someone record this. I think we just witnessed history.
My mother gave a small satisfied smile, turning to me.
"You should cook for us more often."
And my father, mildly teasing for the first time, added—
"Just warn the kitchen beforehand."
I chuckled softly. "I'll keep that in mind."
No one questioned why I didn't eat. No one asked how I made it. They simply enjoyed the dish quietly.
And I just watched, silent… content.
For the first time since arriving here, I didn't feel like an intruder.
Maybe… just maybe… I'm starting to find a little corner of belonging here.