CW: Just, grossly sweet Hawks cooking for his girl. A teensy bit suggestive at the very end. Bon Appétit!!
Music Rec: Laufey -- Silver Lining
🍴 Hawks LOVES to cook for you. He’s not a Michelin chef or anything wild like that, but you can taste the love smooshed in between the layers of buttery, grilled bread.
🍴 When he’s preparing the food, the garnishes, and setting the table, he’s listening to Laufey. There’s just something about her voice that calms him. It reminds him of you—how softly you speak when you’re with him—it puts him in a trance.
🍴 He. Gets. Excited. Before you get there, he triple-checks to make sure that the tapers are standing straight. The silverware is in the correct order (how hard can it be with a knife, a fork, and sometimes a spoon?), but it’s freaking adorable how hard he tries to be fancy for you.
🍴 You usually get home around 6 pm sharp. He’s got everything laid out: food kept warm in the oven, drinks in the fridge, napkins folded into swans (which is cute because he always jokes that swans are such prissy little things—no match for his strength).
🍴 When you walk in the door, he’s standing there in the entryway, a childlike wonder written in his eyes. He wants your reaction. He needs to see what a good job he did for you—to hear it in your breathing as you take in the table.
🍴 He’s always in an apron. And it’s not one of those plain white kitchen aprons. Nope. It’s something stupid, like one with cartoon chickens on it, or one that says “Kiss the Cook (Or Else).” He bought them on purpose because he knows you’ll laugh, and every time you laugh, it feels like winning the lottery.
🍴 When he’s at the stove, his feathers puff and ruffle without him realizing. You have to sidestep sometimes because his wingspan is a lot, but honestly, you don’t mind. Watching them twitch when he’s focused on seasoning is weirdly domestic and cozy at the same time.
🍴 He’s terrible at cleaning up. Plates in the sink at crooked angles, suds everywhere, and at least one chipped dish sacrificed in the chaos. But he tries. And you usually end up drying while he washes, shoulder bumping into yours, both of you laughing over how “fancy dinner” always turns into a comedy of errors.
🍴 Dinner is never just dinner. Hawks cooks because it’s the one place he can give you a piece of himself that’s real and quiet. No noise of the world, no press, no battles. Just him, humming to Laufey, butter on his knuckles, love stuffed between grilled bread, and his eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing worth serving.
🍴 Whenever you ask what he put in the dish, he grins and says, “Love.” Every. Single. Time. The worst best part? It actually tastes like it.
🍴 When you’re sitting at the table, eating and laughing, he doesn’t even touch his food for the first few minutes. He just props his chin on his hand and says, “Man… if this isn’t the dream, I don’t know what is.”
🍴 On days he can’t wait for dinner, he’ll pack up food in mismatched containers and insist on a rooftop picnic. He’ll spread a blanket, feathers keeping the corners down, and swear the stars are envious of your smile.
🍴 After the dishes are (halfway) done, he’ll appear in the living room with something tiny but thoughtful—like a warm cookie or a cup of tea—because in his mind, no evening together should end without dessert (sometimes you’re the dessert).
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