Page 11 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

I don’t cry when he leaves.

I don’t yell. I don’t crumble to the floor in some dramatic, weepy heap like the heroines in holodramas do when their alien warrior love interests run for the proverbial hills.

I just… stare at the door.

It clicks shut behind him with that soft, polite chime that’s always reminded me of windchimes on old Earth porches. Dainty. Fragile. In this moment, mocking.

I stand there for what feels like hours, my fingers still tingling where they touched his scales. My cheek’s still warm from the press of his callused palm. And my mouth—gods, my mouth—it remembers the shape of his kiss like a scar remembers fire. It throbs. It aches. And not from want.

From loss.

Again.

The sting creeps in slow, a sickly crawl of heat that starts at my temples and slides behind my eyes. I grip the edge of the counter to anchor myself, knuckles white, and count backwards from ten in every language I know.

English. Vakutan. Basic Trade. Even that weird little bit of Yivaltese I picked up from Vonn once when she was three shots into spiced liquor and reciting war poetry.

It doesn’t help.

Behind me, the oven ticks. Cooling. Forgotten.

I finally move—no, I function —toward the back of the shop, where the kitchen smells like burnt sugar and too-sweet icing, the air thick with flour dust and heat. I hear the door swing open and click shut again behind me, the faintest jingle of the bell. Footsteps. Small and fast.

“Ruby?” Lyrie’s voice, for once, holds no flirtation. Just concern. And confusion. “Is he gone?”

I nod.

“You okay?”

“No.”

A pause. Then the distinct rustle of scales against linen as she wraps her arms around me. Her embrace is light—Lyrie never hugs tight unless she's drunk—but it’s warm and real. I breathe her in, the crisp scent of citrus polish she uses on her skin tickling my nose. It doesn’t help either.

She pulls back a little, her pink eyes scanning my face. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

I shake my head.

“Do you wanna murder-bake?”

That gets a breath out of me. Not a laugh, not really, but close enough that her face brightens a little.

“Yeah,” I croak. “Yeah, I wanna murder-bake.”

We get to work.

Chocolate ganache. Double batches. I pour the cream and butter into the saucepan with vengeance, the wooden spoon in my hand feeling more like a weapon than a tool.

I don’t even wait for it to boil properly before dumping in the chocolate.

My movements are sharp, graceless, a flurry of purpose with no direction.

Caramel swirl next. Sugar on the stove until it hisses like an insult. I stand over it with narrowed eyes, watching it melt and bubble and darken like it’s the universe’s vendetta incarnate. The heat kisses my arms, sticky and cloying, and I welcome it.

Lyrie tries to keep up, but eventually backs off and lets me lose myself in the rhythm.

It’s not until Vonn shuffles in, sniffs the air, and mutters something in Fratvoyan about “grief baking like a broken-hearted war bride,” that I finally pause.

She eyes the spread—fudge, tarts, ganache in glass bowls, rows of cinnamon-nutmeg muffins that weren’t even on the day’s menu—and clicks her tongue. “Did he break your heart or kill your dog?”

I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “Is there a difference?”

Vonn snorts, then begins packaging the desserts without another word. For her, this is compassion.

For me, it’s everything.

But even buried under chocolate and sugar and swirls of caramel, I can’t shut it out. The sound of his voice. The look in his eye when I said I was free. His silence. His shame. The way he backed away like I’d put a knife to his gut instead of offering him the one thing I thought he wanted.

Myself.

Was I wrong?

Gods, maybe I was.

Maybe all this time I’ve been imagining a story that only existed in my head. Projecting dreams onto a man who was too honorable, too damaged, too afraid to let himself want me back.

Or worse—maybe he did want me. Just not enough.

The thought cuts sharper than any rejection I’ve ever faced.

I press my hands to the counter, breathing through my nose, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla swarming me like ghosts of comfort.

“Hey,” Lyrie says gently from the doorway. “You don’t have to pretend with us.”

I glance up.

She’s leaning there, arms folded across her glittery mesh apron, looking far too serious for someone whose top barely covers her navel.

I try to smile. “Pretending’s all I’ve got right now.”

She steps forward, reaches across the counter, and plucks a piping bag out of my trembling hands.

“Well then,” she says, “we’ll pretend together.”

The shop is quiet now, long after midnight, the only sounds the gentle hum of the refrigeration units and the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock above the counter. I’ve turned the lights down low. The bakery smells like sugar and sadness.

I sit on the loveseat in the back room, legs curled under me, a blanket pulled to my chin even though the air is still warm from the ovens.

The dim glow from my compad reflects on the pale skin of my fingers as I scroll, heart pounding harder than it should.

I know exactly what I’m looking for. I don’t even have to type anything in—my fingers go there automatically. Memory muscle. Pain muscle.

And there it is.

The photo.

It’s a little blurry, the resolution not great. But I remember that night like it’s still pressed against my skin.

The Winter Festival. Five years ago. Novaria hadn’t had snow that year, but the street vendors brought in artificial flakes and programmed them to fall in delicate spirals, catching the overhead lights like glitter.

I was selling cinnamon bread from a booth that smelled like heaven, and Rekkgar…

Rekkgar had stopped by on his way home from training, still in his sleeveless gi top, arms slicked with sweat despite the chill in the air.

Vonn bullied him into standing next to me for a “customer appreciation” photo. He grunted, deadpan as always.

But in the image, there’s a sliver of softness in his eyes. Just the barest hint. Like he’s not just tolerating me, but maybe… enjoying the moment.

His massive arm brushes mine in the frame. Barely. But I feel it now like a shock through time.

And my smile?

So damn wide.

I stare at that photo until my eyes burn. I’ve probably looked at it a hundred times. Maybe more. I should delete it. Move on. Burn it in some ritualistic digital cleansing that screams I am not waiting for him anymore.

But I can’t.

Because the truth is, I still want that night back.

Back when things were easier. Simpler. When our connection was warm and slow like molasses, not something jagged and aching and unspoken. Before longing sank claws into my ribs. Before every glance from him felt like both a promise and a threat.

Before the kiss.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

That kiss. That kiss should’ve changed everything.

It did change everything—for me. The way his hand cradled my jaw like I was precious.

The way his mouth moved over mine with slow reverence, like he was memorizing me, branding the moment into his soul.

It wasn’t passion, not just that. It was something older.

Something sacred. Like the kind of kiss you give at the edge of war.

And then he ran.

Again.

Like I’m something dangerous.

Like he’s something dangerous.

I drop the compad on the table and scrub both hands down my face, dragging the blanket up tighter, tucking it beneath my chin like armor.

“I’m such an idiot,” I whisper aloud, voice catching in the silence.

Because I really thought—this time—it would be different. I thought the walls would crack and something real would spill out between us. But I was wrong.

I look back at the compad. The screen’s gone black now, my reflection staring back, ghostlike.

He doesn’t want to be caught , I tell myself. So stop trying.

I’ve done this before. Told myself the same thing.

Sworn I’d let him go. That I’d focus on the shop, on my craft, on the customers who laugh at my jokes and the espresso machine that never works properly.

That I’d pour my love into frosting and batter and build something sweet enough to fill the void.

But love lingers. Pain lingers. Like smoke in drapes. Like the smell of cinnamon in your hair after a long day kneading dough.

It never really leaves.

I reach for the box of chocolate crinkle cookies Lyrie left me on the prep table earlier—her version of a care package. The scent hits me first, thick with cocoa and just a hint of sea salt. They’re good. She’s been practicing. I take a bite and try not to think of how these are Rekkgar’s favorite.

Fail.

Again.

A knock startles me from the haze. Not the front door—it’s too late for customers. This one comes from the back. The alley. Staff only.

I hesitate. My fingers tremble.

Maybe it’s Vonn, back from her walk to curse at the moon.

Maybe it’s Lyrie, checking on me again.

Maybe—

No. Don’t be stupid.

I rise, blanket trailing off my legs, and pad across the tile floor barefoot. The cold bites. The cookie sticks to the roof of my mouth.

I don’t open the door.

I wait.

Another knock. Firmer this time. Just once.

My hand flutters to the lock, hovering.

I pull it open.

But there’s no one there.

Just the faint scent of storm-dampened stone and—something else.

Earth Espresso. The real stuff.

My heart trips.

On the step, in a little wax paper bag, sits a chocolate chip muffin top. Still warm. Slightly misshapen.

Handmade.

By someone with claws.

My fingers tremble as I pick it up. I look down the alley, eyes scouring the shadows. But it’s empty.

I hold the muffin to my chest and close the door, heart hammering against my ribs.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be caught.

But maybe—just maybe—he wants me to follow.

“Lyrie, tell me you didn’t.”

My voice cuts sharper than the pastry knife in my hand, and I regret the edge as soon as I see her sheepish, glimmering expression.