Page 13 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

T he wind rolls through Novaria like breath from some ancient, wounded god. It tastes of copper and low-hanging citrus blooms, humid with dusk dew and the throb of a city that never quite sleeps, only simmers.

I walk it anyway. Street after street. Pavement humming beneath my boots like heartbeats I can’t match. The chill creeps in around my shoulders, but I don’t notice. My thoughts burn hotter than any wind.

She’s free.

She told me she’s free.

And I left her.

I try to make sense of it—my own idiocy, my panic, the surge of honor twisted so tight around my ribs it strangled the very thing it claimed to protect.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Not discipline. Not virtue. Not Vakutan code.

Fear.

I feared her truth. I feared mine.

And now that I’ve had the night to unravel my shame, to walk the circuits of these too-familiar streets like a lost beast pacing its cage, I know the truth—ugly, simple, sharp:

What I did was cowardice.

She offered me something—soft and searing and real—and I turned away like it would burn me.

But I’ve walked through warfires. I’ve bled through worse. And yet nothing scorches like her voice in the dark, saying I’m not engaged anymore, like it meant we could start.

And I ran.

At one point, I stop at the little bridge overlooking the koi canal—watch their bioluminescent bodies twist beneath the surface in a lazy waltz of gold and teal.

The lights from the floating vendor stalls flicker over the ripples.

A human child nearby squeals as his drone-fish catches a digital coin.

I close my eye—the one still mine, not the metal one that hums softly in the night—and try to breathe.

My people say meditation restores balance. But balance isn’t what I need right now.

I need clarity.

I kneel beside the bridge, spine straight, palms open to the stars. The mantra comes easily, words passed down through bloodlines and battlefields.

“Strength in stillness. Truth in silence. The heart beats once. Listen.”

But silence doesn’t bring peace tonight.

It brings her.

The echo of her laughter. The quiver of her breath when I kissed her. The way her hands curled into my tunic like I was something to be held, not feared. Not restrained.

Her lips were warm, even after the cool night air.

Her scent still lingers on my skin.

And her eyes—that wide, wide gaze, shimmering with disbelief and wonder—refuse to leave me be.

I stay there till dawn edges into the sky, bruised purple and ash-pink, and the bakeries start to stir with life. The scent of sugar and bread rises with the fog, and I know, without needing to see it, that Earth Bites will already be lit.

She will be inside.

I rise with purpose. My body aches from the stillness, muscles stiff from more than just posture. It’s the ache of withheld truth, of longing unspoken. My students wouldn’t recognize me if they saw me now—unkempt, sleepless, stripped of the stoic armor I usually wear like a second skin.

But none of that matters.

What matters is this:

I will not run again.

Not from her.

Not from this.

The path to the bakery feels different today. Every step heavy, but not with dread—just weight. Gravity. The kind that anchors ships and hearts.

I reach the glass door just as she’s switching the open sign, hand still on the latch.

She freezes.

So do I.

For a moment, we just look at each other.

She’s in a simple navy-blue apron today, flour already streaked across the curve of her hip. Her hair’s tied up in a loose bun, strands curling defiantly down her neck. Her eyes—gods, those eyes—are wary now, ringed with something darker than fatigue.

Pain.

I did that.

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.

So I do.

“I was wrong.”

The words leave my mouth like thunder after too long in drought.

She blinks.

I press on.

“I thought leaving was the honorable thing. That stepping away from your freedom would give you peace. But it didn’t. Not for you. And not for me.”

Still, she says nothing.

Her jaw trembles, just a little.

I lower my voice, step closer but not too close. I need her to know this isn’t a cornering. It’s a choice.

“You offered me something no warrior deserves without earning. A chance. A truth. And I betrayed that by not standing beside you.”

Her gaze doesn’t soften, not yet. “You didn’t just walk away, Rekkgar. You ran. After I told you everything.”

“I know,” I say, and shame curls like a blade in my gut. “And I’ll carry that failure. But I won’t let it be the final word.”

She crosses her arms, shoulders stiff. “So what now? You show up with another muffin and a bow-tied apology?”

“No,” I say simply. “I came with nothing but truth. And a request.”

Her brow furrows. “A request?”

I take a breath. My voice goes low.

“Let me try. Let me earn you. Not because you need rescuing. Not because I can fight for you. But because I want to stand beside you, every damn day, and never flinch again.”

For a long, awful beat, she stares at me like I’ve spoken a different language.

Then she turns away.

I freeze.

But then—she moves behind the counter, reaches for a tray. When she straightens, she’s holding a muffin.

Chocolate chip. Slightly burnt at the edges. Glazed.

My favorite.

She hands it to me, but doesn’t let go right away. Her fingers brush mine, and her voice is soft when she says, “Then start by staying. Just for today.”

I nod.

And I do.

I should’ve turned around the moment I saw the banners.

They drape from the rafters in warm gold and violet hues, the sigil of Galactic Panic Chef Surprise glittering at the center of each.

Beneath them, a crowd hums and chatters with the electric pitch of celebration—flashes of holocams, the drone of eager voices overlapping, the scent of cinnamon and citrus caramel thick as smoke.

She’s in the middle of it all.

Ruby.

My Ruby.

No— not mine.

Not anymore.

She stands at the counter like a goddess in an apron, her flour-smeared cheeks flushed with excitement, her smile wide and sharp.

The sparkle in her eyes—once reserved, once cautious—is now electric.

Alive. She’s radiant, incandescent beneath the hanging lights, basking in the energy of a room that adores her. Deserves to adore her.

Reporters elbow past one another for a better angle, voices raised above the din.

“Ruby Adams, how does it feel to be Novaria’s first human finalist?”

“What’s your inspiration for the opening round?”

“Will Earth Bites stay open while you compete?”

Her laugh cuts through the room like silk whipped through honey. Light, musical, effortless.

I hover in the doorway, unsure if I’ve crossed into a celebration or a shrine.

And I’m the ghost.

She sees me. I know she does.

Her eyes flit toward me—only briefly. A flicker. A blink.

But it’s enough.

She doesn’t falter. Doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t come.

Instead, she turns to the espresso machine, presses a button, and slides my usual across the counter without a word. The chocolate chip muffin, edges just slightly crisp, lands on a napkin beside it. Perfect. Predictable.

Painful.

I move forward, slow as molasses in snow, and reach for the offering like a supplicant. Our fingers don’t touch.

She doesn’t look up.

And just like that, I’m another customer.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Her smile tightens, automatic. “Enjoy, sir.”

Sir.

I take a step back like I’ve been struck. The espresso scalds my palm through the cup. I don’t care.

Around us, the crowd doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they pretend not to. The bakery pulses with life, color, celebration. She’s not just surviving. She’s ascending. And I’m?—

What am I now?

A relic?

A cautionary tale?

I slip to the far corner table—our table. The one closest to the window, with the view of the plaza where she once leaned her head on my arm under starlight. I sit. Watch. Drink.

The espresso is perfect. Bitter and bold, just how I like it. But it tastes like ash in my mouth now.

Because this—this is the world without me in it.

This is what she becomes when I’m no longer blocking the sun.

She shines.

I sit in that corner long after the crowd thins, after the reporters vanish in a cloud of cologne and holoscreens. I don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch her wipe counters, laugh with Vonn, toss a playful jab at Lyrie. They close ranks around her like she’s treasure—and maybe she is.

Maybe I never deserved to be the one to guard her.

Finally, she approaches, tying the strings of her apron behind her back with a yank. “Still nursing that espresso?”

Her tone is casual, light. But not warm.

“I never got a chance to congratulate you,” I say, voice rough from disuse. “Galactic Panic. That’s… huge.”

She shrugs. “Apparently, people like watching humans bake under pressure.”

I smile, weak and crooked. “They like you. I do too.”

She doesn’t respond.

I push the muffin toward her, untouched. “It’s perfect. Like always.”

“Then why didn’t you eat it?”

“I couldn’t.”

Her jaw tenses. “Why?”

“Because it tastes like goodbye.”

The silence stretches between us, taut and suffocating.

“I’m proud of you, Ruby,” I whisper.

Her expression softens—barely. A hairline fracture in the mask. “You had a funny way of showing it.”

“I was scared.”

“You’re a war hero, Rekkgar. What could possibly scare you?”

I lean forward, voice low. “The idea that I could hurt you. That I already did.”

“You didn’t,” she says, quickly. Then amends, “Not in the way you think. You hurt me by not trusting me. By running instead of staying. ”

I close my eyes. “I know.”

She folds her arms, glances at the clock. “I leave in four days.”

“I heard.”

Another beat of silence.

Then she sighs. “I’m tired, Rekkgar. Tired of waiting. Of hoping. Of thinking maybe this time you’ll stay.”

“I want to stay,” I say, and I mean it with every breath in me.

“But will you?”

I look at her, really look. Her hair frizzed from the oven heat. The flour still smudged at her jaw. The shimmer behind her eyes that says she still cares—even if she wishes she didn’t.

“I don’t know how to be what you deserve.”

Her laugh is bitter now. “Then maybe stop trying to be something. And just be. ”

She turns to walk away, but I stop her with a hand—not touching. Just hovering. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

“Ruby…”

She turns, reluctantly.

“I’ll be at the terminal. When you leave. Whether you want me there or not.”

She hesitates. Then nods. Once.

And then she’s gone.

And I am alone again. But this time, the ache feels different.

This time, I know what I want.

And I’m done running from it.

The dojo is quieter than usual tonight. The rhythmic thwack of fists against training mats echoes like distant thunder, but it doesn’t carry the usual comfort.

My students sense it. Their eyes flit toward me between katas, unsure whether to ask what’s wrong or just stay the hell out of my way. They choose the latter.

Smart.

I can’t focus. Every punch is half-weighted, every pivot stutters with doubt. I correct form, issue terse commands, and move like a shadow through the space I once called sanctuary.

But there’s no peace in the silence anymore. Not when her voice fills every corner of my skull.

I return to my office, unpeel the sweat-slick tunic from my back, and drop into the chair like gravity finally won. My compad blinks with unread messages—probably Lyrie again, demanding I “get my glutes in gear” for some emergency involving missing sugar stock or improperly sorted spice packets.

I ignore it.

Then the door slams open.

She doesn’t knock. Of course she doesn’t.

Lyrie storms in like a glitter-scaled thunderstorm wrapped in high boots and righteous fury, her holographic bangles jingling with each stomp. “You insufferable lump of brooding testosterone.”

I raise a brow. “Evening to you too.”

“You owe me six apologies and a blood sacrifice for how much I’ve had to endure watching Ruby try to keep herself together while you mope around like a cursed poet in a bad romance novel.”

“I don’t mope.”

“You do. It’s your default setting. Like a fridge with too much humidity.”

I sigh, rubbing a knuckle into my temple. “Why are you here?”

“Because,” she says, slapping a datapad onto my desk, “I need an assistant.”

I squint at the screen. It’s the Galactic Panic Chef Surprise competitor docket—Ruby’s name, bright and blinking, highlighted with a gaudy star graphic.

“She’s already got Vonn and?—”

“Not for the show. For training. We’re staging mock rounds in the studio kitchen starting tomorrow. Simulations, ingredients, plating rehearsals, alien flavor calibration. We need a test mouth. And a strong pair of arms that can handle a plasma whisk without whining.”

“I’m not qualified?—”

“You’ve got taste buds, don’t you? And two functional hands? Good. You’re in.”

“I have classes?—”

“I already rescheduled them. You’re welcome.”

“I don’t?—”

She steps in close, too close, her scaled face dead serious. “She’s leaving soon. You’re running out of chances to stop being a coward and start being someone worth staying for.”

The words land like fists. Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just truth.

And that’s worse.

I exhale slowly. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because she’s family,” Lyrie says, suddenly quiet. “And because I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you. Not even close.”

I glance at the datapad again. Ruby’s picture is grainy, taken from a festival last cycle, her arms flung wide in a sugar-flour cloud, laughing mid-spin.

Alive.

Free.

“Tomorrow,” I murmur.

“Ten sharp.”

“I’ll be there.”

Lyrie’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk. “Wear something you don’t mind catching fire.”

She spins on her heel, flounces out, and leaves the scent of lavender and alien spiced rum in her wake.

I stare at the closed door for a long while.

Then I lean back in my chair and let the first honest breath I’ve taken in days rattle out of my lungs.

There’s a strange new feeling humming in my chest. Not panic. Not shame.

Hope.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late.