Page 15 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

I never understood how humans could laugh until they cried.

Not during the war, not during the long, hollow recovery that followed, not during the sterile pleasantries exchanged in market stalls or the polite chuckles shared over synthetic brew with other instructors.

But now—standing in this absurdly chaotic bakery, my fingers coated in a blend of buttercream and defeat, holding what is undeniably the mangled remains of a pastry bag—I finally understand.

Ruby is doubled over beside me, clutching her ribs, a flour smudge on her cheek and tears streaming from her eyes, not from sorrow but from sheer, uncontainable mirth.

“Rekk,” she gasps between fits of laughter, voice catching on sugar-laced breaths, “you... you can’t just... grip the bag like you’re prepping to throw a plasma grenade!”

I glance at the disaster I’ve created—frosting now splattered across the ceiling like someone murdered a unicorn mid-frost—and grunt. “It’s not meant to be weaponized?”

“Not unless you’re declaring war on cupcakes,” she wheezes, and then doubles over again, laughing harder.

And then, I do something I haven’t done in years.

I laugh.

Not just a breath, not just a huff. A real, grounding, chest-deep laugh. It rumbles up from some long-dormant place in me, warm and unfamiliar, rolling out into the air between us like thunder laced with honey.

Ruby freezes mid-snort.

Her eyes widen, then soften. “Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s new.”

I reach for a clean towel, wipe my hands slowly. “Apparently frosting is the key to breaking centuries of Vakutan emotional suppression.”

She chuckles, gentler now, and steps closer. Her fingers brush against mine as she hands me a fresh piping bag. “Try it like this,” she murmurs, guiding my hand with hers, her touch light but sure. “Gentle pressure. Think... coaxing, not commanding.”

“I do not coax,” I mutter.

“You will if you ever want to make edible desserts.”

I follow her lead, the motion clumsy but improving. Her scent is warm beside me—vanilla, cinnamon, and something uniquely hers. I lean into the instruction, into the curve of her hand atop mine, and for once, I do not overthink. I simply... trust.

“You’re getting better,” she says.

“I have a competent teacher.”

“I have a stubborn student.”

“That’s a compliment, where I’m from.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and I turn to find her studying me—not just my face, but my expression. Like she’s trying to memorize this moment. Like maybe she’s as surprised by my laughter as I am.

“I used to think,” she says, carefully, “that you didn’t like sweets.”

I hesitate. “I don’t.”

She blinks. “Then why?—”

“I come here,” I interrupt, voice low, “for you.”

The words hang there between us, heavy with unsaid truths and years of silence.

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

Because in her eyes, I see it: understanding. Recognition. That same ache I’ve carried alone, mirrored in her expression like a secret we’ve both been too afraid to name until now.

I return to the counter, focus on the pastry shells awaiting their fill. The rhythm steadies me. Fold, pipe, fill. Fold, pipe, fill.

But my thoughts refuse to follow suit.

I think about the years I’ve spent pretending that desire must be subdued to preserve order. That affection is weakness. That passion, untamed, would turn me back into the beast I once was.

But now? I watch Ruby’s shoulders shake with soft laughter, her flour-dusted arms brushing mine, her joy so bright it banishes the shadows from the corners of my mind.

Now I begin to understand what honor truly demands of me.

It isn’t silence. Or solitude.

It’s showing up.

It’s fighting—not just battles, but for someone else’s joy. For the chance to protect not just a life, but a future.

My hands move faster now, more sure. I pipe another perfect swirl and slide the tray toward her without a word.

She picks one up, bites, chews thoughtfully.

Then grins.

“You’re officially a Frosting Knight,” she announces, tossing me a wink. “Sworn to the service of sugar and sass.”

“I accept my fate,” I reply, deadpan.

But inside, something tender unfurls.

And for the first time, I don’t just want this.

I believe I can be it.

The kitchen is not a battlefield.

Not in the traditional sense, at least. There’s no blood on the tile, no death echoing through the walls, no clash of metal on metal. But the heat? The pressure? The stakes simmering beneath every motion? Those are familiar. And strangely, welcome.

Ruby moves like sunlight, bright and unpredictable. Her hands dance over ingredients, coaxing life from flour and fire in ways I cannot fully comprehend, but I watch—closely. I learn. And I adapt. Because that’s what warriors do.

I slice the Vortaxian peppers with the precision of a blade master. She glances over my shoulder, inspecting the uniformity, and gives a small, approving hum. That sound—it’s nothing and everything. Praise, warmth, acknowledgement. I crave it more than I should.

“Nice cuts,” she murmurs, elbow bumping mine. “Deadly, but delicious.”

“I was trained for both.”

Her laugh is soft, almost hidden beneath the hiss of caramel bubbling on the stove, but I catch it. It slides into the quiet between us and nestles there, safe.

The prep for the preliminary round of Galactic Panic Chef Surprise is relentless. The next rounds are sponsored by the Vortaxian Emperor himself. Rumors have circulated that Empoeror Aelphus is a fan of baked goods. And so state money has flowed into this competition.

Recipes must be memorized, ingredients sourced from five different planetary systems, allergens cross-checked in twelve dialects. We time each run-through like combat drills. I build her a command board with prep intervals marked to the second. She mocks it, at first.

“What is this? A war strategy?”

“In many ways, yes.”

She rolls her eyes. “You gonna chart frosting velocity next?”

“I already have.”

She doesn’t expect that. She snorts so hard she nearly knocks over the spice rack. I steady it, my hand covering hers for just a breath too long. Her skin is warm—too warm—and I let go before I lose my ability to think entirely.

Still, the touch lingers. It always does.

We move together, now, like parts of a greater machine. My sense of timing complements her bursts of inspired chaos. She forgets to set timers—I catch the seconds in my head. She spins from oven to counter—I’m already there, holding the bowl she needs.

It’s not magic. It’s training.

And trust.

“Whisk faster, Rekk. I need peaks. Not puddles.”

I glare down at the glossy mass in my mixing bowl. “I’m whisking.”

“Whisk harder. Pretend it insulted your ancestors.”

“I will not dishonor my lineage for meringue.”

Her grin is devilish. “Your ancestors were warriors, right?”

“Yes.”

“So prove it. Show me the fury of a thousand generations. In egg foam.”

Despite myself, I chuckle. Then I do exactly as she asks.

The peaks form. She nods, impressed.

We don’t talk about the kiss. Or the almosts that have stacked like towers of sugar cubes between us. But every time she leans into me, her shoulder brushing mine, or I catch her gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary... I feel it.

It’s not just chemistry. It’s something older, deeper. Like soul recognition.

And that terrifies me.

Because this—whatever this is—it makes me soft in places I’ve kept hard for survival. It carves open rooms inside my chest that were sealed for good reason. But it also brings breath where I’d forgotten I was suffocating.

“Hey,” she says, voice low, pulling me from my thoughts. She’s plating something intricate—layers of micro-pastry and flame-candied fruit, drizzled in liquefied star-honey. It glows faintly, pulsing with bioluminescence. “You okay?”

I nod, unsure what expression I wear. “Just thinking.”

“About the battle plan for tomorrow?”

“No.” I pause. “About you.”

She stills. Her fingers curl slightly around the plating tweezers, but she doesn’t turn away.

“Oh,” she breathes.

“I never... imagined this,” I continue, carefully. “Not just the kitchen. All of it. The laughing. The leaning. The ease.”

Her lips part slightly, like she might speak, but instead she steps closer, the scent of sugar and warmth and whatever perfume she favors settling into my lungs like a tranquilizer dart.

“And?” she asks.

“And I don’t want it to end,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Her eyes glisten, but not with tears. Not yet.

“Then don’t let it,” she replies.

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. “I won’t.”

We finish the practice round without another word. But everything’s changed.

We’re no longer just preparing to compete.

We’re building something else—together.

Something worth fighting for.

They’ve started calling me “The Brooding Brawler.”

It’s plastered in fluorescent font over a freeze-frame still of me frowning—no, scowling—while holding a pastry bag like it's a detonator. Holonet gossip feeds cycle it again and again: Warrior-turned-sous-chef? Mysterious Vakutan steals spotlight with smoldering stare. There’s even a meme of me glaring at a burnt soufflé, captioned ‘This displeases the ancient ones.’

Ruby thinks it’s hilarious.

“You’ve got a fanbase, Rekk,” she teases, popping a purple starberry between her lips as she scrolls the stream of comments on her compad. “One of them wants to know if you’re single. Another says your scowl could curdle cream.”

“It can,” I mutter, reaching for the flame-jet to finish torching the lavender glaze atop a tray of eclairs.

She laughs. Loud and unapologetic, head thrown back like she hasn’t got a worry in the cosmos.

And that’s what scares me.

Because I do.

Worries buzz at the edges of my mind like feral wasps. I am not made for the spotlight. The warm lights of the bakery? Perhaps. The simmering trust of her gaze? Maybe. But stage lights, sponsors, smiling strangers wanting autographs and backstory and marketable charm?

No.

That’s her world. The hopeful, the sweet, the open-hearted dreamers who build empires from ganache and stubbornness. She belongs on screens and in hearts, weaving joy from cinnamon and caramel. I belong in silence. In shadow.

I try to speak—twice—but the words hang heavy in my throat like unspent bullets. Instead, I busy my hands. It’s easier to measure, to move, to mix, than it is to admit what I fear: that I am the wrong man for the right woman.

She doesn’t seem to notice the spiral tightening behind my ribs. Or maybe she does and just refuses to feed it. Her voice is light as she sets down the compad.

“I ordered us new uniforms,” she says, turning back to the cooling racks. “Something a little flashier. I figure if we’re going to end up on every gossip stream in the quadrant, we might as well look like we meant it.”

I grunt.

“Oh don’t give me that,” she says, hip-bumping me out of the way with practiced grace as she grabs the tray I just filled. “You look great in aprons. Very gruff elegance. ”

“I am not elegant.”

“You are when you’re not trying to be.”

That lands like a stone in my gut.

She thinks I’m elegant.

She thinks I’m anything but a relic of destruction and orders barked in war zones.

I want to tell her. I want to explain that what she sees is only the surface.

Beneath the humor, the occasional smirk, and the quiet way I hand her piping bags before she asks—there’s still the man who tore flesh from bone to survive.

Who watched comrades bleed out in his arms. Who killed because he was told to.

And worse—because sometimes he wanted to.

But I say nothing.

Because her smile dims when I talk like that. Because the shadows on her face are fewer now, and I don’t want to be the one who brings them back.

Still, the thought gnaws at me: what happens when she no longer finds charm in my scars? When her life becomes press releases and product lines and charming on-air banter—and I’m the silent ghost at her elbow, too dark, too haunted to fit?

What happens when she shines too brightly... and I become the shadow that dims her?

We finish the tray in silence.

Later, as the last prep cycle winds down and the kitchen hums with sugar fatigue and citrus steam, she finds me by the back sink, rinsing the scorch marks off the flame-torch nozzle.

“You okay?” she asks, softly this time.

I nod. It’s a lie.

“Rekk,” she says, stepping closer. “I know that face. You’re spiraling. You get real quiet, and then you start cleaning things that don’t need cleaning. Like that thing. You already scrubbed it twice.”

“I like it clean.”

“I like you honest.”

I stiffen.

She doesn’t flinch.

“Talk to me,” she says.

“I’m not good at this.”

“At cleaning?”

“At... being seen.”

Her expression gentles, eyes searching mine. “You think I don’t know who you are? I know what you’ve done. What you’ve survived. I don’t need a holostream smile or witty banter for the fans. I just want you. ”

I shake my head, jaw tight. “I’m not made for cameras. Or contests. Or?—”

“Or love?”

The word strikes me like a pulse grenade—concise, detonating everything in its radius.

I stare at her.

She doesn’t blink.

“You don’t have to say it,” she continues, voice quieter now. “But you feel it. I know you do. I see it every time you look at me like I’m something you don’t believe you deserve.”

“You’re not something,” I growl. “You’re everything.”

The silence that follows is not awkward. It’s sacred.

She touches my wrist. Light. Steady.

“Then fight for it. Don’t hide behind honor or code or whatever else you think disqualifies you. You’ve already fought for my life. Fight for my heart, too.”

And just like that, the spiral stills.

I lean down, forehead brushing hers. Not a kiss. Not yet.

But a promise.