Page 16 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

T he morning air in the prep dome crackles like static against my skin, primed for broadcast. Cherry blossoms drift on artificial breeze machines, nodding in time with my racing heart.

My apron smells of warm cherries and risk—the perfect metaphor, somehow, for this moment.

I press the fondant dragon-flame gently into the lava cake’s top, my fingers trembling like leaves in a storm.

Skillet heat doesn’t flinch. But it does nothing to steady me.

I exhale, tasting sweet sugar and burnt caramel on my tongue. My hands shake—not from fear of the oven, or even of the live feed, but of him. Of the silent promise he made in that late-night kitchen, under fluorescent lights and flour-dusted countertops.

The dome door whooshes open, and there he is: Rekkgar.

Towering, silent, deliberately poised. He wears the official competition gear now—sleek black vest emblazoned with the show’s holo-logo, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms etched with scars that speak of other lives.

He carries my emergency mug: dark ceramic with “Earth Bites” etched gold, palm-warmed still.

In one hand, a steaming Earth Espresso. In the other, a look that calms storms.

I swallow. My heart tricks me into thinking we’re back in that kitchen together—just us, messy and authentic—until I remember the audience. Millions of eyes. Live.

“Here,” he says, pressing the mug into my palm. His fingers brush mine, and the jolt is immediate. I don’t have to think. I just breathe in, mouth open, and drink. The rich bitterness cuts through my jittery nerves like truth.

“Thanks,” I murmur. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

He simply nods. No fanfare. No pep talk. Just presence. Solid.

Lights flash. The announcer’s voice booms through overhead speakers like distant fireworks.

“Welcome to Galactic Panic Chef Surprise ! Live from the Thaelos Prime Station!”

My pulse jolts. The camera’s red light blinks. I plaster on my practiced smile—the one that’s won me fans since I opened Earth Bites.

But even as I say my opener, even while the domed lens broadcasts me to dozens of worlds, I’m not thinking of fame or fortune.

I’m thinking of him. His flank pressed close.

His presence behind me. The warmth in his jawline.

The confidence that settled in my chest the second he walked through the door.

“Ruby Adams, representing Novaria, brings us her signature lava cake—volcanic cherry-lava volcano with a pearled fondant flame. Taste profile inspired by criminal hot springs on New Theros.” I deliver the line like I practiced, but my eyes skip to him.

He’s watching me with the weight of everything he didn’t say, everything he will say when the cameras fade.

The announcer’s voice tickles the mic again.

“Judges are ready. You have thirty minutes. Begin!”

The lights shift. The music drops. And now we’re in the fray. Gears whirl. Tools clink. My fingers glide across fondant and flour, but each time I glance at him, I remember: I’m not alone out here.

When I drop a spoon of glaze, he catches it before I do. When my sleeve dips into a pool of ganache, he’s there with a towel before even I notice. My nerves settle. I whisper, “Thank you.”

He responds by indexing his thumb— you’ve got this.

Midway through, one judge leans in, sniffing the aroma. I hold my breath. But it’s not the chocolate or berries she notices—it’s the air. The calm.

I flash her a confident smile.

She nods. “Balanced. Sweet and grounded.”

That word loops in me like an anchor.

After thirty minutes, chaos crescendos—steam, electric buzzers, shimmering display of final plating.

I steady the lava cake, crown it with micro-edible blossoms, and step back.

The judges lean in. I look across the prep station to find Rekkgar—standing just behind me, arms crossed, giving me the steadyest, most supportive gaze I’ve ever seen.

When the head judge steps forward to taste, my heart thumps in time with the dramatic music swell. I watch her fork dip into the molten core, watch her pause, watch the crease widen between her brows, and then?—

She smiles.

Lights flash. The Holonet cameras zoom in.

I exhale.

But I see him first.

And in that moment, I know something more than victory or acclaim.

It’s home.

And it’s always been him.

The challenge pod glitters under harsh domed lights, each work station a hothouse of focused energy and raw ambition.

I inhale slowly, tasting copper-tinged air thick with spices and pressure.

Across from me, the smug Alzhon chocolatier—a sleek humanoid with obsidian cuticle and polished posture—smirks as she lines up tiered truffles.

To my right, a Vortaxian gourmet with four brachiolike arms swings back and forth, plating three dishes at once like a whirlwind of intent.

They’re casting sideways glances at me, sizing up Earth Bites’ human baker like I’m a novelty—or a threat.

My heart thumps oceanic rhythm behind my ribs, every beat a reminder of how far I’ve come.

This isn’t just a contest. It’s my moment.

For every orphaned night I baked to outrun silence; every jar of Earth berries I preserved because they smelled like home; every glance I cast at Rekkgar from behind the counter knowing he’d never step in unless he belonged.

But today… he belongs .

He stands beside me at the sleek metal prep station, arms folded as he surveys my mise en place. I catch his eye. He nods once—small, minimal, but enough. Enough to anchor me.

We’re making my signature: an Earth-style peach cobbler soufflé fused with Kiphian sea spice and vacuum-pressed into molecular cylinders. It’s soulful and strange, a combination of warm childhood nostalgia and rolled-tide culinary daring.

“Start with peach reduction,” I murmur, knees tapping a beat beneath the counter.

Rekkgar leans in, voice low. “Reduction? Acid first?”

I grin. “You remember.”

He folds fine slices of dried coral-pepper spirals into the peach syrup, stirring with solemn precision.

Steam curls upward, tasting of briny sting and summer sweetness.

I flick in vacuum-pressed cinnamon pearls; they pop like distant raindrops on my tongue.

The smell—earthy and oceanic together—makes me want to hum.

He passes me a test tube of the spiced syrup. I sniff it. It smells like my soul in a glass—faithful, a little wild, hopeful. I nod again, tentatively. He slides it into the soufflé base; the mix ripples like calm seas under sunlight.

We move in tandem now, swoop and release, no longer just teacher and student, but partners. I whisk, he steady-torts. I ladle, he angle-trims. It's a silent, sweet ballet built on trust and unyielding focus.

The chocolatier gloats aloud: “Human baker takes sea spice route? Bold—or desperate.”

The Vortaxian sniffs. “I’d rather trust tentacles than terra fragrances.”

I swallow down the urge to retort. I don’t need to. My determination needs to speak louder than their insults.

“Plate them on cold-slate discs,” I say. “Then quick sear for crisp-pearl cap.”

Rekkgar’s huge hands delicately position the soufflés. He whispers, “Don’t let the air get in.”

My breath catches. I nod. He’s not just helping me cook—he’s protecting me. Like the warrior I never knew I needed.

I sprinkle micro-herb blossoms atop each cylinder.

The scent is bright—peppermint-petal, spring-sky.

A contrast to the oceanic depth below. I imagine childhood Summers in Earth Bites, red clay cobblers cooling on Aunt May’s porch, cicadas singing in the night air.

Then I remember the war. The silence after bombers overhead. My vow to preserve joy in sugar.

And now… this.

“Five minutes to torch time,” Rekkgar announces. “I got the cart.”

He wheels the flame-jet cart quietly behind me. My fingers play across the coals—I lean forward, breath synchronized to his, and say, “Let’s do it.”

He flicks the igniter. A low hiss. Then the blue flame arcs forth, singeing the glaze into glimmering crusts. I taste singed caramel and salted cherry blossom—a promise of perfection.

Team-wheels.

Everything locks into place.

The judges arrive, voices low in the space, hovering over tasting spoons. I present:

“Peach cobbler soufflé,” I say, voice softer than I anticipated but as steady as volcanic stone. “Earth nostalgia meets Kiphian sea-fire.”

They scoop. The first bite is electric—warm custard, volcanic peat bite, an echo of home.

The judges exchange silent nods. They close their eyes.

Silence.

Then:

“Ingenious.”

“Textural brilliance.”

“Cultural riffing at its best.”

My chest goes weightless and heavy at once. I exhale. My eyes flit to Rekkgar. He’s watching me—from fingertips to soft jawline, pride written slow across those scarred planes. He whispers loud enough for me to hear: You did it.

I don’t hear the announcer call our names.

Not really. It’s all a syrupy blur around my ears, like someone poured honey over my brain and shook the jar.

But I do see the way the score panels flash with green.

I see the judges nodding. And I see Rekkgar—towering, silent, unreadable until I glance sideways and catch the smallest tilt of his head, the faintest crinkle near the corner of his eyes. His version of a celebration.

We made it.

We made it.

The flood of cameras descends like wasps.

Holonet drones whir overhead, lights flashing in strobe bursts.

Reporters shout questions in five different dialects.

A bot translator tries to push a microphone into my face, its voice box chirping.

“Ruby Adams, how does it feel to represent Earth cuisine in the Galactic Panic Chef arena? Did you expect to make it through the first round?”

I can’t answer. Not with all this noise in my chest. It’s not just nerves anymore—it’s something like joy, something sharp and carbonated, rising up my throat and threatening to become laughter or a scream or maybe both.

But before I have to figure it out, Rekkgar steps forward, one thick arm coming to rest lightly—not possessively, just steadily—across my shoulder.

“Back up,” he growls.

The reporters freeze. Even the bot translator takes a mechanical step back. One of the Vortaxian cameradrones recalibrates mid-hover and turns away. I should be mortified, but I’m not. Because he’s not shielding me from them. He’s… grounding me.

And I didn’t know how much I needed that until just now.

“They’re just doing their job,” I murmur to him, reaching up to touch his hand. My fingers brush the calloused skin of his palm, the faint roughness of a scar that runs along his thumb. “You don’t have to scare them. I’m not breakable.”

“You are precious,” he says, like it’s a simple fact, like ‘sky is blue’ or ‘sugar tastes sweet.’ His tone carries no flourish. Just weight. Meaning. Truth.

And I want to melt into it.

Backstage, after the chaos dies down and the swarm moves on to the next team, I’m wiping ganache smears from my apron when I feel him behind me.

Not hear. Feel. He radiates heat like a bonfire, and somehow even the scent of him—clean sweat, leather, and just the faintest trace of cinnamon—wraps around my spine like a ribbon.

“You did well,” he says quietly, voice low and rough as stone polished smooth by waves. “They were wrong to doubt you.”

I laugh, and it comes out breathier than I mean it to. “I doubted me, too.”

Rekkgar steps closer. We’re alone, save for a few techs whispering in another corner of the prep dome, but they may as well be galaxies away.

He lifts one hand—slowly, like he’s moving through water—and brushes a lock of hair from my cheek.

His thumb lingers near my temple, not quite touching. Not quite retreating.

“You should not,” he murmurs. “Your fire could forge worlds.”

I go still. Absolutely still. Because there’s no sarcasm in his voice. No teasing. Just reverence, and that’s the part that knocks the breath out of my lungs harder than any compliment ever could.

“Rekkgar…”

“I am proud,” he says. The words hitch slightly, like they cost him something. “Proud to serve at your side.”

It’s not a declaration. It’s not some grand confession with fireworks and orchestral backing. But it’s more. It’s a vow.

And my heart—traitorous, hopeful, maddeningly optimistic—leaps toward it like it’s been waiting ten years just for this.

I want to say something profound. Something that’ll etch this moment into both of our bones. But all I manage is a half-choked, “That means more than I can say.”

His gaze lingers, his cybernetic eye whirring faintly as if scanning the words I didn’t speak. And then, just as the backstage lights dim and the production techs start moving us toward the waiting area, he nods once.

No more needs saying.

I walk forward. He follows. Not behind me. Not beside. But with me.

And for the first time since I arrived on this star-lit, ever-turning, multilingual chaos of a planet... I start to believe we’re building something that might actually last.