Page 17 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

I feel it the moment we step off the prep dome floor, like something inside me’s been tilted—shifted a degree off its axis—and now the whole of me must relearn how to move with it.

Ruby doesn’t speak much as we weave through the back corridors, but she doesn’t need to.

Her stride is longer. Shoulders squared.

Chin lifted like a warrior surveying a battlefield and daring the stars to challenge her.

She doesn’t just carry herself differently.

She shines.

And stars above, she’s never looked more dangerous to me.

Not because she might hurt me. But because I’ve never wanted something more in my life than I want to deserve the way she looks at me now. Like I’m no longer a specter haunting her bakery windows or a wall of flesh between her and the world’s cruelty. No, the look she gives me now…

It’s knowing. Grounded. Sure.

She sees me. All of me.

I glance away, pretending to inspect the storage crates stacked along the maintenance tunnel. But I feel her gaze linger, and something about the weight of it presses under my ribs, unsettling and warm all at once.

The term slides through my mind unbidden.

Jalshagar.

It’s old Vakutan, from before the Great Divide, from the oral blood-histories passed down by the clan-wives who kept fire in the ice years. A word spoken in reverence, never lightly. Not even whispered until it’s earned.

Soulmate.

I don’t let myself say it out loud. Not even in the silence of my own thoughts. Because once it’s said, once it’s named… it becomes real. It becomes fate.

But I feel it. Gods help me, I feel it.

Every time she throws her head back and laughs so hard she snorts. Every time her hands reach for mine in the kitchen without thinking. Every time her eyes flick to me not in fear or awe—but in understanding. Like she’s peering into the red-lit marrow of me and seeing something that makes sense.

It shakes me.

I’ve worn the armor of a warrior so long I don’t know how to take it off. Even now, in civvie clothes with flour crusted into the seams and a glittery apron tied too tight across my back, I still hold myself like a soldier on high alert.

But she… she softens me.

Not weakens.

Softens.

There’s a difference.

When she steps into a room, the air feels different. Lighter. As if she drags starlight in her wake, scattering it like breadcrumbs so even a creature like me can find the path out of the dark.

I catch her glancing at me while she speaks with one of the producers. He’s saying something animated about sponsors and brand synergy—I don’t know, I stopped listening at “brand.” But Ruby listens politely, nods, smiles… and then her gaze flicks back to me. Just a second. Just a breath.

But it lands like a meteor in my chest.

She smiles.

And it’s not the performative bakery smile. Not the polite tilt of lips she gives to difficult customers or the practiced grin the Holonet cameras eat up. No, this one’s smaller. Warmer. Private.

For me.

I shift on my feet, the heat of it crawling up my neck. My shoulders roll back, instinctively defensive—but what is there to defend against? This isn’t battle. She’s not an enemy. And yet, part of me is more frightened than I’ve ever been holding a plasma blade in a Reaper trench.

Because this? This is real.

She walks toward me, done with the interview, cheeks flushed from excitement. Her hair’s falling slightly from its clip, cinnamon powder clinging to the fine strands like stars in dusklight.

“You didn’t look bored out of your skull this time,” she teases, poking me lightly in the chest with her forefinger. “Proud of you.”

I grunt. “Your voice is less shrill than most reporters.”

“Compliment received,” she replies with a smirk, clearly not buying it.

She doesn’t flinch from me. Not from my bluntness, not from my scars. She never has.

And I realize—I don’t want her to ever.

“You… looked strong out there,” I say, carefully choosing the words. “Commanding. Like the kitchen was a war table and you were leading the charge.”

Her smirk softens. “Coming from you, that’s practically poetry.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.” She tilts her head, eyes searching. “And that’s why it means so much.”

We stand in the alcove of the dome, her just inches from me, and the hum of the Holonet equipment fades into a dull buzz beneath the thudding of my heart.

In her presence, I feel… known. Not as the warrior. Not as the exile. Just as me. A man who’s killed and bled and broken for ideals too hollow to name, and who now wants—more than anything—to build something sacred with someone who sees him.

She brushes a thumb along my forearm, just a fleeting touch—but my skin lights up like battle sensors tripped all at once.

And it’s then I know.

She is my jalshagar.

My soul’s echo. My equal. My fire-forged match.

And while that truth terrifies me, it also anchors me.

Because if she can see me—really see me—and still reach out her hand…

Then maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to walk this path alone anymore.

Mornings still begin in the soft dribble of ritual—dawn light filtering through Earth Bites’ low windows, the scent of fruit, sugar, and hopeful anticipation weaving around us, hot and sweet as molten caramel.

I hover nearby as Ruby dices glistening peaches, her fingers steady with practiced grace.

Each tap of her knife against the board resonates in me like a heartbeat.

We move together now, silent partners in a choreography neither of us scripted, but both of us learned.

By evening, I’m leading her through drills in a repurposed training hall—my dojo stocked with induction burners and kettlebells, pans replacing sparring dummies.

I demonstrate the footwork I use when pivoting to strike: step, shift, pivot.

She mirrors it with a giggle and says, “So if the soufflé collapses, I can kick it into shape?”

I laugh, the sound rich and new. “It’s a defensive technique.”

We shift to speed drills—chopping root vegetables faster than thought, plating garnishes in mirrored symmetry—like sparring without weapons. We sweat. We correct each other. We laugh when sauces splatter or a whisk flies free. Then we lie back in the warm post-workout haze, breathless and content.

But nights are different. I walk her home through neon-lit streets, but when I reach my door, she reaches mine first. We stand in the shared space of streetlight, the frayed edges of our courage whispering truths neither speaks.

She smiles softly: “Tomorrow’s prep is at dawn.

” Then she slips inside, and I’m left alone in the dark with my heartbeat echoing.

I fall asleep wrapped in fighter’s dreams—carousel of blows, battered shields. But in the quiet darkness, her face drifts through my vision: warm, proud, alive. And I reach for her in the empty space beside me, fingertips brushing cooling sheets.

Each night the bed feels colder. Each morning the distance aches.

Tonight, I dream of applause and fire-dusted desserts and her smile bright enough to make gods bow. And I wake at 3 a.m., muscles stiff, mind racing, driven to the gym for a push until the ache in my bones is spent. Because if there’s anything I refuse, it’s to be weaker than the woman I love.

Morning sunlight dribbles across the stainless steel counters. I load galactic spice blends beside her mise en place, tasting each by lip before measuring. She hums, focused, then nudges me.

“You’ve got flourish today. Like you’re showing off.”

I shrug, but beneath my chest, my heart flickers—because I am, showing off for her.

She grins. “Good. I like the warrior-kitchen aesthetic.”

A knife clangs to the counter. Her elbow twitches, and suddenly she jolts back, her palm pressing against her forearm where steam and caramel brushed her skin. She bites a silent hiss and sinks to her knees like gravity pulled her down.

Time stops.

I’m there before her elbow hits the tile. I scoop her into my arms, meat of her upper arm supported gently as if I’m carrying something sacred. Her breath hitches. She winces as I carry her in a single motion—across the prep station, past the whir of overheated mixers—to the sink basin.

I hold her forearm under cool water, the shock of chill against heated flesh, water droplets dancing across scars and flesh, droplets across my palms. I cradle her in my arms, knees bent, standing rooted. Her head leans against my shoulder, eyes closed tight.

I stroke her hair, pressing thumb along her unburned arm. “Ruby,” I murmur, voice low, threatening to crack.

She opens her eyes, blinks. “Hot,” she whispers, voice small and raw.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “It was hot. I’m here.”

My hands tremble. The sight of her in pain... destabilizes everything I've built to remain unmoved.

I want to say more. To speak the word jalshagar. To declare the bond burning away the chasm between our species, our histories. To promise it’s not temporary, it’s not illusion—it’s fate.

I raise my head to look into her eyes, so full of trust and something shimmering brighter than any audience lights. But the words choke me, lodged in throat and heart.

Instead, I press my forehead to hers, stilling the water. I breathe in the scent of caramelized sugar, warm skin, jasmine hair spice—earth and memory and future. Breathing together, we’re two halves of something more.

She smiles, tremulous. I exhale it back to her. Neither of us speaks; the silence is enough.

My grip tightens, not in fear or possession, but in wordless vow.

Because I can’t say the words yet—but I can show them.

And maybe that will be enough… for now.

The skyline of Novaria glows like a dying fire—crimson and copper bleeding through the horizon, the final flare of day surrendering to the indigo hush of night.

I sit on the rooftop of my dojo, alone, the wind sharp against my skin, the scent of baking spice and ozone drifting faint from the marketplace below.

The city is never silent, not truly, but tonight it feels as though it holds its breath with me.

My fingers hover over the holopad. The message is already written, the encryption seal pulsing faintly in the corner like a heartbeat. All I have to do is press send.

I’ve rewritten the request three times—paring it down, stripping the sentiment, forcing my plea into words that won’t embarrass either of us. In the end, I settle on simplicity. Vakutan priests don't appreciate embellishment. They prefer bone over skin.

I ask him what I already fear: If she is my jalshagar—my fated one—what happens if I cross the threshold into physical union with her before she knows what it means? Before she understands that a bond, once formed, cannot be unmade?

And what happens if I wait too long, and she walks away?

I press send.

The wind cuts harder now. It carries the cold weight of the stars, and I feel them pressing down on me, vast and uncaring.

I try to meditate, but my mind is a battleground—her face when I caught her from falling, the tremble in her voice, the way her fingers curled into my tunic like I was something worth holding onto.

I try to empty myself.

But Ruby fills every shadow.

The holopad chimes. One response. My breath catches in my chest like a misfired pulse rifle.

The priest’s words blaze onto the screen with the fury of a blade drawn in sacred judgment:

“If you have found her, warrior, the bond is already there. Delay only brings pain. Act with courage, or lose her to a future without you.”

I stare. I reread. My heart thunders, a war drum under my ribs.

Already there.

I drag a hand through my hair, my claws scraping scalp. The bond is already there . I feel it in the marrow of me—in the way her laughter lodges behind my sternum like a hook. In how her pain rips me apart faster than any blade. In how I feel lesser, dimmer, when she’s not near.

She’s become the pulse beneath every thought. The sweetness in every breath. The fire I can no longer live without.

I was a fool to think I could resist it.

And yet…

She’s not Vakutan. She was not raised on chants and blood-oaths, not taught the sacred texts or the weight of a soul-binding vow.

She smiles with open hands, not clenched fists.

She lives in color and sweetness and gentle fire, and I…

I am forged from something else. Something darker. Something old.

What if she sees the bond as a shackle?

What if I mark her soul with mine, and she breaks under it?

I breathe in through my nose, slow and deep, the air thick with dust and regret. My fingers tighten around the railing. Far below, a child’s laughter bubbles up from the streets—light, oblivious. For a heartbeat, I envy that ignorance.

The priest’s words burn on my holopad.

“Act with courage, or lose her to a future without you.”

I am a warrior. Courage is what I was bred for.

And yet nothing—not war, not death, not centuries of conflict—terrifies me like this.

I don’t sleep. I pace the dojo until the floor creaks beneath my weight. I spar with empty air. I boil tea I don’t drink. I replay the footage of our first televised round until the images blur.

Ruby in her apron, cheeks dusted with flour. Her fingers moving with sharp precision. The camera loves her—but I worship her. Quietly. Utterly. And with a reverence that borders on pain.

By morning, I’m raw at the edges. No dreams, no clarity—only one truth:

I must tell her.

I must give her the choice.

Because if I stay silent, if I withhold the truth of what she is to me, I take that choice from her—and that is a betrayal deeper than any blade.

I was not made for gentleness. But for her, I will become what I must.

I will become the truth.

Even if it destroys me.