Page 2 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

The hiss of steam fills the space. The bittersweet aroma of dark roast curls into the air. I angle the portafilter just right, pack the grounds, pull the shot, and set the tiny cup—barely large enough to look like anything in his huge hand—on the counter.

He takes it with reverent care. Always does.

Then, as always, he sits.

Not at a corner table or one of the booths by the window. At the counter. On the high stool directly across from where I prep, close enough that I could reach across and brush my fingers over his wrist if I dared. I never do. But the possibility hangs there, a phantom touch in the space between us.

“Slow start this morning,” I murmur, arranging pastries behind the display glass with exaggerated care. “Even Lyrie’s off her game. She only flirted with two customers instead of the usual five.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“She might be sick. Or cursed.”

“I’ll keep my blade ready.” His tone is flat, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe. Fondness? It’s hard to tell with him. His face is a map of long-healed wounds, his expressions honed into stone by years of keeping people at arm’s length.

But he’s here. Every morning. And I know what that means, even if we don’t say it.

“How’s the dojo?” I ask, slicing a fresh loaf behind the counter even though no one’s ordered one.

“Quiet. Good for focus.”

“You say that like the idea of children breaking boards with their faces doesn’t fill you with existential dread.”

He arches one brow ridge at me. “They use their hands.”

“Sure they do.”

He bites into the muffin top. I watch the way his jaw flexes, the way his throat moves when he swallows.

His scars catch the light in uneven streaks—testament to battles I’ll never ask about, and he’ll never offer to explain.

One runs across his clavicle, another across the back of his hand.

The one on his temple is jagged, like it was torn open rather than sliced. They should be horrifying. They aren’t.

They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful. And I hate that I can’t tell him that.

“You’re staring,” he says quietly.

I look up, caught. “No, I’m—was checking to see if you were going to leave me a single crumb.”

He tears off a piece of muffin, sets it on a napkin, and pushes it toward me without a word.

It feels like a gift. Stupid, but true. I reach out to take it and our fingers brush against each other. As if in sudden, desperate search for relief, our digits caress and briefly clasp. I pull back like I’ve touched a live wire.

“I’m engaged, you know,” I say before I can stop myself.

His posture stiffens just slightly. Not much. But I know him too well not to see it.

“I’m aware.”

“I just… in case you didn’t remember.”

“I remember everything,” he says simply. Then he drinks his espresso in one long, slow swallow, like it’s the end of the conversation.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or throw something. Maybe all three.

Instead, I smile. I always smile.

“Tell your idiot student to aim for your soft spots next time. You’ve got to have one somewhere.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “I do,” he says finally. His voice is even lower now, almost a whisper. “But I keep it guarded.”

And with that, he slides the empty cup toward me, stands, and walks out the way he came—heavy boots echoing against tile, the door chime sounding too bright in his wake.

I don’t move. Don’t speak.

Lyrie peeks in from the kitchen, brows raised.

“Still alive?” she asks.

“Barely,” I reply, and turn back to my baking.

The door hisses shut behind him, the chime fading too quickly into the bustle of the street outside. I don’t move right away. I linger where I’m rooted, fingertips pressed to the edge of the counter, watching through the bakery’s front window as Rekkgar crosses the square.

His stride is deliberate, steady, unhurried—each step a controlled deployment of power wrapped in control, like he's resisting the urge to crush the cobblestones beneath his boots.

The sunlight glances off the curve of his shoulders, catching the iridescence that lives deep in his black scales.

Even through the mist and the morning shimmer, he gleams faintly, like obsidian under water.

The red stripes are stark, warlike, jagged where they stretch over scar tissue that refuses to heal smooth.

And then he disappears into the side alley between our buildings, slipping into the dojo’s entry corridor like he was never there at all.

Still I stay.

It’s not healthy, the way my eyes follow him.

Not normal. This quiet ache that coils low and sharp in my chest isn’t something I can bake away or bury under sugar and flour.

It's the kind of thing that only grows heavier with silence. And yet here I am, holding it again like it’s some old family heirloom I can’t bring myself to throw away.

“Girl, if you don’t stop mooning at that window, I’m going to start charging you rent for it,” Vonn snaps from the register, her voice clipped like she’s wielding it as a weapon.

I blink. “Sorry.”

“You say that every morning.” She eyes me over her glasses, tufts of white fur trembling with each agitated huff. “He’s not going to come back and throw you over his shoulder just because you gawk hard enough.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Lyrie chimes in from the back, voice dripping with sarcasm and glittering amusement. “Although if he ever does, I hope he’s shirtless. For science.”

Vonn doesn’t even dignify that with a response. She just snorts and goes back to reorganizing the receipt drawer like it's a puzzle box that holds the key to galactic peace.

I turn away from the window and try—really try—to dive back into work.

My hands move through muscle memory: mixing, folding, cutting, arranging trays like clockwork.

The scents shift again—sugar burning just slightly on the edges, butter going nutty and golden—but the rhythm doesn’t soothe me the way it usually does.

There’s too much static in my chest, a low buzz beneath my breastbone that hums every time I think about the way he looked at me this morning. Not long. Not deep. But enough. Always just enough.

I’m icing a tray of lemon-glazed scones when the past sneaks up and sucker punches me right in the spine.

It starts with the color of the icing—pale gold, just like the silken tunic I wore the day my aunt and uncle sat me down in the parlor and changed the trajectory of my life with five quiet words: You’ve been promised to someone.

I was sixteen. Still soft with hope. Still stupid enough to believe I’d have some kind of say in who I loved.

I remember everything about that afternoon. The way the furniture gleamed with fresh polish, how the sun bled through the window and caught on the edge of the carved frames, how my aunt’s hands trembled slightly as she poured the tea even though she smiled like nothing was wrong.

Uncle Joren’s voice was steady, firm. He explained the family obligation, the old agreement from the war years, how this match would honor our name and strengthen our station.

They looked so proud. So certain they were doing the right thing.

I nodded. I smiled. I told them I understood.

And inside, I broke into a thousand silent pieces.

They didn’t see it. How could they? I didn’t let them.

But I remember the way my lungs refused to expand after they left the room, how the air seemed suddenly too thin, too sharp, too full of the life I wasn’t going to get to live. I remember curling my fingers into my skirts and pressing them hard against my thighs just to feel something solid.

And I remember staring out the window, not unlike how I just did with Rekkgar, thinking about a boy who didn’t know my name and wondering what kind of love I’d never get to have.

Now, years later, I know that boy’s name. I know every inch of him, every rhythm of his breathing, every low cadence of his voice. And it’s so much worse because I never outgrew that hope. I just buried it beneath layers of civility and cream filling.

I wipe the edge of the icing bowl too aggressively and crack the ceramic against the counter. A hairline fracture blooms across the side like a web.

“Damn it.”

Lyrie leans around the edge of the wall. “You okay out there, sunshine?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Clumsy.”

“You say that every day, too,” Vonn mutters, flipping through receipts with the venom of someone personally offended by fiscal responsibility.

The bell above the door jingles and I slap the mask back on. Smile. Bright eyes. Polished voice. I offer pastries to aliens in elegant robes and tourists looking for a taste of Earth they’ve only read about. I recommend muffins, hand out tarts, fill orders with practiced cheer.

But the whole time, I feel like my skin doesn’t fit quite right.

Because the truth is, I can make a hundred customers happy before lunch and it won’t matter.

One glance. One word. One lingering moment of silence from Rekkgar has more sway over my heart than all the smiles I give away like party favors.

He softens when he’s here. I see it in the way his shoulders lower half an inch, in the way he watches my hands move like I’m performing some sacred rite.

He doesn't touch much—doesn’t speak unless necessary—but when he does, I feel like I’ve been chosen.

Like the universe cracked open just long enough to slip me a secret.

And every time he walks out, I remember that I’m not allowed to keep it.