Page 20 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

I wake to the slow, even cadence of Ruby’s breath, each exhale a gentle wave beneath my cheek.

Her hair—golden like early sunrise—spills across my chest, warming skin that’s long been carved by ice and war.

In this quiet, everything feels sacred. I’ve slept in bunkers carved from stone and metal.

I’ve slept in trenches, with alarms blaring and battle cries in my ears.

But here, now… this breath. This light. It’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

I shift slightly to see her face better, and careful not to disturb the delicate arc of her neck—or the tender press of her eyelashes against her cheek.

That’s when I feel it: the bond. Crystal-clear.

Electric. Not a choice anymore, but a lock forged at soul level.

I know without thinking that she is mine—and I am hers.

I sit up slowly, warmth receding like embers at dawn. The room is hushed, save for her breathing and the faint hum of the orbital station’s life systems. My heart pulses awareness through my veins, an echoing affirmation that something irrevocable happened between us. Not just flesh, but destiny.

I reach out, brushing a fingertip across her collarbone.

She shivers, murmurs softly in the space between sleep and wakefulness.

My hand moves up, trembling slightly, to trace the underside of her jaw.

Her skin is soft; her pulse steady. I want to store every nuance, every brush of warmth beneath my fingertips. Each detail affirms me.

I swallow. A rough rasp in my throat reminds me that I fought for years to harden everything—my heart, my body, my emotions. But hers has undone that steel with gentle precision. My fingers press into the duvet, knuckles white with unspent tension. This isn’t a fluke. This is real.

She opens her eyes slowly. Confusion flickers there first, before recognition dawns.

Her lashes flutter, gaze drifting to my face.

For a heartbeat, I feel naked—more exposed than any battlefield wound.

My instincts roar with uncertainty: What if she regrets this?

What if she feels less bound than I do? But her gaze doesn’t retreat.

Instead, it softens into something like certainty: belonging.

“Morning,” I murmur, voice low—unused to tenderness. It tastes foreign on my tongue.

She smiles, half-awake and entirely unguarded. “Morning,” she repeats, sliding an arm around my waist. Her palm presses flat against my stomach, warm and sure. “Sleep okay?”

I nod, throat tight. “Yes.” But then, more honest: “I woke… feeling something.” The confession tastes strong and untested.

“What did you feel?” She shifts so she’s facing me, golden hair catching the ambient glow overhead.

I hesitate. The words feel too loud. Too fragile. Too … permanent. Still, I need her to hear them. “You. This bond…” I shift, pulling her closer. “I know I’m mine to you, and you to me.”

Her gaze tracks my fingers, then locks back to my eyes. I hold nothing back. “But I need to know you feel it too. Not as a memory. Not as a kiss. But as… truth.” I exhale, release. It’s a risk. But if I don’t say it now, I fear I’ll lose the courage to ever say it again.

She studies me, and I feel like I’m the one under interrogation. I almost flinch, but she breathes, unhurried. "Yes. I do." Her voice is quiet but unwavering. I let out a breath I didn’t know I held.

“It’s more than yes?” My voice cracks—just a fraction—but she doesn’t laugh or recoil.

“It’s… everything,” she says, pressing her forehead to mine. “Something I never even knew I wanted until it was here.”

The bond hums stronger then—through my chest, arms, bones. I close my eyes, lean in. Awake fully now. I cup her cheek and trace the curve of her jaw. “Then I don’t fear it.” I draw us together, our breathing deepening in sync. “Because if you belong to me, I’ll defend that bond with my life.”

Her lips brush mine, so soft it’s all a tremor. I taste the dawn on her tongue. My senses flood: the fading warmth of her skin at my knee, the smell of vanilla and earth swirling in the hush, the silky tang of morning air between us.

She pulls back. “You mean that.”

“Every syllable.” I swallow, wary of words, but knowing I need them. “Because losing you… that is a war I cannot survive.”

Her eyes glisten. She reaches up to press a kiss just beneath my ear. “Then stay,” she whispers, “not just tonight. Every day.” Her palm slides to the back of my neck. “Be mine.”

I pause—time suspended upon her request. Then I gather her into my arms. “I am,” I vow. Then louder, firmer: “I am yours.”

She smiles, breathless. “Finally.”

We lie in that silence, the bond humming louder than any starship thruster, sweeter than any kember sugar.

Outside, the orbital glow pulses against the window, but all I see is her.

All I feel is the gravity of this moment: a promise sealed without ceremony, without words, and with no need of witnesses.

I close my eyes and inhale. She’s here, next to me. My arms are full of her. And for once, the weight of my past seems like armor—not prison.

She murmurs: “I love you.”

My chest rumbles with answer. Not in words. Not in declarations. But in the gentle tightening of my arms and heat of my breath. My voice comes low but certain. “You are mine.”

She smiles against my neck. I press a kiss into her hair, golden tendrils drifting between us.

I drift back to sleep then, this time in peace. Because she’s here, and the bond isn’t just magic or legend. It’s done. It’s true. It’s us .

And despite all nets of duty, scandal, and uncertainty that may come, for this small moment above a spinning planet, I am exactly where I belong.

I feel it the moment she leans into me in the prep room—her shoulder settles against mine, warm and certain, as though she’s always meant to be here.

She’s not hiding; she’s not waiting for me to confess.

No, she’s smiling more—for no reason I can name—and her touch lingers just a moment longer than before.

I taste the ache on her skin, like salt and sunlight, and it nearly breaks me again.

We’re prepping for the final regional round: “Flavors of Home,” where each team must reinterpret a native Earth dish through the prism of alien techniques.

The pressure is thick as caramel between the bright Holonet lights, the hum of cameras stalking us like predators.

Sponsors flash badges, camera drones wheeling through the air, cable crews shouting cues.

Every announcement—"chamber four," "stand by"—pricks my nerves until they’re raw.

Ruby ignores it. She unfolds a dish towel, breathes in the combination of citrus and clean linen, and mutters, “Let’s show them why Novaria hasn’t seen a baker like me.”

I feel both pride and dread. Pride that she trusts me to stand beside her; dread that I haven’t yet told her what binds me to her forever.

Because if she rejects it after that night on the suite floor—after our whispered vows under starlight—then she isn't just refusing a bond. She’s tearing a piece of my soul out.

I tremble at the thought, but I steady myself. I have to focus. We set to work.

Our station gleams under the lights: Earth-style shepherd’s pie with caramelized parsnips pressed into alien coral plates, each portion finished with vaporized truffle foam. Ruby seasons the filling, her eyes bright, her laugh faint but present.

“Are you even phased by this?” she asks softly, tossing me a parchment bag. “Does the pace get to you at all?”

“It’s fine,” I lie. I clamp my jaw shut. I won’t let her see the weight in my chest, the pull of defeat in my bones, or the panic I feel when I imagine saying the words.

She brushes her hand over my forearm. “Actually, I kinda love how focused you are.”

Her warmth radiates into me, a silent demand to trust. But I hold the secret back.

We work in tight rhythm, the way we practiced late nights—dicing, folding, plating. I press caramel into the parsnip crust, she layers the spiced meat. I torch the crust until its amber nails crack. She lifts her head and smiles.

I want to apologize for staying silent. I want to assure her she’s not alone emotionally in this spotlight. I want to tell her it will kill me if she ever doubts the depth of what we share.

But the Holonet chimes. We’re called up. The host’s voice roars. The floor tenses. Ruby smiles at me briefly then steps forward. I stay behind, heart pounding, until she shoots me a quick thumbs-up. I exhale and tighten my jaw.

The crowd roars. The judges approach. Ruby stands center stage with her plated dish. Behind her I stand, solid as stone—guardian, partner, but still withholding the truth of what binds me.

One judge quips, “Looks like Novaria found its soul in this plating.” I feel a pang. Her soul is mine. She knows it. But I pretend it’s just applause for flavor.

Backstage after the presentation, Ruby is swarmed with camera crews. She laughs, warbles. But when her eyes meet mine—just for a moment in the glare—I feel her flesh reaching for a pledge she cannot voice.

I find her later, leaning against the prep table. The hustle fades around us like dust kicked aside. She’s smiling, but it’s calm. Confident. Certain.

“And? Think they liked it?” she asks.

“They did.” My breath catches.

Her hand finds mine.

I hesitate.

Then I step forward, pressing my palm to the dusty countertop between us. She turns those beautiful eyes on me.

“I... Ruby,” I begin, voice low. “There’s something I need to say.”

Her brows dip with concern. “Okay.”

I open my mouth. The words crash against my fear. What if she doesn’t feel the depth? What if she retreats? What if the bond is only one-sided?

But beneath it all, stronger than ambition or dread, the bond hums. Ready to break free.

Before I can finish, the whisper of silk signals another presence. I look up.