Page 27 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

T he explosion of light and applause feels surreal—more than any grand finale I could’ve baked for Holonet.

After the chaos, what I expected was fallout: fear, backlash, maybe even disqualification.

Instead, fan mail pours in referencing me as “The Muffin Queen” and him as the “War God.” A viral holo is trending across Trident Space : “The Muffin Queen and Her War God,” complete with dramatic slo-mo of my espresso-powered sugar bombs and Rekkgar’s bone-breaking heroics.

I’m laughing so hard I cry, the absurdity and relief tangling in my chest.

Back in Earth Bites, I haven’t slept—not really.

Orders flood in from clients I never even knew existed: exotic aliens craving human pastry nostalgia, traders from Gethiri, diplomats from Ceres Station.

My little niche shop in Novaria has become a destination.

People line up in the pink-tinted dawn just to taste my chocolate ganache croissants or caramel swirl tarts.

It’s... overwhelming. Deliciously overwhelming.

But the flashbulbs, the applause—it all fades as soon as I step into our suite and close the door behind me.

The lights dim low. I collapse onto the bed, breath heavy, eyes bright with joy and exhaustion.

Rekkgar lies beside me, his arm draped possessively over my hip.

I feel his steady heartbeat beneath my palm, firm and unwavering.

I curl against him, still trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer weight of who I’ve become. A baker. A competitor. A hero. Myself . He strokes my hair, voice low and warm. “You did more than win. You changed the game.”

I smile weakly, tears pricking again. “We did,” I whisper. “Together.”

The finals had been postponed after Aelphus’s takeover. Whispers suggested they might never finish. But the board reinstated them—at our insistence, even ours. It wasn’t about spectacle anymore. It was about closure. About claiming the title because it was truly ours to take.

I wavered: eyes bright with ambition, heart heavy with stake. Rekkgar sensed it. One morning in the prep dome, he slipped beside me and whispered, “Not because they expect it—but because it’s yours to claim.”

His words, like warm caramel, melted something tight inside me. I took a steadying breath, straightened my apron, and nodded. We were in this together.

Planning the final dessert felt like writing a living memoir.

I tucked flashes of memory into each layer, and Rekkgar stood by piecing the presentation frame as lapidary—precise, delicate.

We chose a broken sugar sculpture—crystalline shards forming a lotus bloom that appears shattered but is artfully reassembled. Beneath each shard, layered mousse:

A velvety peach mousse with Kiphian sea spice: our first course fusion.

A deep caramel mousse with espresso undertones: Earth roots and our morning conversations.

A charcoal-black sesame mousse streaked with crimson berry: the fight, the rescue, the intensity of survival.

A light cloud-whipped vanilla-rose mousse: the calm after, tenderness, our bond.

Rokkgar placed the final sugar petal atop the structure. My fingers trembled—gulps of memory, victory, terror, love—all quivering under my skin. I looked at him; he gave a subtle nod: time.

On stage, the spotlight lasered by, cameras flying everywhere like metal insects.

My pulse is drum-strong, but when I see Rekkgar in the wings, eyes bright, jaw firm, I breathe and step forward.

The auditorium hushes as I assemble the sculpture.

Sugar shards glint; mousse piped with steady ardor.

Each movement is choreographed ritual. I taste as I go: echoes of salt, caramel, earth, blossom. It’s perfect and personal.

At the judging table, their expressions morph faster than light: surprise, tears, awe. A famed Vortaxian judge wipes her eyes, voice cracking: “This—this is not just dessert. It’s your story.”

The audience applauds, standing. I watch them shift in seats, lean forward. Their applause is thunder—no instruments needed.

Then it’s over. The host approaches with the final envelope. He builds suspense. Then opens it.

“First place,” he announces, voice reverberating, “Ruby Adams.”

The chandelier sparkle dims beneath the weight of that moment. The crowd roars. Confetti swirls. I step offstage—camera lights chasing me—straight to Rekkgar’s arms. He sweeps me up in a hug that sets my heart pounding again—this time with pure exhilaration, not fear.

I laugh, a full-hearted sound: “We did it.”

He presses a kiss to my temple. “You claimed it.”

I laugh again, tears brimming. “We claimed it.”

We hold each other tight—the story shared, the future ours.

Above the cheers, I hear a faint click of a holo-camera. I turn, hand in his, and wave. Not to sponsors or empire or broadcasters. To him . Flame in my chest. Warrior by my side.

Together, we are more than titles, more than fame, more than the story anyone scripted. We are us—and nothing else matters.

I stand on the observation deck, the station finally silent after the storm.

The curved crystal windows stretch overhead, refracting distant stars like scattered sugar crystals—a galaxy dusted in light.

The air hums faintly with recycled oxygen and stardust thrill.

The echo of distant engines is gone; peace pulses through the concourse instead.

Rekkgar joins me quietly, and I feel the familiar weight of his presence against my back before his hand warms mine. I turn to him, eyes bright with a mix of exhilaration and hope I’ve never permitted before. I clutch both his hands, feeling the firm heat of his scales beneath my palms.

“I don’t want to go back to the life I had before,” I confess, voice soft but resolute. “Not without you in it.”

My words hang in the air like fragrant sugar, tender and bold.

The misted lights catch the tear I didn’t know I’d be shedding.

The station—freed from Aelphus’s grip—feels brand new; every corner holds promise, every echo whispers possibility.

But I can’t walk back into my old self. I won’t. Not without him.

Rekkgar’s breath slows beside me, and he lifts his hand to cup my cheek. His touch is tender—warm and steady—in a way that renders my knees weak. “Then we start a new one,” he says simply.

Everything inside me floods—relief, joy, love—all shimmer with a crystalline clarity.

I step forward. He pulls me into his arms, and I press my face into the hollow of his throat, breathing in the scent of his armor, sweat, and unshakeable promise.

He leans in and kisses me slowly, deliberately, sealing our futures together.

Stars swirl overhead; the galaxy tastes like sweetness and liberation.

He holds me when I break away, his hand warm on my jaw, our foreheads pressed together. Stars twinkle beyond the glass, and the familiar scent of spice and station-clean metal wraps around us.

“I love you,” I whisper, voice cracked but fervent. “Thank you—for everything.”

He brushes my hair behind my ear. “I love you too, Ruby Adams,” he says, saying my full name with reverence. “Your world doesn’t just begin with Earth Bites. It begins with us .”

I laugh softly, heart aflame. “Then let’s build it together.”

I slip my hand down to his—intertwining my fingers with his thick, scaled hand. It’s perfect. Unbreakable.

Later, we walk through the station’s corridors, now alive with cautious celebration.

Passengers and crew murmur about the return to normalcy; whispers of gratitude and sighs of relief form the station’s new soundtrack.

We brush past holographic displays, now streaming stories of our victory—“Baker Who Fought Emperor” headlines blooming with excitement.

We pause by Earth Bites, where staff await behind a newly printed sign: “Earth Bites: Home of the Champion we laugh hard enough to shake off cobwebs of tension.

Lyrie claps Rekkgar on the shoulder. “You too, War God,” she teases. “Your fame just edged out mine.”

He gruffs back, but I see the warmth lit behind his cool facade as we stand together—a trio bound by revolution and pastry.

As evening falls, Novaria’s orbital silhouette floats in the sky beyond the deck windows. I lean against Rekkgar, butter-scents and spice swirling in the air, deep in the belly of home. “So,” I murmur, voice soft as whipped cream. “What’s next for us?”

He leans his forehead to mine. “Whatever we choose. Maybe—I don’t know—expand the bakery network?” He grins, shy, teasing. “Earth Bites in every major hub.”

I laugh, heart flaming. “Only if you help me test recipes in zero-g. ‘Vakutan-assisted soufflé’ has a nice ring to it.”

He smiles wide. “Deal.”

Then he dips his head and kisses me slow and sweet. “It’s your world, chef. And I’ll stand beside it.”

I close my eyes and taste cinnamon, sugar, courage, and his unwavering strength—all in that single kiss.

The stars shimmer above in witness. Our love, once forged in fire and fear, is now a constellation unto itself—bold, brilliant, and infinite.

I rest my hand against his chest, feeling the steadfast rhythm there.

“Together,” I whisper again.

“Always,” he murmurs back.

We stand beneath powdered-sugar stars—two souls, one bond, and a universe laid open before us.

And in that moment, the galaxy tastes like love.