Page 36 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

REKKGAR

T he first warm breeze drifts across the moon’s forested shore, carrying the scent of salt, pine, and a promise I never thought I’d breathe.

I stand at the water’s edge, armor replaced by naught but light, damp clothing.

Ruby, barefoot and radiant, wades into the seafoam with a laugh that echoes across the hidden moon—an echo I feel in my chest, deeper than any battle cry.

The Novarian council may have gifted us this retreat for “services to planetary morale,” and while the notion strikes me as absurd—me, a morale booster—I can’t argue with how her laughter carves peace into my soul.

I watch her, hair plastered by sea, starlight and moonlight dancing on her skin.

Her smile is a masterstroke. I coil my fingers tighter around the plan I hold: a page scribbled with ideas for Earth?Bites Galactic.

Interplanetary recipes. She wants to weave Earth traditions with alien spices, lunar legumes, nebula berries.

I sketch rough outlines for a warrior-blend muffin—spiced with Vakutan fire-pepper dust and bound with earthy grain.

Ruby tilts her head at me, eyes sparkling like the suns above, and cackles.

It’s not mocking; it’s elated, incredulous joy.

“You want that to be a muffin?” she teases, voice buoyant as the waves washing over her ankles.

“I’m serious,” I growl softly. “It’s bold. Like us.”

She laughs again, and the sound cracks something stern to shards inside me. Maybe I am a morale booster. Maybe our love, glorious and defiant and undeniably fierce, is enough to rally more than towns or planets—it could rally hearts.

Our days slip by in halcyon ease. Dawn finds us sparring on sun-warmed sand, pacing through footwork meant to hone defense yet filled with laughter and lighthearted grunts.

My strikes are careful; hers are surprising—she moves with grace, springing like a dancer.

We fall into the sea in a tangle of arms, saltwater and laughter mingling on our tongues.

Later, we lie on the sand, sun-kissed and sated, hands twined as we discuss Earth?Bites Galactic’s launch—Ruby envisioning storefronts orbiting every trade hub, each menu a testament to unity through flavor.

She’s serious. I admire how she dreams, how she dares.

I offer ideas: an interspecies celebration menu, a line of “fighter’s feast” training pastries.

She cocks a brow and grins. “Warrior muffins, Rekkgar?” she asks, feathers of humor on her lips.

“If you’re serious about that—fine, I’ll bake.

But you’re doing taste-test. And no growling when it’s too spicy. ”

I accept with a warrior’s salute and a grimace, though I relish the challenge. We build plans as we once built defense—strategically, ardently, knowing the stakes yet not afraid of hope.

Evenings are sacred. We lie on a blanket by a bonfire, coals glowing red as molten ember.

I open my mouth to tell stories—of the Centuries War, shock-trooper days, missions where survival depended on sacrifice.

Ruby traces scars on my forearm with gentle reverence, and her eyes glisten.

When I’m done, I turn the question back to her: her childhood on Earth, dreams she buried with grief, her wonder of the universe.

She tells me about wanted children. Mentorship.

“I want to teach girls how to make war with sugar,” she says, voice fierce and tender all at once.

I smile, cup her cheek, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. “And I’ll teach them how to defend it—with fists, with honor.” She laughs and slaps my arm. It’s ridiculous, but it’s perfect. We lean into each other, the firelight engraving hope onto our profiles.

One night, we craft something small yet precious: a sugar-sculpted diorama on a cast-iron hearth board.

I mold a miniature bakery. Ruby shapes a sword, a wedding ring, and a muffin top.

Her fingers tremble, delicate and deliberate.

The sculpture gleams, even under the pale moons.

We watch it together, breath shallow, hearts full.

Heat from the forge flickers across our faces. The sugar begins to melt—edges dripping like quicksilver tears. Neither of us moves to stop it. The sculpture softens, sags, ultimately pools into blurred puddles. I speak, voice low: “Nothing lasts forever except love.”

She leans against me, warm against the night chill. “We don’t need monuments,” she whispers. “We have each other.”

I kiss her temple. The sweet collapse before us becomes a vow, not a loss. “Soon,” I murmur, “we’ll have everything else, too.”

Our honeymoon isn't just escape. It's a forging, a foundation. We trade past pain for future promise. Each sunrise brings new plans. Each sunset seals them. We are building—not just a bakery in orbit or a brand across the galaxy—but a legacy of love, strength, resilience.

And on this hidden moon, under twin suns and a world that once thought me a monster, I realize that with her , I’m whole. Warrior, partner, husband, home.

Our story is unfolding—bold as a muffin blaze, infinite as the stars above. And I, boss of blade and baker, am honored to fight—or bake—beside my bride for every tomorrow.