Page 6 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

She was healing. Living. Smiling.

I cracked it.

The ritual is broken. The shape of my days, the rhythm of hers—smashed to dust beneath my boot like those bastards in the alley.

I can’t stop watching her.

She turns toward the window once. Stares at something. I freeze like a felled beast in tall grass. But she doesn’t see me. Or pretends not to.

She’s dressed in lavender today. It clashes with the faint bruising at her jawline but makes her look fierce anyway. Like someone who knows her worth.

And that hurts more than I can say.

Because she deserves someone who’ll fight for her, yes. But also someone who won’t make her afraid to love them back.

I shift away from the window before she can look again.

But even as I turn my back, I can still feel her there—like gravity, like fire.

I am unraveling.

And I don’t know how much longer I can stay away.

Honor is supposed to be a foundation, not a noose.

But tonight, as I kneel in silence beneath the weight of my own breathing, the ancient Vakutan war creed inked into the flesh across my back feels more like a curse. A thousand generations whispering through my bones, demanding I stay chained to the codes that made me a soldier, not a man.

My gut roils like it’s been poisoned, but it’s just guilt—thick and rancid and crawling. I haven’t kept food down since that night. Every time I swallow, I taste blood. Hers. Theirs. Mine. Doesn’t matter. It coats everything now. Even water burns.

She’s still out there. Baking muffins. Pouring espresso. Probably humming that tune I never know the name of but hum in my sleep like a fool.

And I can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s not lust—though the ache in my body has its own language when it comes to Ruby Adams.

It’s not love, either. No, love’s too small a word. Too... fragile. What I feel is tectonic. It shifts things beneath my ribs, tears open scarred muscle, makes room in a place I’d long since filled with silence and war ghosts.

I miss her.

Not her body, not her warmth, not even the softness in her eyes when she hands me a muffin she pretends she doesn’t make special. I miss the space between us. The ease. The quiet joy of just being near her, knowing her energy would bleed into mine by osmosis.

I miss her rhythm.

Her presence used to be my metronome—guiding my steps, steadying my breath. Three sips of espresso before sparring. A joke about Lyrie’s latest scandalous outfit. That little trill of laughter when I roll my eyes but still accept the second muffin she pretends is a mistake.

Now I move like a blade dulled by grief. I swing wide in my kata drills. I misstep on a spin I could do blindfolded. Vekkor, bold with youth, asked if I’d injured myself.

I lied. Told him my balance was off because of planetary gravity shifts. He nodded, like that made sense.

It doesn’t. Nothing does.

I know she hasn’t come here. I’ve watched. Every morning. She pauses outside my door—just for a second, barely a heartbeat—but she never knocks. She used to wave, sometimes. Now her hand stays down.

Lyrie glares at me like I kicked her pet starcat. I probably deserve worse. Vonn hasn’t been back, but I still find fresh muffins in a satchel on my back stoop every morning. The last one had a note: “Idiot.”

I keep them all.

Not the muffins. Those I force down, even though they churn in my stomach like glass. But the notes? Folded. Tucked under the corner of my training mat.

I wonder what she’s thinking.

Is she angry? Hurt? Relieved I’m gone?

Or worse—does she think there’s nothing to forgive?

That kills me.

Because if she still wants me, after what I did... if she looked at me and saw not a monster, but me ... then there’s no turning back. No pretending I don’t feel this thing with a gravity all its own.

Because I do.

Gods help me, I do.

I know how to bury longing. I’ve done it for ten years. I folded it into my posture, bled it out in sparring drills, smothered it under honor and self-denial.

But this—this gnawing need to be seen and not feared?

I don’t know how to kill that.

And I hate it.

Because it makes me want. And wanting? That’s dangerous. Wanting makes you reckless. Makes you selfish.

I press a fist to my sternum. The pressure helps. It’s physical. Tangible. A reminder that pain keeps me honest.

I should go to her. Apologize. Say the right words. But my mouth has never been good with softness. My tongue is built for commands, not confessions.

Still.

What if she’s sitting in that shop right now, wondering why I haven’t come back? What if she isn’t angry, or hurt, or terrified—but waiting?

That possibility slices cleaner than any blade.

Because if she’s waiting... then maybe she’s not afraid of what she saw.

And if she’s not afraid... then maybe, just maybe, she saw me in that alley— all of me—and didn’t flinch.

What the hell do I do with that?

What kind of man does that make me if I walk away now?

I grit my teeth. Flex my fingers. The nails dig crescents into my palms, and I let the sting ground me.

Then, finally, I speak. Not to anyone. Just to the ceiling. The shadows. Myself.

“Maybe she deserves more than peace.”

The words hang heavy. True. Painful.

“Maybe she deserves choice. ”

And maybe, just maybe... I owe it to her to let her decide.