Page 7 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

RUBY

T he day drags on like accelerated syrup melting under a hot plate.

I hover at the counter’s edge, elbows propped up, chin in my hands, while Lyrie chatters on about new alien frosting designs she’s concocted, and Vonn just grunts as she meticulously labels jars of Kardeth spice.

Their every glance flicks toward the door, as if they’re waiting for — hoping for — something that hasn't come yet.

I don’t go there. I don’t even walk past the training studio next door. Not since that awful, terrible night. Instead, I bury myself in orders and taste-tests and inventory audits. I’m busy. I’m in demand. I’m God-awful at pretending.

“Honey, you’re frosting the same cupcake for five minutes straight,” Lyrie teases, flicking pink-flecked powder across the counter. “Unless that one cupcake needs to look exactly like a sparkly star from Hylor Prime, I think you can move on.”

I force a laugh, smooth the icing once more, then lift my gaze. She’s there in the back, eyes pointed at the door again, lips pressed into a line like she’s swallowing back a growl.

“Look, feel free to circle the drain,” she says with a hissed smile. “But we’re rescuing you from your own self-pity today. No more hiding in pastry nostalgia.”

Vonn snorts and mutters something in Fratvoyan that I don’t fully understand. Something about me turning into a sugar-coated puddle.

“Are you two conspiring against me?” I ask, voice light, but my stomach coils into knots. What are they planning? I don’t want pity, a lecture, or a rescue mission—though the idea of seeing Rekkgar again flares through me like hot brand.

They exchange glances. Lyrie’s expression turns serious, body leaning forward with intent. Vonn… sighs. More irritation than resentment.

“Maybe,” Lyrie says, eyes steely. “But it’s for your good.”

“Hey.” Vonn raps her cane against the floor. “Aunt Vonn doesn’t do pity, mademoiselle. But she will do a full throttle Rekkgar intervention if need be.”

My foot taps. Knuckles whiten where they rest on the counter’s edge. Part of me grips for control; the other part keeps cracking open beneath the tension, fracturing with every silent tick of the clock.

I know this isn’t healthy. I’m a strong woman—stronger than this. I run the shop. I handle spoiled interstellar customers. I’m not supposed to crumble over a man, especially one who … well, who might not come back at all.

But… how long can a single person’s absence stretch before it breaks everything else?

By lunchtime I can’t breathe, can’t distract myself with flour and sugar.

So I pull the satchel of tills behind the counter, lock the drawer, and open the door.

Step out. Walk five agonizing steps to the alley door, lean my forehead against the cool metal of the studio’s exterior wall, press my palm to the PAT tag in the brick that grants him entry.

No reply.

I trace the stamp with thoughtful fingers, thumb padding against the raised pattern. My pulse skips.

“Maybe he’s moved on,” I whisper to myself. “Maybe he… doesn’t want to come back.”

The alley door slides open behind me with a sigh. I turn just as Lyrie and Vonn step in, stride past me without a word, side-by-side—one elegant, one formidable.

“Let’s go talk to him before you spiral,” Lyrie whispers, voice sultry by design but surprisingly soft around edges. She’s wearing a bold shade of magenta today, accentuating her scales and curves—deliberate, dangerous, and entirely on brand for a pink-scaled Sirenette.

Vonn just smacks a muffin against her cane and clamps it back on the handle. “Last warning, sweetheart,” she says plainly. “Go in there and pull him out, or I will do it myself—and I will not be as sweet as Lyrie.”

I glance at the alley. The door is closed. The windows curtained. The dojo’s dim interior concealed.

I hesitate.

But for the first time in days, my feet don’t tremble.

“Okay,” I say. Voice shaking, but I’ve said it, and there’s no taking it back. “Let’s do this.”

Lyrie beams. Vonn looks ready to pounce.

They move aside, and I cross the threshold—my heart pounding so loud I can’t hear my own breath.

The studio smells of resin and sweat. Cooler than my bakery, but I breathe in the scent of it, letting it anchor me.

I walk deeper inside, surprising even myself with the decisiveness of each step.

“Rekkgar?” My voice cracks halfway through the name I shouldn’t let slip.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The room is empty of students. My chest tightens again—maybe he’s gone. Maybe he never meant to come back.

And then:

A low grunt. Movement. A form beneath the mech lights. Heavy breathing. Silence.

I lop off the inches, careful not to startle. The source is at the post where we spar—where he bled and broke himself one night I was too far away.

He’s shirtless. Arm bruised. Sweat-slicked. Hair tied back in a tight knot. His posture is relaxed, neutral, but haunted.

He hears me before he looks up; I can feel it in the shift of the air. He turns. His good eye —the ice-blue one—meets mine.

He freezes.

I pause, unsure what I’m supposed to say. Nothing feels adequate.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He blinks. Then he rubs the back of his neck, posture drifting, as though not recognizing how tall he is unless he checks. Ribbed muscles quiver with tension. Decorative and dangerous.

“I… came to say…” I swallow thick saliva. “I was—that is—We came to ask if you’d… could…” My voice flattens as I lose track. I look to Lyrie, to Vonn. Both are back at the door, giving me space. Proud, terrified, worried.

He nods, slowly. Gesture neutral. Almost robotic.

I breathe.

“What do you want?” he asks. Voice quiet. Guarded.

I force my shoulders down. “I want you to come back.”

His face tightens. A flash of guilt? Regret? Relief?

“Come back?” he says. “To the bakery?”

“To me ,” I say. Voice firm now, the words seized before I could doubt. “To us.”

Silence. The room hums. His eye flickers.

Finally:

“Ruby,” he says. Voice rasped, cracked, jagged like a stone smashed through glass. “I—” He swallows. “I don’t deserve?—”

“I’m not asking if you deserve it,” I snap, voice fierce then soft. “I’m asking if you want it. If we can have it. Without hiding.”

His gaze drops. He steps forward, and dust motes drift around his feet.

“I—want it,” he murmurs, as if the words haven’t formed in his mouth for years, maybe centuries.

I step forward too. Our hands meet in the air between us—not quite touching, but charged with electricity.

He blinks at my fingers. “Ruby… I…”

I press forward until our palms connect. His hand is calloused, warm, strong.

I lean up, voice low. “Then we can have it. But only if it’s real. Not safe. Not hidden.”

He exhales, and everything in the air shifts—like a rope pulled taut.

Then he pulls me against him, the world snapping back together around the weight of our heat, and I taste the promise of what we can become.

We stand there for a moment longer than reason allows.

My hand in his. His heat soaking through every inch of my skin like solar flare through gauze.

There’s a softness in his eye—just the one, the living blue one—that I’ve never seen before.

It disarms me more than any flash of violence ever could.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but I beat him to it.

“Don’t.” I shake my head, squeezing his fingers. “If you say you’re sorry, I’m gonna throw a croissant at your head.”

He freezes, clearly struggling. “But I?—”

I pull my hand away long enough to place a finger against his lips. The pad of my finger brushes warm, chapped flesh, and my pulse stutters.

“You saved me,” I say, voice gentler now. “No one’s ever gone full berserker for me before. I mean, I wouldn’t recommend it as a way to win a girl’s heart, but... for a first, it’s kind of epic.”

He lets out a grunt that almost sounds like a laugh. It’s low and rusty, like he forgot how.

“That was… not controlled,” he murmurs.

“No,” I agree, nudging his arm. “But it was honest. And you were there. ”

We stand in silence, the weight of unsaid things pooling between us, then I draw in a breath that tastes like cinnamon and street smoke and maybe hope.

“Come on,” I say, nudging my chin toward the alley. “Let’s go walk off the awkward.”

His brow arches. “Walk?”

“Yes, Rekkgar. Humans have this ancient tradition called ‘walking and talking.’ It's a sacred ritual designed to prevent emotionally constipated conversations from stagnating in closed spaces.”

“I do not suffer from gastrointestinal blockages,” he says flatly.

I blink up at him, then dissolve into laughter so hard it folds me at the waist.

“Oh gods. Okay, now I need noodles. Immediately.”

To his credit, he doesn’t argue. Just follows silently beside me, massive form casting a long shadow as we step into the Novarian dusk. The air’s cooling now, the sky overhead bruised with plum and soft gold, tendrils of steam lifting from the wet street as night layers itself over the city.

The noodle stand I love sits nestled between a jewelry vendor and a pop-up selling flame-spiced Skren eggs. The old woman behind the counter—Madi, a Trinitari with four arms and a jawline like a sun-scarred glacier—recognizes me instantly.

“You bring a new boy?” she asks, clicking her teeth and peering up at Rekkgar. “You always bring a new boy.”

“I’ve never brought anyone, Madi,” I say, settling onto a narrow metal bench. “You’re confusing me with Ly?—”

“I know who you are. This one is different.” Her top two hands flutter like she’s tasting our chemistry. “He’s got that ‘kill anyone who upsets you’ vibe. I like it.”

Rekkgar stiffens, clearly unsure how to respond.

I grin. “Two bowls of fire-gut special. Extra egg.”

“And tea?” she asks, already pouring it before I nod.