Page 8 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits

The bench creaks beneath him when he sits.

His thighs barely fit between the table and the bench edge, and I catch myself watching the way his scales shift under his tunic sleeves.

There are newer scars I don’t recognize—pale silver claw marks cutting across his forearm, almost like tribal paint slashed in anger.

We sip in silence for a bit, letting the steam fog our glasses and the smell of spiced broth loosen the tension.

Finally, I ask, “Why didn’t you come back?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Sips again. His throat moves slowly, deliberately.

“I was ashamed,” he says. “Of what I did. What I became.”

“You became a protector,” I whisper. “That’s not shameful.”

“It felt like I failed,” he says. “Honor is everything to my people. And I lost control. In front of you.”

“Your honor didn’t save me, Rekkgar.” I lean in, wrapping both hands around my cup. “ You did.”

His head bows slightly. The cybernetic eye dims for a moment, softening.

“I missed this,” I admit before I can stop myself.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“This?” he asks.

I gesture between us, sweeping my fingers over the air like I’m tracing an invisible thread.

“Talking. Laughing. Being around you. The safe version. The dangerous version. All of it.”

His gaze burns. “I don’t want to be dangerous to you.”

“You aren’t,” I say, my voice fierce. “You’re dangerous for me, maybe. But not to me.”

Something breaks behind his expression, like a shutter yanked open in a storm.

We eat without speaking for a while, the weight of those words settling between bites of noodles and sips of sharp, earthy tea.

Eventually, I scrape the bowl clean and lean back. “Walk with me?”

He nods. No hesitation.

We weave through the city’s evening pulse, feet skimming across cobbled stone lit with star-lamps glowing pink and silver. Alien flora curls from alley pots, curling tendrils twitching lazily. The air smells like sweet brine and fried starch and someone's cologne drifting on the breeze.

When we reach the town square, the glow of the central sculpture casts glittering reflections across the stage where a small ballet troupe from the Geleri Territories begins to perform.

“They’re good,” I whisper, slipping my hand around his forearm.

He stiffens—but doesn’t pull away.

I rest my head gently on his bicep, and the entire world seems to hush in reverence.

We stand like that for a long while. Silent. Breathing the same air.

I don’t say it, and neither does he—but we both know.

This isn’t just a walk.

This is a date.

The walk back is quiet, but not the brittle silence of discomfort.

No, this silence shimmers. It hums like a low frequency between us—buzzing, golden, electric.

I feel it each time my arm brushes his. Feel it in the way his breath slows when I laugh too close to his ear.

The city has gone to sleep around us, but we are wide awake, tethered together by something neither of us dares name out loud.

We take the long route. Through the roseglass archways of the merchant’s promenade, past the shuttered flower stalls with their sleepy puff-petals nodding under moonlight, and finally through the narrow side street that opens to my little square.

The stars above Novaria look so different from Earth’s—spread wider, with deeper indigo between them.

But right now, they seem to lean in, as if holding their breath.

Rekkgar says nothing, but his presence speaks volumes. He walks a half-step behind me, always to the side of the street where danger could come from, like instinct won't let him let go of that role. My protector. Even now.

When we reach my door, I slow down. My fingers toy with the key, but I can’t seem to lift it toward the lock.

“Thank you,” I say softly, turning to face him.

He tilts his head, that one good eye glowing faintly in the amber light spilling from my porch sconces.

“For dinner?” he asks, voice low.

“For everything.”

His breath catches, just slightly. I hear it. His chest expands, then stills.

“I should—” he begins.

But I don’t let him finish.

“I know.”

We stand there, the air thick with all the things we didn’t say over noodles and ballet and shared silence. My fingers twitch by my side, aching to reach out. My heart beats against my ribs like a drumline. And then—without warning, without fanfare—his hand lifts.

Clawed fingers, so careful, so slow, cup my cheek.

His palm is warm. Hot, even. Rough and calloused with years of war and training and things he’s never told me about. But his touch is reverent, feather-soft. Like I’m something precious.

And then he kisses me.

It’s not tentative. It’s not hesitant. It’s not a brush or a whisper or a maybe.

It’s a claiming.

His lips are fire and gravity and stardust. He leans in with the intensity of a man who’s spent a decade convincing himself this moment could never happen. And I meet him with the desperate ache of a woman who’s waited her whole life to be truly seen.

I rise on tiptoes, fists curling into the fabric of his tunic, yanking him down like I could anchor him there forever. His other arm wraps around my back, hauling me against his chest, and the low growl that rumbles up from his throat sends a jolt straight through every nerve ending I possess.

His mouth is surprisingly gentle. Exploring. Testing. Learning the shape of me like it’s a secret language he’s waited his whole life to decipher.

I answer with hunger. With fire. With all the years I spent swallowing my own wants for the sake of duty and family and fate.

And then?—

Too soon.

He pulls back.

It’s like gravity reverses itself, and I nearly stumble without his arms holding me.

He stares down at me, pupils wide, lips parted, his breath ragged.

“I—shouldn’t have,” he rasps.

I shake my head, but he’s already stepping away.

His hand drops. His shoulders draw up, armor slipping back on like a curtain falling.

“No,” I whisper, reaching out. “Wait?—”

But he’s gone. Just like that. Long strides carrying him down the street, into the shadows, swallowed by the night.

I stand there, stunned. Lips tingling. Heart in absolute freefall. I touch my mouth like I could still catch the echo of him there, pressed into the curve of my lower lip.

“Rekkgar…” I whisper.

No answer. Not even the faint sound of footfalls now.

I turn slowly, muscles trembling, and open the door to my house. Step inside like I’m dreaming.

And then?—

“Ruby.”

The voice slams into me like a bucket of cold water.

I blink hard. The entry lights snap on. My aunt and uncle are sitting in the living room, prim and composed, just as they were when they told me at fifteen that my life wasn’t mine anymore.

“Aunt Mara? Uncle Jek?”

They both rise.

“You’re late,” my aunt says with a frown. “And you look flushed. Were you… out with that alien again?”

“I—what?” I blink. “I was walking.”

“Walking,” my uncle says, folding his hands. “With Rekkgar, I assume.”

I don’t answer. Can’t. My heartbeat is still hammering against my ribs.

“We didn’t want to do this tonight,” my aunt says, voice tight. “But… news travels faster than light these days.”

I stare at her.

“News?”

My uncle sighs. “There’s been a Reaper attack. Out in the Badlands. A passenger vessel.”

My mouth dries.

“Auntie…” My voice is a thread. “Is this about?—”

“Yes,” she says. “The ship carrying your betrothed.”

For a moment, the room tilts sideways. My knees nearly give.

“He’s dead?” I ask. It comes out more like a gasp.

They both nod.

I feel… blank.

I never met him. Never even saw his face. His name was a name on a data scroll. A price of peace. A lock on my cage.

And now?

The key lies shattered in space dust.

“I’m… I’m not sad,” I whisper, shocked by my own words.

My aunt's eyes widen.

I feel tears prick my eyes—not for the dead stranger—but for the guilty relief now clawing up my throat.

“I’m happy ,” I say, voice cracking. “Gods help me. I’m happy he’s gone.”

They look at me like I’m unraveling.

And maybe I am.

But as I press my fingers to my lips again, still tasting Rekkgar’s kiss, I know one thing with crystalline certainty.

I’m free.

And nothing— nothing —will ever be the same again.