Page 9 of Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef

“I…” My breath catches as I gape at her. “It’s not that you are primitive, it’s -“

“Relax. I’m just messing with you,” Laura says, bumping her hip against mine as she reaches for a knife. The casual contact sends a jolt through me, and I have to resist the urge to lean into her touch. I want nothing more than to be close to her, but every time I get near… she becomes defensive and even angry. Even when her scent calls to me. It’s like a cosmic joke – I’m finally close to someone I want, and I’m about as welcome as a Zorgax at a vegetarian buffet.

I swallow the pain. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s attracted to me, but rejecting me because I’m… I look down at my hand, hating the shine of the metal. Who could ever love someone with a past like mine? Even my thoughts towards her are messed up - simultaneously pushing her away while wanting to keep her close.

I watch as Laura begins chopping ingredients with practiced ease, her knife moving in swift, sure strokes.

“You actually like this,” I say, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can stop them. “Cooking, that is.”

Laura grins, her whole face lighting up in the dark. “I do.”

This whole time I’ve hated her in my kitchen, thinking she was here out of some misplaced sense of duty... Maybe all this time, I’ve been wrong. Just maybe from where Laura hails it’s acceptable for females to cook their own meals?

On my own home planet, Latium, many males used hosting grand parties focused around food as proof they were well off. They either cooked the food themselves, or saw that the event was catered by a professional chef. Social status dictated who could and who couldn’t go to theseparties. I’d only ever attended them from the kitchens, alone. But at least I was in demand. It’s not like I wanted to be part of the events, to be included and share those moments with someone…

“I’ve made this meal a thousand times. My abuela taught me when I was just a kid,” she tells me, oblivious to the dark direction of my thoughts.

“Your... abudabala?” I ask, trying to focus on the moment instead. If she won’t have me as her mate, then at least I can be a good friend to her. I can still look out for her. Even if it hurts every moment she’s in my sight… and out of it. I’m practically a masochist at this point.

“My grandmother,” Laura explains, her expression softening with nostalgia. “She was an amazing cook. Used to make huge feasts for our entire extended family, all by herself too!”

“Alone?” I ask, shocked. A female forced to cook... that’s just unheard of. It’s a concept that’s hard to relate to.

“That must have been quite the undertaking,” I say cautiously, hoping she will share more. It doesn’t take much for us to bicker. The tension between us is simmering all the time. It’s honestly rare for us to just talk like this. Even more rare to learn something about her. I feel like I’m navigating a minefield, except the mines are filled with sarcasm and eye-rolls instead of explosives.

Laura shrugs, but I catch the hint of pride in her voice. “It was a lot of work, but I think she loved it. I certainly loved visiting her.”

“And you? Do you want to work? To cook?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

She nods, a smile playing at her lips. “There’s something special about bringing people together with food, you know?”

I nod. Almost all Volscian males learn how to cook. I’dtaken the course simply because my education dictated it… and fallen in love with creating something that could have such a powerful impact upon a person’s mood.

“A good meal can improve anyone’s day. Worth its weight in sorium ore,” I say, thinking of the mineral that had led to numerous intergalactic wars. Though I’d argue a perfectly seasoned roast could probably broker peace faster than any diplomat.

Laura glances up, surprise evident in her eyes. Is it because I’ve agreed with her for once?

For a moment, I consider deflecting, falling back on my usual air of aloof superiority. Anything to stop myself from falling even more in love with this small human female. But something in Laura’s open, earnest expression makes me want to share. I’ve wanted to share with her for a while now, I admit to myself. I’ve just been too scared to.

“My sire was head chef for the royal family,” I explain, my flesh hand absently tracing the seam where metal meets skin on my cybernetic arm. “I spent much of my youth in the kitchens, learning at his side. Just like you learned from your abadaba.”

“Abuela,” she gently corrects, again.

The word is foreign, even with our translators. I’m not sure I can even pronounce it in the same way she does. It irks me that I can’t be as perfect as she is, as she deserves.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. There’s something in her gaze – admiration, yes, but also a warmth that makes my breath catch in my throat. The colors of her eyes are so vivid. A brown, filled with flecks of gold. I could look at them all day long… And if her scent is anything to go by, she likes what she sees too.

It’d be so easyto lean in…

My metal hand rests on the table between us with a clank as I lean towards her.

Laura turns abruptly and clears her throat, breaking the spell.

All of a sudden, I feel like I’m losing her. She just softened up to me and…

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

Laura turns to me, her eyes wide as she stares at me in disbelief. I don’t blame her. I’ve never apologized to anyone in my life. Ever. She’s the first. Probably the only.

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