Page 13 of Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef

As I begin to squeeze the fruit over a bowl, Nelan hovers nearby, his eyes critically watching my every move. I feel like I’m diffusing a bomb made of produce.

“Gentler,” he instructs. “You’re being too forceful.”

I adjust my grip, trying to find that magical sweet spot between too much and too little pressure. It’s like some twisted alien version of Goldilocks. Too hard, too soft, just right... except “just right” apparently involves psychic fruit-whispering abilities I don’t possess.

“Now you’re not squeezing hard enough,” Nelan says,his voice tight with frustration. “The juice needs to flow in a steady stream, not individual drops.”

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to squeeze the fruit directly into his face. “Maybe you should do this part too, since I’m clearly incapable of juicing fruit correctly. I’ll just stand here and look pretty. It’s what I do best, after all.”

It’s what my ex used to tell me all the time, at least. That I was pretty, but useless. Nelan probably thinks the same.

Nelan shakes his head. “No, you need to learn. You can do this. I believe in you. Here, let me show you.”

He steps behind me, his chest pressing against my back as he reaches around to guide my hands. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. His body is warm, solid, and far too close for comfort. Or maybe not close enough. I’m not sure which thought terrifies me more.

What shocks me more is how he believes in me. I’m so used to being told that I can’t do something, and here this stubborn, arrogant guy actually believes. In me. It’s enough to make my brain short circuit.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear as he demonstrates the proper technique. “Firm, but not aggressive. You want to coax the juice out, not force it.”

I swallow hard, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the feeling of Nelan’s body against mine. Or any other meanings behind his words. “R-right. Coax, not force. Got it. I’ll try to seduce the juice out of the fruit. Maybe whisper sweet nothings to it.”

As soon as the fruit is fully juiced, I step away, my heart pounding. What the hell was that? I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of... whatever just happened. Maybe the fruit releases some kind of alien pheromones. Yeah, that must be it.

Nelan seems equally flustered, clearing his throat as he moves to check on the simmering sauce. “Good. That should be sufficient for the reduction.”

The next hour passes in a blur of increasingly specific instructions and mounting tension. Nelan’s anxiety seems to grow with each passing minute, his commands becoming sharper, his criticisms more frequent. It’s like watching a pressure cooker slowly building up steam, and I’m just waiting for the inevitable explosion.

“No, no, no!” he exclaims as I begin to plate the dish. “The tentacles must be arranged in a precise spiral pattern, with the thickest end at the four o’clock position!”

I freeze, the tongs hovering over the plate. “Are you serious right now? Should I break out a protractor?”

Nelan’s eyes flash. “Deadly serious. This presentation is crucial. It’s a reflection of the natural spiral patterns found in Volscian architecture. Anything else would be culturally insensitive at best, outright offensive at worst.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that murder is generally frowned upon, even in alien societies. This has got to be the difference between a cook and a chef, right? I make food that’s delicious, and he makes food that’s… infuriating.

“Nelan, I get that this is important to you, but don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far? Even Rist said we should just treat the General like any other guest.”

I distinctly choose to ignore the voice that adds that this guest has the power to destroy planets.

“You don’t understand,” Nelan insists, his cybernetic hand resting firmly upon the kitchen countertop. “This isn’t just about impressing a guest. This meal could have far-reaching consequences. If we displease the General, who knows what might happen?”

I set down the tongs, turning to face him fully. “What are you talking about? It’s just dinner, not some kind of intergalactic peace treaty.”

Nelan’s expression darkens. “You have no idea of the complexities at play here. One wrong move, one imperfect dish, and everything could come crashing down. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

As he continues to list off potential disasters stemming from improperly arranged tentacles, a chill runs down my spine. His words fade into the background as unwelcome memories surface.

Suddenly, I’m not in an alien kitchen anymore. I’m back on Earth, cowering in a dark corner of my apartment.

The air is thick with tension as I wait for the sound of keys in the lock. I know what’s coming. Another night of criticisms, of walking on eggshells, of never being good enough...

I shake my head violently, banishing the memories. No. I refuse to let that happen again. I am not that scared girl anymore. I’m a strong woman who just happens to be stuck on an alien planet, working in a hotel kitchen, and possibly developing feelings for a horned chef with OCD tendencies. Totally normal.

But even as I think it, I hear his voice in my head. “You’re defective, Laura. No one else will ever want you.”

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. I am not defective. Those words don’t define me. Not anymore. But the doubt lingers, a constant companion I can’t seem to shake.

“Enough!” I shout, my voice ringing through the kitchen. Nelan stops mid-sentence, his eyes wide with surprise.

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