Page 18 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
“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 shewilldo 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.
