Page 2 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
I don’t talk about it. Not even with myself, most days.
But it's there—like the pressure of a hand on the back of my neck, reminding me that no matter how free I act, there’s a leash hidden in the collar of my fate. I’m not sad exactly. I’ve made peace with the life I’m supposed to live.
Mostly.
The oven dings and I’m pulled back to the present, sliding in the trays, feeling the heat kiss my skin and make my eyes water. The chocolate chip muffin tops I’m known for—my signature Earth recipe—are lined up like little promises waiting to rise.
And just as I close the oven door, I feel it. That shift in the air.
The door chimes again.
My heart skips. It always does.
He's early today.
There’s a distinct shift in atmosphere when he enters.
The door chimes like it always does, cheerful and benign, but the sound is swallowed a half-second later by something denser—like the space itself recognizes who just crossed the threshold and adjusts accordingly. The temperature doesn’t drop, but something cooler seems to glide up my spine nonetheless, someelectric hush that rolls through the shop and settles low in my belly.
Rekkgar.
I don’t have to look to know it’s him. No one else carries that weight, that presence. He’s a walking thundercloud in slow motion—gravity made flesh. I hear the low scrape of his boots on the floor, the faint creak of our reinforced support beams shifting as his bulk moves inside, the almost imperceptible hum of the cybernetic eye embedded in his face adjusting to the light. A growl of static and red illumination. I’ve learned the sound of it.
He says nothing. He never does, not right away. That first minute is always a communion of silence—him soaking in the warmth, the smells, the flickering lights of the ovens, and me pretending like I’m not hyper-aware of every inch of him.
Then I glance up from the cooling rack, and there he is, just where I expect him to be—at the counter, tall enough to cast a shadow over half the glass display, arms folded across that massive, scarred chest like some battle-hardened statue plucked out of myth and dropped into my bakery like a challenge from the gods.
“Morning, Rekkgar,” I say, pulling on the easy tone I’ve perfected over the years. Warm. Familiar. Breezy, like my heart isn’t doing a drum solo against my ribs. “You’re early. I didn’t even have time to hide the good stuff.”
His mouth tugs upward just slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. Close enough that it makes my throat tighten a little.
“I smelled chocolate.” His voice is low and gritty, a half-purr, half-growl that scratches across my nerves in the most illicit way. “From the street.”
“Don’t blame me if you followed your nose into sin.” I nudge the tray of muffin tops toward him with a flick of my fingers.“Still warm. And they’ve got extra chips today. Vonn got heavy-handed.”
“I like them that way.”
I know. Of course I know. I could recite his order in my sleep, down to the second he lifts the muffin to his mouth after the first sip of espresso. I could probably sketch the exact pattern of tiger-like red stripes that rake across the black scale of his forearms without looking. I could also admit—though I won’t—that sometimes I make the muffin tops a little bigger, a little richer, just to see the way his eyes darken slightly when he takes that first bite.
“Coffee?” I ask, reaching for the machine before he can answer. “Or do we need to go straight to mainlining caffeine this morning?”
“Double shot. No foam.”
“Rough night?”
His cybernetic eye whirs faintly, the aperture narrowing as he watches me move. “Sparring. Some idiot thought he could land a hit if he charged with enough enthusiasm.”
“Ah. The sacred rite of Testosterone and Regret. I remember it well.”
He huffs once, the sound almost a laugh, then reaches for the muffin as I turn to the espresso machine. I can feel him behind me—the sheer heat of his body, the subtle tension in his stillness. Most people his size move like bulldozers. Rekkgar waits. Watches. Like a hunter, or a soldier trained too well to ever fully stand down.
The hiss of steam fills the space. The bittersweet aroma of dark roast curls into the air. I angle the portafilter just right, pack the grounds, pull the shot, and set the tiny cup—barely large enough to look like anything in his huge hand—on the counter.
He takes it with reverent care. Always does.
Then, as always, he sits.
Not at a corner table or one of the booths by the window. At the counter. On the high stool directly across from where I prep, close enough that I could reach across and brush my fingers over his wrist if I dared. I never do. But the possibility hangs there, a phantom touch in the space between us.
