Page 3 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
“Slow start this morning,” I murmur, arranging pastries behind the display glass with exaggerated care. “Even Lyrie’s off her game. She only flirted with two customers instead of the usual five.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“She might be sick. Or cursed.”
“I’ll keep my blade ready.” His tone is flat, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe. Fondness? It’s hard to tell with him. His face is a map of long-healed wounds, his expressions honed into stone by years of keeping people at arm’s length.
But he’s here. Every morning. And I know what that means, even if we don’t say it.
“How’s the dojo?” I ask, slicing a fresh loaf behind the counter even though no one’s ordered one.
“Quiet. Good for focus.”
“You say that like the idea of children breaking boards with their faces doesn’t fill you with existential dread.”
He arches one brow ridge at me. “They use their hands.”
“Sure they do.”
He bites into the muffin top. I watch the way his jaw flexes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. His scars catch the light in uneven streaks—testament to battles I’ll never ask about, and he’ll never offer to explain. One runs across his clavicle, another across the back of his hand. The one on his temple is jagged, like it was torn open rather than sliced. They should be horrifying. They aren’t.
They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful. And I hate that I can’t tell him that.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly.
I look up, caught. “No, I’m—was checking to see if you were going to leave me a single crumb.”
He tears off a piece of muffin, sets it on a napkin, and pushes it toward me without a word.
It feels like a gift. Stupid, but true. I reach out to take it and our fingers brush against each other. As if in sudden, desperate search for relief, our digits caress and briefly clasp. I pull back like I’ve touched a live wire.
“I’m engaged, you know,” I say before I can stop myself.
His posture stiffens just slightly. Not much. But I know him too well not to see it.
“I’m aware.”
“I just… in case you didn’t remember.”
“I remember everything,” he says simply. Then he drinks his espresso in one long, slow swallow, like it’s the end of the conversation.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or throw something. Maybe all three.
Instead, I smile. I always smile.
“Tell your idiot student to aim for your soft spots next time. You’ve got to have one somewhere.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “I do,” he says finally. His voice is even lower now, almost a whisper. “But I keep it guarded.”
And with that, he slides the empty cup toward me, stands, and walks out the way he came—heavy boots echoing against tile, the door chime sounding too bright in his wake.
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
Lyrie peeks in from the kitchen, brows raised.
“Still alive?” she asks.
“Barely,” I reply, and turn back to my baking.
