Page 38 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
I lean forward, voice low. “The idea that I could hurt you. That Ialreadydid.”
“You didn’t,” she says, quickly. Then amends, “Not in the way you think. You hurt me by nottrustingme. By running instead ofstaying.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
She folds her arms, glances at the clock. “I leave in four days.”
“I heard.”
Another beat of silence.
Then she sighs. “I’m tired, Rekkgar. Tired of waiting. Of hoping. Of thinking maybe this time you’ll stay.”
“Iwantto stay,” I say, and I mean it with every breath in me.
“But will you?”
I look at her, really look. Her hair frizzed from the oven heat. The flour still smudged at her jaw. The shimmer behind her eyes that says she still cares—even if she wishes she didn’t.
“I don’t know how to be what you deserve.”
Her laugh is bitter now. “Then maybe stop trying tobesomething. And justbe.”
She turns to walk away, but I stop her with a hand—not touching. Just hovering. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.
“Ruby…”
She turns, reluctantly.
“I’ll be at the terminal. When you leave. Whether you want me there or not.”
She hesitates. Then nods. Once.
And then she’s gone.
And I am alone again. But this time, the ache feels different.
This time, Iknowwhat I want.
And I’m done running from it.
The dojo is quieterthan usual tonight. The rhythmic thwack of fists against training mats echoes like distant thunder, but it doesn’t carry the usual comfort. My students sense it. Their eyes flit toward me between katas, unsure whether to ask what’s wrong or just stay the hell out of my way. They choose the latter.
Smart.
I can’t focus. Every punch is half-weighted, every pivot stutters with doubt. I correct form, issue terse commands, and move like a shadow through the space I once called sanctuary.
But there’s no peace in the silence anymore. Not when her voice fills every corner of my skull.
I return to my office, unpeel the sweat-slick tunic from my back, and drop into the chair like gravity finally won. My compad blinks with unread messages—probably Lyrie again, demanding I “get my glutes in gear” for some emergency involving missing sugar stock or improperly sorted spice packets.
I ignore it.
Then the door slams open.
She doesn’t knock. Of course she doesn’t.
Lyrie storms in like a glitter-scaled thunderstorm wrapped in high boots and righteous fury, her holographic bangles jingling with each stomp. “You insufferable lump of brooding testosterone.”
