Page 42 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
Instead of the elegant swirl I showed him, what emerges is a blob. A deflated, uneven blob that looks vaguely like a flattened mollusk.
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing.
He startles, eyes flicking to mine, his expression unreadable for a beat.
Then, quietly: “It’s... not symmetrical.”
I snort, wiping my hand on a towel. “Sweetheart, it looks like it lost a fight with a mop.”
“I followed the angle you demonstrated.”
“No, you held the bag like it owed you money.”
He glances at the frosting, then at me. His voice stays flat, but I catch the faint flicker of mischief under it. “Would monetary debt improve its structural integrity?”
“Oh my god,” I giggle, nearly dropping the tray of meringue roses. “Please stop. My abs can’t take it.”
I don’t know what shifts, exactly, but something does. That thick, awkward tension we’ve been dragging around the kitchen all day—the fear, the guilt, the unsaid everything—it thins, loosens, lets in air.
We move differently after that.
Still a little clunky. Still weirdly out of sync. But there’s rhythm now. Give and take.
He cracks eggs like he’s preparing for battle, so I show him how to do it on the counter edge, gently—tap, split, separate. The second time, he gets it perfect. I clap and he looks at me like applause is a foreign concept.
“I don’t need praise,” he mutters.
“Too bad,” I say, bumping my hip into his.
Later, I teach him the delicate fold of macaron batter, how it should fall off the spatula like lava—not too thick, not too runny. He watches me with the same kind of focus he gives his sparring forms.
“You treat pastry like martial arts,” he says softly.
“Pretty sure my ganache has a black belt.”
He smiles.
Not a full one—just the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. But it's there.
And gods, itwrecksme.
We switch stations. I’m working the chiller trays when he comes up behind me, wordless, and gently rotates my wrist with his hand—adjusting my grip on the flame-jet nozzle.
“You’re over-tilting,” he murmurs. “Your arc is too wide.”
“Says the guy who set fire to three marshmallow peaks.”
“I learn quickly.”
“You’d better,” I grin. “That caramel glaze is sacred.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand right away. The warmth of his palm bleeds into my skin, steady and callused, like stone that remembers fire. My breath hitches.
Then he steps back. Professional. Distant.
But not cold.
There’s heat now. Simmering between us. Low and constant.
