Page 17 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
Is she angry? Hurt? Relieved I’m gone?
Or worse—does she think there’snothingto forgive?
Thatkillsme.
Because if she still wants me, after what I did... if she looked at me and saw not a monster, butme... then there’s no turning back. No pretending I don’t feel this thing with a gravity all its own.
Because I do.
Gods help me, I do.
I know how to bury longing. I’ve done it for ten years. I folded it into my posture, bled it out in sparring drills, smothered it under honor and self-denial.
But this—this gnawing need tobe seenand not feared?
I don’t know how to kill that.
And I hate it.
Because it makes me want. And wanting? That’s dangerous. Wanting makes you reckless. Makes you selfish.
I press a fist to my sternum. The pressure helps. It’s physical. Tangible. A reminder that pain keeps me honest.
I should go to her. Apologize. Say the right words. But my mouth has never been good with softness. My tongue is built for commands, not confessions.
Still.
What if she’s sitting in that shop right now, wondering why I haven’t come back? What if sheisn’tangry, or hurt, or terrified—but waiting?
That possibility slices cleaner than any blade.
Because if she’s waiting... then maybe she’s not afraid of what she saw.
And if she’s not afraid... then maybe, just maybe, she saw me in that alley—allof me—and didn’t flinch.
What the hell do I do with that?
What kind of man does that make me if I walk away now?
I grit my teeth. Flex my fingers. The nails dig crescents into my palms, and I let the sting ground me.
Then, finally, I speak. Not to anyone. Just to the ceiling. The shadows. Myself.
“Maybe she deserves more than peace.”
The words hang heavy. True. Painful.
“Maybe she deserveschoice.”
And maybe, just maybe... I owe it to her to let her decide.
CHAPTER 5
RUBY
The day drags on like accelerated syrup melting under a hot plate. I hover at the counter’s edge, elbows propped up, chin in my hands, while Lyrie chatters on about new alien frosting designs she’s concocted, and Vonn just grunts as she meticulously labels jars of Kardeth spice. Their every glance flicks toward the door, as if they’re waiting for —hoping for— something that hasn't come yet.
I don’t go there. I don’t even walk past the training studio next door. Not since that awful, terrible night. Instead, I bury myself in orders and taste-tests and inventory audits. I’m busy. I’m in demand. I’m God-awful at pretending.
