Page 19 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
I lop off the inches, careful not to startle. The source is at the post where we spar—where he bled and broke himself one night I was too far away.
He’s shirtless. Arm bruised. Sweat-slicked. Hair tied back in a tight knot. His posture is relaxed, neutral, but haunted.
He hears me before he looks up; I can feel it in the shift of the air. He turns. His good eye —the ice-blue one—meets mine.
He freezes.
I pause, unsure what I’m supposed to say. Nothing feels adequate.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He blinks. Then he rubs the back of his neck, posture drifting, as though not recognizing how tall he is unless he checks. Ribbed muscles quiver with tension. Decorative and dangerous.
“I… came to say…” I swallow thick saliva. “I was—that is—We came to ask if you’d… could…” My voice flattens as I lose track. I look to Lyrie, to Vonn. Both are back at the door, giving me space. Proud, terrified, worried.
He nods, slowly. Gesture neutral. Almost robotic.
I breathe.
“What do you want?” he asks. Voice quiet. Guarded.
I force my shoulders down. “I want you to come back.”
His face tightens. A flash of guilt? Regret? Relief?
“Come back?” he says. “To the bakery?”
“Tome,” I say. Voice firm now, the words seized before I could doubt. “To us.”
Silence. The room hums. His eye flickers.
Finally:
“Ruby,” he says. Voice rasped, cracked, jagged like a stone smashed through glass. “I—” He swallows. “I don’t deserve?—”
“I’m not asking if youdeserveit,” I snap, voice fierce then soft. “I’m asking if youwantit. Ifwecan have it. Without hiding.”
His gaze drops. He steps forward, and dust motes drift around his feet.
“I—want it,” he murmurs, as if the words haven’t formed in his mouth for years, maybe centuries.
I step forward too. Our hands meet in the air between us—not quite touching, but charged with electricity.
He blinks at my fingers. “Ruby… I…”
I press forward until our palms connect. His hand is calloused, warm, strong.
I lean up, voice low. “Then we can have it. But only if it’s real. Not safe. Not hidden.”
He exhales, and everything in the air shifts—like a rope pulled taut.
Then he pulls me against him, the world snapping back together around the weight of our heat, and I taste the promise of what we can become.
We stand there for a moment longer than reason allows. My hand in his. His heat soaking through every inch of my skin like solar flare through gauze. There’s a softness in his eye—just the one, the living blue one—that I’ve never seen before. It disarms me more than any flash of violence ever could.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but I beat him to it.
“Don’t.” I shake my head, squeezing his fingers. “If you say you’re sorry, I’m gonna throw a croissant at your head.”
