Page 30 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
But even buried under chocolate and sugar and swirls of caramel, I can’t shut it out. The sound of his voice. The look in his eye when I said I was free.Hissilence.Hisshame. The way he backed away like I’d put a knife to his gut instead of offering him the one thing I thought he wanted.
Myself.
Was I wrong?
Gods, maybe I was.
Maybe all this time I’ve been imagining a story that only existed in my head. Projecting dreams onto a man who was too honorable, too damaged, tooafraidto let himself want me back.
Or worse—maybe he did want me. Just not enough.
The thought cuts sharper than any rejection I’ve ever faced.
I press my hands to the counter, breathing through my nose, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla swarming me like ghosts of comfort.
“Hey,” Lyrie says gently from the doorway. “You don’t have to pretend with us.”
I glance up.
She’s leaning there, arms folded across her glittery mesh apron, looking far too serious for someone whose top barely covers her navel.
I try to smile. “Pretending’s all I’ve got right now.”
She steps forward, reaches across the counter, and plucks a piping bag out of my trembling hands.
“Well then,” she says, “we’ll pretend together.”
The shop is quiet now, long after midnight, the only sounds the gentle hum of the refrigeration units and the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock above the counter. I’ve turned the lights down low. The bakery smells like sugar and sadness.
I sit on the loveseat in the back room, legs curled under me, a blanket pulled to my chin even though the air is still warm from the ovens. The dim glow from my compad reflects on the pale skin of my fingers as I scroll, heart pounding harder than it should. I know exactly what I’m looking for. I don’t even have to type anything in—my fingers go there automatically. Memory muscle. Pain muscle.
And there it is.
The photo.
It’s a little blurry, the resolution not great. But I remember that night like it’s still pressed against my skin.
The Winter Festival. Five years ago. Novaria hadn’t had snow that year, but the street vendors brought in artificial flakes and programmed them to fall in delicate spirals, catching the overhead lights like glitter. I was selling cinnamon bread from a booth that smelled like heaven, and Rekkgar… Rekkgar hadstopped by on his way home from training, still in his sleeveless gi top, arms slicked with sweat despite the chill in the air. Vonn bullied him into standing next to me for a “customer appreciation” photo. He grunted, deadpan as always.
But in the image, there’s a sliver of softness in his eyes. Just the barest hint. Like he’s notjusttolerating me, but maybe… enjoying the moment.
His massive arm brushes mine in the frame. Barely. But I feel it now like a shock through time.
And my smile?
So damn wide.
I stare at that photo until my eyes burn. I’ve probably looked at it a hundred times. Maybe more. I should delete it. Move on. Burn it in some ritualistic digital cleansing that screamsI am not waiting for him anymore.
But I can’t.
Because the truth is, I still want that night back.
Back when things were easier. Simpler. When our connection was warm and slow like molasses, not something jagged and aching and unspoken. Before longing sank claws into my ribs. Before every glance from him felt like both a promise and a threat.
Before the kiss.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
