Page 45 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
My cheeks flush all over again.
I step back reluctantly, letting his hand slip from mine. “You should go,” I say, though everything inside me is screamingstay.
He nods. No argument. No question. Just trust.
And as he walks to the door, his footsteps soft despite his size, I know without a doubt?—
He’ll come back.
Maybe for muffins.
Maybe for more.
But either way, this time, he’s not running.
And neither am I.
CHAPTER 10
REKKGAR
Inever understood how humans could laugh until they cried.
Not during the war, not during the long, hollow recovery that followed, not during the sterile pleasantries exchanged in market stalls or the polite chuckles shared over synthetic brew with other instructors. But now—standing in this absurdly chaotic bakery, my fingers coated in a blend of buttercream and defeat, holding what is undeniably the mangled remains of a pastry bag—I finally understand.
Ruby is doubled over beside me, clutching her ribs, a flour smudge on her cheek and tears streaming from her eyes, not from sorrow but from sheer, uncontainable mirth.
“Rekk,” she gasps between fits of laughter, voice catching on sugar-laced breaths, “you... you can’t just... grip the bag like you’re prepping to throw a plasma grenade!”
I glance at the disaster I’ve created—frosting now splattered across the ceiling like someone murdered a unicorn mid-frost—and grunt. “It’s not meant to be weaponized?”
“Not unless you’re declaring war on cupcakes,” she wheezes, and then doubles over again, laughing harder.
And then, I do something I haven’t done in years.
I laugh.
Not just a breath, not just a huff. A real, grounding, chest-deep laugh. It rumbles up from some long-dormant place in me, warm and unfamiliar, rolling out into the air between us like thunder laced with honey.
Ruby freezes mid-snort.
Her eyes widen, then soften. “Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s new.”
I reach for a clean towel, wipe my hands slowly. “Apparently frosting is the key to breaking centuries of Vakutan emotional suppression.”
She chuckles, gentler now, and steps closer. Her fingers brush against mine as she hands me a fresh piping bag. “Try it like this,” she murmurs, guiding my hand with hers, her touch light but sure. “Gentle pressure. Think... coaxing, not commanding.”
“I do not coax,” I mutter.
“You will if you ever want to make edible desserts.”
I follow her lead, the motion clumsy but improving. Her scent is warm beside me—vanilla, cinnamon, and something uniquely hers. I lean into the instruction, into the curve of her hand atop mine, and for once, I do not overthink. I simply... trust.
“You’re getting better,” she says.
“I have a competent teacher.”
“I have a stubborn student.”
