Page 46 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
“That’s a compliment, where I’m from.”
She laughs again, quieter this time, and I turn to find her studying me—not just my face, but my expression. Like she’s trying to memorize this moment. Like maybe she’s as surprised by my laughter as I am.
“I used to think,” she says, carefully, “that you didn’t like sweets.”
I hesitate. “I don’t.”
She blinks. “Then why?—”
“I come here,” I interrupt, voice low, “for you.”
The words hang there between us, heavy with unsaid truths and years of silence.
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
Because in her eyes, I see it: understanding. Recognition. That same ache I’ve carried alone, mirrored in her expression like a secret we’ve both been too afraid to name until now.
I return to the counter, focus on the pastry shells awaiting their fill. The rhythm steadies me. Fold, pipe, fill. Fold, pipe, fill.
But my thoughts refuse to follow suit.
I think about the years I’ve spent pretending that desire must be subdued to preserve order. That affection is weakness. That passion, untamed, would turn me back into the beast I once was.
But now? I watch Ruby’s shoulders shake with soft laughter, her flour-dusted arms brushing mine, her joy so bright it banishes the shadows from the corners of my mind.
Now I begin to understand what honor truly demands of me.
It isn’t silence. Or solitude.
It’s showing up.
It’s fighting—not just battles, but for someone else’s joy. For the chance to protect not just a life, but a future.
My hands move faster now, more sure. I pipe another perfect swirl and slide the tray toward her without a word.
She picks one up, bites, chews thoughtfully.
Then grins.
“You’re officially a Frosting Knight,” she announces, tossing me a wink. “Sworn to the service of sugar and sass.”
“I accept my fate,” I reply, deadpan.
But inside, something tender unfurls.
And for the first time, I don’t just want this.
I believe I can be it.
The kitchen is not a battlefield.
Not in the traditional sense, at least. There’s no blood on the tile, no death echoing through the walls, no clash of metal on metal. But the heat? The pressure? The stakes simmering beneath every motion? Those are familiar. And strangely, welcome.
Ruby moves like sunlight, bright and unpredictable. Her hands dance over ingredients, coaxing life from flour and fire in ways I cannot fully comprehend, but I watch—closely. I learn. And I adapt. Because that’s what warriors do.
I slice the Vortaxian peppers with the precision of a blade master. She glances over my shoulder, inspecting the uniformity, and gives a small, approving hum. That sound—it’s nothing and everything. Praise, warmth, acknowledgement. I crave it more than I should.
“Nice cuts,” she murmurs, elbow bumping mine. “Deadly, but delicious.”
