Page 47 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
“I was trained for both.”
Her laugh is soft, almost hidden beneath the hiss of caramel bubbling on the stove, but I catch it. It slides into the quiet between us and nestles there, safe.
The prep for the preliminary round ofGalactic Panic Chef Surpriseis relentless. The next rounds are sponsored by the Vortaxian Emperor himself. Rumors have circulated that Empoeror Aelphus is a fan of baked goods. And so state money has flowed into this competition.
Recipes must be memorized, ingredients sourced from five different planetary systems, allergens cross-checked in twelve dialects. We time each run-through like combat drills. I build her a command board with prep intervals marked to the second. She mocks it, at first.
“What is this? A war strategy?”
“In many ways, yes.”
She rolls her eyes. “You gonna chart frosting velocity next?”
“I already have.”
She doesn’t expect that. She snorts so hard she nearly knocks over the spice rack. I steady it, my hand covering hers for just a breath too long. Her skin is warm—too warm—and I let go before I lose my ability to think entirely.
Still, the touch lingers. It always does.
We move together, now, like parts of a greater machine. My sense of timing complements her bursts of inspired chaos. She forgets to set timers—I catch the seconds in my head. She spins from oven to counter—I’m already there, holding the bowl she needs.
It’s not magic. It’s training.
And trust.
“Whisk faster, Rekk. I need peaks. Not puddles.”
I glare down at the glossy mass in my mixing bowl. “I’m whisking.”
“Whisk harder. Pretend it insulted your ancestors.”
“I will not dishonor my lineage for meringue.”
Her grin is devilish. “Your ancestors were warriors, right?”
“Yes.”
“So prove it. Show me the fury of a thousand generations. In egg foam.”
Despite myself, I chuckle. Then I do exactly as she asks.
The peaks form. She nods, impressed.
We don’t talk about the kiss. Or the almosts that have stacked like towers of sugar cubes between us. But every time she leans into me, her shoulder brushing mine, or I catch her gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary... I feel it.
It’s not just chemistry. It’s something older, deeper. Like soul recognition.
And that terrifies me.
Because this—whatever this is—it makes me soft in places I’ve kept hard for survival. It carves open rooms inside my chest that were sealed for good reason. But it also brings breath where I’d forgotten I was suffocating.
“Hey,” she says, voice low, pulling me from my thoughts. She’s plating something intricate—layers of micro-pastry and flame-candied fruit, drizzled in liquefied star-honey. It glows faintly, pulsing with bioluminescence. “You okay?”
I nod, unsure what expression I wear. “Just thinking.”
“About the battle plan for tomorrow?”
“No.” I pause. “About you.”
