Page 6 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
And there she is.
Through the glass, I see Ruby moving behind her counter. Light catches her hair and turns it to molten gold, her skin glowing in the oven heat, her hands working dough like it'ssacred clay. She laughs at something—Lyrie, probably—and the sound doesn’t reach me, but I feel it in my bones anyway. She flicks flour at someone out of frame, and the gesture is soaliveI can barely stand to watch.
But I do.
Every time.
I pause just outside her door and let the weight settle. I force my face into the shape she knows: the impassive mask of discipline and control. The warrior. The wall. Anything else is too dangerous.
And then I open the door.
The warmth hits me first.
Not the dry heat of the ovens—though that’s here, wrapping around me the moment I step inside—but the kind that’s harder to define. The kind that seeps under armor and into bones. It’s in the glow of the lights above the counter, in the slow swirl of cinnamon and cocoa that clings to every breath, in the syrup-smooth cadence of her laughter that winds through the bakery like wind through temple chimes.
Ruby.
She’s leaning over the display case, rearranging the morning’s offerings with the kind of care most people reserve for weapons maintenance or sacred rites. Her hair’s up in some twist today, a few blonde strands rebelling along her neck, catching the gleam of the rising sun. There’s flour dusted across one cheek. I want to brush it away with my thumb. I want to press my forehead to hers and breathe her in like absolution.
Instead, I step forward.
She senses me before I speak—of course she does. Her head lifts, blue eyes locking on mine, and the smile that curves her lips isn’t forced. Isn’t wary. Isn’t hollow. It’sreal.
“Morning, Rekkgar,” she calls out, voice warm enough to melt the boneplates off a tundra wolf. “Same order?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low, roughened from disuse and everything I’m not saying. “Same.”
It’s always the same.
A double-shot Earth Espresso—no foam, no syrup—and a chocolate chip muffin top, extra chips if they’re warm from the oven. I don’t particularly care for sweets. Vakutan biology leans toward protein-heavy diets, and the sugar gives me a stomach ache if I don’t pace myself. But none of that matters. I buy it because it gives me an excuse to sit. To stay. To be near her without needing to explain why.
She turns, humming to herself as she pulls the fresh espresso shot. I watch the smooth economy of her movements—how her fingers dance over the control pad, how she taps the portafilter into place with a flick of her wrist. Her apron strings trail behind her, her steps light despite the early hour. She moves like someone who belongs in her space, like every tile and counter and fixture knows her name.
I envy the tile.
“Vonn says you’re causing the pastry drawer to run three minutes off schedule,” she murmurs as she plates the muffin top, her back to me. “She threatened to stage a coup.”
“I’ll deal with her.”
She glances over her shoulder, smirking. “You’re going to spar with a Fratvoyan grandma?”
“If necessary.”
She snorts, amused, and the sound vibrates in places it shouldn’t.
I lower myself onto the high stool at the end of the counter, the one closest to the far wall. My back to the glass, eyes on the door, always. Old habit. I perch like a weapon at rest, trying to pretend I’m not cataloging the way her skin glows beneath the pendant lights or the soft sigh she gives when she hands me the cup, the ceramic warming my palm.
“There,” she says, sliding the muffin toward me. “Baked at six, out of the oven at six-thirty. Still soft in the middle.”
“Thanks.”
Our hands brush—brief, unintentional. Her skin is so warm it makes mine feel cold.
I take a bite of the muffin, more out of ritual than hunger. It’s too sweet, too sticky, but I chew anyway. Her eyes flick toward me as she wipes the counter.
“You never make a face,” she says softly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Why would I?”
