Page 52 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
Team-wheels.
Everything locks into place.
The judges arrive, voices low in the space, hovering over tasting spoons. I present:
“Peach cobbler soufflé,” I say, voice softer than I anticipated but as steady as volcanic stone. “Earth nostalgia meets Kiphian sea-fire.”
They scoop. The first bite is electric—warm custard, volcanic peat bite, an echo of home.
The judges exchange silent nods. They close their eyes.
Silence.
Then:
“Ingenious.”
“Textural brilliance.”
“Cultural riffing at its best.”
My chest goes weightless and heavy at once. I exhale. My eyes flit to Rekkgar. He’s watching me—from fingertips to soft jawline, pride written slow across those scarred planes. He whispers loud enough for me to hear:You did it.
I don’t hear the announcer call our names. Not really. It’s all a syrupy blur around my ears, like someone poured honey over my brain and shook the jar. But I do see the way the score panels flash with green. I see the judges nodding. And I see Rekkgar—towering, silent, unreadable until I glance sideways and catch the smallest tilt of his head, the faintest crinkle near the corner of his eyes. His version of a celebration.
We made it.
We made it.
The flood of cameras descends like wasps. Holonet drones whir overhead, lights flashing in strobe bursts. Reporters shout questions in five different dialects. A bot translator tries to push a microphone into my face, its voice box chirping. “Ruby Adams,how does it feel to represent Earth cuisine in the Galactic Panic Chef arena? Did you expect to make it through the first round?”
I can’t answer. Not with all this noise in my chest. It’s not just nerves anymore—it’s something like joy, something sharp and carbonated, rising up my throat and threatening to become laughter or a scream or maybe both. But before I have to figure it out, Rekkgar steps forward, one thick arm coming to rest lightly—not possessively, just steadily—across my shoulder.
“Back up,” he growls.
The reporters freeze. Even the bot translator takes a mechanical step back. One of the Vortaxian cameradrones recalibrates mid-hover and turns away. I should be mortified, but I’m not. Because he’s not shielding me from them. He’s… grounding me.
And I didn’t know how much I needed that until just now.
“They’re just doing their job,” I murmur to him, reaching up to touch his hand. My fingers brush the calloused skin of his palm, the faint roughness of a scar that runs along his thumb. “You don’t have to scare them. I’m not breakable.”
“You are precious,” he says, like it’s a simple fact, like ‘sky is blue’ or ‘sugar tastes sweet.’ His tone carries no flourish. Just weight. Meaning. Truth.
And I want to melt into it.
Backstage, after the chaos dies down and the swarm moves on to the next team, I’m wiping ganache smears from my apron when I feel him behind me. Not hear. Feel. He radiates heat like a bonfire, and somehow even the scent of him—clean sweat, leather, and just the faintest trace of cinnamon—wraps around my spine like a ribbon.
“You did well,” he says quietly, voice low and rough as stone polished smooth by waves. “They were wrong to doubt you.”
I laugh, and it comes out breathier than I mean it to. “I doubted me, too.”
Rekkgar steps closer. We’re alone, save for a few techs whispering in another corner of the prep dome, but they may as well be galaxies away. He lifts one hand—slowly, like he’s moving through water—and brushes a lock of hair from my cheek. His thumb lingers near my temple, not quite touching. Not quite retreating.
“You should not,” he murmurs. “Your fire could forge worlds.”
I go still. Absolutely still. Because there’s no sarcasm in his voice. No teasing. Just reverence, and that’s the part that knocks the breath out of my lungs harder than any compliment ever could.
“Rekkgar…”
