Page 54 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
There’s a difference.
When she steps into a room, the air feels different. Lighter. As if she drags starlight in her wake, scattering it like breadcrumbs so even a creature like me can find the path out of the dark.
I catch her glancing at me while she speaks with one of the producers. He’s saying something animated about sponsors and brand synergy—I don’t know, I stopped listening at “brand.” ButRuby listens politely, nods, smiles… and then her gaze flicks back to me. Just a second. Just a breath.
But it lands like a meteor in my chest.
She smiles.
And it’s not the performative bakery smile. Not the polite tilt of lips she gives to difficult customers or the practiced grin the Holonet cameras eat up. No, this one’s smaller. Warmer. Private.
For me.
I shift on my feet, the heat of it crawling up my neck. My shoulders roll back, instinctively defensive—but what is there to defend against? This isn’t battle. She’s not an enemy. And yet, part of me is more frightened than I’ve ever been holding a plasma blade in a Reaper trench.
Because this? This is real.
She walks toward me, done with the interview, cheeks flushed from excitement. Her hair’s falling slightly from its clip, cinnamon powder clinging to the fine strands like stars in dusklight.
“You didn’t look bored out of your skull this time,” she teases, poking me lightly in the chest with her forefinger. “Proud of you.”
I grunt. “Your voice is less shrill than most reporters.”
“Compliment received,” she replies with a smirk, clearly not buying it.
She doesn’t flinch from me. Not from my bluntness, not from my scars. She never has.
And I realize—I don’t want her to ever.
“You… looked strong out there,” I say, carefully choosing the words. “Commanding. Like the kitchen was a war table and you were leading the charge.”
Her smirk softens. “Coming from you, that’s practically poetry.”
“I meant it.”
“I know.” She tilts her head, eyes searching. “And that’s why it means so much.”
We stand in the alcove of the dome, her just inches from me, and the hum of the Holonet equipment fades into a dull buzz beneath the thudding of my heart.
In her presence, I feel… known. Not as the warrior. Not as the exile. Just as me. A man who’s killed and bled and broken for ideals too hollow to name, and who now wants—more than anything—to build something sacred with someone who sees him.
She brushes a thumb along my forearm, just a fleeting touch—but my skin lights up like battle sensors tripped all at once.
And it’s then I know.
She is my jalshagar.
My soul’s echo. My equal. My fire-forged match.
And while that truth terrifies me, it also anchors me.
Because if she can see me—really see me—and still reach out her hand…
Then maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to walk this path alone anymore.
Mornings still begin in the soft dribble of ritual—dawn light filtering through Earth Bites’ low windows, the scent of fruit, sugar, and hopeful anticipation weaving around us, hot and sweet as molten caramel. I hover nearby as Ruby dices glistening peaches, her fingers steady with practiced grace. Each tap of her knife against the board resonates in me like a heartbeat. We move together now, silent partners in a choreography neither of us scripted, but both of us learned.
By evening, I’m leading her through drills in a repurposed training hall—my dojo stocked with induction burners and kettlebells, pans replacing sparring dummies. I demonstrate the footwork I use when pivoting to strike: step, shift, pivot. Shemirrors it with a giggle and says, “So if the soufflé collapses, I can kick it into shape?”
