Page 55 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
I laugh, the sound rich and new. “It’s a defensive technique.”
We shift to speed drills—chopping root vegetables faster than thought, plating garnishes in mirrored symmetry—like sparring without weapons. We sweat. We correct each other. We laugh when sauces splatter or a whisk flies free. Then we lie back in the warm post-workout haze, breathless and content.
But nights are different. I walk her home through neon-lit streets, but when I reach my door, she reaches mine first. We stand in the shared space of streetlight, the frayed edges of our courage whispering truths neither speaks. She smiles softly: “Tomorrow’s prep is at dawn.” Then she slips inside, and I’m left alone in the dark with my heartbeat echoing.
I fall asleep wrapped in fighter’s dreams—carousel of blows, battered shields. But in the quiet darkness, her face drifts through my vision: warm, proud, alive. And I reach for her in the empty space beside me, fingertips brushing cooling sheets.
Each night the bed feels colder. Each morning the distance aches.
Tonight, I dream of applause and fire-dusted desserts and her smile bright enough to make gods bow. And I wake at 3 a.m., muscles stiff, mind racing, driven to the gym for a push until the ache in my bones is spent. Because if there’s anything I refuse, it’s to be weaker than the woman I love.
Morning sunlight dribblesacross the stainless steel counters. I load galactic spice blends beside her mise en place, tasting each by lip before measuring. She hums, focused, then nudges me.
“You’ve got flourish today. Like you’re showing off.”
I shrug, but beneath my chest, my heart flickers—because I am, showing off for her.
She grins. “Good. I like the warrior-kitchen aesthetic.”
A knife clangs to the counter. Her elbow twitches, and suddenly she jolts back, her palm pressing against her forearm where steam and caramel brushed her skin. She bites a silent hiss and sinks to her knees like gravity pulled her down.
Time stops.
I’m there before her elbow hits the tile. I scoop her into my arms, meat of her upper arm supported gently as if I’m carrying something sacred. Her breath hitches. She winces as I carry her in a single motion—across the prep station, past the whir of overheated mixers—to the sink basin.
I hold her forearm under cool water, the shock of chill against heated flesh, water droplets dancing across scars and flesh, droplets across my palms. I cradle her in my arms, knees bent, standing rooted. Her head leans against my shoulder, eyes closed tight.
I stroke her hair, pressing thumb along her unburned arm. “Ruby,” I murmur, voice low, threatening to crack.
She opens her eyes, blinks. “Hot,” she whispers, voice small and raw.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “It was hot. I’m here.”
My hands tremble. The sight of her in pain... destabilizes everything I've built to remain unmoved.
I want to say more. To speak the word jalshagar. To declare the bond burning away the chasm between our species, our histories. To promise it’s not temporary, it’s not illusion—it’s fate.
I raise my head to look into her eyes, so full of trust and something shimmering brighter than any audience lights. But the words choke me, lodged in throat and heart.
Instead, I press my forehead to hers, stilling the water. I breathe in the scent of caramelized sugar, warm skin, jasmine hair spice—earth and memory and future. Breathing together, we’re two halves of something more.
She smiles, tremulous. I exhale it back to her. Neither of us speaks; the silence is enough.
My grip tightens, not in fear or possession, but in wordless vow.
Because I can’t say the words yet—but I can show them.
And maybe that will be enough… for now.
The skyline of Novaria glows like a dying fire—crimson and copper bleeding through the horizon, the final flare of day surrendering to the indigo hush of night. I sit on the rooftop of my dojo, alone, the wind sharp against my skin, the scent of baking spice and ozone drifting faint from the marketplace below. The city is never silent, not truly, but tonight it feels as though it holds its breath with me.
My fingers hover over the holopad. The message is already written, the encryption seal pulsing faintly in the corner like a heartbeat. All I have to do is press send.
I’ve rewritten the request three times—paring it down, stripping the sentiment, forcing my plea into words that won’t embarrass either of us. In the end, I settle on simplicity. Vakutan priests don't appreciate embellishment. They prefer bone over skin.
I ask him what I already fear: If she is my jalshagar—my fated one—what happens if I cross the threshold into physical union with her before she knows what it means? Before she understands that a bond, once formed, cannot be unmade?
And what happens if I wait too long, and she walks away?
