Page 62 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
She pulls back. “You mean that.”
“Every syllable.” I swallow, wary of words, but knowing I need them. “Because losing you… that is a war I cannot survive.”
Her eyes glisten. She reaches up to press a kiss just beneath my ear. “Then stay,” she whispers, “not just tonight. Every day.” Her palm slides to the back of my neck. “Be mine.”
I pause—time suspended upon her request. Then I gather her into my arms. “I am,” I vow. Then louder, firmer: “I am yours.”
She smiles, breathless. “Finally.”
We lie in that silence, the bond humming louder than any starship thruster, sweeter than any kember sugar. Outside, the orbital glow pulses against the window, but all I see is her. All I feel is the gravity of this moment: a promise sealed without ceremony, without words, and with no need of witnesses.
I close my eyes and inhale. She’s here, next to me. My arms are full of her. And for once, the weight of my past seems like armor—not prison.
She murmurs: “I love you.”
My chest rumbles with answer. Not in words. Not in declarations. But in the gentle tightening of my arms and heat of my breath. My voice comes low but certain. “You are mine.”
She smiles against my neck. I press a kiss into her hair, golden tendrils drifting between us.
I drift back to sleep then, this time in peace. Because she’s here, and the bond isn’t just magic or legend. It’s done. It’s true. It’sus.
And despite all nets of duty, scandal, and uncertainty that may come, for this small moment above a spinning planet, I am exactly where I belong.
I feel it the moment she leans into me in the prep room—her shoulder settles against mine, warm and certain, as though she’s always meant to be here. She’s not hiding; she’s not waiting for me to confess. No, she’s smiling more—for no reason I can name—and her touch lingers just a moment longer than before. I taste the ache on her skin, like salt and sunlight, and it nearly breaks me again.
We’re prepping for the final regional round: “Flavors of Home,” where each team must reinterpret a native Earth dish through the prism of alien techniques. The pressure is thick as caramel between the bright Holonet lights, the hum of cameras stalking us like predators. Sponsors flash badges, camera drones wheeling through the air, cable crews shouting cues. Every announcement—"chamber four," "stand by"—pricks my nerves until they’re raw.
Ruby ignores it. She unfolds a dish towel, breathes in the combination of citrus and clean linen, and mutters, “Let’s show them why Novaria hasn’t seen a baker like me.”
I feel both pride and dread. Pride that she trusts me to stand beside her; dread that I haven’t yet told her what binds me to her forever. Because if she rejects it after that night on the suite floor—after our whispered vows under starlight—then she isn't just refusing a bond. She’s tearing a piece of my soul out.
I tremble at the thought, but I steady myself. I have to focus. We set to work.
Our station gleamsunder the lights: Earth-style shepherd’s pie with caramelized parsnips pressed into alien coral plates, each portion finished with vaporized truffle foam. Ruby seasons the filling, her eyes bright, her laugh faint but present.
“Are you even phased by this?” she asks softly, tossing me a parchment bag. “Does the pace get to you at all?”
“It’s fine,” I lie. I clamp my jaw shut. I won’t let her see the weight in my chest, the pull of defeat in my bones, or the panic I feel when I imagine saying the words.
She brushes her hand over my forearm. “Actually, I kinda love how focused you are.”
Her warmth radiates into me, a silent demand to trust. But I hold the secret back.
We work in tight rhythm,the way we practiced late nights—dicing, folding, plating. I press caramel into the parsnip crust, she layers the spiced meat. I torch the crust until its amber nails crack. She lifts her head and smiles.
I want to apologize for staying silent. I want to assure her she’s not alone emotionally in this spotlight. I want to tell her it will kill me if she ever doubts the depth of what we share.
But the Holonet chimes. We’re called up. The host’s voice roars. The floor tenses. Ruby smiles at me briefly then stepsforward. I stay behind, heart pounding, until she shoots me a quick thumbs-up. I exhale and tighten my jaw.
The crowd roars.The judges approach. Ruby stands center stage with her plated dish. Behind her I stand, solid as stone—guardian, partner, but still withholding the truth of what binds me.
One judge quips, “Looks like Novaria found its soul in this plating.” I feel a pang.Her soul is mine. She knows it.But I pretend it’s just applause for flavor.
Backstage after the presentation, Ruby is swarmed with camera crews. She laughs, warbles. But when her eyes meet mine—just for a moment in the glare—I feel her flesh reaching for a pledge she cannot voice.
I find her later, leaning against the prep table. The hustle fades around us like dust kicked aside. She’s smiling, but it’s calm. Confident. Certain.
“And? Think they liked it?” she asks.
