“I’m sorry I frightened you,” I said, meaning it. “Next time I’ll announce myself properly.”
“Next time don’t leave for twenty-three days,” she countered, but there was no real accusation in her tone.
I released her hand, my gaze drawn to the pulse rifle she held with surprising competence. “Have you had to use that?”
“Only on targets,” she assured me. “Your friend Veren set up a practice range in the basement. He visits every few days tocheck on me and tell me progress of the outpost and rift gate stabilization. I think he likes Earth coffee.”
The thought of the stern Strategos sitting in Miri’s kitchen, drinking Terran beverages while discussing weapon techniques, created an image so incongruous I nearly laughed. “Veren has been protective?”
“More like curious,” she clarified. “Lots of questions about how I connected with the jungle. Also, he keeps bringing me weird fruits to try. Says he’s ‘documenting cross-species compatibility metrics.’ He really likes my podcast.”
I made a mental note to have a conversation with my superior about the appropriate boundaries of scientific inquiry where my mate was concerned.
“Dinner,” I said abruptly, remembering the Terran courtship rituals we’d discussed. “I promised you a proper date.”
Her expression softened into a smile that made my chest ache with contentment. “Yes, let’s have dinner.” The way she said it, looking at me through lowered lashes, made it clear she wasn’t talking about food.
I chuckled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “One real date. Then you can decide if you’re keeping me.”
“Oh, I’m keeping you,” she said, grinning as she set the pulse rifle carefully on a nearby table. “But I can eat noodles.”
“Noodles?”
“There’s this amazing ramen place down the street. Real food, real restaurant, real date.” She stepped closer, rising on her toes to press another kiss to my lips. “Then we come back here, and I show you how much I’ve missed you.”
“Deal,” I agreed, my tail curling with anticipation.
She disappeared into her bedroom to change, leaving me standing in her living space, surrounded by her scent, her possessions, her life. The ache that had haunted me for twenty-three days faded as if the separation had been a bad dream.
I was here. She was mine. And judging by the way she’d welcomed me—angry fists, fierce kisses, and all—she felt exactly the same.
The placeshe picked smelled of complex spices and steam, a tiny establishment wedged between larger buildings like an afterthought. Humans packed the narrow counter, hunched over bowls of fragrant broth as if performing some ritual of worship. Miri navigated the crowded space with easy familiarity, securing us two seats at the bar where I could watch thin noodles being pulled by hand, stretched and folded with hypnotic precision. The chef—an older human male with hands marked by decades of his craft—nodded to Miri with recognition, then eyed me with unconcealed curiosity. I returned his gaze evenly, wondering if my camo-tech had slipped, or if he simply recognized an apex predator regardless of appearance.
“Best ramen in the city,” Miri declared, settling beside me. “Maybe the country.”
I observed the surrounding humans, each focused entirely on their meals—a strange unity through shared consumption. On Rodinia, communal meals were reserved for family units or formal military functions. This casual gathering of strangers, all seeking pleasure from the same food source, fascinated me.
“The chef is an artist,” I noted, watching his hands manipulate the dough with practiced movements that reminded me of Legion combat drills—precise, efficient, born of muscle memory developed over thousands of repetitions.
“Wait until you taste it,” Miri replied, her eyes bright with anticipation.
When our bowls arrived—massive vessels of steaming broth topped with intricate arrangements of proteins, vegetables, and those hand-pulled noodles—I understood. The complexity of flavors rivaled anything I’ve sampled throughout the outer spiral and Sovereign Worlds. Rich, savory, with layers of taste that unfolded with each spoonful. I found myself genuinely enjoying a Terran culinary experience for the first time.
But watching Miri enjoy her meal was the true feast. The way her eyes closed in pleasure at the first taste. The small sounds of appreciation that escaped her throat. The flush that spread across her cheeks from the heat of the broth. Each reaction triggered primal satisfaction in my core—I had provided for my mate, brought her pleasure, fulfilled a need.
“Try this,” she said, offering me a bite from her bowl—some delicate slice of meat floating in her broth. “It’s the chef’s special cut.”
Instead of taking the offered utensils, I captured her wrist gently, guiding the morsel to my mouth and taking it directly from her fingers. Her pupils dilated as my lips brushed against her skin, her breath catching when I deliberately let my tongue trace the pad of her finger, tasting the salt there.
“Delicious,” I murmured, holding her gaze.
Two could play at this game. I selected a perfect bite from my own bowl—a tender piece of protein with noodles wrapped around it—and held it to her lips. “Your turn.”
She leaned forward, taking the offering, but not before her teeth grazed my finger in a playful bite. Then she deliberately closed her lips around my fingertip and sucked, just once, before pulling back with an innocent smile.
Heat surged through my body, pooling low in my abdomen. The camo-tech wavered for a split second before I regained control, forcing the disguise to hold despite my body’s natural reaction to her provocation.
“That’s good,” she said, her tone casual but her eyes gleaming with mischief. “So tender.”
