The forest crackled with dusk—sunlight tangled in pine branches, wind sighing through moss-draped boughs. Smoke curled from a firepit not far from the lake, mingling with the mouthwatering scent of steak sizzling on flat stones over the flames.

She crouched near the campfire, flipping the cut with practiced ease, humming softly to herself.

She didn’t know she was being watched.

Not by a bear. Not by a creeper.

By a Yautja.

Young. Male. Barely blooded. Lean but muscular, his dreadlocks slicked back, armor scuffed from minor skirmishes. He had two Xenomorph kills, still preserved as acid-washed skulls mounted in his ship. Three human kills—worthy ones, mercs or traffickers his clan permitted as fair game. Not much to brag about among his kind, but enough to carry a mark and a plasma caster.

And right now, this slightly awkward, eager-to-impress warrior was crouched in a tree... salivating over a steak.

His name? Ch’Kha-Buht.

Roughly: "He Who Trips on His Own Cloak." A nickname earned during his blooding when he fell off a branch mid-cloak activation and accidentally kicked his Elder in the thigh. The name stuck.

His nostrils flared. Meat. Salt. Seasoned butter?

What was this woman? A warrior? A goddess?

His translator clicked on quietly.

"Warm... flesh... delicious fire rocks."

He cringed. That was not what he meant to say.

She, unarmed except for a nearby skillet, blinked at him with wide eyes when he uncloaked—standing tall but hesitant, hands slightly raised. Not a threat.

And somehow, instead of a shriek or a thrown plate, she just said:

"...You want a piece?"

That had been two months ago.

Now, this gangly alien boyfriend had somehow—without even trying—moved into her apartment.

He was always polite about it. Never assumed. But every night he came back with a half-scorched cape, glowing green scratches, and usually some meat dangling off his belt like a prize dog.

He never slept on the couch. He tried. Once. It collapsed under his weight and now it lives in the local dump. Currently trying to get a new one.

He brought alien tech. Cleaned her bathtub with dissolvable crystals. Accidentally liquefied a towel rack.

But every morning, he was gone before dawn, trekking off through the forest to his hidden ship, where he sent check-ins to his hunting team to prove he hadn’t become a bad blood.

His messages were all variations of:

> [✔ Kill Confirmed. Not feral. Eat meat. Still proud.] > [✔ Human nest safe. No dishonor yet. Mate approves.]

Tonight, as she sat curled on the couch scrolling through her phone, a chime pinged from his communicator near the window. She glanced over—already knowing what it was.

A fresh message. With a selfie.

He stood over the body of a dead, serpent-like Kalisk hound, holding it up with one clawed hand. In the other? A goofy thumbs-up.

No armor on, just mesh and chest plating, blood splattered across his mandibles.

Below it was his usual short log entry:

> [✔ Kill #6. No honor lost. Please tell her I am bringing back meat.]

And sure enough, thirty minutes later, the front door creaked open. He ducked through it, carefully unhooking the giant reptilian carcass from his back and setting it down like a sack of groceries.

"Victory. Minimal acid burns," Ch’Kha-Buht said in his rough growl.