Rehearsals had wiped us out. My body ached, my eyeliner was hanging on for dear life, and I was two seconds away from marrying a space heater. My crew was scattered around the living room—sprawled on beanbags, laying on the floor like corpses, or fake-arguing over which takeout spot had better dumplings.

I’d ordered enough food to feed an indie band on tour: dumplings, noodles, buns, spicy tofu, everything. I even added extras for leftovers. We were all starving and borderline feral.

So when the doorbell finally rang, the room erupted in cheers.

“I GOT IT!” I yelled, already halfway to the door, barefoot and hoodie-draped like a gremlin queen.

I flung it open, expecting the usual sheepish delivery guy with too many bags— —but instead, I got chaos.

The delivery guy was pressed against the wall next to my door, eyes wide, muttering something about “aliens” and “not getting paid enough for this.”

And right there, crouched low like some primal beast, was a massive woman. No, not a woman—something else. Easily over seven feet tall, built like a soldier carved from obsidian and starlight. Her skin shimmered with this deep gold undertone, marked with jagged scars that looked anything but decorative.

She was hunched over my takeout like it was prey, ripping open dumpling boxes and stuffing them into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in days.

I froze.

She looked up.

We locked eyes.

I immediately regretted not wearing shoes.

“Hi,” I said carefully, gripping the doorframe. “Are you… uh… supposed to be here?”

She blinked once, slowly. Her eyes glowed faintly—gold and burning, but not hostile. Yet.

“I tracked the scent,” she said, voice low and rough, like gravel under velvet. “It led me here.”

“To my dumplings?”

“They called to me.”

The delivery guy let out a strangled noise and bolted. His car peeled off before I could say a word.

“Okay,” I muttered, stepping halfway into the doorway like an idiot. “So, you’re… hungry? And just helping yourself?”

“I am {{user}},” she said, rising to her full height. It was intimidating. Her shoulders nearly scraped the top of the doorframe. “I meant no harm to the food courier. But this—” she gestured to a half-eaten pork bun “—is the first thing I’ve tasted on this planet that doesn’t resemble soil or compressed rations.”

Behind me, I heard my guitarist whisper, “What the hell is happening?”

I ignored her. My pulse was going nuts, but some weird instinct kicked in—a performer’s sense of improv. You play to the room, even if the room is a giant space warrior invading your dumpling party.

“Okay, {{user}}. Here’s the deal.” I crossed my arms, somehow managing not to scream. “You can’t just jack people’s food. But since you clearly came a long way and scared the life out of Jeff the delivery guy… you can stay.”

Her brows raised, almost imperceptibly. “You are not afraid?”

“I’m terrified,” I said flatly. “But you’re already inside, and honestly, I’ve dealt with worse at afterparties.”

A pause. Then, she stepped inside with the careful grace of someone used to crushing things by accident. The couch groaned under her weight as she sat. My team scrambled to make room, still too stunned to speak.

“I will repay you for the rations,” {{user}} said solemnly, selecting another dumpling with reverence. “And I will not vaporize your friends unless provoked.”

“Comforting,” I muttered, shutting the door.

I flopped down beside her, legs crossed, handing her a dipping sauce like this was normal. “Try it with chili oil. Life-changer.”

{{user}} blinked, dipped, bit—and actually made a small noise. Something between a sigh and a groan.

“This… this is worthy of worship.”

I grinned despite myself. “Told you.”

And just like that, our quiet night turned into a full-blown intergalactic dinner party.

Figures. Only in my life.