Page 15 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Richard crosses the yards with long, deliberate strides, every step landing with a peculiar precision. He stops at the low chain-link fence that separates our properties and just… stands there. Tall. Silent. Ominous in the friendliest possible way.
“Hello,” he says after what feels like a week. His voice is a deep baritone, mechanical and oddly timed, like each word is part of a separate instruction manual.
“I am Richard. I am an accountant. From Earth.”
I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.
Sammy doesn’t even try to hide her snort. She claps both hands over her mouth and doubles over in the dirt, giggling like a maniac.
He waits, watching her with an expression that suggests confusion rather than offense. I clear my throat and offer a hand over the fence.
“I’m Vanessa. This is Sammy. We live next door.”
He reaches out, too slowly, too carefully, like he’s trying not to break my fingers with a simple handshake. His grip is warm, dry, and surprisingly gentle. But his eyes—those eyes—catch me off guard. They’re gold, or maybe amber, and there’s something too still behind them. Like the shine on predator glass or the pause in a video that’s buffering reality.
“It is… acceptable to meet you,” he says solemnly.
I blink. “You mean, nice?”
“Yes. Nice. Correct. That is what humans say.”
Another snort from the tulip bed.
He cocks his head, studying Sammy. “Your offspring is making joyful sounds. Is that… normal?”
“Laughing,” I explain. “She’s laughing.”
“Ah. I was concerned she might be experiencing respiratory failure.”
NowI’mlaughing.
“Totally normal,” I say, fighting the grin creeping across my face. “She does that a lot.”
Sammy jumps to her feet and squints up at him like a skeptical FBI agent. “Do you really do taxes?”
He pauses. “Yes.”
She narrows her eyes. “Name one tax code.”
“Code... seven.”
“Nice try.”
Richard shifts his weight, clearly unsure what to do next. He looks between us like he’s checking for hidden prompts or script notes.
“Are you enjoying your Earth weather?” he asks.
“It’s... fine,” I say, bewildered. “A little hot.”
“I concur. My sweat glands are producing at maximum capacity.”
He says it so seriously I can’t help but laugh again, a short, sharp burst that startles even me. There’s something oddly endearing about the way he tries. Like he downloaded a partial instruction manual on how to be a person and skipped the emotional nuance section entirely.
“Well,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “welcome to the neighborhood. If you need anything, don’t be a stranger.”
“I will attempt not to.”
He turns with military precision and marches back toward his house, every motion deliberate, every muscle group involved. As he disappears around the side of his garage, Sammy exhales like she’s been holding her breath the whole time.
