Page 34 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I glance back toward my car. The list of names is still on the passenger seat. Still waiting. Still threatening.
But for now, I stay rooted in the heat and the awkwardness and the soft buzz of weird energy that clings to Richard like static. Because this might be the first smile I’ve seen today that wasn’t attached to an ultimatum.
And that’s worth holding onto.
By the time Sammy drifts into an uneasy sleep, the house feels too quiet—like it’s holding its breath. I tiptoe downstairs, pour a single glass of red wine, and settle into the armchair by the living room window. The curtains are half-open so moonlight puddles across my bare feet and the worn rug. Outside, the air thrums with summer energy—crickets chirping, leaf edges rustling, the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere down the block in its slower hours.
And there he is again.
Richard, out in his yard, shirtless, as always. The moonlight drapes him in silver, illuminating the planes of his muscles, each one taut and sculpted as if carved by light itself. The sweat along his arms and shoulders glints, catching reflections like tiny stars, and I realize I’m staring too long—as if seeing the physics of his body reveals something hidden beneath.
He’s trimming hedges with a pair of shears that look over-engineered, like they belonged on a starship bridge rather than a suburban backyard. Branches fall away silently. The hum ofthe shears is steady, almost meditative. I think I’ve watched manicured lawns in movies before, but I’ve neverfeltthem. Never watched them bleed away under someone’s hands and thought the act could be art.
My glass tilts as I shift, and a droplet of red wine ripples across its surface. I bring it to my lips and sip—not tasting much except the tannins and a buzzing awareness in my veins. Something—whatever threads bind me now—tightens in my chest.
He pauses, like he senses me watching. He glances up.
Our eyes meet.
Just a few strides away in the dark, his gaze catches mine, and everything shifts again. That same… magnetism, that gravitational pull that feels like falling and floating at once. I bite my lower lip to stop a gasp. My heart hammers too fast, bones ache with a sudden ache of longing. It's not lust. It'ssomethingdeeper—like recognizing a song you've never heard but that feels intimately familiar.
He ducks back into shadow, as if unsure he’s allowed to be seen.
My breath catches again. The wine suddenly burns with heat I didn’t expect.
I whisper, “What the hell are you?”
The words barely cross my lips.
But I don’t expect an answer.
The moonlight shifts, and when I look again, he’s gone.
Just darkness and that faint hum of shears somewhere in the distance.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. I lean forward, listening to the night—the breeze through trees, the far-off drone of insects, my own pulse in my ears. I feel like I’ve lost something I didn’t even realize was there.
Loneliness, maybe? Or else...hope.A flicker of possibility I didn’t know my heart still held.
I stay until the glass is empty and the moon leans toward dawn. Eventually, I ease the curtain closed and set the glass aside—my throat already craving another, even though I better not.
On the floor, Sammy sleeps. Her faint, steady breathing a reminder of everything I’m responsible for. The lights of the house dim with each passing hour, and I lean back, closing my eyes.
I don’t knowwhatRichard is.
But every time I see him—every time he opens that weird translator mouth of his—it reminds me of how small my world has gotten: bills, rent, eviction notices, scraped knees.
He... doesn’t belong here.
I can’t help wanting him to stay.
CHAPTER 9
RYCHNE
The house next to Nessa’s is a glorified wooden crate masquerading as shelter—wooden siding peeling like old bark, windows that rattle in wind, and a basement with ceilings low enough to bruise my back every time I bend. Not what Vakutans consider fortress-worthy, but practical enough in a world where the deadliest threat comes in three-dollar bills and outdated zoning laws. I remind myself that camouflage matters more than armor here.
Inside, the bare floors creak under every step, complaining like injured rodents. The scent of unfinished wood, damp earth, and faint mildew rolls in through the open door, mixed with a hidden sweetness—someone’s trashcanned fruit left too long. I breathe it in and taste survival.
