Page 38 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I glance at her gloves. Her hair. The easy tone in her voice.
This girl is teaching me planet Earth’s gentle art of defense.
“Neighbors,” I say again.
“Yes. Neighbors.”
We stand silent, close enough that I can sense her warmth. Fear and desire swirl in my chest. What loyalty should I claim? To the Empire? To battle? To time itself?
Or to her?
Her hand brushes mine as she leans past me to pick up a fallen petal from the plant. Lightning strikes—tiny but fierce.
My breath stumbles.
She looks at me.
In that look is understanding. Recognition. Something anchored in places neither logic nor training can reach.
And I realize: I’ve anchored too.
I inhale, tasting the air that smells like home.
“Would you... like coffee?” I manage.
She smiles. A real smile. Sunlight on earth after centuries of cold moons. “I’d love some. Thanks.”
I help her stand. We walk back to our respective porches. I pour coffee. She hands me two mugs. The steam curls upward.
We sip, side by side, silent except for birdsong and distant hum of suburbs waking.
I know my mission hasn’t changed. I must repair, return, complete my duty.
But my heart has begun to divide its allegiance.
The Jalshagar bond doesn’t offer clarity. It only drags me deeper into human possibilities I’m not yet ready to name.
But she’s changing the calculus.
And that terrifies me.
CHAPTER 10
VANESSA
When did quiet become so… loud?
The neighborhood stretches out in perfect suburban symmetry, but lately it’s been too orderly—too mock-peaceful. The grass gets the ritual mowing, the kids laugh on sidewalks, joggers wave politely. But beneath that calm, I feel something taut, like a rubber band pulled too tight, ready to snap.
My own routine has fallen into that same pattern. Mornings with Sammy—pancakes, rushed lunches, last-minute permission slips. Work at Lipnicky’s, where moral compromise is part of the benefits package now. Eviction after eviction after eviction, each notice another crack in my chest. Even that house, our house, feels smaller. Safer. But only in the most terrifying sort of way.
Then there’s Richard. His presence whispers through my days, hovering at the edges like a persistent melody. I catch myself staring at his house through the window—sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with worry, sometimes with something I’m not ready to name yet.
This morning, he’s in the yard again. Shirt off in the dew, haloed by the pale sunlight. He’s crouched by the roses, wavinga stamping pad-like device over the petals, fingers flying over buttons and touchscreens. The machine hums. I’ve seen my mom’s blood pressure monitor, my own IVF doppler, my kid's thermometers—and nothing looks like this. It reminds me of those MRI machines, but handheld. Medical-grade. Dedicated to things we don’t talk about on small porches.
My stomach clenches.
I blink, look away, then blink again. He’s still there—focused, oblivious to anything but quantifying soil pH, moisture levels, chemical traces. Specific. Intentional. Scientific, but not like the weird “birdhouse arrays.” There's purpose underlying it, and it unnerves me.
