Page 41 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I step aside, muting my internal panic. He enters, glancing around.
"I’m expanding again," he says, folding his arms behind his back. "The bakery. The multi-unit on Pine. We need the notices by Monday."
My stomach churns.
I manage to nod.
He fixes me with that smile again. "We appreciate your loyalty."
He leaves without waiting for thanks.
I close the door and lean against it, trembling. My hands curl into fists.
Those notices hang in the balance. So does Clarissa’s livelihood. And so does... everything.
I drift to the window again. The blue glow pulses. The bass hums. I watch Richard’s silhouette shift.
What do I do?
Do I keep evicting people so I can pay my bills?
Or do I cross the street and ask for his help?
My breath shallow, I look at the scanner board on Sammy’s wall. The red stars. Seventy-two hypotheses still ticking.
Sometimes, the strangest mysteries are the safest bet.
And at leastthisone feels like living.
The next day comes and I nearly retreat when I step outside and see him—Richard, mid-spar. A garden hoe clenched like a lance, and next to it… a sword. He’s pivoting, thrusting, parrying against a scraggly old tree like it’s his enemy, wearing goggles that look plucked from an old sci-fi movie. His feet shift in the grass, boots sinking slightly in dew-spangled tufts. The scene is ridiculous enough to belong in a dream.
On the porch, Sammy is crouched, phone in hand, filming with all the focus of a wildlife documentarian. “Day 42,” she whispers into the mic, commentary breathy. “Subject continues to demonstrate highly questionable Earth adaptation strategies.”
It should unsettle me—the botched improv gardening, the weaponry, the clandestine filming—it should make me turn away. But I don’t. I find my lips twitching into a grin before I even realize it.
He’s good in that way that terrifies opponents—a casual grace. The sword arcs through the air, catching sunlight in a lethal shimmer. He inhales deeply, cheeks hollowing, and the hoe comes down in a fake strike that leaves the tree unharmed. Then he flourishes the blade and salutes the branches.
Everything shifts. The absurdity becomes something else—a ritual. Grace. Protection.
I step forward, breath catching in my throat like I’ve walked into symphony of chaos and found harmony in it.
He pauses mid-motion. The sword hovers above the red oak root. He lowers it slowly, then stands straight—an almost militaristic stance. He doesn’t sheath it. He just turns.
“Good morning, Nessa,” he says, voice calm but stiff, gaze intense enough to unspool thoughts before they've formed. His eyes linger on me, like he's measuring the gravity of an unspoken question.
“Uh… morning,” I say, voice cracking slightly. The air is thick with grass dust and pine behind us. My feet shift, and I smell the faint tang of iron from morning dew on the blade.
“The grass combat was successful,” he states.
I blink. My brain scrambles.
“You mean you were gardening?”
He pauses like I just asked him to launch a rocket into the moon.
“Yes. That.”
He sounds… certain. At home in the illogical.
