Page 54 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I offer, “Nessa, your symmetry is superior and your scent denotes ideal mate health.”
Sammy chokes on her juice pouch and flops backward with a wail of laughter. “Oh my god. You sound like a bloodhound trying to seduce an Excel spreadsheet.”
I frown. “That was factual. Complimentary.”
She sits up, wiping her eyes. “Try this: ‘Hey, beautiful. This seat taken?’”
I repeat it slowly. “Hey… beautiful seat. Is this taken by you?”
Another groan. “You’re gonna get arrested.”
But she doesn’t give up. Instead, she reassigns the mission: vocabulary reeducation, posture training, and what she calls “approach angles.” Apparently, lurking in doorways is “creepy,” not “commanding.”
At one point, she hands me a chart titled “Hot vs. Homicidal,” and proceeds to list examples under each column.
“Leaning,” she says, demonstrating against my kitchen doorway, “is good. But lean like you’re chill, not like you’re about to interrogate someone about alien insurgents.”
I attempt it.
She squints. “Nope. You look like you’re waiting for a tactical breach.”
I adjust my stance, arms crossed loosely.
“Better. Now—facial expressions.”
This part is… complicated. Vakutan warriors are trained to neutralize emotion in combat zones. Smiles are rare, reserved for victories or shared survival. Here, Earth expects warmth. Charm. Wrinkles near the eyes to denote sincerity. Curvature of the lips without excessive tooth exposure.
“Try a soft smile,” Sammy instructs.
I bare my teeth gently.
She yelps. “Less ‘wolverine mid-snack,’ more ‘Hugh Jackman on a beach.’”
I relax my features, suppressing the predatory tilt.
She nods, slowly. “Okay. That’s… actually not bad.”
Encouraged, I maintain it. My face begins to ache.
Later, she insists on facial grooming. I sit obediently on the porch while she brandishes a battery-powered trimmer like a sacred artifact.
“We’re going for rugged scruff, not ‘I built a bomb shelter with my face.’”
Her small fingers work deftly, cleaning the edge of my jaw, trimming down the growth to an Earth-standard approximation of “handsome distress.” The blades hum, warm against my skin. It’s not unpleasant.
I glance at her. “This is a strange bonding ritual.”
“It’s called a makeover,” she mutters, squinting. “And don’t talk while I’m trimming near your jugular.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Afterwards, she steps back and surveys me like a sculptor evaluating their half-chiseled statue.
“Okay. You’re… getting there.”
The mirror reflects something different. Not a warrior. Not an assassin. But someone in between. My jaw is cleaner,my posture less rigid, my eyes—still gold, still off—but softer somehow. Less threat. More… attempt.
I look like someone trying to belong. And that truth claws at my chest like a fragile, dangerous hope.
