Page 58 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
He nods at the hose. “Mission complete?”
I offer a crooked smile. “Mission accomplished.”
He flicks his hand toward the tiny spray—then outward, encompassing more—neighborhood, fence line, maybe us.
“Next mission?” he asks quietly, chest lifted, literally and figuratively.
I meet his gaze. For once, the world beyond that moment falls away. My chest loosens, fear dims.
“Maybe,” I answer—soft enough that only he hears.
He swings a glance at the hose, then back. He picks up a spray nozzle, teasing, mischievous.
He aims it gently at me.
I gasp, slap at the water—but laughter erupts again. We’re dancing in arcs of morning mist, forgetting everything except this.
Sunlight dapples through leaves, scent of wet earth rising. My bathrobe is soaked, grass tickles my toes, and everything feels terrible—and perfect.
Because he’s an alien. He’s dangerous. But he’s also exactly the kind of wild I’m starting to crave.
Under hoses and halfway-clothed neighbor rituals, I stare into the gold haze of him and acknowledge what I’ve already felt.
Fear, yes. But possibility—more so.
Our alignment shifts again.
Morning has never tasted this surprising.
And as water drips from his curls onto my face, I know:
We are both orbiting something greater than ourselves.
And I might just let go of the ground.
CHAPTER 15
RYCHNE
I’m kneeling at the workbench in the basement lab, fingers fiddling with the frequency dampener on my image inducer—a slender device barely larger than a holo-pen, designed to blur the line between Alien Rychne and Human Richard. I should calibrate its tonal settings, but instead, I’m listening to my heartbeat—loud, rapid, like a war drum gone off tempo.
The bond’s pulsing now, insistent. It thrums in my chest, a breadcrumb trail trailing straight to Nessa. It amplifies every whisper of her perfume drifting through open windows, every glimpse of her laugh riding across the lawn, every hesitant touch of our fingers on that fence-line boundary. It doesn’t feel like fate anymore—it feels like gravity, dragging me nearer despite all protocols.
I clear the cluttered bench—mirrors, circuitry, half-finished circuits—and pull the dampener closer. I know I need it off. To be real. To be honest. It's terrifying. Exposure has always meant vulnerability. But this, this is a kind of surrender I’ve craved without realizing.
Then a voice cuts through the basement’s humming silence:
“I am certain you’re not from around here.”
It’s Sammy. She’s perched on the top rung of the ladder, arms crossed, eyes locked on me—no fear, no hesitation. Just clarity.
I look up. Her expression is fierce with conviction, expectation.
“Just tell me what planet already,” she says, tone firm. Not accusatory—more... exasperated. Like I’m late returning a library book she’s been waiting on.
I swallow. My chest tightens.
The dampener lies heavy in my hand—key to pretending. But now… it feels like a barrier.
