Page 61 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
It’s a choice we will have to make.
Together.
CHAPTER 16
VANESSA
I’m perched at the kitchen table under the dim glow of a single lamp, the house asleep around me but my mind racing: Richard—no, Rychne—towering in the living room just hours ago, scales glinting in lamp-light, golden eyes still watching me despite the shift. I lift a cold mug of coffee to my lips, hoping the bitterness will clear my head, and instead it tastes like betrayal and adrenaline.
It’s one thing to joke about aliens with my daughter, refer to the neighbor as a “space grandpa” in jest. But there he was—gravity incarnate—calmly explaining soulbonds like cosmic marketing pitches.
“This is your fate,” he practically whispered, as if announcing the weather. And I... I nodded. Not because I believed him entirely, but because I felt something in my core respond. That terrifies me more than the idea of galactic aliens living next door.
The lamp ticks to the hum of stillness. My throat is raw, my heart aching with conflict. Sammy crashed into my bedroom last night and nearly catapulted me out of bed, asking questions faster than I could think. I answered truthfully—for the first time in years—and she listened; she accepted it like a normaltomorrow. But me? I feel like the ground has reshaped beneath my feet.
I run my hand down the table’s smooth wooden surface, bright shards of moonlight dancing through the blinds. I taste regret. I taste longing. I taste something deeper and far more dangerous—and it doesn’t scare me. Which makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.
My phone buzzes. Sammy’s bestie wants to spend the night tomorrow—skipped for chat about “the truth next door,” which Sammy already filleted into a presentation board. I sigh, tap a terse “Yeah, whatever works” response, and sink into the chair.
If I’m honest, I don’t care about fantasies or the threat of extraterrestrial invasion. My worry is much more personal.
What the hell do I do with a man who looks like that, talks like that, and makes me feel like the entire planet—no, the universe—has shifted under me?
My stomach growls. I glance at the fridge—pancakes for breakfast, maybe eggs? I press a hand against it as if bracing for the surreal mundanity of choosing brunch foods.
If fate is genetic programming, if the bond is real, if the universe picked me, then what choice do I have? And if I choose—I’m not the same woman closing her blinds in the morning.
The hum of silence creeps in again. I long to confront him. Furious, betrayed, demanding explanations—to pin him down beyond cosmic metaphors. But part of me wonders if I’d just dissolve into tears or laughter if I saw him again. Not fear. Something else.
I drain the coffee, stand, and pace toward the window. I look across the way at his darkened house, imagining gold-tinged eyes watching mine through curtains. I wonder: does he lie awake too? Wondering if I’ll reject him—or accept him?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Tactical retreat or confrontation? I should call Nessa. No—call Richard: demand a redo. Say I’m angry. Say I’m open. Say I don’t know but want to.
The jitters spike again. My hand trembles scanning my phone. I hesitate. I open my contacts. His name sits there: Richard Wilmont. The human alias feels like a costume that still has tassels of starship wiring clinging to it.
My thumb hovers.
And I realize—I want to call him.
But first, breakfast. Because if the universe is rewriting its rules, the least I can do is feed it pancakes.
The next morning, I slip out the front door well before sunrise, boots crunching on the grass like furtive footsteps avoiding detection. No text to Richard. No glance across the lawn. Just suburban silence—broken only by the hum of a distant lawnmower turning on—until I’m halfway to Lipnicky’s strip-mall office. Every minute I’m gone feels safer than facing the man who looks like he might’ve stepped off a starmap.
I come home after dark. Porch light flickers on, Mom glare in tow, and I step inside, trying to act normal. Sammy’s at the kitchen table, earbuds in, typing away on her tablet. She looks up, eyes glinting. “Mom, you’re back early.” Another sharp breath.
“Yep,” I say, closing the door behind me a little too forcefully.
“Are you… mad at him?”
I freeze. She’s got those big eyes—all discovery and sentiment—mixed with that sarcasm I gave her. I drop down across from her. “What did he do?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Nothing. I just called him ‘battle-dad’, like you said not to.”
I flinch. I said that? My words gel in my brain like bad memories. I storm off before I say anything that’ll fracture her respect.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I stare at ceiling stains and feel my chest tighten. Shame-seeps through me—no, rage. At myself for letting… for feeling. For wanting. Sammy’s enthusiasm cuts deeper than anything. She’s oblivious to the gravity of his existence. She just equates him with superheroes. And here I am, trying to pretend he’s not rewriting my universe by texting in the star-splintered language of fate.
CHAPTER 17
