Page 64 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice quiet but direct. No need to specify what for. Boundaries defended, respect asserted, love shown not by aggression but equilibrium.
I place a hand gently at my side. The heat of the morning sun warms the back of my neck, and the air hums with suburban noise—lawnmowers, birds, distant laughs. The disparity between cosmic conflict and Tomorrow Tree Drive is almost laughable.
But in this lull, I feel the bond tighten—not out of fate or cosmic decree but out of respect. Because I protected what mattered, not by obliteration but by presence.
And as we stand there between trimmed hedges and cracked sidewalks, I know this: the war—whether across galaxies or in our front yards—is not fought by defeating enemies. It’s fought by understanding stakes, honouring boundaries, and showing up when it matters most.
I offer Nessa a small, genuine smile. She doesn’t hug me yet—not in public—but her eyes convey agreement. We are comrades in a quiet battle—not of violence, but of integrity.
Away, Buford’s truck fades. In front of us remains peace—tentative, earned, lasting.
Sometimes the strongest victories are the ones that happen without a fight.
The Ford's taillights vanish around the corner before the air finally stills. Nessa stands motionless on her porch, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Fear, indignation, memory—all burn behind her golden gaze. She presses a hand to her chest, like she's squeezing broken glass, and with a soft inhale, she gathers herself. Sammy lingers near the doorway, silent sentinel, cheeks flushed but eyes fixed defiantly on the empty street.
I step back, giving her space. The day sun bounces off the hedge, casting lattice shadows between us. I don’t move closer. I've learned closeness costs nothing until consent is earned, and this moment demands restraint. Nessa’s fingers tighten around the porch railing; I watch the subtle tremor.
A few strained moments later, Nessa lifts her head and attempts a small, half-shake. Then she turns to Sammy, who gives her a nod. Mother and daughter retreat inside; the door clicks behind them with a finality that stills my heart. For a heartbeat, I stand alone in the haze of a suburban battlefield—victory claimed not by punch but by presence, yet heavy with emotional residue.
After night blankets the neighborhood, I return to the garage to run diagnostics on the dampener and shield arrays. The scent of motor oil and solder burns in the air. Beneath the dull hum of power tools, I’m still running through the confrontation, parsing my restraint, balancing aggression with honor. The warrior within seethes: violence would’ve tasted easier. But honor—Vakutan honor—demands measured justice. I feel the badge of ancient lineage on my shoulders.
A soft tap on the door. I look up. Lights glint across her scales—but I mask the anticipation behind calm breath.
It’s Sammy.
She steps inside barefoot, pajamas whisper-soft. She slides onto the edge of the workbench, her eyes wide, chin braced on folded arms.
“Hi, Richard.” Her voice is hush and wary.
My heart clenches. This little human, fearless warrior-child—she carries more weight than any combatant.
“Hey,” I answer quietly.
The basement light casts long shadows on her face, revealing guarded exhaustion.
“I hate him,” she says. “I hate him so much, Richard.” Her voice cracks—quiet but real. “He only comes around to pretend he’s Dad... then he disappears. Mom gets quiet for days after.”
I pause, letting her words settle in the oil-scented air. I meet her eyes—those sharp, unwavering eyes that saw me before I revealed my scales, before I became cosmic destiny. They’re still flickering with hope and grief.
I kneel beside her. My armor—emotional and literal—slides off in that gesture.
“You… are seen,” I say softly, choosing words a warrior uses when bravery is being vulnerable. “And safe.”
Her shoulders release. She exhales in a slow exhale I feel through the workbench. She leans closer and rests her head tentatively on my scaled forearm. Her hair is the faint scent of cotton candy and childhood. She fits there—as though belonging was never just a pretense.
“You’re our weirdo,” she whispers. Her tone is fond, steady. No fear.
I look down at her, breath catching in chest. Her acceptance—pure-hearted and unconditional—weaves a thread stronger than any cosmic bond. It pulses. Draws me into something beyond duty. It’s family.
My throat tightens. I place a slow hand on her back, feeling the human warmth. I sense her calm settle deeper, like water pooling in a stone basin.
“You—are home,” I whisper back.
The diagnostic panel bleeps behind us. Unwatched machinations wait for me, but they’re secondary now.
Sammy stays for a few quiet minutes, breathing near me. Then she slides off the bench, gives a soft small smile, and hurries up the stairs.
I sit there in the dim garage, listening to the echoes of the day, the heartbeat of a nascent family pulsing stronger than any alien creed. The bond may still be fledgling, shaky in scale and scope—but love? That’s palpable. Real. Earned.
