Page 69 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
She taps a line. “These are our allies.” Her finger hovers over a small-group portrait taken last week at the historical society—Nonna and Papa fermenting pickles at a charity drive, their bakery storefront in the frame. “If these files are subpoenaed, we combine legal challenge with real community impact.”
I nod, impressed by her community instinct. “Public support bolsters legal merit,” I say, as though reading statute. “It’s strategy, not just paperwork.”
Her gold-brown eyes shimmer with something like vulnerability. She leans forward, as if she wants to interrogate me, to record every moment. “I… couldn’t have done this without you.”
I let that hang—a moment of silence that rattles through my chest, rattles through the bond between us. We’ve built something stronger than a case; we've built trust, alliance, care.
The documents on the table catch light as I shuffle them. My fingers brush hers—brief, unintended. I freeze, the movement sending warmth shot through me.
She doesn’t pull away. Her hand stays there, stilling on mine. Her pulse thumps gently beneath our contact—a human heartbeat, raw and alive.
The air changes. It trembles between legal ambition and… something more.
I shift slightly closer, enough that I can feel her breath, faint but real. Our digital war—mapped in filings and testimony—has pulled us into intimacy. I lean forward, amber eyes searching hers.
“We make a good team,” she says softly, words that echo through me.
I open my mouth—and then stop. I realize this moment is bigger than me, bigger than the bond, bigger than the galaxy. I swallow against the surge in my chest and say, “In war—and in… mating. And?—”
She lifts a finger, presses it gently to my lips. Her touch is tender, powerful, delaying.
“Let’s just start with war,” she whispers.
Hope blooms between our shared breaths. Not the desperation of survival—but the fierce, driving pulse of victory. The strategy is laid. The enemy is exposed. The community is behind us.
Tonight, we strategize our legal counterattack; tomorrow, we execute it. Our future, both in alliance and in love, remains to be seen. But for now, our shared battle binds us. All else can wait.
CHAPTER 20
VANESSA
Isit at the kitchen table, staring at the manila envelope like it’s radioactive, and the silence presses in from all sides. The tick of the living room clock sounds impossibly loud. My thumb trembles with rage as I peel the wax seals.
Inside, the words don’t even need to be read—they hit me like icy water:Buford Mussels v. Vanessa Malone – Petition for Sole Physical Custody of Samantha Malone and Allegation of Mental Unfitness.The font’s too calm, too official. The ink feels like a slap.
I scan the paragraphs: he alleges I’m mentally unfit, that I’m exposing our child to “unusual influences,” he even cites “psychological stress” allegedly stemming from my living next door to...some foreign national. My pulse hammers. The suspicion is obvious—it means Richard. Space-dad. Alien neighbor. I feel bile rise as I parse how this could even be in the petition: my daughter referring to another parent figure isevidence against me. The world’s upside-down and furious.
My vision swims. I crumple the petition and shove the papers across the table. I can’t—no, won’t—let this stand. I stare at the crumpled pile for longer than I should. What in god’s name do I even do now?
I drag a deep breath. First, calm. The first rule of parenting and legal fights is calm. Breathe. Hold your ground.
I text Rychne:We need to talk. Urgent.My fingers shake.
A custody petition is serious. He can manipulate the legal system easily—I’m a single mother, earning just enough money, with an alien…well, neighbor. The system likes stereotypes, and this one is golden.
I climb to my feet, head throbbing. I pace toward the living room, and I see Sammy curled up on the couch with a stuffed bunny. Her eyes are closed but I know her sleep will be fractured, her dreams laced with questions I may not answer.
I sit beside her, reach for her hand. She stirs, opens half-lidded eyes.
“Mom?” she mumbles. I brace.
“Hi, my let’s-get-up-late thing,” I whisper. I give her a soft hug. “I have...some complicated news.”
Her eyebrows knit. I gently tell her Buford filed for sole custody. She freezes, breath gone.
“Because...you’re seeing ...someone alien?”
I swallow. “He used...my friendship with Richard...he...claimed I’m unstable. That our life is too unusual.”
