Page 71 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
He reaches out, runs a finger along her cheek. “Always.”
My chest rattles—this team, this shield of two beings (unlikely allies), wraps around us.
Later, I lay Sammy down and tuck in her teddy, powerless again at the storm their father is trying to summon. When I return to the kitchen, it’s empty. I find Rychne in the living room, kneeling by a stack of legal pads and binders. The moonlight through the window silhouettes his shoulders, framing him in vigilance.
He looks up. “I study witness testimony. How to be credible in court.”
I sit beside him, fresh pillows beneath me. “You’re being ridiculous, you know,” I tell him softly. “You're enough.”
He meets my gaze. “If I want to be accepted—not as alien, but as proof—I must adapt. No image inducer. No warrior posturing. Just...truth.”
It occurs to me then that this is the ultimate compliment. He’s not transforming himself for affection—he’s doing it for legitimacy. For us. For our child.
I swallow hard. “I’m scared,” I admit, voice cracking. “He was never a father. Not really. But this...I don’t know the system.”
He folds the papers. “Then we learn. Please allow me.”
He pulls me into a hug that crackles with promise. I can taste wrenching fear on his shoulder—but also resolve so immovable it might outlast steel. I cling to him.
We sit like that under moonlight, holding the darkness and our storm together.
I whisper, more to myself than him: “We’re fighting for family.”
He unconsciously tightens his grip on me—and mine, on him.
The fight continues at dawn, but for now, I remember the warmth of this moment: not just love, but vow.
The alien next door is more human in this hour than I’ve ever felt.
Late afternoon sun slices through the blinds, casting warm lines across the living room where Rychne and I sit side by side on the couch. The air smells faintly of lavender from my diffuser—an attempt at calm in the eye of this legal storm. He wears the suit he loathes: crisp navy jacket, pressed slacks, a tie he called "a strangled animal." The suit jacket still has a faint scent of starship resin—his worlds colliding in fabric.
He practices once more, clearing his throat in that precise, measured cadence he’s honed over weeks of earnest effort. “Nessa Malone is a devoted single mother whose only... ambition is to protect her daughter’s well-being.” The words are flat, robotic at first. I press my palm against his thigh, and his voice softens, humanizing. “She has built a stable home. She has earned every cent of her living. And she loves Samantha more fiercely than any predator I’ve faced.”
I reach up and smooth a stray lock of hair—human hair, the one concession he lets me touch when he’s nervous. “Better,” I whisper. He rolls his shoulders back, eyes steady.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. The weight of intention in his voice is heavier than any weapon he once wielded.
Over the past week, we’ve become battle partners in a warfare neither of us asked for. The kitchen island is clogged with legal pads, binder clips, and briefing notes. Every evening,I swallow anti-anxiety meds, breathe through the spiraling panic of custody hearings and judgmental parents. Rychne is there—pouring water, holding my hand, reminding me I’m enough.
Tonight is differently sacred: he’s scheduled a mock courtroom at home. He’s recruited Mr. Peters—his adopted dog, more loyal than any judge—to sit solemnly in “jury duty.” There’s a placard taped to the coffee table readingRole Play: Guardian of the Family.
Rychne stands before me, still in the suit, trying to mimic gavel strikes. He pauses, brow furrowed, then says: “Ms. Malone, please describe the indicators of maternal stability and community support that you have established over the past five years.”
I inhale slowly. "Ever since Samantha was born, I've built a life centered around her needs," I say, channeling every ounce of conviction. I see him nod. I breathe better.
He asks more: "How do you respond to attempts at interference from Mr. Mussels?" My heart flutters as tension curls—then I respond: "I seek stability, not conflict. I protect my daughter from negativity but I do not suppress her connection to biological father if it's healthy and nurturing. The only disqualifier is unwillingness to cooperate in her best interests."
Genre-appropriate nods leap from him. I can feel the weight of power under his suit—in that moment he’s not alien, he’s my anchor.
Hours blur into a focused blur. We drill answers, examine case precedents downloaded from county records, practice tone and gaze. He corrects me softly when I ramble. I remind him to slow his pace when he sounds like a marching drill sergeant. Two territorial souls learning Earth’s most human fight: the courtroom.
The house settles into evening. Distant crickets begin their rhythm. I feel the tight pressure of fear—incompetence,judgment, loss—coiling at my chest. I speak quietly to Rychne: “I’m scared. If I lose…"
He lifts his hand to my cheek—this giant, otherworldly man with human touch—and we hold eyes.
“Nobody loses,” he assures me. “We’re prepared. We’re anchored. I’m here.”
The hush after his words feels deep, like dawn after a long night. My chest loosens.
