Page 72 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Later, we unwind before bed. He’s removed the suit jacket, tie loosened, but we’ve kept our lanyards: the legal id for tomorrow’s final meet with our attorney. The ceremony of preparation.
I curl beside him on the couch, the laptop paused on a legal procedural—some fictional judge giving an impassioned speech. We watch in silence. I drape my head against his shoulder. His breath is steady; I press closer.
For the first time since this began, I feel less like I'm at the end of my tether, and more like I’m standing on a battlefield I can face. Not because I’m alone, but because I’m not facing it alone.
His large hand settles over my own. The gentle pressure says: I’m with you. All the words I couldn't speak find their home in his touch.
Tired. But braced. Battle-fatigued. But defiant.
We don’t know tomorrow’s verdict. We don’t know if custody will bend in our favor. But as the world outside darkens, I let the impossible surge of hope in my chest expand. I glance at him—companion, protector, partner, wonder—and the awkward thrill of the bond tightening between us courses like electricity through my veins.
I whisper, “I don’t want to face this without you.”
He presses his lips to my forehead. “Then don’t.”
And in that moment, home is not a place or a courtroom—it's this tether: me to him, broken procedural to alien warrior, uncertain future to forged alliance.
CHAPTER 21
RYCHNE
The courtroom is a sterile symphony of tension—bleach-clean floors reverberate with anxious footfalls and low murmurs. The air is thick with the scent of dusty chairs and suppressed judgment. My suit, rented and threadbare, bites into my skin like coarse armor, a far cry from the supple bodyscale of my true form. I’m acclimatizing to Earth’s forced subtleties, but the discomfort pulses against my composed expression.
I sit beside Nessa at the plaintiff’s table, watching her fingers tighten around a manila folder of our evidence. Her voice is quiet as she whispers, “I love you.”
I give her the faintest nod—an acknowledgment she sees more than I say. My amber eyes flick to our daughter, Sammy, perched behind us, clutching her teddy like a shield. Her wide gaze, curious and fearful in turns, reminds me how high the stakes are.
Across the aisle sits Buford, lounging in his suit—still patched and sagging, as if he’s carrying entitlement instead of fabric. He shifts and smirks at me. A silent challenge. The judge’s eyes, sharp and grey, skim both sides before the hearing begins.
Buford’s lawyer rises, voice smooth and practiced. “Your Honor, Ms. Malone has demonstrated chronic instability, financial precarity, and—most concerningly—exposure of her daughter to precarious external influences. Specifically, her cohabitation with an individual of unknown legal status—referred to in open court as a foreign national of indeterminate origin.” The lawyer leans forward, eyebrows arching like scissors. “We contend that Ms. Malone’s living situation presents an unusual and possibly damaging exposure for Samantha.”
I feel a flare at the word “foreign.” It’s not our focus—I don’t live here, I survive—but it’s meant to sting. To marginalize. And I’m not marginal.
I catch Nessa's hand tightening. She straightens, inhaling—perfect composure. I’ll need to demonstrate focus too. This is early in the battle—illusion must not falter.
The judge nods. “Noted. Ms. Malone, would you like to speak?”
Nessa stands slowly, composes her thoughts. Her voice is steady: “Your Honor—I am Samantha’s only constant. I have balanced every bill, attended every school event, and created a stable home. My neighbor—Richard J. Wilmont—has watched over us since day one. He is no threat; he is our support.” She gestures discreetly to me. “He is not a criminal, foreign threat, or unstable influence. He is our friend, and he is committed to our family.”
Her statement is clear and dignified. I feel my chest thrum with permission—permission to step in, permission to be more than a shadow at her side.
The judge allows a brief cross-examination. Buford’s lawyer again: “Ms. Malone, you are unemployed full time, correct?”
She keeps her composure, though it must sting. “I am employed full time. I work for Lipnicky Property Management.My income is modest, yes—but I manage every expense for myself and my daughter. We have never been evicted or late on rent.”
The lawyer’s smirk tightens. “You admit you’re living beyond your means by associating with… Mr. Wilmont?”
She doesn’t blink. “I live within my means. That includes strong support from my neighbors—human or otherwise. I believe family comes in many forms.”
A murmur ripples through the gallery. I stay still, holding my breath.
Later—when it’s my turn—the judge nods. “Mr. Wilmont, please stand.”
My heart hammers; this is my turn to transform all my preparation into shield and sword. I stand, clearing my throat as required, feeling every inch of the itchy cloth that’s supposed to be armor.
“Your Honor, my name is Richard J. Wilmont. I am a U.S. resident, tax-compliant—I have submitted all documentation.” I pause, meeting the eyes of every table. I breathe in: courtroom air, gravity. This is Earth war.
“I am here to attest to the character and stability of Ms. Malone as a mother. Over months, I have observed her unwavering dedication to Samantha—every school event, dinner, bedtime routine. I have witnessed her manage our household finances brilliantly, despite limited resources.” I shift my gaze to Sammy—a flicker of encouragement. “I have provided emotional, logistical support. I have no agenda except to help our small family thrive.”
