Page 75 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
CHAPTER 22
VANESSA
My heartbeat is a jackhammer inside my chest, even though the courtroom ended hours ago. The judge still hasn’t issued a verdict, but for the first time in weeks—I can breathe. Really breathe.
I watch from the kitchen window as Rychne, in his awkwardly tailored suit, kneels beside Sammy, helping her with a geometry problem at the dining table. His gold eyes—the same ones that cut through courtroom tension—are soft as he explains the Pythagorean theorem. It strikes me again: this man, my neighbor, this—whatever he is—is deeply invested in my world.
He glances up and offers me a quick, reassuring nod before they resume laughter over an obtuse-angle joke. The sight unravels something I've fought to ignore: his presence isn’t a disruption—it’s grounding.
I take a deep breath and step outside, closing the door softly behind me. The evening air is cool, sweet with honeysuckle drifting from the fence. I struggle to steady my racing pulse, trying to carve room in my head for something I’ve been avoiding: the wordlove.
It’s dangerous. Overused. But when I close my eyes I can still hear the resonance in his voice, clear and unshakable:“...I’ve seen… love.”Not once—but twice. And he meant it.
My gaze drifts to the back yard where he installed that cheap conduit shield for the old drain—and somehow even that looks thoughtful, gentle. A battle strategy translated into a renovation.
A lump forms in my throat. I’m suddenly aware of the sacrifices I’ve made: the nights spent trying to suppress panic while brushing my daughter’s hair, the dogged grind at Lipnicky’s showing up paycheck after morally bankrupt paycheck. And now this.
Rychne isn’t just helping with Trials of Custody 101 or comforting baked ziti misfits. He’s been here through every mundane, credit-card statement, toddler meltdown, and tear-streaked apology to the mortgage lender. Meanwhile, I’ve tried to play it safe—safe for Sammy, safe for me. That meant keeping strangers at arm’s length, avoiding attachments that threatened to unravel everything I've built.
But there he is: suit sleeves slightly rumpled, facial hair meticulously trimmed, leaning over her geometry book with a tenderness that would make my Italian mama weep with pride. This man. Thisalienman, here, in my world.
He glances toward me and offers a soft smile. That smile that says,I’m here. Today, tomorrow.Not invader. Not savior. Just—and maybe most terrifyingly—the man I’m starting to need.
I swallow around a dry throat. “Rychne,” I say softly.
He turns, eyes shaded with curiosity and relief. “Vanessa.”
The way he pronounces my name—like a folded-in blessing—sends warmth through me. A hundred familiar, domestic butterflies flare in my stomach.
“Thank you...” I start, but the words sputter and stall.
He steps closer, quietly protective. “We are not done until Abby’s attorney files our joint brief.” His tone is practical, but his gaze lingers. “But tonight—perhaps… rest?”
I nod, and it takes everything not to reach out, close the space, sayI don’t want rest without you.Instead, I reply, “Yes. Rest sounds... good.”
He offers his arm—gentle, human. It’s an invitation I never thought I’d take. But this is not a stranger’s gesture. It’s home.
I place my hand in his, and for a moment, the world hushes. Not just the courtroom verdict or report deadlines—but all the noise I’d tried to filter with tasks and distractions.
“We’ll face tomorrow,” I whisper. “Together.”
His fingers tighten around mine, a silent affirmation. His sharp cheekbone catches the low light—sometimes I still forget he’s not human. Yet, standing here, side by side, his difference feels less like a barrier than a bridge.
I breathe in, tasting honeysuckle and hope.
“Together,” he echoes softly.
Tonight, I’ll sleep knowing I’m not alone. Sam will sleep knowing her mom fights harder because she’s not alone. And tomorrow, when that judge delivers a ruling, we’ll still be here—whole, tethered, and stronger for what we’ve already built.
Because he’s no longer a visitor to our lives. He’s part of our world.
Later that night, after Sammy is firmly tucked into bed with her favorite glow-in-the-dark stars overhead, Rychne and I settle onto the back porch steps. The wooden boards are cool under my palms, and the night air hums with cicadas—constant, insistent, a soundtrack that humbles my racing heart. Overhead, the sky’s puzzle of constellations looks sharper than I’ve ever seen—maybe I’m just paying attention for the first time.
We begin with small talk—comfort talk. I ask about his ship’s diagnostics. He frowns at the memory of fragmented readoutsand fraying circuits. He smiles when I mention those ridiculous cookies in Sammy’s lunch. “Fifteen, give or take a crumb,” he says, laughter soft in his voice. It’s oddly intimate, this sharing of everyday minutiae, and I feel a gentle easing inside me, as though his presence is a balm, not just a presence.
Minutes pass. The porch light flickers, and in that pause, I touch on the question I’ve been turning over since that verdict day.
“Why didn’t you... push harder?” I ask, voice low. “When you told me about the bond—you let me walk away.” The words, barely more than breath, vibrate with memory—his golden eyes, the way he withheld.
