Page 76 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
He looks at me for a long moment. There’s a flicker in his expression—surprise, perhaps sorrow. Then he shifts closer, posture deliberate.
“Because your freedom is part of your power,” he says carefully, each syllable measured. “If I claimed you without your choice… it would dishonor the bond itself.”
My breath catches. That sentence—so simple, so precise—lands in my chest like a whisper-shaped hammer. I swallow, words lost between moonlight and fear. The weight of it is sweeping: he didn’t withhold because he lacked the will—he withheld because he respected me.
The night holds its breath. Even the cicadas seem to soften.
I trace a finger on the wood grain, then finally meet his eyes. “That’s...” I struggle for the right word. “The most romantic damn thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He tilts his head, feathers of moonlight in his hair. “Romantic?” he asks, like he’s tasting the word for the first time.
I laugh softly, the sound trembling and fragile in the darkness. “Yes. Romantic.” My voice finds boldness. “I—God, Rychne, that was... I needed to hear that.”
A silence settles between us, comfortable yet electric. His scaled hand, covered by the illusionary skin, hovers near mine—hesitant. I take it.
He pulls my fingers into his palm. The touch is warm, grounding. The world echoes differently here—no courtroom. No eviction notices. No flash of Buford’s smug face. Just two people, words that matter, hands touching.
I let the moment stretch. “I was terrified,” I admit quietly. “Terrified of how much I cared. Afraid you'd be... unstoppable.”
His thumb strokes my skin lightly, reassurance in motion. “I am a warrior,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I don’t understand restraint. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand love.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. The scent of honeysuckle drifts in on a breeze; the porch light flickers like a steady heartbeat. “I love you,” I whisper before I realize it’s out there.
He stills. For a heartbeat, nothing moves—then he pulls me closer. The world pulses around us.
“I love you, too,” he says, voice hushed and fierce. “With every cell of my being.”
The words tremble between us, fragile yet true.
I lean into him, heart pounding with wonder and gratitude. “What now?” I ask, voice tiny but hopeful.
He presses a kiss to my temple, lips warm, startling me with its tenderness. “Now,” he says, voice low, “we build.”
We stay there for a long time—no plan, no future roadmap. Just breath-sharing and pulse-syncing under the stars. I rest my head on his shoulder, absorb the weight of it—that love defied worlds and timelines, but also lives in moonlight and porch steps.
For the first time in a long time, I let my defenses down fully. And in that release, I feel something deep and fierce anchor inside me—not just fear or hesitation, but fierce readinessfor whatever comes next: courtrooms, custody battles, alien conspiracies, future wars. All of it.
Because right now, I have him. And I'm choosing—freely, wholeheartedly—to stay.
I don’t kiss him—not yet. But I lean in until our shoulders touch, and the world narrows to the space between us. His scent—woodsmoke, honeysuckle, something ancient and warm—settles over me like a promise.
“You’re different,” I whisper, voice trembling like the breeze in the wind chimes. “Not just alien. Different.”
He turns to me, golden eyes soft in the moonlight. “And you are extraordinary,” he replies quietly. “Terrifying. Illogical. Beautiful.”
I laugh, nervous and light. “Terrifying?”
He strokes my hair gently, his voice careful. “You make me feel things I was not trained for.”
My heart stutters at that—thrums, really—echoing in my chest. “Good things?”
He smiles, but there’s a serious edge to it. “Yes. And dangerous ones.” His words pause, as though drawing me in closer. Then, softly: “But I want to feel them all.”
The stars above us feel like witnesses. I lean my head against his shoulder, the familiar rise and fall of his breath soothing me. There’s chaos everywhere—Buford’s custody claim lingers, Lipnicky’s underhanded tactics swirl in the background, and the weight of my choices presses harder than taxes and eviction threats combined.
Yet here, under this shingle of stars, I want to believe. I want to believe inhim. Inus. Against every odd this world —and that one—can throw.
Silence wraps around us, comfortable and profound. I close my eyes, let his words echo inside me. His hand tightens on mine.
