Page 82 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Buford’s sunflower-seed chewing stops mid-chew. His eyes go wide, his jaw slack like he’s been struck. He nods so fast his neck snaps, and he shuffles a few steps backward—shocked, broken, the sputter of his pickup draining the tension out of the moment. He sputters something about not coming near us again—words sounded like a plea. Then he turns and staggers away, his pickup trailing dust and leftover bravado.
My chest tightens and I realize I've been holding my breath. Slowly, I exhale. The sun dips behind the tree line, gold flickers dancing across Rychne’s armor. He turns to face me, his jaw still firm, eyes softer now but burning with purpose.
“Too much?” he asks—voice no longer thunder, but a careful inquiry.
I shake my head, stepping forward so my hand finds his. His grip is warm—human enough to comfort, alien enough to thrill. “Perfect,” I whisper.
The universe reorients itself in that moment—dust motes caught in fading sunlight, the loamy smell of grass and dirt, the distant laughter of children unaware of the cosmic tremor they’ve just witnessed. I wrap my fingers around his, solid and electric beneath my palm.
He gives my hand a quiet squeeze, and something inside me settles. Fear recedes. Hope swells.
“No longer pretending,” I say softly, echoing his earlier words.
“I am here,” he replies, voice faint, but steady enough to anchor us both.
We walk away from the park as a silent team—the late afternoon light warming our backs. Behind us, Buford’s truck sputters off into the dusk, and ahead lies a life we’ve fought for: uncertain, dangerous, but ours together. For the first time in a long while, I don’t want to imagine this fight without him.
CHAPTER 25
RYCHNE
My ship—what’s left of it—is humming quietly in the basement-turned-hangar, the stabilizer array pulsing soft emerald arcs of light across fractured plating. I lean against the hull, listening to the steadythrumof the translight beacon reaching into the silent void beyond Earth’s orbit. It clicks into sync with a distorted Vakutan scout signal drifting in from the outer Oort Cloud, ghostly but unmistakable. It should mean home, duty, even purpose. All traditional warrior ideals.
I close my eyes and breathe deep, tasting the machine oil and dust mingling in the cold underground air. It’s comforting. Functional. Familiar. But it’s not the beat of my own blood. The flicker of a memory sharpens around me—Sammy’s laughter as she raced down the stairs for her morning cartoon rush. The smell of syrup-drenched pancakes in Nessa’s kitchen, her voice warbling off-key to a radio’s 90s pop anthem. The twitch in her lips when she tries to correct a lyric, and the warm, flawed honesty in it.
Duty says I should be outside calibrating thrusters, prepping flight logs, mapping a translight trajectory back to the warfront.But every rumble of the booster, every turn of a torque wrench, tastes like a goodbye I’m not ready to swallow.
I rub my palm across the scarred hull in a gesture that might be affection—or reluctance. This isn’t just a ship. It’s a lifeline through space and time. It’s all the warrior Rychne has. Without it… what am I?
I remember Nessa’s voice that night on the porch—the way she leaned against me when she said“You’re different, not just alien.”And then:“Terrifying. Illogical. Beautiful.”Perhaps the most honest thing I’ve ever heard.
I stare at the beacon’s glow again, weighing two worlds. Duty. Return. Honor. Or this messy, imperfect Earth life. The fifth sense I rely on closest now isn’t sight, sound, touch, heat, or taste—it’s something beyond perception. A gravity that tugs at my chest, anchored in a midwestern yard, in a wild woman with messy hair and courageous eyes, and a child who laughs like nothing else matters.
I run diagnostics—a final pass. All systems nominal, the beacon primed and pulsing on schedule. At any moment I could call the jump sequence. Chart a course. Leave.
But I don’t want to. Ican’t.
I push off the ship, boots echoing against the concrete. I walk toward the workbench where the welding torch rests beside Sammy’s half-finished hover-relay capacitor. The soft buzz of the streetlight overhead filters down the salty air of late evening, carrying echoes of backyard concerts, murmured conversations, and maybe… love.
A single pang of regret strikes. For the first time I understand that leaving isn’t just a departure: it’s abandonment.
I kneel, reaching for the multi-tool she accidentally left out. My finger grazes the cool metal. The same finger she grabbed when I told her“You are seen. And safe.”I press the tool against the wood grain beside the capacitor.
This place… these people… theyaremy mission now. My truest objective, beyond alliance, beyond war. I thought I was here to survive. To fix a broken ship. But that was only the first step. Because after survival comes choice. And I choose this.
I stand, heart pounding like a war drum, and take a final inventory not of parts and readings, but of moments: Sammy’s flashlight ambush, Nessa’s tender scold for dripping pancake batter on the counter. Quiet nights on the porch. Shared smiles, shared vulnerabilities. These are the mission parameters I never expected.
I walk to the beacon console. Fingers hover over the command override. The countdown cursor blinks, expectant. I lean closer, whisper urgent Vakutan blessings into the conduit:May your path through the void open worlds yet unseen.Then I shut it down.
The beacon dims.
I step back. The room is darker now, but my chest is lighter—full instead of hollow. Duty still thumps in my bones, but I’m no longer a soldier without roots. I’m a man, anchored in Earth’s gravity by two souls I can’t imagine living without.
Outside that cramped basement, a world waits—one I’ve chosen. One worth defending, not because I’m ordered to, but because I love it. Because it’s mine.
In the silence, I hear something else—a car door slamming, footsteps on gravel. I walk toward the garage door, where the night air is thick with crickets and hope. If the war wants me back someday, so be it. But right now… I stand my ground.
And I will not leave this world behind—not yet. Not ever.
