Page 87 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I touch a panel. The cool metal beneath my scaled fingers hums with possibility.
Tonight, we'll eat burritos. Tomorrow, we'll build a treehouse. Next week… who knows? The universe is as boundless as the love inside this house.
I walk to the window and watch the car pull in—Nessa behind the wheel, Sammy laughing beside her. They're home. And so am I.
The echoes of military protocol fade, replaced by something deeper, richer. The contours of this place—these people—are carving new definitions into me: husband, father, neighbor, friend.
Sammy bounds in and beams at me, backpack first, voice high: “Dad! I mean… Richard! We got milk—and guess what? They had my Clementines on sale!”
She hugs me around the waist. Her scent—orange and sweetness and sticky skin—fills my nostrils. My chest squeezes. I laugh softly and pick her up, carrying her inside.
Nessa follows, both their presences wrapping around me like a shield I don’t have to hold.
I lower Sammy gently and whisper, “Welcome home.”
After a long, cosmic journey and countless battles, the greatest conquest isn’t a planet. It’s here—between two women who dared to let an alien in.
My belonging isn’t written in DNA, nor inscribed in Martian steel. It’s woven in choice, trust, laughter, and Pop-Tarts.
I wake in the early evening, sunlight slanted and golden through the curtains. There’s a dull ache behind my joints—echoes of overnight training and time spent crouched helping Sammy build her science project—but I don’t care. I lie still for a moment, listening: in the kitchen, I can hear the rhythmic clatter of dishes, the soft hum of stirring sauce, the comforting creak of our home settling around us.
By the time I make it downstairs, Nessa is already orchestrating dinner like a maestro. The air smells of garlic, basil, melted cheese—earthy, warm, domestic. Sammy’s standing beside her, chopping bell peppers with a patience I haven’t seen since I helped her prep Easter dinner. They laugh when I appear, and I realize I haven’t outright told either of them how much it means to me. But I don’t need words. They feel it. I feel it.
We spend the rest of the evening the way we’ve been doing: grocery shopping, the human equivalent of conquest, with me examining peanut butter jars to ensure there’s no synthetic additive—"Just peanut and salt?" I ask solemnly. Nessa smiles—a curve of amusement at my eternal diligence—and says, “Yes, you peanut butter barbarian.”
Then chores, lawn-mowing beside Nessa, where the hum of the engine fills the air, and I realize these machines are no different than the thrusters I once trained under. The smell of fresh-cut grass is earthy and healthy, the breeze warm. We bicker teasingly about how I hold the safety glasses—too high, apparently—and she corrects me with a playful roll of her eyes.
The pinnacle, though, is when Sammy races in with her science project: a cardboard box with wires and LED lights hooked to a spatula she insists is the “antimatter propulsion initiator.” She turns to me, brimming with excitement. “Daddy, check this out!” She flips a switch, and the LEDs blink in a pattern I recognize from starship diagnostics. I peer inside.
“That’s very... creative,” I say, attempting to hide my technical fascination. “But antimatter? Risky for a school project.”
She pouts. “Warned me not to push my luck, Dad.” Her grin broadens, and she adds, “Miss Ginny’s teacher said it’s ‘utterly implausible.’”
I laugh, ruffling her hair. “Fantastic. You just invented ‘utterly implausible.’ That’s real genius.”
When Nessa calls us in for dinner, I linger to admire their teamwork. Family. It tastes like garlic bread and shared responsibility.
At the table, conversation flits from school gossip to the day’s mundane triumphs—Sammy’s science teacher calling again, my grossly human oven mishap (“Why does it beep so much?” I’d complained the night before, to Nessa’s amusement). She smiles at me across the table, a glint in her eye: she loves teaching me Earth rituals—their oddities and rhythms—and I love learning them. Every clink of fork on plate, every laughter-laced sigh,every warm glance feels more precious than any medal I earned on battlefield prime.
Night falls. We crowd onto the couch, blankets strewn, snacks half-empty. On the TV screen, aliens with gooey tentacles are destroying a major city. I pause and say, “No species uses tentacles like that. That’s just inefficient.”
Sammy giggles, popcorn in her lap. Nessa nudges me. “You’re the alien now criticizing alien movies. We’re officially domestic.”
I don’t argue. I pull them closer. My arm goes around Nessa’s shoulders, my other hand rests on Sammy’s leg. They settle into me—their weight soft and warm against my human illusion.
“Domestic?” I murmur, and Nessa leans her head on my chest. I feel her breath, steady and calm. “Best mission I’ve ever been on.”
Sammy snorts softly, “I kind of like this mission too.”
A perfect moment: no wars, no politics, just the quiet companionship of home. They laugh at a terrible one-liner from the movie. I catch Nessa’s dark blue eyes in the firelight of the television screen, and see what I trained so hard to ignore for so long. The warrior fades. In its place: a man anchored to something bigger, deeper.
As the credits roll, I kiss Nessa’s temple, lightly. The world outside—galactic turmoil, bureaucratic battles—can wait. For now, I'm exactly where I belong.
I’m captain of this couch. Guardian of this quiet crew. My mission never ends. It changes shape. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
CHAPTER 28
VANESSA
