Page 93 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
Her voice holds a note of gentle exasperation, but there’s no real reproach—only the lingering warmth of relief that it’s glue and glitter, not catastrophic chemicals.
Sammy cheers, lifting the Jupiter into place. “Papier-mâché planetary system—check! Next step: altitudinal booster unit!”
I laugh, a low rumble in my chest that nearly shakes the counter. Nessa rolls her eyes and joins me, crouching beside Sammy to admire their handiwork. I watch the curve of Nessa’s neck dip into her shoulder, the way she leans in close to her daughter, whispering something that makes Sammy giggle.
It hits me then—that this chaotic, glitter-scorched mess is a masterpiece. It’s our life now. Fragmented, gluey, unpredictable. It bears scorch marks of my impatience and my alien misunderstandings. But it's alive.
Nessa picks up the fake rocket, examining the tape job and missing bits of paint. She glances at me. “Nice of you to finally stick around for a real mission.”
I shrug, cheese-faced grin on my lips. “I thought I’d already completed the primary objective.”
She laughs—a clear, comfortable sound—then holds up the bowl-planet globe. “So… should we set this off and wake the whole neighborhood?”
Sammy claps her hands. “Yes! Pink Jupiter in the sky!”
I glance between the two of them—my mate, my daughter, the two halves of the life I chose. The bond thrums gently at my core, no longer a roaring storm, just a calm undercurrent. I press my hand against the back of the bowl and whisper, “Three… two… one…”
Nessa flicks flashes of her phone. Sammy jumps back. We launch the rocket (parachute nonexistent), and it sputters with a patheticpfft, sending a plume of smoke toward the ceiling fan. The smoke drifts lazily like a ghost. I pull a chair up, give Nessa a sidelong grin. “Workshop success.”
She leans against me from behind, kissing my temple. “Domestic success.”
Sammy shrieks in mock horror: “You blew up the moon!”
We all collapse into laughter, a warm jam of noise and cheer. Later, after we finally silence the smoke alarm and she shoos Sammy off to bed, Nessa and I stand in the quiet kitchen, watching the embers of chaos—the spent tape, the sticky countertops, the planet rubble.
She turns to me, her eyes reflecting the mess in a strange, tender way. Her voice is quiet: “Do you regret it? Staying?”
I pause, glancing once at the planetary carnage, then back at her. This mess, these small wars and victories, are part of it. But worth every moment. “Not for a moment,” I say. “I would cross time a thousand more times to find this.”
Her lips curve into a half-smile, half-sleepy grin. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine. “Even if it came with a redneck ex and horseradish festivals?”
Her teasing tone softens at the end, and I feel her warmth seep into me. I pull her into a hug, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath. “Especially because of those.”
She laughs, a softer ripple this time, love reshaping her voice. Then she steps closer, tilts her head into my shoulder. “I’m happy,” she whispers—simple, profound, and unguarded.
“I’ve won,” I murmur, tilting my head to rest against hers.
We stay there for a long moment, just breathing, whole in the aftermath of chaos.
Above, the smoke-soaked ceiling hints at the madness of the night. But it no longer feels threatening. It’s ours. A testament to the imperfect, burning, beautiful life we chose together.
And as I hold her in the quiet glow of our battered kitchen, I know—this is redemption. Not the kind earned with blood or victory on a battlefield. But the kind built in the scent of glue, love echoes, and unconditional nights.
CHAPTER 30
VANESSA
The morning unfolds like water sliding off smooth stone—effortless, inevitable, beautifully mundane. The sun slants through cotton curtains, painting dusty motes gold on the linoleum. In the kitchen, the coffee machine gurgles its morning hymn, and I lean forward to breathe in that peculiar mixture of burnt beans, sticky maple syrup, and something else—something warm and hopeful that I’ve forgotten how to identify until now.
I catch a glimpse of motion: Sammy, her socks a chaotic tango of neon stripes and polka dots, dancing along the counter. “Mama! Dad says I can’t go to school with space goo in my lunchbox!” She waves a small foil-wrapped cube, the afterglow of her papier-mâché rocket mission.
I suppress a smile, rifling through her lunchbag for unauthorized contraband. As I pry the cube out with two fingers, I think: this is the real version of normal.
Rychne hums softly where he’s kneeling beside the old wooden chairs—another casualty of a sleep-fueled spasm. He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up, sleeves of otherworldly scale glinting faintly where the image inducer falters. His hands aregentle, coaxing fresh wood slats into place. Sparks from the power drill scatter like tiny comets.
“Didn’t mean to vaporize two chairs in my sleep,” he murmurs as I pass by, handing him a replacement piece. His golden eyes flick to mine, concern warring with apology in their depths. I offer a soft grin, lifting my mug in silent salute:life happens.
Outside, Sammy launches herself toward Rychne and I, blur of pink sneakers and determined grin. He effortlessly hoists her onto broad shoulders. She settles in like she’s always belonged there—because she has. His voice rumbles with teasing menace, “If you forget your notebook again, I’ll drop you into orbit.”
