Page 94 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
She shrieks laughter that echoes down the hallway. “Not funny!”
I kneel to zip her backpack and brush a kiss onto her forehead. “Earth gravity’s tough enough on mornings, kiddo.”
Safe. That’s the word settling in my chest like a talisman. Safe and unguarded. I never thought I’d feel that again—especially not after years spent tethered to survival mode. But here, in the messy swirl of mismatched socks and coffee breath, I feel the hum of something free and unwritten.
I glance over at Rychne, the golden glow on his skin shifting subtly as the image inducer flickers in the bright kitchen light. It no longer scares me. Instead, it fascinates me—reminds me that life isn’t static. That people change, evolve, scare themselves into growth.
He stands, gently easing Sammy from his shoulders, and plants a kiss atop her head before handing her to me. I hug her tight, noticing the tackiness of glue in her hair and the lingering whiff of rocket boosters on her sleeve. I carry her to the table where breakfast is waiting: pancakes with berries, scrambled eggs, bacon curling with salty sweetness.
We eat together—three figures at a small wooden table, chipped at the edges from years of secondhand use. We trade half-jokes and morning reports. Sammy enthuses about the new book she’s reading, and Rychne listens with intent expression, nodding. He even asks smart, thoughtful follow-up questions, the kind that make Sammy beam with pride.
Later, when the school bus rolls up, I pack Rychne a travel mug of coffee. He accepts it with a quiet “thank you,” and kisses my cheek before the bus doors close. I close the door behind them, lean back against it for a long moment, letting the quiet settle. The day is beginning, but something in me—the stone that used to weigh my heart—has cracked open, letting light in.
I move to the window and watch them walk down the street, Sammy’s backpack a rainbow explosion and Rychne’s tall figure steady beside her. They stop to examine a morning-glory vine curling around the neighbor’s porch railing, and I wonder if I’ll ever recover from how beautiful it is to see my family finding its rhythm.
A small voice in my head snaps:This is home.The thought stirs something deeper—gratitude, wonder, a sense of sacred tether. I realize that I no longer believe in fate or destiny the way I used to. But I believe in choice. In the decisions we make every single day to stay, to fight, to love. And that belief—simple, resilient—is my steady ground.
The coffee machine clicks off, and I pour a fresh cup, setting it down by the window. I trace my finger along the rim, the ceramic warm under my touch. Outside, a robin flits through the yard, pecks at the grass. I breathe in, tasting hope on my lips.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring—there are always threats knocking at the edges of this quiet. But right this second, peace feels like an achievement. Like something earned after a war, not despite it. I lean back with my coffee and whisper into the morning air, “We did it.”
The porch swing creaks softly behind me. The world is waking up, and I’m here—awake, alive, belonging.
The cat’s ballistic retching echoes from the kitchen, and Sammy’s voice follows: “Mom, it’s raining cat barf in my space boots!” We laugh—raw, warm, unrestrained—the perfect punctuation to a perfect night.
We don’t talk about the future, at least not in specifics. No whispers of babies or planetary summons. No debates over our place in an interstellar alliance. Those conversations will come, in time. Tonight, though, the future feels alive in the soft swell of the summer breeze, in the creak of the porch swing, in the weight of Rychne’s hand curled around mine.
I look at him—golden eyes dimmed to something softer, almost human, but still impossible. I trace the line of his jaw with my thumb. Beneath the image inducer, I know the real texture of his skin—rougher, ridged, real. He didn’t have to stay. Fate didn’t force him. He chose this—choseus. That one choice ripples through every moment of this life we’ve carved together: grocery runs, sticky art projects, late-night court battles, and the endless soft glue of everyday affection.
He smiles, reading the thought. “What’s funny?”
I press my head against his shoulder. The stars above us flicker like distant promises. “Just thinking how lucky I am,” I say softly. “Not despite all the chaos—but because of it.”
He tightens his arm around me. “Chaos is a given. But we—weare the constant.”
The porch light bathes us in gentle yellow. Shadows drift across the deckboards. Somewhere inside, Sammy wrangles with boots and cat vomit. We’ll come back to help, because that’s what we do. We’re a team—imperfect, beautifully chaotic, tenacious.
“Ready?” I ask.
His knuckles brush mine—steady, sure. “Always.”
We step off the porch together, into the hum of home. The night buzzes with cicadas, distant traffic, and the promise of countless unremarkable mornings ahead—the kind that, in their ordinariness, somehow become everything.
In the kitchen, Sammy is deep in textural negotiation with glitter and glue. The cat looks sheepish. Rychne bends to scoop it up, muttering something gentle to thaw the tension. My heart swells with an odd, fierce pride—for this life we’ve built from fragments of two worlds. For the way I’ve stopped counting the cost of loving someone extraordinary, because lovingisthe point.
I slip my hand into Rychne’s as he carries the cat out, then turn to Sammy. “How about you put those space boots outside and we reboot the movie?”
She grins, her freckled face alight. “Deal. But no tentacles this time—I’m scarred for life.”
We laugh and settle in, a tangle of blankets, popcorn, and affectionate jabs. Rychne scoops me close, his thigh against mine. I feel the soft hum of his contentment beneath the familiar rhythm of the TV. I don’t dwell on the storms ahead—the cosmic, legal, emotional ones. Tonight isn’t about surviving chaos. It’s aboutchoosing each otherin spite of it.
And so, hand-in-hand, we sink into domestic normalcy—a mother, a father, a daughter, and an alien warrior figuring out normal together. The lines between home and galaxy blur. The future is not a map. It’s the worn couch cushions, the half-lit kitchen, the vibration of shared love humming softly in our chests.
Rychne squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. Words aren’t necessary. Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet decision to walk into the unknown—together.
I lean against him and whisper, “Come on, Vakutan. We’ve got a life to live.”
He smiles down at me, and we step forward—into whatever tomorrow brings, together.
