Page 52 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
“To help,” I murmur.
“To help,” he echoes, voice quiet — mutual oath.
He steps closer. Water drips from his shirt onto my feet. Cold trickles through my toes.
I shut my eyes. The cold spreads. But warmth inside presses out.
I open my eyes. The hose falls to the grass. Wine in hand. And the man standing there—not a threat, not alien, but ally.
My heart hammers with inevitability.
“I don’t know what comes next,” I whisper.
He smiles gently. Roads in his quiet face. Understanding.
“We decide,” he says.
I nod, leaning in. Wine tastes like future, like maybe this night will crumple the old version of me like a useless eviction notice.
Kids in the house, shadows dancing across windows. Future building in breaths between us.
I realize, the gravity of him pulls me off balance in the best way.
And tonight?
I’m letting go of balance.
For something real.
CHAPTER 13
RYCHNE
Courtship protocols: I have downloaded volumes of them—scones for suitors, first-date etiquette, Russian dating apps, romantic poetry anthologies—but nothing aligns with the pulse throbbing at my throat when I think of Nessa. The Jalshagar bond vibrates at the edges of my senses, bright and unstable, longing for tether that is both fragile and irrevocable.
On Vakut, I’d fight side by side with a mate, vanquish sabertooth predators, present the bones of enemies as solemn proof of devotion. That is straightforward. That is war. But Earth—Earth is a minefield of legal codes, social nuance, and restraining orders. A shark might mate with maelstroms, but humans? They file paperwork.
So I need help.
And the logical conduit to that help is ten years old, freckled, and merciless: Samantha Malone.
I knock on her back door—standard polite protocol—and she swings it open before I can attach a greeting. She’s perched on the stoop, hoodie on but sleeves pushed up, hair a wild halo cut with determination.
“Sir,” she says. Not “Richard” or “neighbor.” Just “Sir.”
“Sammy,” I reply, voice soft as gravity.
“I will help,” she nods. “We begin Phase Two: acquisition of rizz.”
“Rizz?” The word worms through my mind like an alien symbol I haven’t yet learned. But I nod, determined.
She scoots aside. I step onto the porch quietly; the wooden boards creak. Lily-scented breeze drifts. I feel... cautious. Because this matters.
She hops off the porch, grabbing me by the elbow. “Follow me,” she orders. I comply.
We walk down the street, passing neighbors who greet her in passing—she waves expertly. I mimic her, smiling faintly, feeling the tension untie in my chest.
Our destination: Collinsville Community Center. Room 12B—a dance class in session. A cluster of teenage girls practice partner steps, lights bright, the scent of polished floors and distant markers of anticipation. Sammy leads me in.
