Page 53 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
She clears her throat. “Step one: posture. Chest up, shoulders back. Charm starts with stance.”
My spine tightens—Arch? Extend? I adjust. Feel... alien doing so. But Sammy nods approvingly.
“Now, eye contact.” She taps my chest. “Find someone’s eyes. Hold for three heartbeats, then let go.”
I lift my gaze. A teenage girl meets my eye. Three beats pass—time stretches. My chest hammers. I release. “Congratulations! You’ve made eye contact.” She claps.
I blink. “Is that... all?”
She grins. “For now.”
Next: verbal interaction. Sammy steps forward. “I’m gonna show you. Watch.”
She approaches a volunteer—“Hey! Nice shirt—blue looks good on you.” She smiles wide. The girl beams. “See? People like compliments.”
She turns to me. “Your turn.”
I pause. Inside my mind are battlegrounds, diplomatic alliances, starship warp core detonations. None speaks compliments about shirts.
But I nod. The lady across the room has a green top. Emerald.
I force fluid tones. “Your shirt... is the color of new leaves.”
She stops, mid-step. “Thank you.”
I release. The girl’s eyes flash warmth.
Sammy grins again. “Semantic. Excellent.”
We continue. Step by step: small talk practice, situational responses, self-deprecation (“I’m learning Earth customs!”). I stutter my way through charm acquisition. It’s painful. It’s exhilarating. It’s… hopeful.
And then Sammy gives me her final lesson for the day: sincerity.
She taps my chest. “Rizz isn’t tricks. It’s authenticity that doesn’t scare people. Use that.”
I absorb the moment—her words, her gravitas, her belief.
In the humid gym air, I feel something begin to coalesce—not strategy, but self. Something I can bring tomorrow across that fence.
When we leave, the sun is low. Shadows bleed across the parking lot. I offer Sammy a nod she returns with a soldier's salute.
“Mission complete?” I ask quietly.
She shrugs, then smiles. “Phase Two complete.”
I let myself nod back, and for the first time in centuries, I let hope feel tangible—like the coiled discharge of a reward capacitor, like the calm before the bond ignites.
Because tomorrow, I’ll try not to scare her.
Sammy has declared war on my ineptitude. And as her commanding officer in this theater of romance, she is ruthless.
“You need to flirt like a person, not a biometric threat,” she declares, plopping onto my living room rug with a pink clipboard and a pile of glossy magazines. “We’ll start with compliments.”
I nod solemnly. “Compliments. Affirmations of perceived physical appeal. Understood.”
She sighs like a tiny general facing insubordination. “Okay, imagine Mom walks in wearing a nice dress. What do you say?”
I analyze. Nessa, in a dress. Optimum silhouette. Enhanced color saturation around the cheekbones. Elevated heart rate response—mine, not hers.
