Page 88 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
The porch swing creaks softly beneath us as we lean into the stillness. The summer air drifts between us—warm, fragrant with honeysuckle, unhurried by the chaos that’s defined everything since–well, since forever. Our drinks sit forgotten on the little wooden table, condensation dripping quietly, a gentle percussion that keeps time with the hush of the night.
My hand trails along Richard’s forearm. I don’t need the image inducer anymore—I’ve memorized every ridge and warmth of the skin beneath it—but I keep it on out of habit, the way you leave a worn jacket over one shoulder even when the morning sun’s strong. He lets me trace those lines, that living proof that I’ve let something juuuust crazy enough into my life and come out, if not unscathed, then whole.
“I used to think love was just… another burden,” I whisper—quiet enough that I almost doubt I said it out loud. But the words settle in the space between us, heavy and honest. “A thing that got in the way of surviving.”
He’s silent for a long moment. The crickets, the slow creak of the porch, the soft hum of the night—all of it presses in. I liftmy head just a fraction, feeling the electricity of his gaze without needing to see it.
Then he answers. “I thought it was a weakness.” His voice is low, sincere. I feel it in my chest more than hear it.
“That is…” I hesitate, trying to find the right thought. “That is so us, isn’t it? Two hardened survivors admitting we were wrong.”
He exhales—soft, almost reverent. “I was bred to conquer, to endure. Never to surrender to something as... ephemeral as affection.”
“But you did,” I say. My own admission tastes strange and sweet. “Not just endure. You defied every instinct you were trained for.”
He shifts, letting my hand travel up to his shoulder. “Because you are extraordinary,” he says, and I—God, I almost start to cry. It’s too much, in the best damn way.
I lean my head against his chest, pressing into the rise and fall of his breath. I know my own heart is thumping, but it feels ... full. Secure. Like we've built something that can hold a quiet, and a storm.
“Did you ever think you’d end up here?” I murmur.
He kisses the top of my head. “No. But I always wanted somewhere to stay.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I smile. A real, unfiltered one.
“Me too,” I say. “Me too.”
For a long moment, we sway in sync, legs tangled beneath the porch light’s glow. It’s the kind of good quiet that feels like a promise—like home.
I straighten, lifting my chin so I can press my lips to his, slow and gentle. I don’t rush it. There’s no need. All the firework moments have already come—they were loud, chaotic, the universe shifting beneath our feet. This is the aftermath. The calm. The reward.
He smiles against my lips. “I like this quiet,” he says. “It feels... earned.”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It does.”
We lean back, our drinks long forgotten but irrelevant now. The night stretches out ahead, full of possibilities—legal battles finally behind us, interstellar politics dormant, school projects done, exams passed. Maybe there are still storms to come—but right now, in this moment, there's nothing but breath, stars, and the warm imprint his hand leaves on my arm.
I look up at those stubbornly bright stars, then back at him. “I used to worry about tomorrow,” I confess. “About everything crashing down around us.”
He lifts his hand, brushes away a strand of hair from my face. “Then let tomorrow worry about itself.”
I laugh softly. “Sage Poetic Advice, Part 297,” I tease. His look makes me grin wider.
“Promise me,” he says, his voice low. “No matter what happens next, we do it together.”
My chest tightens with the gravity of that promise. I nod. “Together.”
The porch swing rocks us gently as we settle into the future—unwritten, uncertain, but ours. And for the first time, I understand that love isn’t a burden or a weakness. Love, when it’s the real thing—the soul-deep, choice-fueled kind—is the strongest weapon in any universe. It’s our fortress. It’s our revolution.
I lean in again, pressing my lips to his shoulder. My heart still whispers a quiet thing:
We chose this. And we’ll choose it again—every day.
So we sit there, under stubborn stars, breathing easy. Our world hasn’t ended. It’s just begun.
I press my cheek against Richard’s shoulder, breathing in the quiet hum of the night. The porch swing creaks beneath us, theair sweet with honeysuckle and humidity. Neither of us says it, but the truth is undeniable: we were wrong. About each other. About what this could be. And for the first time, that feels like something to celebrate.
I think about the day I first met him—shirtless in the backyard, awkwardly testing a piece of rebar like he was auditioning for a low-budget action flick, all crunching metal and stiff salutations. He delivered lines like a malfunctioning sitcom actor—“I am here to assist your moisture problem.” I thought he was the most… bizarre man I’d ever met. I couldn’t have imagined he’d worm his way into my life, into Sammy’s life, into my heart.
