Page 90 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
He quirks an eyebrow, looking toward where Sammy’s silhouette waits, impatient and impossibly small. “Shall we continue being gross, or shall we spare her another minute of silence?”
I grin, sliding off the swing and tugging him up with me. His arms circle my waist, protective and sure as we step off the porch. Just then, Sammy bolts out, arms crossed, fake-huffy. “You guys done being gross yet?” she demands, though I can hear the smirk in her voice. Our laughter curls through the yard, echoing into the quiet summer evening.
Rychne smiles down at her, a softness in his eyes I haven’t seen before. “We can cease immediately,” he says, voice tinged with amusement. “Would you prefer we demonstrate at breakfast instead?”
Sammy rolls her eyes dramatically. “Yeah, whatever. Just don’t make us have to scrub the porch for days.”
He lifts one hand in mock salute. “Understood.”
Her shoulders loosen, and she slings an arm around my waist. “Mom,” she whispers, nudging me with her elbow, “best summer ever.”
I squeeze them both—my daughter and my alien, both of them perfectly here. “Mine too,” I say.
We stand there for a moment, the porch light haloing us in a soft glow. I rest my head on Rychne’s shoulder, inhaling the mingled scent of earth after a recent rain and something—something subtle and orange blossom–sweet that’s him. His arms tighten around us, and for the first time, I’m not afraid of the vast galaxy we’ve come from, or that our bond was spun from cosmic forces beyond understanding.
Tonight, it doesn’t matter.
The world may be dangerous—vast, unpredictable—but here, on this porch, tucked into a little corner of Illinois, we have carved something indestructible: home. Safe. Chosen. Real.
And as I look at the two hearts beating against my back—one human, one golden-eyed alien—I whisper softly, “I love this.”
He whispers back, voice rough with emotion I can feel more than hear: “So do I.”
The cricket chorus swells, the night embraces us, and we stand—three silhouettes forged in starlight and choice—knowing that love isn’t some cosmic burden or destiny beyond control. It’s here, now, in our hands.
And we’ll keep choosing it, every day, on this quiet porch, under these infinite skies.
CHAPTER 29
RYCHNE
Ikneel on the front porch with grocery bags at my feet—produce, bread, a carton of almond milk—and the late morning sun feels warm on my armor-like suit. Not the image inducer, but the warmth is real all the same. I take a breath, steadying myself. Today is about more than battles I can win with fists or flame; today is about a quieter kind of strength.
Buford Mussels is coming over. Again. I watched him back away yesterday, eyes still wide like he’d seen the devil and decided devils can be verbal. He tried not to leave, but he slipped away. That’s the moment I decided. Giving someone a chance matters—especially when you’ve been offered one yourself. I was that displaced warrior, a survivor flung through time, brought into a life I never expected. Nessa didn’t have to stay. Sammy didn’t have to accept me. But they did. And so I give Buford a chance—even if part of me wants to tell him to stay gone forever.
A deep breath and I shove open the screen door. Inside, I hear the faint hiss of the fridge, the hum of the compad on the kitchen island. Nessa’s in the mudroom, setting down her tote. She looks at me with that kind of concern I’ve come to recognize and feels in my chest like steam.
“He’s coming,” I say softly, voice low enough that only she hears.
I’ve seen how this affects my daughter—the tension, the fear. But she said it best yesterday: this is our weirdo now. I want more than fear for her. I want an example of forgiveness, even if it’s messy.
The doorbell rings, and I see fear flicker on Nessa’s face before she steps back. I feel it too—memories of courtroom chaos, of Buford’s threats, of the way he could have stolen more than custody. But I also feel something else: possibility.
I nod to her. She squares her shoulders and answers the door.
Buford stands there, stained tank top, sunflower seeds half-chewed, the same posture that used to scream “entitlement.” But now I see something else—hesitation, shame, maybe even fear. Next to him, Sammy sets her backpack on the floor and steps inside without a word, already sensing the tension.
I step forward. Not armored. Not armored by violence. Just me, scaled and strange and human enough.
“Mr. Mussels,” I say, voice steady. “Thank you for coming.”
His lips part around a crumb of seed. “Uh… you’re welcome,” he says. His gaze flickers down at my scales, then back up at my eyes—no fear, just raw curiosity.
Nessa sets the bags on the counter. Sound of saran wrapper. Clink of glass jars. Home life, mundane and comforting.
“What’s this?” Buford nods toward the bag.
“Groceries,” Nessa says tightly. “Lunch supplies.”
