Chapter 14
VANESSA
It’s Saturday morning, sunlight bleeding through the blinds, birds warbling like they own the day. The world is serenely mundane—fresh coffee brewing, the hum of a lawnmower somewhere down the street. Which makes the explosion of panic in my chest all the more surreal.
I’m in my bathrobe, a faded pink terrycloth sentinel, trudging down the front steps to fetch the mail.
The spring air tastes of cut grass and honeysuckle, comforting in its simplicity.
And then: I see him. He’s performing squats in his front yard—shirtless, shorts snug enough to outline every muscle, framed by dew-damp grass and the glow of dawn.
His skin reflects the morning sun, almost as if someone polished him with announcer tones and divine spotlight.
The kind of perfection you expect from a sculpture, not a neighbor.
I freeze, toes curled on the top step.
He dips into another rep, motion fluid, grace carved by design. The world narrows to the sight of his back muscles shifting beneath the skin—or synthetic skin? I don’t know anymore—and the curve of his everything. Everything that shouldn’t be in public, especially not at nine in the morning.
The birds keep singing.
I swallow hard. The envelope of anxiety tightens around my throat. Every breath tastes like coffee and cloudless sky and fear. I hate feeling like this. Especially now—he’s not just some stranger. He’s… I choke down the word somewhere thick in my chest: mate.
“Mom!” Sammy’s voice slices through the air.
I turn to see her at the porch, wearing pajamas and bed-head bedazzlement. She holds her phone ready, filming cautiously. “Documenting alien behavior,” she explains, brow raised. “Breakfast theater: shirtless calisthenics. This is gold.”
I mentally smack my hand against my forehead, but at the same time—I don’t. Because I see damn well what he looks like, and he is gold, golden flesh and sunrise, someone you can’t unseen.
My robe shifts. I swallow again. “You saw nothing.”
She just smirks, as if perpetual mischief is her sworn duty.
I peer at Richard. He titrates through the final squat, exhales, and straightens—looking downright meditative.
Then he glances up, spots me. The way he does it is so calm, so patient.
No drip of surprise, no flash of embarrassment.
Just recognition. And… maybe pride? He tilts his head in greeting.
“Good morning, Vanessa,” he intones, voice gentle, eyes amber pits of morning sun.
I might drop dead on the spot—an unanticipated casualty of suburban mornings. Instead, I balance the mail in one arm and force a polite nod. “Morning,” I say, trying not to sound breathless.
He steps back behind his hedge, grabbing a towel, leaving me tumbling into the moment’s aftermath.
Sammy nudges me. “You’re red.”
“I’m… fine,” I mutter. “Let’s just go inside.” I turn back to the door but linger as though caught between fear and gravity.
I hear him speak softly as if to the grass, back turned. It’s not audible, but the air hums. As though he’s always singing, just beneath the ears.
Inside, I drop the mail on the table with surprising force—a stack of bills, 1 eviction notice from Lipnicky’s office that I cannot stop filing soon enough, and something from the bank. Reality’s waiting on the table too, precise and merciless.
At the kitchen window, I peer out. He’s rolling up the towel, the morning ritual apparently concluded. He looks… content. Centered. Mastery in motion.
I want to hate him—but I don’t.
I want to hate myself—for feeling this way—but I can’t find the strength.
Instead, I stand there, the early sun warming my cheeks—and my heart.
Because some hells come dressed in dawn and perfect bodies, and you’re not sure what kind of salvation that might be.
I stand in the yard, wrench clutched like it’s a lifeline—the hose connector assembled, but our hands haven’t let go. The morning air hums with possibility and something more jarring—our hearts racing in tandem.
He shifts the coil of the hose under one arm, toolbox in the other, then sets both down beside me. I clear my throat, voice uneven. “Thanks for helping.”
He looks at me, eyes steady and intense, as though he’s reading the energy swirling between us. “Of course.”
The sun drips golden across his skin, and I can’t look away. His breathing is slow, measured, but I sense the same fast pulse underneath. We both feel it keeping time.
I exhale, focusing on the task—not this moment. I snap the lid on the toolbox and hold up the wrench. “Need help?”
He steps forward, and as he reaches to take it, our hands brush—electric, igniting a synchronous jolt that sets every nerve on fire. Time stretches.
He looks at our linked fingers, then up at my face, expression soft and sincere. “Thank you.”
I swallow. The world narrows to this: sunshine, hose, hands, him.
I pull back and grasp the wrench. “Let’s finish it,” I murmur, voice barely more than a breath.
He nods, watching me tighten the connector with slow precision. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifts around us; the sound of a distant lawnmower blurs into background white noise. We work in tandem—two humans bridging more than a hose.
Our tools clink. He helps guide the wrench. His hand presses over mine—it’s not forceful, but firm. Protective. Familiar in ways I’m still afraid to admit.
I tighten the final screw. Water pressure returns with a hiss and flow. Liquid arcs into the lawn, droplets catching light, dancing like living sparks.
He pulls back, breathing shallow. His gaze roams the spray and then returns to me, golden eyes shimmering. “Successful.”
I meet his gaze. My pulse in my throat. “Yes.”
Silence settles, but the air vibrates—a live wire buzzing just beneath the skin.
I hold out the wrench. He takes it, but our fingers graze again. I don’t pull away.
Instead, I say, voice soft: “You’re going to drive me crazy.”
His eyes widen—just for a second—as though he’s calculating. Then he strips away whatever formal mask he wore and answers, quietly serious:
“I have a high-speed vehicle if that helps.”
The tension fractures under that absurdity, and I laugh—bright, unexpected, releasing weeks of tension in one burst.
He chuckles, deeper, a rumbling warmth. “I mean—warp core powerful—but parallel, if you’d like.”
I shake my head, still grinning. “Let’s just stick to hoses today.”
He props the wrench against his shoulder. “Agreed.”
I step backward, exhaling. The moment hangs heavy between us—the storm of attraction tempered by practicality, sincerity coated in humor.
He nods at the hose. “Mission complete?”
I offer a crooked smile. “Mission accomplished.”
He flicks his hand toward the tiny spray—then outward, encompassing more—neighborhood, fence line, maybe us.
“Next mission?” he asks quietly, chest lifted, literally and figuratively.
I meet his gaze. For once, the world beyond that moment falls away. My chest loosens, fear dims.
“Maybe,” I answer—soft enough that only he hears.
He swings a glance at the hose, then back. He picks up a spray nozzle, teasing, mischievous.
He aims it gently at me.
I gasp, slap at the water—but laughter erupts again. We’re dancing in arcs of morning mist, forgetting everything except this.
Sunlight dapples through leaves, scent of wet earth rising. My bathrobe is soaked, grass tickles my toes, and everything feels terrible—and perfect.
Because he’s an alien. He’s dangerous. But he’s also exactly the kind of wild I’m starting to crave.
Under hoses and halfway-clothed neighbor rituals, I stare into the gold haze of him and acknowledge what I’ve already felt.
Fear, yes. But possibility—more so.
Our alignment shifts again.
Morning has never tasted this surprising.
And as water drips from his curls onto my face, I know:
We are both orbiting something greater than ourselves.
And I might just let go of the ground.