Chapter 20
VANESSA
Isit at the kitchen table, staring at the manila envelope like it’s radioactive, and the silence presses in from all sides. The tick of the living room clock sounds impossibly loud. My thumb trembles with rage as I peel the wax seals.
Inside, the words don’t even need to be read—they hit me like icy water: Buford Mussels v. Vanessa Malone – Petition for Sole Physical Custody of Samantha Malone and Allegation of Mental Unfitness. The font’s too calm, too official. The ink feels like a slap.
I scan the paragraphs: he alleges I’m mentally unfit, that I’m exposing our child to “unusual influences,” he even cites “psychological stress” allegedly stemming from my living next door to.
..some foreign national. My pulse hammers.
The suspicion is obvious—it means Richard.
Space-dad. Alien neighbor. I feel bile rise as I parse how this could even be in the petition: my daughter referring to another parent figure is evidence against me. The world’s upside-down and furious.
My vision swims. I crumple the petition and shove the papers across the table. I can’t—no, won’t—let this stand. I stare at the crumpled pile for longer than I should. What in god’s name do I even do now?
I drag a deep breath. First, calm. The first rule of parenting and legal fights is calm. Breathe. Hold your ground.
I text Rychne: We need to talk. Urgent. My fingers shake.
A custody petition is serious. He can manipulate the legal system easily—I’m a single mother, earning just enough money, with an alien…well, neighbor. The system likes stereotypes, and this one is golden.
I climb to my feet, head throbbing. I pace toward the living room, and I see Sammy curled up on the couch with a stuffed bunny. Her eyes are closed but I know her sleep will be fractured, her dreams laced with questions I may not answer.
I sit beside her, reach for her hand. She stirs, opens half-lidded eyes.
“Mom?” she mumbles. I brace.
“Hi, my let’s-get-up-late thing,” I whisper. I give her a soft hug. “I have...some complicated news.”
Her eyebrows knit. I gently tell her Buford filed for sole custody. She freezes, breath gone.
“Because...you’re seeing ...someone alien?”
I swallow. “He used...my friendship with Richard...he...claimed I’m unstable. That our life is too unusual.”
Sammy disappears inside that for a moment, then pops back with blunt clarity: “They’re jealous. You’re doing more than they are.”
My heart clenches. I pull her into a hug so fierce she squeaks. “I will fight, Sam. You and me, Mama. I will never let them decide you’re unusual just because we’re happy.”
She sniffs. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She nods, buries her face in my shirt, half asleep again. I won’t let the predator of the past destroy what we’ve built.
Later, Rychne arrives. He’s calm. Concerned. He sits, an alien outwardly serene, but these dark eyes show loyalty.
“I have it,” I tell him, voice brittle. I give him the petition. He flips through it, expression darkening. I sense ancient warrior instincts stirring—the kind that forces you to run interference with your body in place of someone else’s.
He folds the paper, sets it down and reaches for my hand—not romantically right now, but as a shield.
“We prepare,” he says. “Your castle. Our documents. Witnesses.” His voice is firm, tactical. “We will guard.”
I look at him—the tall, inhuman protector who delivered justice using municipal code and now looks ready to fight in courtroom trenches. My chest tightens.
I voice what my head can’t yet process: “I’m scared.”
He tightens his grip. “You are not alone.”
The kettle hums in the background. Outside, twilight deepens. The world hasn’t changed—but tonight, my love and my bond stand strong as we begin to bid secrecy and fear farewell.
We will do this. For her. For us.
The house is hushed, save for the low hum of the fridge and the distant drone of crickets settling in for the night.
It’s the kind of quiet that creaks in your bones—like waiting.
I sit at the kitchen table again, that cursed petition spread before me in a fan of betrayal.
I’ve read it ten times over, each look sharpening another cut in my chest.
Rychne slips into the seat beside me without a word.
His massive frame—taller than any courtroom judge, broader than any desk—fills the chair.
His glowing amber eyes are soft in the lamp-lit kitchen, radiating concern rather than alien curiosity.
He places his hand over mine, and the solidity of it starts to drain the tremble from my fingers.
“I’m here,” he reminds me, no flourish, just absolute presence. No grand speeches. No alien missiles poised at the door. Just... steadiness.
I close my eyes and lean into the pressure of his palm. “I feel like I’m drowning,” I whisper. “He called me mentally unfit. He says I’m subjecting Sam to...him. Using you, an alien, against me.”
Rychne’s jaw sets, scales rippling beneath human skin. “He is using fear,” he says, voice low. “Fear is a weapon.”
I open my eyes and see him lock focus on the petition. “What if he wins?” The question is a whisper, but the weight of it is thunder.
He studies the page. “He lacks cause, ammunition is weak. But system favors bloodline. We must bring testimony. We must show... reliability. Stability. Love.”
I trace a line of print with a fingertip. “What if he tries to claim I’m unstable because of you? How do I prove that—”
Rychne slides his tablet across the table.
On one side is a calendar packed with joint activities: festivals, school meetings, doctor’s appointments—he’d logged everything after learning of the petition, going back months.
On the other side are photos—Snapchats, school event snapshots, selfies, a grainy vacation picture of the two of us and Sammy at the horseradish festival.
He even ran benign background checks on us, cross-checked with local affidavits from neighbors. His eyes flick up at mine.
“I engage in community testimonies,” he says simply. “People see us. I am...present.”
My throat tightens. This is beyond him. This is beyond me. It’s something bigger: loyalty made flesh—alien flesh—declaring allegiance to our small patch of earth and our messy American suburb. It knocks me completely off-guard.
Sammy shuffles in from the hallway, oversized T-shirt and sleepy ponytail, clutching a stuffed bear. She drops onto my lap, half-asleep, still upset. My heart fractures.
“Mom?” she sighs. “He’s trying to take me for real. Not just this weekend.”
My lips press together. I wrap her in my arms. “No. No, sweetheart. That’s not going to happen.”
Rychne leans forward. He addresses her deliberately. “Samantha Malone. Your mother is strongest person I know. I will testify. I will speak of your mother’s love. Of your home.”
Sammy snuggles into me, chin pressed against my collar. “Thanks...battle-dad.”
He reaches out, runs a finger along her cheek. “Always.”
My chest rattles—this team, this shield of two beings (unlikely allies), wraps around us.
Later, I lay Sammy down and tuck in her teddy, powerless again at the storm their father is trying to summon.
When I return to the kitchen, it’s empty.
I find Rychne in the living room, kneeling by a stack of legal pads and binders.
The moonlight through the window silhouettes his shoulders, framing him in vigilance.
He looks up. “I study witness testimony. How to be credible in court.”
I sit beside him, fresh pillows beneath me. “You’re being ridiculous, you know,” I tell him softly. “You're enough.”
He meets my gaze. “If I want to be accepted—not as alien, but as proof—I must adapt. No image inducer. No warrior posturing. Just...truth.”
It occurs to me then that this is the ultimate compliment. He’s not transforming himself for affection—he’s doing it for legitimacy. For us. For our child.
I swallow hard. “I’m scared,” I admit, voice cracking. “He was never a father. Not really. But this...I don’t know the system.”
He folds the papers. “Then we learn. Please allow me.”
He pulls me into a hug that crackles with promise. I can taste wrenching fear on his shoulder—but also resolve so immovable it might outlast steel. I cling to him.
We sit like that under moonlight, holding the darkness and our storm together.
I whisper, more to myself than him: “We’re fighting for family.”
He unconsciously tightens his grip on me—and mine, on him.
The fight continues at dawn, but for now, I remember the warmth of this moment: not just love, but vow.
The alien next door is more human in this hour than I’ve ever felt.
Late afternoon sun slices through the blinds, casting warm lines across the living room where Rychne and I sit side by side on the couch.
The air smells faintly of lavender from my diffuser—an attempt at calm in the eye of this legal storm.
He wears the suit he loathes: crisp navy jacket, pressed slacks, a tie he called "a strangled animal.
" The suit jacket still has a faint scent of starship resin—his worlds colliding in fabric.
He practices once more, clearing his throat in that precise, measured cadence he’s honed over weeks of earnest effort.
“Nessa Malone is a devoted single mother whose only... ambition is to protect her daughter’s well-being.
” The words are flat, robotic at first. I press my palm against his thigh, and his voice softens, humanizing.
“She has built a stable home. She has earned every cent of her living. And she loves Samantha more fiercely than any predator I’ve faced. ”
I reach up and smooth a stray lock of hair—human hair, the one concession he lets me touch when he’s nervous. “Better,” I whisper. He rolls his shoulders back, eyes steady.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. The weight of intention in his voice is heavier than any weapon he once wielded.
Over the past week, we’ve become battle partners in a warfare neither of us asked for.
The kitchen island is clogged with legal pads, binder clips, and briefing notes.
Every evening, I swallow anti-anxiety meds, breathe through the spiraling panic of custody hearings and judgmental parents.
Rychne is there—pouring water, holding my hand, reminding me I’m enough.
Tonight is differently sacred: he’s scheduled a mock courtroom at home. He’s recruited Mr. Peters—his adopted dog, more loyal than any judge—to sit solemnly in “jury duty.” There’s a placard taped to the coffee table reading Role Play: Guardian of the Family.
Rychne stands before me, still in the suit, trying to mimic gavel strikes. He pauses, brow furrowed, then says: “Ms. Malone, please describe the indicators of maternal stability and community support that you have established over the past five years.”
I inhale slowly. "Ever since Samantha was born, I've built a life centered around her needs," I say, channeling every ounce of conviction. I see him nod. I breathe better.
He asks more: "How do you respond to attempts at interference from Mr. Mussels?
" My heart flutters as tension curls—then I respond: "I seek stability, not conflict.
I protect my daughter from negativity but I do not suppress her connection to biological father if it's healthy and nurturing.
The only disqualifier is unwillingness to cooperate in her best interests. "
Genre-appropriate nods leap from him. I can feel the weight of power under his suit—in that moment he’s not alien, he’s my anchor.
Hours blur into a focused blur. We drill answers, examine case precedents downloaded from county records, practice tone and gaze.
He corrects me softly when I ramble. I remind him to slow his pace when he sounds like a marching drill sergeant.
Two territorial souls learning Earth’s most human fight: the courtroom.
The house settles into evening. Distant crickets begin their rhythm. I feel the tight pressure of fear—incompetence, judgment, loss—coiling at my chest. I speak quietly to Rychne: “I’m scared. If I lose…"
He lifts his hand to my cheek—this giant, otherworldly man with human touch—and we hold eyes.
“Nobody loses,” he assures me. “We’re prepared. We’re anchored. I’m here.”
The hush after his words feels deep, like dawn after a long night. My chest loosens.
Later, we unwind before bed. He’s removed the suit jacket, tie loosened, but we’ve kept our lanyards: the legal id for tomorrow’s final meet with our attorney. The ceremony of preparation.
I curl beside him on the couch, the laptop paused on a legal procedural—some fictional judge giving an impassioned speech. We watch in silence. I drape my head against his shoulder. His breath is steady; I press closer.
For the first time since this began, I feel less like I'm at the end of my tether, and more like I’m standing on a battlefield I can face. Not because I’m alone, but because I’m not facing it alone.
His large hand settles over my own. The gentle pressure says: I’m with you. All the words I couldn't speak find their home in his touch.
Tired. But braced. Battle-fatigued. But defiant.
We don’t know tomorrow’s verdict. We don’t know if custody will bend in our favor.
But as the world outside darkens, I let the impossible surge of hope in my chest expand.
I glance at him—companion, protector, partner, wonder—and the awkward thrill of the bond tightening between us courses like electricity through my veins.
I whisper, “I don’t want to face this without you.”
He presses his lips to my forehead. “Then don’t.”
And in that moment, home is not a place or a courtroom—it's this tether: me to him, broken procedural to alien warrior, uncertain future to forged alliance.