I don’t laugh immediately. Instead, I find myself laughingwithhim—light, surprised, unguarded. It bubbles out, dissolving weeks of tension, worry, pretension. Laughter shared like a bridge.
His face softens fractionally. The goggles slip up and land askew on his forehead. The sword clatters lightly as he grips it, but doesn’t let go.
“What... were you doing?” I manage after catching my breath.
He glances down at the hoe and sword, then back at the tree. “Testing… tension thresholds of Earth-grown flora. Defensive posture exercise.”
I shake my head, laughter returning. “That’s not normal.”
“Normal is subjective,” he replies, voice gentler now.
It’s a Sunday morning. The air hums with birdsong and distant dogs barking. Warmth wraps around us, and none of it feels like surveillance, or threat. It’s… calm. Safe.
Sammy creeps down the porch stairs, phone pointed at us, eyes wide. “I caught it all,” she whispers solemnly, then sniggers.
I glare at her, but she’s too adorable to scold.
Richard glances back at the tree, sword at rest. “Your daughter’s data collection is impressive.”
I flush. “She’s detailed.”
He nods. “She… reminds me of a cadet.”
That stings, or warms, or something I haven’t yet named. I swallow the instinct to ask why.
Instead, I reach out and rest a hand on the handle of the sword. The metal is cool, vibrating faintly under my touch.
He looks down at my hand.
I say, “That’s quite a weapon.”
He shrugs—a human gesture this time. “Multi-purpose. Clearing vegetation. Basic defense.”
I nod and stand taller. “Well… thanks for not clearingmewith it.”
His faint smile returns. “You… are not vegetation.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks.
Sammy trails behind me as I turn to go back inside. I flash Richard a goodbye wave—uncertain, hopeful.
He salutes with the sword and a quick dip of his head that feels more intimate than any formal gesture.
Inside, I lean against the door, pulling in slow breaths. Sammy is still filming.
“You know,” she whispers, “that just made him like, ten times more alien.”
I pinch her shoulder. She giggles.
Moving toward the kitchen, I pause and glance back out the window. Richard returns to the tree, sword sheathed—almost casually, as though it’s as common as pruning shears.
All morning, I feel the echo of that moment—a sword, a tree, a neighbor’s silent ritual. It unsettles me. Frightens me. Entices me.
And above everything else?
It justfeltgood.
Because it was real.
