Page 143 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Not because this is a victory lap.
But because this feels right.
My fingers curl over his wrist, tracing the hard line of muscle beneath fabric and bone. His skin is warm even through the layers, like he carries heat in him the way stars carry light.
“Come here,” I whisper.
And he does.
Not hesitating.
Not waiting.
Just there—close enough that I feel the warmth of him not as distance, but as invitation.
“Yara,” he says, voice low, like there’s gravity in his words.
“Shh,” I murmur, lifting a palm to his chest, right above the heart I’ve felt so many times in thrum and battle. “Tonight is not about strategy. Tonight is aboutliving.”
And then I drink him in—not with hunger, but with celebration.
My fingertips explore his shoulders, trace the line of his jaw, the way the light catches the widow’s peak of his hair. My eyes roam over him like one studies a map they’ve traveledfor years, finally knowing every pass and valley. His leathery skin shimmers faintly under the penthouse lights, alien and mesmerizing. The white bone spurs dot his knuckles and wrists, and where they brush my skin it sends an electric thrill up my spine, never hurting—only heightening.
“You fought,” I say. “Not for fear. Not for grief. Not because you had to.”
My voice softens almost instinctively, like a lover’s hand against overheated skin.
“You fought because joy is worth defending.”
His breath catches—just once—and I smile because that’s when I know he hears me. Not as praise. Not as obligation. But as truth.
A long moment stretches between us, the kind that usually follows battle and precedes surrender. But tonight, it’s different. Tonight isn’t about relinquishing tension. Tonight is about earth-to-bone reckoning:
I want him—not because he completes me, but because he stands with me.
Because heseesme.
Because heknowsme.
Because I choose him.
His hands slide up my back, slow and grounded, like the memory of touch decoding every nerve in motion. Classic Reaper strength—unyielding yet gentle where it counts. His fingers cradle my waist, thumbs brushing the small of my back, and I shiver at the closeness.
“Yara,” he breathes
My fingers wind through his hair, tugging him closer like I’m anchoring us both to the present—because this moment is not an escape. It is a claiming.
His mouth meets mine in a kiss that isn’t rushed, isn’t frantic—it’s centered. His lips are warm, deliberate, and eachmovement feels like recognition: not of bodies tangled, but of hearts accorded. I taste him—smoke and iron and something sweet that feels like promise.
His tongue grazes mine, slow and inviting, and I hum into the kiss, matching his rhythm, letting the sensation draw me deeper into him. I trail a hand down his chest—broad, powerful, scarred in places that tell stories of battles I’ve walked beside him through—and then lower, tracing the path of muscle like a whisper against skin.
His breath hitches the moment I brush the hem of his shirt.
“Yara…” he murmurs with reverence that makes my heart thrill in its cage.
I smile against his lips, breath warm against his chin.
“Look at us,” I say, voice husky with want.
