Safe With You

The Smell burns!

~Greyson~

One second Alyssa’s laughing at her brother’s call. The next, the colour drains from her face. Heat radiates off her skin, her eyes glaze, and she whispers my name like a warning.

I’m moving before she falls.

“Hey—Alyssa—stay with me.” Her weight goes slack in my arms. I scoop her up, blanket and all, and head for the door with my phone clenched between my teeth to buzz the gates. Keys, wallet, nothing else matters. The G-Wagon’s back seats flatten with one shove; I lay her down gently, check her breathing, and floor it.

The roads blur. Red lights become negotiations. My hazard lights are a confession. Her breathing is shallow but steady, and I keep talking to her anyway. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. Nearly there.”

I pull up outside A&E like a madman and shoulder the doors open.

“I need help. Now!”

The room pivots. Two nurses are with me immediately, eyes flicking from her face to the drip of sweat on her temple to the tremor in my voice.

“We’ve got her. Sir—this way—resus is full, private room down the corridor.” One of them notes the blanket, my death grip. “You can bring her—just let us get vitals.”

I don’t let go until they tell me where to put her. The bed swallows her up; the blanket looks absurd and necessary. Cuff, thermometer, pulse ox, a quiet dance of competence. The nurse’s calm is a lighthouse in bad weather.

The door opens and a familiar voice cuts through the static.

“Markus,” I exhale.

“Was about to call you,” I tell him, he glances from me to Alyssa. “What happened?”

“She texted this morning—felt rough but functional. Low fever, ate a little. We were watching telly, and then the heat spiked. She went out like a light. Breathing was shallow.” I hear myself and realise I haven’t taken a proper breath.

My brother’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Alright. Breathe. You found the right hospital.” He turns to the nurses: “Fluids, full panel, obs. Start antimicrobials if CRP’s up.”

He looks back to me. “Sit. I’ve got her.”

I do as I’m told for once. Minutes become procedure; procedure becomes relief. The IV runs clear, monitors flatten from frantic to steady, the awful grey tinge of her skin lifts to something human again.

Markus glances up. “Not going to ask why you carried a woman wrapped in a blanket through my emergency department,” he deadpans. “She’s dehydrated, likely tipped into tonsillitis. The fever spike knocked her sideways.”

Guilt chews the edge of my voice. “She seemed okay—right up until she wasn’t.”

He shakes his head. “You got her here. That’s the headline.” Then, mild as ever: “You’ll want clothes that aren’t a hospital gown. I’ll get you upstairs to a private room.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, already texting Lillian to drop something off—and already knowing she’ll overdo it.

I pull Alyssa’s phone from her dressing-gown pocket, hesitate only a second, and find her brother under “Tray.”

“Hey, baby sister—how you feeling?” he answers, cheerful and oblivious.

“Hi, Triston—it’s Greyson Riley. A friend of Alyssa’s. I’m at the hospital with her. She fainted—dehydration and a raging fever. She’s stable now, on fluids. But still out cold."

Silence, then: “Is she okay? Do I need to come?”

“Honestly? Best to stay with Quinn. She’s unwell but in good hands. I’ll update you. Promise.”

A beat. “Right. Thank you, Greyson. Look after her.”

“I will. Also—apologies for Poppy strong-arming you into soft play.”

He snorts. “Explains everything. That ball pit will haunt me. You owe me. But… not today.”

We hang up. I set the phone aside and take Alyssa’s hand in mine. It surprises me how small it feels. I stroke my thumb over her knuckles and tell myself I’m just keeping her warm.

Hours blur. Night folds into morning and back again. I work from the chair, answer what can’t be dodged, ignore what can. I leave her side only to wash my face and find more coffee. She sleeps. The monitors tick their slow, patient metronome.

By the second afternoon I’m running on grit and caffeine when Markus slips in with a branded carrier bag.

“Delivery from Lils,” he says, setting it down. “Brand new. Don’t ask what she spent.”

“God help us,” I mutter.

He leans against the wall, eyes sliding to our joined hands. Smiles. “Care to explain how you arrived at my hospital with Alyssa Rose wrapped in a blanket like a Greek statue?”

I give him the short version. Doorbell. Fever. Blackout. He listens, then tips his head, that annoying big-brother wisdom creeping into place.

“You’re smitten,” he says lightly. “Haven’t seen you like this since Poppy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say too fast.

He nods at our hands. “Mm. Then why are you still here and not her family "

“She’s got Quinn and her older brother. Quinn doesn’t need to see her mum like this,” I say, more defensive than I meant. “Someone should be here.—” I stop, because if I finish the sentence, I’ll have to own it.

“To keep watch,” he finishes for me, kinder now. “You’re doing fine. Shout if you need me. Also—don’t shout at my staff again or I’m telling Mum.”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “Noted.”

He leaves just as Alyssa stirs.

~Alyssa~

The smell of antiseptic hits first. Then the lights. Too bright. Too white. I groan and throw an arm over my eyes. “Oh my God—turn them off.”

Blessedly, the room dims. My eyes adjust. Ceilings I don’t recognise; sheets that smell like nothing; a dull ache in my left hand.

I turn my head and see the cannula taped to my skin. IV running. Hospital.

I swallow a curse, lay my head back, and that’s when I feel it—someone holding my right hand.

I follow the warmth and find Greyson, sleep-creased and stubborn, still in last night’s clothes, thumb brushing over my knuckles like he’s trying to soothe the world back into place.

“Greyson.” My voice is a ghost. “What happened? How long?”

His relief is so naked it steams the room. “Welcome back, sweetheart. You blacked out. Fever spiked. You’ve been here two days.”

“Two… days?” Panic fires through me. “Quinn. Oh God—Quinn—”

“Hey.” He leans in, voice steady. “She’s with Tray. I’ve kept him updated. He came by yesterday while she was at school. She knows you’re poorly. She and Poppy have been thick as thieves after school—your brother is a converted enemy of soft play. Barely.”

I sag into the pillow, an ugly mix of relief and mortification loosening my spine. “You stayed?”

“Where else would I be?” he says simply.

Before I can answer, the door opens and a doctor steps in—a familiar face with Greyson’s eyes and a much more rested version of his mouth.

“Well, hello, sleeping beauty,” he smiles. “I’m Markus. Your doctor… and unfortunately his brother. How are you feeling?”

“Like utter rubbish.” I squint at Greyson. “Brother? Please tell me you didn’t storm the ward.”

Markus laughs before Greyson can protest. “He behaved. Shouted once. I let it slide. You were a mess.” He glances at the drip. “Tonsillitis brewing. Dehydration. The spike knocked you out. Fluids have helped. We’re waiting on labs. If they’re sensible, I’ll spring you.”

“Freedom?” I ask, shamelessly hopeful.

“Pending numbers and sensible behaviour,” he says, eyebrow doing doctor things.

“Thank you,” I tell him, meaning it more than it sounds.

He nods and slips out. The room is quieter without him.

I look back at Greyson. My voice comes out small. “I should be thanking you, too.”

“For what?”

“For… being here. If you hadn’t—this could’ve been so much worse. Quinn could’ve—” The sentence breaks as tears come, hot and humiliating. I hate crying. I hate hospitals. I hate the way my body betrays me.

He’s beside me before I finish the thought, careful of the IV as he slides onto the bed and pulls me into his chest. “Hey. I told you—when I’m around, you’re safe. You and Quinn. I’ll make sure you’re both alright.”

I let myself breathe against him. His T-shirt smells like clean cotton and coffee and something warm I can’t name. He rubs tiny circles between my shoulder blades until the storm passes.

When I finally pull back, I tip my head up to thank him—and something else happens instead.

I kiss him.

It’s soft at first, surprised, an apology and a promise in one breath. He goes very still, then his hand finds the back of my head and he kisses me back. It isn’t frantic; it isn’t a mistake. It’s warm and thorough and real, and it steals what little breath the fever left me.

We break, we breathe, his forehead rests against mine.

“You’re going to get sick,” I whisper, half scolding, half not wanting to move an inch.

He smiles, thumb brushing my cheek. “Sounds like a me problem.”

I laugh, shaky and ridiculous and lighter than I’ve felt in days. He glances at the IV, at my hospital bracelet, at me.

“Tempting as it is to forget where we are,” he says gently, “you’re not at full strength. Let me get you home first. Then you can bully me properly.”

A helpless smile. “Bossy.”

“Efficient,” he counters, eyes warm.

We settle again, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, the machines tutting their soft disapproval and then forgiving us. For the first time since the lobby, my body stops bracing for impact.

A knock. Markus reappears with a tablet and a smile that says he knows more than he’s saying.

“Good news,” he announces. “Numbers are sensible. Antibiotics, rest, fluids. No heroics. I’ll get discharge sorted. There’s a bag of clothes—mysteriously curated by someone with very expensive taste.” He tilts his head at Greyson. “You can play nurse, but not doctor.”

“Noted,” Greyson says dryly.

Markus heads for the door, then pauses. “Alyssa—if you feel faint, you tell him. If he fusses, call me and I’ll sedate him.”

I snort. “Deal.”

He’s gone again. We’re left with the hush you only get in hospitals and churches.

“Take me home?” I ask quietly.

“Always,” he says, as if the word has been waiting.

Three hours later, the world smells like my house again. Melissa has left flowers on the kitchen island and a note shaped like a lecture. Greyson takes the lecture, the flowers, the oversight, and just makes tea.

He settles me on the sofa with my duvet, doses me like a sensible criminal, and texts Tray, who replies with a photo of two grinning girls, faces painted, ice creams in hand, chaos incarnate. We both laugh, which feels like recovery.

When he tucks the duvet under my feet, I catch his wrist. “Stay for a bit?”

“As long as you like,” he says, and takes the armchair like a man pretending to behave.

I drift, wake, drift. He answers his phone in a whisper, argues about a koi pond in mime, sends what must be thirty emails with one hand. Every time I surface, he’s still there.

At some point I say, “I don’t remember saying thank you,” and he says, “You did,” and we both know I’ll keep saying it anyway.

As dusk deepens at the windows, my phone buzzes on the table.

Winston: Mum says brunch Sunday is now a “medical necessity for morale.”

Greyson reads it, groans, and looks at me. I grin, hoarse and unapologetic. “I can take her.”

He smiles, a little undone. “We’ll go together.”

I close my eyes again, and for once, nothing in the dark feels threatening. Somewhere in the quiet between his steady breathing and the kettle’s soft hiss, I realise that the line I didn’t expect to draw is already on the page.

It leads home.