Safe With You

The Morning After

~ Elle ~

The first thing I register is light.

Too much light.

Painfully bright, why-is-the-sun-so-rude light.

The second thing I register is that this is not my ceiling.

The paint is white, the room smells expensive, and the bed — oh God, this bed — is definitely not mine. The duvet feels like it costs more than my rent.

Then I notice it — the arm.

A very male, very solid arm draped across my waist, holding me close.

My heart skips a beat, and my brain starts doing cartwheels.

I’m in an oversized jumper that smells like cedar and soap — not mine — and my dress from last night is on the floor in a sad puddle of regret.

Oh no.

Slowly, I turn my head… and there he is.

Winston bloody Riley.

Fast asleep. Shirtless. Beautifully shirtless.

His skin is marked with faint red lines and love bites — my marks.

Panic surges through me so fast I nearly fall out of the bed.

My pulse is pounding, my breathing’s erratic, and every memory of the night before starts flashing like a slideshow I really don’t want to see right now.

Dancing.

Laughing.

His hands on my hips.

The taste of champagne.

The taste of him.

Oh God, I’m going to die.

I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest, trying to form words. “I— we— what—”

A low, sleepy voice cuts through my meltdown.

“If you’re trying to escape, you might want to untangle yourself first.”

I freeze.

He’s awake.

Winston blinks at me, eyes still heavy with sleep and amusement. “Morning, trouble.”

I gape. “You— you’re too calm about this!”

He stretches lazily, one arm behind his head. “Because there’s nothing to panic about.”

“Nothing to—? Winston, I’m in your bed. Wearing your jumper. There are claw marks on your back!”

He smirks. “Evidence of a great night, I’d say.”

I grab a pillow and throw it at him. “You’re impossible!”

He catches it easily, grin widening. “You’re adorable when you panic.”

“Stop saying that!” I snap, standing up too fast. The room tilts, and I have to grab the bedpost to steady myself. “Oh my God, Alyssa’s going to kill me. You’re Greyson’s brother!”

He gets up, crossing the distance between us in two slow steps.

“Elle.”

“No. No, don’t Elle me. This is— I mean, we— I can’t—”

Before I can spiral further, he gently cups my face in his hands. His touch is warm, grounding.

“Breathe,” he murmurs.

“I am breathing,” I whisper, even though I absolutely am not.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I am not—”

And then he kisses me.

It’s not rough, not hungry like last night — it’s slow, deliberate, a quiet reassurance in the middle of my chaos.

Soft lips, steady hands, a heartbeat pressed against mine.

And just like that — the panic fades.

My fists, which were pressed against his chest, relax and slide up around his neck almost on instinct.

I kiss him back.

It’s stupid, and reckless, and it feels incredible.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a smirk playing on his lips, but his voice is softer now. “Better?”

I blink up at him, completely thrown. “You can’t just… do that.”

“Worked though, didn’t it?” he says, voice teasing. “You’re not panicking anymore.”

I glare, but he’s right. My heart’s still racing, but for entirely different reasons now.

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.

“You’re beautiful,” he counters.

And just like that, I’m speechless. Again.

~ Winston ~

I didn’t mean to kiss her.

Well… maybe I did.

Watching Elle spiral was like watching a whirlwind of caffeine and chaos in real time — pacing, ranting, clutching the duvet like it owed her money. And for a moment, she looked genuinely frightened.

So I did the first thing that came to mind.

I kissed her.

Now she’s staring at me like I’ve short-circuited her entire nervous system.

Honestly? She’s even more gorgeous like this — hair messy, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

She crosses her arms, trying for composure. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” I say, stepping back with a grin, “you have breakfast. And stop overthinking.”

“I’m not overthinking,” she mutters.

“You’re literally vibrating with thoughts.”

She sighs dramatically, dragging her hands down her face. “This cannot be happening. I can’t have slept with you.”

I tilt my head. “You definitely did.”

“Winston!”

“Elle.”

Her glare could start a fire. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m just appreciating the moment,” I reply lightly. “You, me, mild chaos — feels right.”

She groans. “You’re such a Riley.”

“Compliment accepted.”

When she throws another pillow at me, I catch it midair. “For the record, you’re very cute when you’re angry.”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Stop making it so easy.”

She freezes — then bursts out laughing. “You are unbelievable.”

“Genetics,” I say with a grin. “Mum’s fault.”

“God help your poor mother.”

“She’s thrilled, actually. Wait until she finds out you’re the reason I was smiling at breakfast.”

Her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare!”

I lean closer. “Try me.”

She narrows her eyes, then huffs and grabs my jumper from the floor. “I’m leaving before I kill you.”

“Coffee first?”

“No!”

“Fine. See you later, trouble.”

She stops at the door, turns, and mutters, “You’re still infuriatingly handsome.”

And before I can respond, she’s gone — hair flying, heels clicking, the ghost of her kiss still lingering on my lips.

I flop back onto the bed, smiling like an i***t.

Yeah.

This is going to get interesting.

~ Elle ~

The room is too quiet after he kisses me.

My brain, usually full of words and caffeine, feels… blank.

Winston just stands there, grinning that infuriating grin — all lazy confidence and dishevelled charm. The kind of smile that says yeah, I know what I’m doing.

“You can breathe now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my jaw.

“I hate you,” I mumble.

He chuckles, low and smug. “No, you don’t.”

And damn him — he’s right.

I collapse back onto the bed, still clutching the blanket. “You’re such a menace, you know that?”

“Occupational hazard of being me,” he says, stretching. “Now, come on. Breakfast.”

“What? No. I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts, already scooping me up in his arms before I can argue. “And before you start threatening my life again — no, I’m not letting you starve.”

“Winston! Put me down!”

He grins, entirely unbothered. “You’d just trip over one of Quinn’s tiaras on the way down anyway.”

~ Winston ~

She protests the whole way downstairs — elbows lightly against my chest, muttering curses that sound far too adorable to take seriously.

By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, she’s gone quiet, staring at the scene in front of her.

The Riley living room — or as Greyson calls it, the battlefield.

Toys. Everywhere.

Glitter embedded in the carpet. Princess dresses draped over the sofa. A stuffed unicorn hanging precariously from a lampshade.

Elle looks around, wide-eyed. “What… what happened here?”

I set her down gently, trying not to laugh. “Welcome to the house of an uncle who unwillingly became his nieces’ unpaid babysitter.”

She blinks at a pile of dolls sitting in a teacup circle. “Unpaid? I’d demand hazard pay.”

“I tried. Greyson just laughed and dropped off more glitter.”

Elle smirks, finally relaxing a little. “I bet he did.”

“Coffee?” I ask, heading for the kitchen.

“Yes, please. Make it strong enough to wake the dead.”

I chuckle and grab two mugs. “So… you’re not running for the door anymore. Progress.”

She sits on a stool, still wearing my jumper, legs tucked beneath her. “Only because I’m still processing. You’re a lot to process.”

I glance at her over my shoulder. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t push it,” she says, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.

We eat quietly — toast, eggs, strong coffee, easy conversation that somehow makes the silence between words even louder. Every time I look at her, she blushes. Every time she catches me looking, I grin.

The air hums with that kind of tension that doesn’t need explaining — it just is.

~ Elle ~

Breakfast shouldn’t feel like this.

It’s too domestic. Too normal.

The sound of the kettle, the smell of coffee, the faint hum of some song playing from his phone — it feels like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like we’ve always done this.

And that thought alone is enough to make my heart trip over itself.

He leans on the counter across from me, watching quietly as I toy with my fork. “You’re thinking too much again.”

“I’m not,” I lie.

“You are. I can see it. You get this little crease right here—” he reaches forward, brushing his thumb between my brows, “—whenever you’re overanalyzing.”

I swat his hand away half-heartedly. “Stop being observant. It’s annoying.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I sigh, setting down my fork. “Winston…”

“Hmm?”

“Last night—”

He cuts me off softly. “Was perfect.”

I stare at him, unsure how to respond. “You don’t even remember all of it.”

“Maybe not the details,” he admits, “but I remember how it felt.”

My stomach twists, not in a bad way — just… complicated.

He steps closer. “You don’t have to overthink this. Not right now.”

“And what happens when the sun’s fully up?” I whisper. “When we’re sober and awake and pretending this didn’t—”

He doesn’t let me finish.

He kisses me again — deeper this time, slower, like he’s trying to erase every word that isn’t the truth.

I melt before I can stop myself, my hands sliding into his hair, pulling him closer.

The world tilts. My heart forgets how to beat properly.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“This is insane,” I whisper, though my fingers are still tangled in his shirt.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, lips brushing mine. “But you’re still here.”

I can’t argue with that.

~ Winston ~

She looks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright — and I swear the room feels smaller, warmer.

I brush my thumb along her jaw again, watching her shiver slightly. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

“Who said I was deciding?” she teases weakly.

“There’s that sarcasm I like,” I murmur. “I was starting to miss it.”

She smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

Before she can roll her eyes, I kiss her again. Longer this time.

She sighs against my mouth, and that’s it — all the self-control I had left evaporates.

Without breaking the kiss, I scoop her up once more.

“Winston—” she starts, laughing breathlessly, but I just shake my head.

“Shh. You talk too much.”

I carry her back up the stairs, her arms looping around my neck, the sound of her laughter fading into soft silence.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind us.

And for once, there’s no panic.

No teasing.

No second-guessing.

Just her.

And the quiet certainty that this — whatever this is — was inevitable.