Safe With You

The Calm After Chaos

~Alyssa~

By the time we arrive at Greyson’s house, the sky’s already beginning to fade into dusky pink. Quinn and Poppy are in the backseat, giggling about something I can’t quite catch, probably another secret the two of them have sworn each other to.

Greyson glances at me from the driver’s seat, his arm resting casually on the wheel, the soft gold light catching the edge of his jaw. I shouldn’t still be staring at him, not after everything that’s happened this week — hospital, break-in, chaos — but I can’t seem to help myself.

The man makes existing look effortless.

His house comes into view at the top of a small hill, similar in size to mine but softer around the edges — big enough for family, but lived-in, warm. The sort of home you can tell was built for laughter, not just for show.

The girls bolt out of the car the second he parks, sprinting to the front door with matching squeals.

Greyson chuckles. “Remind me to thank whoever made sugar-free sweets. I dread to think what they’d be like otherwise.”

I grin. “You’d have two miniature hurricanes tearing through the house.”

“Already do, love,” he says, opening the door for me. “They just have curls.”

Inside, the scent of something savoury fills the air — herbs, roasted garlic, fresh bread. My stomach growls in betrayal.

Greyson catches the sound and smirks. “Hungry, are we?”

“Starving, actually,” I admit. “You’ve been hiding culinary skills from me, Riley.”

He shrugs, feigning modesty. “I dabble. Used to cook a lot before work took over. Poppy’s my best critic — brutally honest, mind you.”

“Sounds like Quinn,” I laugh. “She told me last week my soup ‘tasted like sadness.’”

We both burst out laughing, and for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s easy. Unforced.

The girls settle themselves at the kitchen island, whispering conspiratorially while Greyson moves around the kitchen like he was born there — sleeves rolled up, hands sure, completely at ease. I can’t help watching him.

He catches me looking once, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You could help, you know.”

“I could,” I say, leaning against the counter, “but I’m enjoying the view.”

“Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, trying not to smile.

Dinner is chaos in the best possible way. The girls chatter non-stop, telling stories with mouths full of pasta, Greyson pretending to be scandalised every time they interrupt him.

When Quinn calls him “Daddy Greyson” by accident, everyone freezes — everyone except him. He just laughs softly, brushing it off like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says with a wink, and Quinn grins so wide I swear her cheeks might burst.

It hits me harder than I expect — seeing her that happy, that safe. For a moment, I can almost picture it: this table, this warmth, this life.

A world where Quinn doesn’t have to know what fear feels like.

After dinner, the girls insist on a movie night. We pile onto Greyson’s oversized sofa, a blanket fortress around us, popcorn flying everywhere within five minutes.

Poppy curls into his left side; Quinn slots perfectly into mine. Somewhere in the middle, our hands brush — once, twice — before settling together on the blanket, fingers twined without even thinking about it.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word, but the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me everything I need to know.

The movie plays, but I barely register it. I’m too aware of him beside me — the warmth of his thigh against mine, the quiet rumble of his laugh, the steady rise and fall of his chest when he breathes.

When Quinn finally falls asleep halfway through, Greyson scoops her up effortlessly, carrying her upstairs to the guest room beside Poppy’s. I follow, helping to tuck them both in.

“Sweet dreams, baby,” I whisper, kissing Quinn’s forehead.

Greyson does the same for Poppy, and when we step out into the hallway, we both pause. The door closes with a soft click behind us, sealing the quiet.

The house feels different now — slower, softer. Just us.

~Greyson~

The girls are asleep. The world feels still. And Alyssa’s standing there, bathed in the faint golden light from the hallway lamp, looking at me with those ocean-blue eyes that undo every bit of composure I’ve ever had.

She’s wearing one of my jumpers. She borrowed it earlier when she spilled water down her top, and I haven’t been able to think straight since. It hangs just past her hips, and I have to remind myself to keep breathing.

I clear my throat. “Drink?”

“Please,” she says, following me downstairs.

I pour us both a glass of red wine, trying to focus on the motion instead of how close she’s standing. She leans against the counter, watching me with a small smile, and I swear she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“So,” I say, handing her the glass, “how’s the world of fashion chaos today?”

“Controlled chaos,” she corrects. “Tray’s been rebuilding AQ’s front entrance all day, bless him. And your team’s upgrades… they’re incredible, Greyson. You didn’t have to go that far.”

I lean against the counter beside her. “I wanted to. I don’t like seeing you scared.”

Her eyes flicker down to her glass, then back up to mine. “I wasn’t just scared, Greyson. I was terrified. I thought I’d never stop feeling that way.”

“And now?”

She exhales slowly. “Now… I’m not sure what I feel. But I know I feel safe when I’m here.”

That does something to me. Something I can’t quite put into words.

I reach out, brushing my fingers along her jaw, and she doesn’t flinch — just leans into the touch like she’s been waiting for it.

~Alyssa~

The air feels heavier now. Charged.

He’s looking at me like I’m something worth memorising, and I can’t stand the distance between us anymore.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I set my glass down and step into him, close enough to feel his breath against my skin.

“Greyson…”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He exhales sharply, like the words knocked the air from his chest. “You’re not the only one, love.”

And then he’s kissing me.

It’s not tentative — it’s desperate, hungry, the kind of kiss that steals the ground from under you. His hand slides to the back of my neck, the other settling at my waist, pulling me in until there’s not an inch left between us.

I melt against him, fingers curling into his shirt, feeling his heartbeat hammering against mine. The taste of wine lingers between us, sweet and dizzying.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. “That was…”

He presses his forehead to mine. “Long overdue.”

We both laugh softly, the sound low and intimate, before he kisses me again — slower this time, deeper, every bit of it a promise he doesn’t need to say aloud.

The couch becomes too small, too far from where this is heading.

He lifts me before I can protest, his hands firm under my thighs as I instinctively wrap my legs around him, holding on like the world might fall away if I let go.

“Greyson—”

“Shh,” he murmurs against my neck. “You’re safe, Alyssa. Always.”

My breath catches at the words — the same ones he said the night of the break-in — and suddenly it’s not just desire burning through me; it’s relief, trust, everything I didn’t think I could feel again.

He carries me down the hall, the house silent except for the soft sound of our breathing and the faint creak of the floorboards.

At his bedroom door, he pauses just long enough to look at me, like he’s asking for permission without saying a word.

I nod.

He smiles — that small, crooked smile that makes my chest ache — and nudges the door open with his foot.

The room is dark, the only light spilling from the hall.

He sets me down gently, his hands still at my waist, his eyes searching mine.

And then, without a word, he closes the door behind us.