Safe With You

Morning light

~Alyssa~

It’s the warmth that wakes me first.

That and the weight of an arm draped across my waist, heavy and comforting.

For a moment, I don’t move — I just breathe, letting my body remember what peace feels like. The soft rise and fall of his chest against my back, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed to my spine.

Then memory trickles in.

The wine. The kisses.

The way he carried me to bed like I weighed nothing.

My cheeks flush as I blink into the soft morning light spilling through the curtains.

Greyson’s arm tightens unconsciously when I shift, pulling me closer, his breath warm against my shoulder. I glance down — the duvet covers us both, but I can feel the bare heat of skin against skin beneath it.

Oh, God.

I pull the edge of the duvet down just enough to peek. My breath catches.

There’s a faint constellation of marks trailing down my collarbone, blooming pink against my skin. My fingertips brush over them, remembering his hands, his mouth — the way he’d said my name like a prayer.

Turning slightly, I catch sight of him in the dim light.

He’s still asleep, hair a mess, lips parted slightly. The morning sun glances across his back, highlighting the scratches I must’ve left there — long, faint red lines that make my heart race and ache all at once.

His neck bears the evidence too — soft bruises that are equal parts tenderness and wildness. The sight makes me both mortified and giddy.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

“Bloody hell, Alyssa,” I whisper to myself. “What have you done?”

Greyson stirs then, his voice still rough with sleep. “Talking to yourself again, love?”

I freeze. “You’re awake?”

“Have been for a bit,” he mumbles, his voice low and lazy. “Didn’t want to move. You looked too peaceful.”

“That’s one word for it.” I laugh quietly, sinking back against the pillow.

He opens one eye, a slow grin spreading across his face as he notices where my gaze lingers. “Admiring your handiwork, are we?”

My face burns. “You’re insufferable.”

He leans in, kissing my shoulder softly. “And yet you’re still here.”

“Unfortunately,” I mutter, earning a low chuckle that vibrates through my skin.

For a while, we just lie there — wrapped up in each other, the world outside quiet and distant.

But reality eventually seeps in.

The girls. School. Breakfast. Life.

I reluctantly slide out of bed, clutching the duvet around me as I search for my clothes scattered somewhere on the floor.

Greyson props himself up on one elbow, watching me with an amused smile. “You know, if you wanted another reason to stay in bed—”

“Greyson,” I warn, throwing a pillow at him.

He catches it effortlessly, laughing. “Worth a try.”

I roll my eyes and disappear into the en suite, shutting the door on his grin.

By the time I emerge, hair brushed and wearing one of his oversized T-shirts over leggings, he’s already dressed — jeans, plain white tee, looking unfairly good for a man who’s clearly had less than five hours’ sleep.

He glances up from buttoning his watch. “Coffee’s on.”

“You, Mr Riley, are dangerously efficient.”

“I try.”

We’re both halfway through our first sips of coffee when the unmistakable sound of tiny footsteps comes thundering down the hall.

“Daddy! Mummy!”

I nearly choke.

The door bursts open before I can even react. Poppy and Quinn tumble into the room like a whirlwind — hair wild, matching pyjamas, beaming smiles.

“Good morning!” Quinn sings, launching herself at me.

“Morning, baby,” I laugh, catching her mid-air. “You’re supposed to knock first!”

“But it’s morning!” she argues, as though that somehow exempts her from manners.

Before I can respond, Poppy stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide. I can see the moment she realises what she’s just said — Mummy.

Her hands fly to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean— I just—”

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching down to her level. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Her lower lip wobbles. “I didn’t want to make you sad.”

My heart squeezes. Without thinking, I pull her into a hug, holding her tight.

“You didn’t make me sad,” I whisper into her hair. “You made me happy. You can call me whatever you want, okay?”

She nods against my shoulder, and when I pull back, she’s smiling again — that pure, innocent kind of joy that only children have. I think thus is the first time she's really heard herself say it, she's been calking me Mummy for weeks. I laugh to myself.

Greyson’s leaning in the doorway, watching us with a look that nearly undoes me. Pride. Affection. Something deeper.

Quinn tugs on his arm. “Daddy Greyson, can we have pancakes?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Daddy Greyson, is it?”

She giggles. “You make the best ones.”

He looks at me, feigning despair. “You realise we’ve created two little dictators, right?”

I grin. “And they’re adorable. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Not one,” he agrees, scooping both girls up under his arms like sacks of sugar as they squeal with delight.

~Greyson~

The morning’s chaos is the kind that makes you forget everything else.

The kitchen’s filled with laughter, batter splatters, and the smell of pancakes that may or may not be burning. Poppy’s in charge of strawberries, Quinn’s on syrup duty, and Alyssa’s pretending to supervise but is mostly just stealing bites straight from the pan.

“Oi!” I protest as she nicks another piece off the spatula. “That was a perfectly good pancake!”

She shrugs innocently. “Quality control.”

“More like theft.”

“Semantics,” she says, smirking.

The girls dissolve into giggles, and for a moment, it feels like the kind of Sunday morning I used to dream about — the kind that doesn’t need perfection to feel right.

When breakfast finally makes it to the table, the four of us dig in like we haven’t eaten in days. Syrup everywhere. Laughter bouncing off every wall.

I glance up midway through a bite and catch Alyssa watching me, a small smile playing at her lips.

“What?” I ask, wiping at my mouth.

“Nothing,” she says softly. “Just… this.” She gestures around the table. “It feels nice.”

I know exactly what she means.

By the time the plates are cleared, it’s nearly time for the school run. The girls race upstairs to brush their teeth and grab their bags while Alyssa helps me tidy the kitchen.

Her hand brushes mine as she passes me a dish, and I swear, even after last night, that simple touch still sends a spark through me.

“Thanks for letting us stay,” she says, stacking plates. “It’s been… good for them. For me.”

“You never have to thank me,” I tell her. “You and Quinn — you belong here as much as we do.”

She glances at me, and for a second, I think she might say something — something real — but then Quinn’s voice echoes down the stairs.

“Mummy, I can’t find my shoes!”

Alyssa laughs, wiping her hands. “Story of my life. Back in a sec.”

I watch her go, and something deep inside me settles — that quiet certainty that this, right here, is what I want.

The girls come bounding down moments later, half-ready and still full of energy.

Poppy’s jumper’s on backwards, Quinn’s hair is lopsided, and somehow they’re both convinced it’s fine.

“Come on, you two,” I say, crouching to fix them up. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”

“But Daddy, we need snacks for the car!” Poppy insists.

“And juice!” Quinn adds.

Alyssa and I exchange a look — that parental telepathy that comes out of nowhere but feels perfectly natural.

“I’ll grab them,” she says.

“I’ll wrangle these two.”

“Good luck,” she laughs, disappearing into the kitchen.

By the time she returns, I’ve somehow managed to get both girls zipped, tied, brushed, and ready to go. Barely.

Alyssa hands them their snacks with a proud grin. “You’re both sorted. Off you go, little tornadoes.”

The girls charge out the door, racing to the car.

Alyssa lingers for a moment, turning to me with that same soft smile from earlier. “I like this,” she admits quietly. “Us. Them. All of it.”

“Me too,” I say. “More than I thought I could.”

She hesitates, then steps forward, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. “See you tonight?”

I nod, trying not to grin too obviously. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

And as she walks out to join the girls, sunlight spilling through the doorway, I can’t help but think — for the first time in years, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.