Safe With You

Why does this feel so normal?

~Alyssa~

When I wake, the first thing I notice is warmth — not just from the blanket, but from the weight draped over my waist.

It takes me a second to register the steady rise and fall beside me, the soft sound of breathing that isn’t mine.

Greyson.

He’s still here.

He’s lying half on his side, arm slung loosely around me, his t-shirt rumpled, hair a mess. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from where he must’ve been pressed against the sofa cushion. He looks infuriatingly peaceful, the kind of peaceful I’ve been chasing for years.

For a brief, stupid moment, I just lie there watching him — the way his lashes rest against his skin, the faint stubble along his jaw, the rhythm of his breathing. He doesn’t look like the man who builds skyscrapers and billion-pound interiors. He looks human. Kind. Real.

The guilt hits next — hard and sharp.

He stayed the whole night. Because of me. Because I scared the life out of him.

I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, and look around the room. The blanket fort still stands, though lopsided now. Two little bodies are still fast asleep underneath it, tangled in duvets and fairy lights.

For once, everything feels… still. Safe.

My voice is barely a whisper. “What are you doing to me, Greyson Riley?”

By the time he wakes, I’m in the kitchen making tea, hair tied up, wearing my oversized hoodie. Melissa has already been and gone, leaving breakfast prepped on the counter and a note that says, “Don’t you dare lift a finger today.”

“Morning,” Greyson says, voice rough with sleep as he leans against the doorway. His t-shirt is creased, jeans low on his hips, hair sticking up in five different directions. He looks like sin and Sunday mornings rolled into one.

“Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual while pouring the tea. “Sleep alright?”

“About as well as a six-foot-two man can on a two-foot sofa.”

I smirk, sliding his mug across the island. “You could’ve gone home.”

“Didn’t want to.”

That hits harder than I expect. I look away, pretending to fuss with the kettle.

He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his mug. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” I admit. “Still tired, but not like I’ve been dragged through hell backwards.”

He chuckles. “That’s a vivid image.”

Before I can reply, the sound of little feet thumping across the floor fills the room.

“Mummy!” Quinn appears first, all messy curls and pyjamas, followed closely by Poppy rubbing her eyes. “We made it all the way through the night in our fort!”

I crouch to their level. “You did? That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you both.”

Poppy beams. “Daddy fell asleep too!”

I glance at Greyson. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Traitor,” he mutters, earning a giggle from both girls.

They pile onto the sofa with bowls of cereal, arguing over which cartoon to watch, their laughter filling the house. It’s chaos — pure, wonderful chaos.

For a moment, Greyson and I just stand there, side by side, watching them.

“They’re good together,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “They really are.”

There’s a pause — a soft, loaded silence that hums between us.

“You know,” he says eventually, eyes still on the girls, “I can’t remember the last time I had a morning like this.”

“Messy?” I tease.

“Peaceful,” he corrects gently.

Something in his tone makes me glance at him. He’s looking at Poppy, but there’s a flicker of something deeper behind his eyes — a loneliness I recognise too well.

I want to say something, but the words don’t come. Instead, I pour more tea, hand him the mug, and lean against the counter beside him.

For a while, we don’t speak. We just exist — two parents, two cups of tea, the sound of children’s laughter echoing through a house that suddenly feels too full and not full enough all at once.

Later, while the girls are busy turning the living room into a craft explosion, Greyson insists on helping me tidy the kitchen.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him.

“I know. I want to.”

I hand him a tea towel, rolling my eyes. “Persistent man.”

He grins. “Takes one to know one.”

The sunlight catches on the blood-red streaks in my hair, and I see his gaze linger a moment too long. My cheeks warm. I turn to rinse a cup just to have something to do with my hands.

“So,” he says after a pause, “what happens now?”

I glance over my shoulder. “With what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely — between us, the girls, the mess, the strange calm that’s settled over the last 24 hours. “You, me, whatever this is.”

My heart skips. “You tell me.”

He exhales, slow. “I think… we take it one step at a time.”

“Good,” I say, pretending my pulse isn’t hammering in my ears. “Because I don’t think I could handle another dramatic week.”

He chuckles. “You’ve had enough excitement to last a year.”

We clean in comfortable silence after that. Every now and then, our hands brush — small, accidental touches that feel far too deliberate.

When the kitchen’s spotless, the girls come running in, demanding pancakes.

“Your turn, Chef,” I say, handing Greyson the pan.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re trusting me with breakfast?”

“Trust might be a strong word,” I tease, leaning back against the counter as the girls chant his name like it’s a competition.

He laughs, the sound bright and easy. “Alright, alright. Pancakes it is.”

Watching him there — sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes like he belongs here — something inside me settles. For the first time in a long time, the house doesn’t feel too big. It feels full. Alive.

After breakfast, the girls disappear upstairs to play dress-up, leaving us in the quiet again.

Greyson sips the last of his tea, eyes soft. “They’re good kids.”

“They are,” I agree. “Strong-willed. Independent. I wonder where they get that from.”

He smirks. “Can’t imagine.”

I laugh, then look at him properly. “Thank you. For staying. For… everything.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. Just— get better.”

“I am,” I say, and for once, I mean it.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Familiar. Like we’ve both finally exhaled after holding our breath for too long.

~Greyson~

I leave later than I should.

Poppy’s half-asleep in the passenger seat before we even reach the gates, her new friendship bracelet — courtesy of Quinn — clutched in her hand.

I glance once in the mirror. The house is still visible, sun spilling through the front windows.

There’s a pull in my chest I don’t want to think too hard about.

Because somewhere between carrying her into the hospital and flipping pancakes in her kitchen, I stopped worrying about boundaries.

And started realising just how dangerous it’s going to be trying not to fall for her.