Safe With You

I shouldn't...I can't

~Alyssa~.

The house is silent again.

It always feels too quiet after they leave.

Quinn’s laughter still seems to echo down the hallway, and I swear I can still hear Poppy’s giggles floating up from the lounge — two tiny whirlwinds who’ve somehow turned my home upside down in less than a day.

Now, there’s nothing but the low hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock. The stillness presses against me, heavy and familiar.

I move through the rooms slowly, tidying away the remains of breakfast — half-finished tea, pancake crumbs, the glittery chaos of the girls’ “art show.” Each trace feels like proof that something good happened here, something rare.

Greyson’s mug is still on the counter. His fingerprints faintly visible on the glass. I catch myself staring at it far too long before sighing and sliding it into the dishwasher.

Get a grip, Alyssa.

But I can’t quite shake the warmth that’s settled somewhere deep in my chest.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this — so easy, so… normal.

For a few hours, it had felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life.

One where laughter came easily, where the smell of pancakes replaced antiseptic and coffee cups, where Quinn had someone else to make her smile, and I didn’t feel like the world was resting on my shoulders alone.

I sit on the sofa and close my eyes.

It’s ridiculous, but I let myself picture it — just for a second.

Greyson in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, pretending to lecture the girls about spilling flour everywhere while Poppy and Quinn dissolve into giggles.

His low laugh filling the house.

The four of us tangled on the sofa under a mountain of blankets, a film playing no one’s actually watching.

Poppy calling me “Alyssa” with that shy smile of hers.

Quinn tugging at Greyson’s sleeve, asking if he’ll help her build another fort.

And me — not rushing, not managing, not surviving. Just being.

The image is so vivid it hurts. A world where everything fits. Where I fit.

I open my eyes, and the ache hits like a punch to the ribs.

Because that’s not my world. That kind of life doesn’t belong to people like me.

The last time I let someone this close, it nearly killed me. Literally.

I can still feel it if I think too hard — the flash of anger, the sting of tears, the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears while I prayed the baby inside me was still alive. That night replays like a film I can’t turn off.

No.

No, I can’t do this. I won’t.

My hands are shaking before I even realise it. I grab a cushion, press it to my chest, and focus on my breathing until the edges of the panic start to blur.

I remind myself who I am now.

Alyssa Rose — CEO, mother, survivor.

I don’t need saving. I don’t need softness.

Greyson is… kind. Too kind. The kind of man who could make me forget how dangerous it is to hope for more.

And that’s exactly why I have to stop this before it starts.

The thought of Poppy and Quinn laughing together should make me smile. Instead, it terrifies me. Because if I let them get too close, if I let myself get too close, it won’t just be my heart on the line next time. It’ll be Quinn’s too.

I get up, pacing the living room, trying to shake the thought loose. My chest still feels too tight.

Work. I need work. Something I can control.

I grab my tablet and open the new designs for Lillian’s prom dress. The sharp lines, the precision — it’s grounding. Familiar. Safe.

For a while, the sketching helps. It always does. Until my phone lights up beside me.

Greyson: Made it home in one piece. Poppy’s already plotting her next “movie night.” Hope you’re resting.

I stare at the message for a long moment. Then type, delete, type again.

Alyssa: Glad you both got home safe. Tell Poppy she’s welcome any time.

I hesitate, then hit send before I can second-guess it.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Greyson: Careful, she’ll hold you to that.

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. I cover my mouth, shaking my head.

He’s too easy to talk to. Too gentle. Too… dangerous.

I toss the phone aside, force my attention back to my sketches. The lines blur, the dress shape refuses to form. All I can think about is the look on his face when he was flipping pancakes, the way his voice softened when he said my name.

God help me, I wanted to believe in that version of life — the one with warmth and laughter and someone else’s heartbeat beside mine.

But that world isn’t for me.

I remind myself of that over and over until the ache in my chest dulls to something I can live with.

I close my tablet, sit back, and look around the quiet house.

Everything’s neat again. Calm. Controlled.

Exactly how I wanted it.

So why does it suddenly feel so unbearably empty?