Safe With You

Brothers Bonding

~Greyson~

The house is quiet, save for the hum of the patio heater and the low crackle of the fire pit outside.

My house isn’t big — nothing like Alyssa’s three-storey statement of success — but it’s warm. Lived in.

It’s the kind of house you build when you care more about laughter than square footage.

The garden’s dotted with fairy lights from Poppy’s last birthday party, still wrapped around the fence because I never got around to taking them down. Her scooter’s propped by the steps. There’s a faint chalk drawing on the paving stones that reads Daddy’s the best builder ever.

God, she’s a menace.

I’m sat out on the back patio with a beer in one hand, watching the city glow beyond the hedges. The stars are faint tonight — too much light pollution — but I can still see the faint wisp of clouds drifting by.

Inside, the kitchen’s lit warmly; the smell of curry hangs in the air. It’s the kind of scene that usually calms me, but tonight it just feels like background noise.

Because all I can think about is Alyssa.

The sound of her laugh, the way she says my name, the way she looks when she’s trying not to cry.

And that look on her face when she saw Quinn and Poppy together — proud, terrified, hopeful all at once.

I’m so far gone it’s ridiculous.

“Alright, romantic hero, scoot over,” Winston’s voice cuts through the quiet. He steps out of the kitchen with a tray in one hand and that same infuriating grin plastered across his face.

“Brought backup,” he adds as Markus follows him, still half in his hospital scrubs, hair sticking up like he’s been fighting gravity all day.

“Bloody hell, you two can’t take a hint?” I mutter, moving over on the bench.

“Not when you look like you’re about to write poetry to the moon,” Winston says cheerfully, dropping into a chair opposite me. “Besides, we brought food.”

“Leftover curry doesn’t count as food,” Markus says, taking a seat beside him. “That’s just recycling with extra steps.”

“Bite me,” Winston replies.

Markus grins and clinks his beer against mine. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous he can’t emotionally regulate like the rest of us.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Winston says. “That’s why you’ve been brooding for three days straight. Honestly, if you were any more obvious, you’d have her initials tattooed across your forehead.”

“Winston,” I warn.

“Fine, fine. I’ll behave.” He takes a sip of beer, smirking over the rim. “Mostly.”

Markus leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So. Alyssa Rose.”

I groan. “Not you too.”

“Grey, you can’t spend three nights sleeping in a hospital chair beside her, make breakfast with her kid and yours, and then pretend it’s just casual friendship.”

“She was ill,” I protest. “Someone had to make sure she was alright.”

“Right,” Winston says, deadpan. “And the kissing? Was that part of your medical duties?”

Markus chokes on his beer, laughing. “Christ, Winston, subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

I bury my face in my hands. “You two are unbearable.”

Winston just grins wider. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you,” I correct.

Markus’s voice softens slightly. “He’s right, though. You care about her. You’ve been different since you met her — calmer. Lighter, somehow. It’s not a bad thing, Grey.”

I stare out at the garden. The fairy lights flicker faintly in the dark. “She’s been through hell, Markus. You can see it in her eyes. I can’t be another complication in her life.”

“Then don’t be,” he says simply.

“It’s not that easy.”

“It never is,” he admits. “But you deserve to be happy, and so does she. You don’t fix people by standing at a distance, Grey. Sometimes, you fix them by just being there.”

I glance over at him, trying to find the words, but Winston beats me to it — of course he does.

“Translation: stop acting like you’re in a bloody Jane Austen novel and just admit you fancy her.”

“Winston—”

“Greyson,” he interrupts, smirking. “I’ve known you my entire life. I can tell when you’re falling for someone. It’s painful to watch, mate.”

Markus laughs, nodding in agreement. “He’s not wrong.”

“I’m not falling for her,” I insist — too quickly, too defensively.

Winston’s grin widens. “And now we’ve hit denial. Step two in the Greyson Riley Emotional Spiral.”

“Step one being?” Markus asks, amused.

“Brooding,” Winston replies without hesitation. “Step three is building her a house or some shit.”

That earns a genuine laugh out of me, and it feels good — like something inside loosens. “You two are idiots.”

“Maybe,” Winston says, leaning back in his chair. “But we’re idiots who want you to stop punishing yourself for caring about someone. You’ve been Dad and Mum and builder and boss for years. Let someone else hold a bit of that weight for once.”

The words hit somewhere deep.

I look out again, past the garden fence to where the city fades into the hills. The air smells faintly of rain and wood smoke.

“You didn’t see her when she was out cold,” I say quietly. “She looked… fragile. And I’ve never been good at fragile.”

Markus shakes his head. “You’re not giving her enough credit. She’s not fragile — she’s survived. There’s a difference.”

That sits with me longer than I want it to.

Because he’s right. She’s tougher than anyone I’ve ever met — but I’ve also seen the fear that sits just beneath the surface, the kind she hides behind control and success.

“Maybe she doesn’t need someone to fix her,” Markus adds. “Maybe she just needs someone who won’t leave when things get hard.”

“Which you’re good at,” Winston says between bites of naan. “You’re annoyingly loyal. Like a golden retriever with muscles.”

“Cheers for that,” I mutter.

He grins. “It’s a compliment.”

I shake my head, but the corners of my mouth lift anyway. “You two should go before I regret letting you in.”

“See, now that’s gratitude,” Winston says, standing and stretching. “Markus, you coming? Or are you staying here to give more brotherly wisdom?”

Markus smirks. “Nah, I think he’s heard enough for one night.” He claps a hand on my shoulder as he stands. “Just think about it, yeah? You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

When they’re gone, I’m left with the crackle of the fire pit and the sound of the wind moving through the trees.

I look around at the house — the soft light spilling from the kitchen, the toys scattered across the deck, the faint echo of laughter from when my family last filled this space.

It’s not perfect. It’s not grand. But it’s home.

And for the first time, I can picture someone else here.

Her laugh in this kitchen. Quinn and Poppy drawing with chalk on the patio.

Alyssa barefoot, hair messy, stealing my hoodie while pretending she doesn’t need me.

The image is so sharp it almost hurts.

I close my eyes and lean back in the chair, letting the night wrap around me.

Maybe Markus is right. Maybe happiness isn’t about fixing things. Maybe it’s about finding the courage to let something good stay.

For now, though, I’ll just sit here — surrounded by fairy lights, silence, and the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to my hoodie — and admit, at least to myself, that I’m already in too deep.