Safe With You

Ready or Not (Part 1)

~ Alyssa ~

Two weeks.

That’s all that’s left until Markus induces me.

Two weeks until this little human decides to make their grand entrance and turn our world upside down—again.

At least, that’s the plan.

Right now, though, the nursery smells like baby powder and fresh paint, and it feels like everything is finally coming together.

Greyson’s on the floor, wrestling with the world’s most complicated crib while muttering things I’m fairly sure would make Markus revoke his uncle privileges.

Poppy’s perched beside him, pretending to “help” by handing him the wrong screws every few minutes.

Quinn and I are on laundry duty, folding impossibly tiny onesies and arranging them by colour in the dresser drawers.

It’s warm and calm, sunlight filtering through the soft white curtains.

The kind of day that makes me forget everything that came before.

“Okay,” Greyson says, sitting back with a sigh. “If this thing collapses when the baby sneezes, I’m suing the manufacturer.”

“Language,” I tease, holding up a miniature hat the size of my palm. “We’ve got impressionable ears in the room.”

He smirks. “Pretty sure they’ve heard worse from you, sweetheart.”

Quinn giggles. “Mummy said a bad word yesterday when she dropped her phone!”

“Traitor,” I mutter, folding another onesie.

Poppy gasps, eyes wide. “What word?”

Greyson points a warning finger. “Don’t even think about repeating it.”

The girls dissolve into laughter, and I can’t help but join them.

It feels good—normal.

For the first time in years, I have this: a home full of noise and laughter and love that doesn’t hurt.

I glance around the room, taking it all in.

The soft cream walls. The shelves lined with picture books. The framed prints Quinn and Poppy picked out—hand-drawn stars, baby animals, and one slightly crooked heart that reads Welcome, Baby Riley.

Greyson’s done so much of this himself, refusing to hire help because he “wanted to build it with his own hands.”

Now, watching him sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair messy, baby blanket draped over his shoulder like he’s already a dad of three, my heart feels too full.

“Greyson?” I say softly.

He looks up. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He frowns slightly. “For what?”

“For this,” I say, gesturing to the chaos. “For… all of it. For being exactly who you are.”

He smiles that slow, quiet smile that still makes my stomach flutter.

“Always,” he says simply, and that’s all there is to it.

Dinner’s a team effort—if you can call it that.

Greyson’s at the stove making pasta sauce while trying to stop Quinn from taste-testing every five seconds.

Poppy’s on salad duty, which mostly involves eating the cherry tomatoes before they reach the bowl.

I’m sitting at the kitchen island, folding bibs because I can’t sit still, my bump resting against the edge of the counter like it’s claimed its own space in the world.

“Smells good,” I say, inhaling the scent of garlic and basil.

Greyson grins over his shoulder. “I had an excellent teacher.”

I raise a brow. “Melissa taught you?”

He flicks a bit of sauce in my direction, laughing when I gasp. “Rude.”

The girls are giggling, Greyson’s humming along to the radio, and for one blissful second, everything feels exactly right.

Perfect.

And then—

I freeze.

It’s subtle at first. A strange pressure low in my abdomen, followed by a warmth that doesn’t belong.

“Alyssa?” Greyson’s voice cuts through the noise. “You okay?”

I blink, looking down.

There’s a spreading puddle beneath my feet.

Oh. Oh, no.

I meet his eyes, my voice calm—too calm.

“Greyson… my water just broke.”

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

Then chaos.

Poppy gasps. “The baby’s coming!”

Quinn squeals. “Now?!”

Greyson’s face goes from confusion to alarm to focus in three seconds flat.

“Right. Okay. It’s fine. We’ve trained for this.” He turns off the stove, grabs a towel, then looks back at me. “We haven’t trained for this.”

Despite the sudden ache rolling through my stomach, I laugh. “No, we really haven’t.”

He crosses to me in two long strides, one hand already at my back.

“Alright, sweetheart. Breathe. How far apart are the contractions?”

“Contractions?” I echo faintly. “We’re doing this already?”

“Apparently, yes.”

Quinn’s hopping in excitement. “Mummy, the baby’s coming! Should I pack the diaper bag?”

Poppy’s running in circles. “Where’s the hospital bag? Daddy, I can’t find it!”

Greyson looks like he’s trying very hard not to panic. “It’s fine—it’s upstairs. Poppy, go get it. Quinn, shoes. Both of you.”

They scatter like tiny, efficient chaos agents.

Another contraction hits—stronger this time—and I grip the counter, exhaling through it.

“Okay,” I hiss, “Markus is getting his induction early.”

Greyson chuckles, nervous but steady. “Guess someone’s impatient to meet us.”

When it passes, I glance up at him and laugh weakly. “We were supposed to have two more weeks.”

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, voice soft and full of awe. “Looks like they had other plans.”

The girls come charging back, Poppy dragging the hospital bag, Quinn clutching her favourite stuffed bunny.

“I got your snack bag too!” Quinn announces proudly. “Markus said hospitals have gross food.”

“Good thinking, baby,” I manage between breaths.

Greyson helps me toward the door, one arm around my waist, the other steadying me as I waddle my way to the car.

Behind us, the girls are buzzing with excitement, already debating baby names as if we haven’t decided them weeks ago.

And through the chaos, the laughter, the fear and the thrill, one thought cuts through everything:

This is it.

After everything—the heartbreak, the rebuilding, the fear—this is finally the moment our next chapter begins.

Ready or not.