Safe With You

Fractures Beneath the Calm

~ Alyssa ~

The smell of pancakes and coffee fills the kitchen — sweet, warm, and alive.

It’s chaos, but it’s the kind I love.

Poppy’s in charge of feeding Hope, holding a tiny piece of pancake to her baby sister’s mouth while narrating every bite like a cooking show.

“Today, our special guest will be trying the finest syrup-soaked creation,” she says dramatically, making Hope giggle so hard she snorts.

Quinn’s darting around, gathering school bags, lunchboxes, and coats, lining them up by the door with military precision.

“Organisation is key!” she declares proudly.

Greyson looks up from the coffee machine, amused. “Remind me to hire her for REH's logistics team when she’s ten.”

“Most definitely ” I reply, brushing syrup from Hope’s chin. “She’ll have the place running smoother than you do.”

He leans down, presses a kiss to my temple, and murmurs, “We’re not doing too badly, though.”

I look at him — at the tired warmth in his eyes, the relaxed curve of his smile — and my heart aches with quiet gratitude.

Seven years ago, mornings like this were a dream. Now they’re my life.

By the time we’re ready to leave, the house looks like a glitter bomb exploded.

Quinn’s braids are slightly crooked, Hope’s wearing one sock, and Poppy’s declared herself the official “pancake quality tester."”

Greyson laughs as we corral everyone to the SUV. “We could survive the apocalypse, but not a school run.”

“Same thing, really,” I mutter, buckling Hope into her car seat.

The drive is calm — the kind of calm that feels fragile, like it might shatter if you breathe too hard.

When we pull up to the school gates, Quinn and Poppy spot Kelsi and Bailey instantly.

Before Greyson can even stop the car fully, both girls unbuckle and leap out, running straight to them.

Kelsi laughs as Quinn wraps her arms around her waist, Bailey grinning ear to ear.

The four of them chatter like they haven’t seen each other in months, not hours.

Greyson smiles, resting his arm over the steering wheel. “They’re happy.”

I nod, watching them. “They deserve this. All of them do.”

Once they disappear through the gates, Greyson exhales quietly. “Ready for a quiet day?”

I grin, half-serious. “Don’t jinx it.”

Back home, the stillness feels strange.

Hope babbles from her playmat while I tidy up the breakfast chaos. The house smells of coffee and syrup, sunlight spilling through the windows in soft streaks.

For once, everything feels almost peaceful.

Until the knock comes.

It’s firm, deliberate — not neighbourly, not casual.

Greyson’s in his home office, mid-call, when I open the front door. Two detectives stand there, both in dark suits, rain-speckled and tense.

Behind them, I see Winston and Triston making their way up the path. Winston’s eyes are calm but sharp. Triston’s jaw is set tight.

The taller detective steps forward. “Ms. Rose, Mr. Riley — we need to discuss the upcoming trial for Mark.”

The sound of his name makes my stomach twist.

Greyson appears beside me in seconds, his hand finding mine.

“Come in,” he says quietly.

We lead them to the home office — the same one filled with design sketches, floor plans, and fabric samples. It suddenly feels smaller, colder.

~ Alyssa ~

The detectives lay out files, photographs, and timelines across the table.

Their words blend together — “evidence,” “plea,” “testimony.”

Until one sentence cuts through the noise.

“Mark has entered a plea of not guilty.”

The air changes.

Winston’s jaw tightens. Triston looks away, knuckles white.

The detective continues, tone neutral. “Given the nature of the charges, Ms. Rose, you’ll have the choice to give your testimony behind a screen or via live link. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

For a moment, I can’t speak.

Then something inside me — something that’s been quiet for too long — clicks into place.

I sit up straighter, voice calm and certain.

“No. I want to face him. He doesn’t get to be the only face they see. I want his name off Quinn’s birth certificate. I want his parental rights gone. Not that he ever acted like a father — but I’ll make sure he never has the chance.”

The silence that follows is heavy, electric.

Greyson squeezes my hand. His eyes are full of pride — and fury.

Winston’s expression darkens into something sharp.

Triston doesn’t move. He’s staring at the floor, shoulders rigid, lost somewhere in memory.

The detective nods slowly. “Understood, Ms. Rose. We’ll make sure you’re fully briefed before the court begins.”

He starts to speak again, but Greyson cuts in quietly. “We’re done here.”

They take the hint.

When the door closes behind them, the air finally breaks.

~ Greyson ~

The moment their car disappears, I can’t sit still.

I pour a glass of water and stare out the window, but all I can see is that night — poker night — replaying in perfect, brutal detail.

Triston’s house smelled of oak and whiskey, the air thick with laughter. Winston was mid-story, we where walking back to the kitchen from the front lawn, when we heard it — a sharp c***k.

The baxk latch breaking.

Triston’s head lifted immediately. “What the hell—”

Then the footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, echoing on the hardwood.

And his voice.

“Ali?”

It was wrong. Too soft. Too knowing.

He stepped into view — Mark.

I remember the shock first. Then the anger.

That this man — the man who broke her — had the audacity to step into Triston’s home like he owned it.

Triston moved forward, steady and silent. “You’ve got the wrong place.”

Mark ignored him, eyes wild, scanning the room. “Where is she?”

“She’s not here,” Winston said evenly. “And if you had half a brain, you’d turn around right now.”

But he didn’t. He came for me instead.

“You,” he spat. “The replacement.”

“Upgrade,” Winston corrected.

Mark lunged.

It was instinct — a blur of sound, the crash of furniture, the sting of whiskey splattering as glasses toppled.

He hit me once. Sloppy, desperate.

I hit back. Clean, hard.

The sound of his nose breaking still echoes in my head.

He stumbled back, hand to his face, blood everywhere.

Triston’s friends moved fast — two solid men, calm and efficient. They grabbed him by the collar, ignoring the screaming, the threats, and dragged him straight out the door.

He landed on the lawn with a dull thud, spitting blood and rage.

“She’s mine!” he screamed. “She’ll always be mine!”

Triston stepped out just long enough to glare down at him. “Not anymore.”

The door shut.

We stood there in silence, breathing hard.

No police. No chaos.

Just quiet — and the certainty that if he ever came back, none of us would let him walk away next time.

~ Alyssa ~

I can tell when the memory hits Greyson. His jaw tightens, shoulders tense.

He doesn’t have to say it — I already know what he’s remembering.

The silence in the house feels thick enough to choke on.

I reach for his hand, grounding him the same way he always grounds me.

“We survived him once,” I whisper. “We’ll do it again.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” I say softly, “but I’m not the same woman he left bleeding on a kitchen floor.”

~ Triston ~

I can’t stay in that room.

The minute I step outside, the cool air hits like a slap.

For a second, all I can see is her — seven years ago, barefoot, shaking, blood on her skin and a baby clutched to her chest.

I’d met her halfway down the street that night. She’d whispered one word — “Go” — and I’d driven without asking questions.

Hours later, we’d reached the coast. She’d sat in the passenger seat, silent, staring out at the sea.

That’s when I promised myself she’d never have to run again.

And yet here we are.

The door opens quietly behind me. Winston steps out, lighting a cigarette.

“Thinking about killing him?” he asks flatly.

“Not yet,” I mutter. “But it’s early.”

He exhales smoke, eyes cold. “We broke his nose. Should’ve done worse.”

“Can’t risk it,” I reply. “He’d love to play the victim.”

Winston’s voice drops low. “Who said we?”

I glance at him, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

The look in his eyes is all I need to understand.

“Don’t,” I warn quietly.

He shrugs, flicking ash into the gravel. “Relax. I’m just saying — people like him don’t get to keep walking free forever.”

The silence between us hums, thick with unspoken truth.

Then, faintly, from inside the house — laughter.

Alyssa’s voice is soft but steady. Hope’s giggle in the background.

That sound is everything. The reason for all of this.

Winston glances back toward the window, then says simply, “He won’t touch her again. Not her, not the girls.”

I nod. “He won’t get the chance.”

We don’t shake hands. We don’t make promises.

We don’t have to.

~ Alyssa ~

Through the kitchen window, I see them — Triston and Winston standing side by side in the pale morning light, both silent, both unyielding.

Hope’s playing with her toys on the rug, babbling to herself, blissfully unaware of the storm waiting to break.

For the first time in years, I’m not afraid.

I’m ready.

Because whatever happens in that courtroom, Mark doesn’t get to define me anymore.

He took enough.

This time, I’ll take everything back.