Safe With You

Content

~Alyssa~

The house is quiet now — the kind of quiet that only comes when two overexcited little girls finally run out of energy.

The charity ball had been magical, chaotic, and exhausting. Between Poppy’s insistence on spinning until she nearly toppled over and Quinn declaring she was “officially famous now” because people had taken photos of her dress, I don’t know how I survived it.

By the time we got home, both girls were asleep in the back seat.

Greyson carried them up — one at a time — and, despite my protests, laid them down still in their dresses.

“They’re too peaceful to wake,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Poppy’s face as he tucked the blanket around them both.

I stood in the doorway, watching him — this man who’d once been a stranger in my boardroom, now standing beside my daughter’s bed, tucking her in like she’d always been his own.

Quinn stirred, mumbling something about the fairy lights, and Poppy turned over, arm draped over her like she’d always belonged there too.

It hit me then — this tiny, perfect picture of family.

And for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe we really were one.

Downstairs, the house looks like a soft echo of the night before — heels kicked off near the sofa, my clutch half-open on the counter, and the faint scent of perfume lingering in the air.

I’m halfway through undoing the corset ties at the back of my gown when Greyson appears in the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, a tired smile playing at his lips.

“You should sit down,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’ve been running on fumes all day.”

“I just need this dress off before it strangles me,” I sigh, twisting awkwardly to reach the laces. “Whoever invented corsets clearly hated women.”

He chuckles and walks over, that lazy confidence in every step. “Here, let me.”

I freeze for a second as he stops behind me, so close I can feel the heat of him through the silk. His fingers brush my back lightly, tracing the ribbons before tugging gently.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

The laces slide free one by one, the whisper of silk the only sound between us. Every brush of his knuckles feels deliberate, steady — not rushed, not hesitant, just sure.

My breath hitches when he reaches the final tie, catching the fabric before it slips too far. His other hand settles instinctively at my waist, steadying me.

“Got it,” he says quietly.

I nod, reaching up to sweep my hair into a messy bun, the pins clattering onto the counter. “Thank you.”

“You look exhausted,” he says, voice softer now.

“I feel it.” I grab a wipe and start removing my makeup, watching my reflection in the mirror as the glamour fades away — lashes gone, lips bare, freckles reappearing like old friends. “But it was worth it. Tonight was… a lot.”

He meets my gaze in the mirror, that small smile still lingering. “You were incredible. The way you handled the press, the crowd — you were in your element.”

“Maybe.” I drop the wipe into the bin. “I just… sometimes it feels like people see the brand before they see me.”

“Then they’re blind,” he says simply.

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I turn to face him, suddenly aware of how close he still is.

“You know,” I whisper, “you’re not supposed to say things like that. It’ll go straight to my head.”

He grins, stepping even closer. “Good. Maybe it’ll remind you who you are when you start doubting yourself again.”

There’s a moment — brief but electric — where neither of us moves. My pulse thunders in my ears, his hand still hovering near my waist, his eyes darker now under the low light.

“I’m still not used to this,” I admit quietly. “Feeling… safe. And wanted. Both, at the same time.”

He reaches up, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Then I’ll keep reminding you until you are.”

When he kisses me, it’s slow — a deep, lingering thing that makes the world tilt.

There’s no urgency, no desperation — just warmth, steady and grounding, like he’s pouring reassurance straight into my veins.

When we finally part, I rest my forehead against his chest, smiling faintly. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

“Not always,” he murmurs. “But I know when to shut up and kiss you.”

I laugh softly, and he chuckles with me — that low, rumbling sound that vibrates against my skin.

He looks down at me for a moment longer, and something shifts — something unspoken but mutual.

Without a word, he bends, sweeping me off my feet effortlessly.

“Greyson—”

“Shh,” he says with a smile, kissing the top of my head. “No more arguments tonight.”

As he carries me down the hall, the only sounds are the soft creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the night outside.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder and steps inside, the golden light from the hall spilling over us for just a second before the door clicks quietly shut.

~Alyssa~ (The Morning after)

Morning arrives softly — the kind of light that filters in slow and golden, brushing across the sheets and the still air of the room.

For a few seconds, I forget the world outside even exists.

Greyson’s arm is wrapped around me, heavy and warm, his breathing slow against my neck.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat feels like a promise — calm, safe, constant.

I don’t want to move.

For the first time in years, maybe longer, I feel... whole.

The house is silent — no pitter-patter of little feet, no squeals or giggles echoing from the hallway.

They must still be out cold after last night’s whirlwind of dancing, laughter, and chaos.

In my mind, I can picture it perfectly:

Two tiny forms tangled in the covers of Quinn’s bed, glitter still in their hair, ballgowns creased but magnificent, shoes kicked off somewhere by the door.

The thought makes me smile.

They’d danced like they were untouchable — and honestly, they are.

I close my eyes, content to stay like this a little longer.

But then it hits me.

A deep, twisting nausea surges out of nowhere, sharp and violent.

My stomach lurches.

I barely have time to think before I’m out of bed, legs tangled in the sheets as I stumble into the ensuite.

The cold tiles hit my knees just as I reach the toilet, and everything from the night before comes up in relentless waves.

My body shakes. My throat burns. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Not again,” I mutter hoarsely between breaths, gripping the rim of the porcelain like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. “Please, not again.”

My hands tremble. Sweat beads across my forehead. I feel the world tilt, blurry at the edges.

Then I hear him.

Barefoot steps.

The quiet rustle of fabric.

And that low, familiar voice that always sounds like it’s been soaked in calm.

“Hey, hey… easy, love,” Greyson murmurs, kneeling beside me.

He’s still half-asleep — joggers, bare chest, hair rumpled — but his eyes are wide awake, full of worry.

He doesn’t hesitate; one hand gently sweeps my hair back from my face, the other holds out a cold bottle of water.

“Slow sips,” he says softly, the words patient but firm.

I nod weakly, taking the bottle with shaking hands. The first swallow hurts. The second helps.

When I finally manage to breathe properly again, I slump against the wall, my head spinning.

“Sorry,” I whisper. My voice sounds wrecked. “You shouldn’t have to keep seeing me like this.”

“Stop,” he says instantly. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

“I thought this was over,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Markus said I just needed rest, food, the iron tablets — that it was nothing. But this—”

He slides closer, his palm resting lightly between my shoulder blades, rubbing slow, grounding circles.

“Bodies don’t bounce back overnight,” he says gently. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard again, Alyssa. That’s all this is.”

His voice is steady, but I hear it — that thread of fear he’s trying to bury beneath reassurance.

When I finally sit up straighter, he reaches for a towel, dampens it under the tap, and presses it to the back of my neck. The coolness makes me shiver.

“I hate this,” I whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you’re alright now. Breathe for me.”

I do — slow and careful — until the dizziness starts to fade.

He stays right there, knees bent on the tiled floor, the morning light spilling across his shoulders.

When I look at him — messy, tired, unwavering — I feel something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with nausea.

“Barely surviving still counts, right?” I try to joke, voice small.

He grins softly, brushing his thumb under my chin. “Barely still counts.”

I laugh weakly, leaning back against the wall, and for a moment, the bathroom is silent again — just our breathing, the steady drip of the tap, and the faint hum of the world waking outside.

Then he presses a kiss to my temple, his voice low.

“Come on, stubborn girl. Let’s get you cleaned up. You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” I start to say, but another wave of exhaustion hits before I can even finish. I nod instead, letting him help me to my feet.

He steadies me with one arm as we step back into the bedroom. The bed looks impossibly inviting, rumpled and warm.

He guides me under the duvet, smoothing the blanket around me like I’m one of the girls.

“I’ll make tea,” he says quietly. “And maybe toast, if you can handle it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts softly. “But I want to.”

I close my eyes as he disappears through the doorway, the sound of his footsteps fading down the stairs.

The nausea fades, replaced by a dull ache in my chest — not pain, exactly. More like a heaviness.

Something’s not right. I know my body. And this… this isn’t just exhaustion.

But for now, I’m too tired to think about it.

I curl deeper into the blankets, clinging to the warmth he’s left behind, and let the hum of the kettle downstairs lull me back toward sleep.

~Greyson~

By the time the kettle clicks off, I’ve read the same text from Markus three times.

Keep an eye on her. Hydration, rest, light food. If she’s sick again, bring her in.

Simple instructions. But they don’t feel like enough.

I stare down at the mug in my hand — tea, milk, one sugar — and shake my head. She’s scaring me.

And the worst part? She doesn’t even know how much.

The past few weeks have been a blur of brilliance and worry.

She’s unstoppable when she’s working, and impossible to slow down when she’s determined.

But behind the fire, I’ve noticed the cracks — the moments when she presses her hand to her stomach like it aches, the way she drifts off mid-sentence, or how she sways if she stands too long.

Now she’s sick again. Pale. Trembling.

And all I can think about is the last time I carried her into a hospital wrapped in a blanket.

I pour the tea into a mug and take it upstairs, forcing myself to breathe.

When I step into the bedroom, she’s half-asleep, curled up on her side, the duvet cocooned around her. Her cheeks are flushed from the fever, hair falling across her face, but her breathing’s steady.

Relief hits me like a wave.

I set the tea on the bedside table and sit down beside her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead.

“Not again, huh?” I murmur quietly to no one. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, love.”

She stirs a little, blinking up at me with sleepy eyes. “Tea?”

“Course,” I whisper, helping her sit up enough to take a sip. “It’s just warm. Easy on your stomach.”

She takes a slow drink, then leans against me, her head on my shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says softly. “I hate feeling weak.”

“You’re not weak,” I say, kissing her hair. “You’re human. And you’re allowed to stop saving the world for five minutes.”

That earns a faint smile. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“Occupational hazard,” I tease gently.

When she drifts back to sleep, I stay there a while, just listening to the sound of her breathing.

And even though Markus says it’s probably nothing — just low iron, stress, exhaustion — something in my gut won’t let it rest.

Something’s happening.

Something we can’t see yet.

But until we know what it is, I’ll do the only thing I can.

Stay.

Watch.

And keep her safe.