Safe With You

Brotherly Love

~ Winston ~

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from running REH with my brother, it’s that architects are either calm gods or beautiful disasters — and Greyson, somehow, manages to be both.

By the time he strolls into the office, it’s gone three. I’ve been juggling calls with suppliers, mediating between a client and our interior team, and fielding no fewer than five messages from Lillian about her “visionary koi pond” for Mum’s garden.

He pushes through the glass door, and I don’t even have to look up to know he’s in one of those moods — the kind where his tie’s missing, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and that faint crease between his eyebrows is deep enough to hold a pencil.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a site inspection backwards,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Bad day?”

He drops a folder onto my desk with a thud. “Depends on your definition.”

“That bad, then,” I mutter, flipping it open — but his silence says everything.

He moves to the coffee machine and presses the button like it owes him money.

“So,” I say casually, “is this the face of a man who’s been bested by blueprints, or the look of someone who’s been living with Alyssa Rose and two miniature whirlwinds for the past month?”

That earns me a side-eye. “You’re awfully brave for someone who still owes me half the Milan contract paperwork.”

I grin. “Deflection. Classic move. So, what happened? Did the girls redecorate the living room again?”

He exhales, half a laugh. “There’s glitter in my shoe cupboard, Winston. I don’t even know how that’s possible.”

I snort. “Ah, the price of domestic bliss.”

“Bliss,” he repeats dryly, pouring himself a cup. But then something softens in his expression. “Poppy and Quinn were doing a puppet show last night. Alyssa was sitting on the floor with them — hair tied up, still in one of my shirts, paint on her fingers from fixing one of their projects… she looked up and smiled at me and…”

He trails off, shaking his head.

And there it is — the look.

The same one I saw when he first talked about her months ago, only now it’s quieter, settled, like he’s found the missing piece of something he didn’t even know was broken.

“You’re gone,” I say simply.

He gives me a half-hearted glare over his coffee. “I’m not—”

“Oh, come on. You’re the bloke who swore he’d never get serious again. And now? You’re designing kid-friendly furniture, you have two lunchboxes in your fridge, and you smile every time your phone lights up with her name.”

“I’m allowed to smile,” he says, defensive but not convincing.

“Yeah,” I grin, “but you used to smile because a project was under budget. Now it’s because she texted you a picture of matching shoes for the girls.”

He sighs, setting the cup down. “You’re exhausting.”

“Maybe,” I shrug, “but I’m not wrong.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he stares out the window — the skyline stretching over London, the slow pulse of traffic below — and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking.

Because for the first time in a long time, my brother isn’t waiting for the next disaster.

He’s building something real.

And it terrifies him.

“How’s she doing, though?” I ask, quieter now.

He runs a hand through his hair, that same crease forming again. “Better, mostly. Still tired. Markus is keeping an eye on her. Says it’s just exhaustion or low iron, but…” he hesitates. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

“She’s been through hell, Grey,” I remind him. “You both have. Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I just don’t ever want her to go through something alone again.”

And I believe him. Every word.

There was a time when Greyson Riley was all hard edges — career first, emotions buried under blueprints and deadlines.

But now?

He’s softer in the right ways. Grounded. Still fierce as hell, but you can see the light in him again — and I’d bet everything it’s because of Alyssa and those two little girls who’ve turned his world upside down.

“Do you ever think,” he says suddenly, “that maybe we don’t deserve something this good?”

I blink. “Mate, that’s not guilt talking — that’s love talking.”

He laughs under his breath, a little startled by the word.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I said it. Love. You’ve got it bad.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at his coffee and mutters, “Maybe I do.”

I grin. “About time. For what it’s worth, she’s good for you, Grey. You’re… lighter.”

“Lighter?”

“You used to look like you carried the weight of every structural beam in London on your shoulders. Now, you look like a man who actually sleeps.”

That earns a small laugh, the tension easing from his face.

“Well,” I add, leaning back, “since we’re being all sentimental — just know you’re not alone in this, yeah? Whatever happens. You’ve got me, Markus, hell, even Lillian when she’s not trying to convince Mum to build a koi moat.”

Greyson chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your i***t,” I shoot back, smirking.

The laughter fades into a comfortable silence — the kind that only happens when you’ve spent your whole life side by side.

He stands, straightening his jacket. “Alright, I’m heading to AQ to meet Alyssa. She wants me to look over the final fittings for Mum’s charity ball.”

“Ah yes,” I say dramatically, “the event where half of London’s elite will spontaneously combust over how perfect her designs are.”

“Something like that,” he says with a faint smile.

As he reaches the door, I call out, “Hey, Grey?”

He glances back.

“For what it’s worth… I’ve never seen you happier.”

He pauses, hand on the doorframe, and the smallest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me neither.”

When he’s gone, the office feels too quiet.

I glance down at the folder on my desk — the one with Alyssa’s latest sketches clipped neatly inside — and shake my head with a grin.

“Efficient,” he called her, once.

Right.

What he really meant was extraordinary.

And by the look of things, she’s not just designing dresses anymore.

She’s designing an entirely new chapter in my brother’s life.

I sigh, pushing back from my desk and looking out at the skyline just as my phone pings with a message from Mum:

“Can you ask Alyssa if she’d like to design something special for my spring luncheon?”

I groan. “We’ve only just got past the last one, and shes got another charity ball coming already” I mutter. “The woman doesn’t stop.”

Still, I can’t help but smile — because none of them do anymore.

And for the first time in years, that feels like a good thing.