Safe With You

Subtle Shifts

~Greyson~

The house feels heavier now that everyone’s gone.

Not in a bad way — just quieter.

The kind of quiet that comes after laughter, when warmth lingers in the walls like perfume.

The kids are finally asleep upstairs. Poppy’s tucked into the spare bed in Quinn’s room, both of them wrapped up in matching blankets covered in cartoon stars. Before bed, they’d insisted on brushing each other’s hair, giggling about secret handshakes and “grown-up” plans for the weekend. Watching them together — two little whirlwinds who somehow collided into a perfect friendship — I couldn’t help the way my chest tightened.

They’re ours now, in a way.

Poppy doesn’t even hesitate when she calls Alyssa “Mummy.” It started slipping out a few weeks ago — the first time during breakfast, when she was telling Quinn that “Mummy makes the best pancakes.” Alyssa froze mid-pour but didn’t correct her. Just smiled softly and kissed the top of her head.

And Quinn — well, she’s always been fearless about calling me “Daddy.”

It still catches me off guard, the way her little hand fits perfectly into mine when we cross the street, the way she runs to me when she scrapes her knee. It’s instinctual now — protect first, think later.

I look down at Alyssa, asleep beside me on the sofa, and my throat tightens.

She looks peaceful, finally. Her head rests on my chest, breathing slow and even, her hand tangled in my shirt like she’s afraid I might move away. The low light from the lamp paints her skin gold.

She’s been doing better — laughing more, eating properly, even heading back to AQ full-time. But something still feels… off. Not wrong, exactly. Just different.

She’s warmer to the touch most days, even when she insists she isn’t feverish. She tires more easily, too, falling asleep halfway through films she used to stay up for.

And there’s this glow about her — not just the tired flush from work, but something softer, deeper. It’s the same way the sunrise catches her hair — black fading into crimson — like she’s lit from the inside.

I brush a stray strand from her cheek. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

“Sleep, love,” I murmur quietly. “You’re safe.”

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I reach for it carefully, not wanting to wake her.

Markus: Any change with Alyssa? How’s she doing since the weekend?

Me: Better, I think. Eating more, sleeping loads. Still looks pale sometimes though.

Markus: Hmm. Pale, tired, but improving…

Me: What’s that mean, Doctor?

Markus: Means I’m glad she’s getting better, but I’m not crossing anything off the list yet. When’s her next follow-up?

Me: You tell me. She’s been avoiding your calls. Says she’s fine.

Markus: Of course she does.

I glance at Alyssa again. Her nose scrunches slightly, like she’s dreaming about something mischievous. God, she’s beautiful.

Me: Markus, just between us — do you really think it’s still just low iron?

There’s a pause. The little dots appear, disappear, then appear again.

Markus: Honestly? I’m not sure. Nothing about her tests screams danger. But something’s not adding up. Keep an eye on her. If she feels faint again, bring her straight to me.

Me: Always. Night, Doc.

Markus: Night. And Greyson?

Me: Yeah?

Markus: You’ve got that look again. The one you get when you care too much. Don’t let it eat you alive.

I stare at the message for a moment before setting the phone down. Too late for that.

Alyssa murmurs something in her sleep — quiet, muffled. My name, maybe. I can’t be sure.

I tighten my arm around her, kiss her forehead, and whisper the only thing that feels true.

“I’ve got you, Alyssa. Always.”

~Markus~

The hospital is quiet this time of night. The only sound is the rhythmic beep of machines and the distant hum of the air vents. I’m sat at my desk, staring at Alyssa Rose’s chart for the fifteenth time.

Greyson’s text sits on my screen, and it’s gnawing at me.

Something’s not adding up.

He’s right.

Medically, she’s stable — more than stable. Her bloodwork looks fine on paper: iron levels a touch low, nothing that a supplement couldn’t fix. No infection markers, no thyroid issues, no red flags.

And yet… fatigue that lingers for weeks, sudden bouts of nausea, a glowing complexion even when she’s pale. It doesn’t fit neatly into a diagnosis.

I flick through her notes again, comparing them to the previous results. There’s a pattern emerging — subtle but there. Her haemoglobin’s up slightly, which makes sense if she’s been eating better, but her hormone levels… something’s off.

I’d need a different panel to confirm it, but it’s not a test I’d ordered. Not yet.

I lean back in my chair, running a hand over my face.

Greyson’s been good for her — I can see that in every update, every smile she gives when she’s in my office. She’s softer around him. Safer. But she’s also more guarded lately, like she knows something she isn’t ready to say.

I pick up my pen and jot a note on her file:

Observation: unexplained recurring fatigue and nausea. Re-test full panel in two weeks. Include HCG — precautionary.

It’s standard practice. Routine, I tell myself. But part of me already knows the answer I’m not saying out loud.

If I’m right, it explains everything.

If I’m wrong, then I’m missing something worse.

Either way, I owe her the truth — even if she doesn’t know it yet.

I close the file and glance at the small photo on my desk — me, Greyson, and Lillian at one of Dad’s old builds, grinning like idiots covered in dust.

Family has a way of complicating everything. But it also gives you something worth protecting.

“Hang in there, Alyssa,” I mutter to the empty office. “We’ll figure this out.”

As I turn off the desk lamp, my phone buzzes again — a message from Greyson.

G: She just said my name in her sleep. She’s safe.

I smile despite myself, typing back one last message.

M: Then let her stay there. Sometimes that’s the best medicine there is.

When the hospital falls back into silence, I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning.

Whatever’s happening with Alyssa Rose — it’s not over yet.