Safe With You

Unanswered Questions

~Alyssa~

Hospitals always smell the same — sharp antiseptic and recycled air.

Even though I’ve spent enough time here lately to know my way around blindfolded, that smell still makes my stomach twist.

I’m perched on the edge of the exam table in Markus’s office, legs crossed, tapping my fingers against my thigh. He’s late, which doesn’t surprise me. Markus Riley is brilliant, but punctuality clearly skipped his gene pool.

Greyson offered to come with me, of course. Practically insisted.

But I told him I’d be fine — “It’s just a follow-up, not open-heart surgery.”

He didn’t like that answer, but I needed some breathing room.

Things have been… intense.

He’s been amazing — too amazing, really. Checking in on me every hour, cooking dinners, making sure I actually eat breakfast. I’ve been feeling better, more like myself, though the exhaustion still hits at random, like my body’s playing a cruel joke.

Still, I couldn’t ask for more.

Except maybe for my own body to stop confusing me.

The door finally opens, and Markus walks in, eyes glued to a tablet.

He’s got that look — the one doctors get when they’re deep in thought and half their brain is somewhere else entirely.

“Morning, Alyssa,” he says absently, setting the tablet down. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I answer automatically. “Still tired sometimes, but at least I’m not fainting in public anymore.”

That earns me a quick grin. “That’s always a win in my book.”

He sits opposite me, typing something into the screen before finally looking up. His brow furrows — not in a panicked way, just… confused.

“Okay,” he starts slowly, “your results came back this morning. And I’ll be honest, they’ve left me scratching my head a little.”

I raise a brow. “That’s not something you ever want your doctor to say, Markus.”

He chuckles softly. “No, probably not. But don’t panic — nothing bad. Everything looks normal. Your iron levels have picked up nicely, electrolytes are balanced, blood pressure’s perfect. You’re practically textbook.”

“Practically?” I repeat, picking up on the hesitation.

He sighs and spins the tablet around so I can see.

“Your HCG levels.”

I blink at the chart on the screen. “You’re going to have to use normal-people words, Markus.”

“HCG’s a hormone,” he explains. “It’s what we test for when we want to rule out certain things — in your case, I wanted to be thorough, given the nausea and fatigue.”

“And?”

“They’re… normal.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“No. That’s what’s odd. Usually, if what I was ruling out was in play, they’d be much higher or completely absent. But yours are sitting right in the middle — not high enough to indicate anything, not low enough to dismiss it. Perfectly ordinary.”

He leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “It’s like your body’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite figure out what.”

I frown, folding my arms. “So, what you’re saying is that I’m a medical mystery.”

He laughs lightly. “Not yet. You’re just a puzzle I haven’t finished.”

“Should I be worried?”

He shakes his head immediately. “No. You’re healthy, Alyssa. All your vitals are solid, and your scans are clear. I just want to keep an eye on you for a while longer. Sometimes our bodies take a while to recover from stress. It’s not always something sinister.”

That makes sense.

Mostly.

Still, something about the way he said it sticks with me.

When he finishes typing his notes, he gives me a reassuring smile. “You’re cleared to go back to normal life. But —” he holds up a finger “— if the dizziness comes back or anything feels off, you call me. No waiting, no brushing it off. Deal?”

I nod. “Deal.”

He stands and walks me to the door, that doctorly warmth softening his expression. “Greyson’s been worried sick, by the way.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. “That’s his new hobby, apparently.”

Markus chuckles. “It suits him. Don’t tell him I said that.”

I laugh, the tension in my chest finally easing. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Outside, the early afternoon air feels crisp and clean — a welcome change after the sterile chill of the hospital.

I take a long breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease that Markus’s confusion left behind.

Everything’s fine.

It has to be.

I climb into my car, start the engine, and glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My skin’s glowing faintly in the sunlight, the kind of glow that makes people comment without thinking.

Markus is right — I’m healthy.

So why does something still feel… different?

~Markus~

Back in my office, I stare at Alyssa’s chart again.

Everything’s within range. Every test, every number — perfectly unremarkable.

Except for the one thing that shouldn’t be so ordinary.

Her HCG levels.

They’re sitting right on the borderline — too normal to signal anything concrete, but not low enough to dismiss outright.

I’ve run enough of these tests to know patterns when I see them, and Alyssa’s doesn’t fit neatly into any.

I scroll through her history again, cross-checking the timelines. Her initial illness, the fainting, the nausea, the fatigue. The brief spikes in blood pressure followed by perfectly calm readings. The low iron. The improved glow.

It’s like her body’s shifting gears — subtly, quietly.

I drum my fingers on the desk, trying to suppress the gnawing feeling in my gut.

I’m not going to jump to conclusions. Not without clear proof.

But if I’m right…

No. Not yet.

I’ll wait for her next appointment.

For now, she’s healthy, she’s happy, and she’s safe.

And Greyson’s keeping her that way — whether he realises it or not.

Still, as I shut her file and lean back in my chair, I can’t help but mutter to the empty room—

“You’re keeping a secret from me, Alyssa Rose. I just don’t know what kind yet.”

~Greyson~

The girls are painting at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, tongues poking out in concentration.

Quinn’s picture looks vaguely like a unicorn — if unicorns had six legs and neon-green manes.

Poppy’s, on the other hand, is a bit more abstract. A swirl of pinks and purples and glitter glue, which I’ll be finding on my countertops for weeks.

I glance over from the stove where I’m stirring dinner, and I can’t help smiling.

This is what peace looks like.

Domestic chaos, paint-stained smiles, and the sound of two seven-year-olds arguing about whether unicorns eat pancakes or spaghetti.

Alyssa’s curled up on the sofa in the next room, sketchbook resting on her lap.

She’s not working — not really. Just absentmindedly doodling, the pencil moving lazily across the page while she hums softly under her breath.

She looks… content.

She’s pale, yes, and still gets tired faster than she’ll admit, but Markus was right — she’s doing better.

Every day, she’s a little brighter.

A little stronger.

I carry two plates over to the girls and set them down. “Alright, my little Picassos — brushes down, hands washed.”

Quinn sighs dramatically. “But Daddy, I was nearly finished!”

“You’ve been nearly finished for twenty minutes,” I tease, ruffling her hair.

Poppy giggles, running off to wash her hands, and Quinn follows after a few exaggerated groans.

When I look back toward the sofa, Alyssa’s eyes are closed, her sketchbook forgotten beside her.

She’s fallen asleep again.

It’s not unusual now — midafternoon naps, short ones, ten minutes here or there.

At first, I worried.

Now, I just cover her with a blanket and let her rest.

There’s something about her when she sleeps.

She looks younger, softer. Her hair — that inky black streaked with crimson — spills across the pillow like silk.

I brush a strand from her face and lean down, kissing her forehead.

“Rest, love,” I whisper. “You’ve done enough today.”

Later that night, after the girls are in bed and the house finally goes still, I step out onto the balcony with my phone.

The London air’s crisp tonight, the sky a deep velvet with faint city glow.

I scroll through my messages and open Markus’s thread.

Me: She saw you today. Said everything’s fine.

Markus: It is. She’s perfectly healthy.

Me: You don’t sound convinced.

Markus: Because I’m not. Her results are… strange. Not bad, just strange. I’ll keep an eye on it.

Me: You think she’s hiding something?

Markus: No. I think her body’s hiding something. But until I know what, let’s keep her stress-free.

Me: Easier said than done.

Markus: Then make her laugh. You’re good at that.

I stare at the screen for a long moment before typing one last message.

Me: She’s been glowing lately. Maybe that’s all this is.

Markus: Maybe. Let’s hope so.

When I slip back inside, the house is dim and quiet.

Alyssa’s still asleep on the sofa, curled up with Quinn’s stuffed unicorn clutched against her chest.

I kneel beside her, brushing my thumb gently along her cheek.

She stirs, murmuring my name in that soft, drowsy tone that gets me every time.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “Always.”

She sighs, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and nestles closer.

As I sit there, watching her breathe, something inside me settles — that deep, quiet certainty that whatever comes next, I’m not letting go.

I don’t know what’s happening with her — what her body’s trying to tell us, or what Markus can’t quite put his finger on.

But I know this:

I’ll keep her safe, no matter what.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since Alyssa Rose walked back into my life —

it’s that sometimes, love isn’t loud.

It’s quiet.

It’s constant.

It’s right here — in the soft hum of the night, the warmth of her against me, and the way the world finally feels like it’s in the right place.