Safe With You

Coincidence?

~Greyson~

On the drive to Amy’s house, Poppy chatters away at full speed — a rolling stream of stories, laughter, and seven-year-old logic that fills the car from end to end.

“…and she said she liked my hair, and I said I liked her shoes, and then we both said we love pizza, and she laughed so much she almost fell off her chair, Daddy!”

I smile, glancing at her through the rear-view mirror. She’s clutching the little gift she picked out for her new friend — a bracelet with two silver hearts, one for her and one to give away — holding it carefully in her lap like treasure.

But her voice drops suddenly, losing that sparkle. “Daddy, do you think my new friend really likes me? Or… was she just being nice because it was my first day?”

That soft, uncertain note in her voice hits me right in the chest. Poppy’s brave, always has been, but she feels things deeply — maybe too deeply sometimes.

I glance at her reflection, keeping my tone light. “Well, Princess Poppy, seeing as you somehow managed to get yourself invited for a playdate on your very first day, I’d say she really does like you.”

Her face lights up instantly. “Really?”

“Really,” I grin, slowing for a red light. “Sounds like you’ve already made your first proper friend.”

She beams, proud and relieved all at once. “We’re going to play with her dolls and draw and maybe make friendship bracelets! Can I show her mine?”

“Of course,” I say. “That’s what friends do.”

“What’s her name again?” I ask, only then realising she never actually told me.

She opens her mouth, then gets distracted, nose pressed to the window as she watches raindrops race down the glass. I chuckle under my breath. “Right then. I’ll just ask Amy when we get there.”

Ten minutes later, we pull up outside a house that could easily belong in an interiors magazine. Three storeys of understated elegance — pale stone, black-framed windows, and warm light spilling through onto a perfectly manicured drive.

Even without knowing her, I can tell whoever lives here has an eye for detail. The architecture alone earns my respect.

“Wow,” Poppy whispers, peering through the glass.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “She’s done alright for herself.”

A coded gate blocks the entrance. I key in the four digits Amy texted me earlier, and the gates glide open smoothly with a quiet hum.

“See?” Poppy says, grinning. “She does want us to come in!”

I laugh. “Guess so.”

The G-Wagon hums up the drive, tyres crunching softly on the gravel. I notice a sleek black Audi parked to the side — one I could swear I’ve seen before — but dismiss it.

Once we park, I grab the bottle of wine and the flowers from the passenger seat, while Poppy hops out clutching her little gift bag, excitement bubbling again now that the nerves have faded.

As we approach the door, though, she hesitates — just a flicker — and tugs on my sleeve. “Daddy, what if she changed her mind and doesn’t want to play anymore?”

I crouch down, setting the flowers aside. “Hey. You listen to me, Poppy Riley — anyone lucky enough to meet you wants to be your friend, alright?”

That earns a tiny giggle. Still, I can tell she’s nervous, so I scoop her up, and she instantly relaxes, her arms looping round my neck, her chin resting on my shoulder.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods against my collar. “Ready, Daddy.”

I grin. “Good. You’re on doorbell duty.”

She presses the bell with one tiny finger.

Inside, we hear a voice — high, excited, utterly overjoyed. “Mummy! She’s here! My friend’s here! Quick, Mummy!”

Poppy’s face lights up, her earlier worry completely gone. “See, Daddy? She does like me!”

I smile, tightening my hold on her. “Told you so.”

The sound of footsteps follows — quick, light — and then the latch clicks.

The door opens.

And Poppy, in all her unfiltered glory, lets out a little gasp.

“Wow,” she whispers, eyes wide. “You’re so beautiful!”

The woman at the door laughs softly, the kind of laugh that’s equal parts surprise and warmth.

And then she looks up — really looks — and for a heartbeat, the world narrows.

Because behind the soft jumper and relaxed trousers, behind the jet-black hair streaked with deep blood-red that falls loose around her shoulders, behind the subtle glint of silver piercings that catch the porch light — I recognise her.

Alyssa.

The same woman I saw hours ago in that boardroom — sharp, untouchable, terrifyingly composed. Except now, she’s barefoot, casual, a softer version of herself.

The sunglasses and cap I threw on before leaving suddenly feel like the smartest decision I’ve ever made. Because right now, she has no idea.

Her eyes flick to mine briefly — polite, distant — before dropping back to Poppy with that gentle, motherly smile.

Surely this can’t be real.

And yet, somehow, here we are.