Safe With You

Getting Closer

~Alyssa~

I’m tearing the house apart looking for my UGG slippers — the good pair, the ones that never leave the bedroom — when the doorbell rings and nearly sends me into cardiac arrest.

“Mummy! She’s here! My friend’s here! Quick, Mummy!”

Quinn’s voice is pure excitement as she barrels down the stairs and grabs my hand, practically dragging me towards the front door. I take a deep breath, count to five, and paste on a calm smile before I open it.

I barely get a word out before the little girl in the man’s arms looks straight at me and blurts, “Wow! You’re so beautiful!”

For a second, I blink — thrown by her honesty. Then I laugh, genuine and surprised. “Well, thank you, sweetheart.”

I step back so they can come in. The little girl — Poppy, I assume — wiggles until her dad sets her down, her curls bouncing as she runs straight for Quinn.

And that’s when I actually see him.

The man.

And, good God.

He’s tall. Broad shoulders filling his T-shirt, sleeves clinging to arms that look carved from marble. His forearms flex as he rakes a hand through his hair, the veins on display in that maddeningly unfair way men like him seem unaware of. There’s a trace of stubble along his jaw, and when he glances up, the glint of amusement behind his sunglasses makes my stomach flip before I can scold myself for it.

Then he removes the glasses — and the cap — and the world stops.

“Greyson?”

He blinks, as if he can’t quite believe it either. “Alyssa?”

We both laugh, startled and delighted in equal measure. He steps forward, instinctively pulling me into a quick hug, warm and solid and completely unexpected.

“How did we not realise it was each other on the phone earlier?” I ask, stepping back. “Did you know?”

He shakes his head, setting the hat and glasses on the console. “Not a clue. Honestly, I didn’t recognise your voice. But I’m glad it’s you — I feel more relaxed now.”

I grin. “You’ve no idea how relieved I am. I might actually enjoy this evening now.”

We head to the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken and herbs fills the air. I pour us both a glass of wine while he helps carry plates to the table. He moves easily through the space, like he belongs here, and it throws me a little — the quiet confidence of a man who doesn’t need to prove anything.

“So,” he says after a sip of wine, that teasing glint returning, “why Amy?”

I roll my eyes. “You’ve been dying to ask, haven’t you?”

“Guilty.”

I sigh, setting down my glass. “It’s easier. People in this industry can be… opportunistic. Using a different name means the other parents don’t try to push their kids to befriend Quinn just to get close to me. It happened once. She found out. It broke her heart.”

He nods slowly, something softening in his eyes. “And Quinn keeps your secret?”

“In her way, yes. She just calls me Mummy, never by name. This is actually the first time she’s insisted on having a friend over.” I smile to myself. “Usually when people ask, she tells them I said no because I’m too busy with work.”

He grins. “Sounds like she’s protective of you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she just likes having me to herself.”

He leans against the counter, watching me with quiet amusement. “So how do you pull off school runs without being mobbed?”

I shrug. “My best friend Kelsi walks Quinn in and out. I just wait in the car. Most of the parents think I’m rude.”

He laughs. “And that doesn’t bother you at all, does it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Our laughter overlaps, warm and easy. It feels natural — too natural.

The girls burst back into the kitchen, cheeks flushed from playing.

“We’re starving!” Quinn declares, dramatically clutching her stomach.

“Alright, you little drama queen.” I dish up their food while Greyson lays out cutlery, pretending not to hear Poppy whisper, “She really is beautiful.”

Dinner is chaos in the best possible way. The girls chatter nonstop, giggling about school, teachers, and the exact shade of glitter required for “proper” art projects. Greyson and I mostly sit back and watch, trading amused looks between mouthfuls.

When they finally finish eating, they run off again, leaving the table looking like a warzone of crumbs and crayons.

“Don’t even think about it,” Greyson says when I stand to start clearing. “I’m helping.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” he interrupts gently, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m not letting you do all the work.”

He’s impossible to argue with, so we fall into an easy rhythm — him washing, me drying. Our hands brush once when he passes a plate, and something tiny and electric dances between us.

We both pretend not to notice.

When the kitchen’s spotless again, we move to the lounge. Quinn’s playroom door is cracked open; we can hear muffled giggles.

I settle onto the sofa, tucking one leg under myself. Greyson sits opposite, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. The air between us feels charged, but not uncomfortable — just alive.

“So,” I say after a beat, “Poppy’s mum?”

He exhales. “It’s just me and her. Her mum left when she was still a baby. Never looked back.”

I stare at him, horrified. “She just… left?”

He shrugs. “We’re better off. Poppy’s everything I need.”

Something twists in my chest. “That’s awful. No one should walk away from their child like that.”

He smiles faintly, eyes flicking to the wineglass in his hand. “You’d be surprised what people can walk away from.”

We sit in silence for a moment, that quiet heaviness settling.

Then he asks, carefully, “And Quinn’s dad?”

The question catches me off guard. My throat tightens, but I keep my tone even. “He left too. Took everything we had and disappeared. Never looked back.”

Greyson’s eyes soften, sympathy without pity. “Seems we’ve both had our share of cowards.”

I huff out a dry laugh. “Guess we really know how to pick them.”

He clinks his glass lightly against mine. “To doing better next time.”

“Next time?” I arch a brow.

He smirks. “Hypothetically speaking.”

~Greyson~

The longer I sit across from her, the harder it is not to stare.

Alyssa’s nothing like the woman I met in that boardroom earlier — the one who commanded every inch of the space. Here, she’s softer. Barefoot, relaxed, still glowing under the warm light. Her laughter fills the room like music.

And when she talks about Quinn — her entire face changes. She becomes light itself.

I catch myself watching the way her fingers move when she talks, the silver rings glinting with every gesture. The curve of her smile when she laughs. The streaks of deep red that catch in her dark hair when she turns her head.

She’s magnetic in that unintentional way — not trying to be noticed, but impossible to ignore.

---

We’ve been talking for what must be hours when two sleepy little forms pad into the room.

Poppy climbs into my lap without a word, curling against my chest, and Quinn does the same with Alyssa.

It’s quiet for a moment, the sort of quiet you don’t want to break.

Then Poppy looks up, blinking drowsily, and says to Alyssa, utterly serious, “You make my daddy smile a lot.”

Alyssa’s lips part, startled. Colour rushes into her cheeks.

I tighten my arm around Poppy, half laughing. “What do you mean, Pops? I smile all the time.”

She shakes her head with exaggerated patience. “Not like this, Daddy. You’re usually just… grumpy.”

Alyssa laughs, soft and breathless, and I can’t help joining in. The sound of it — both of us laughing while the girls cling to us — does something strange to me.

For a moment, it feels like we’ve done this a thousand times.

Like this is what life’s supposed to feel like.

By the time the girls drift off completely, it’s late. Quinn’s out cold in Alyssa’s lap; Poppy’s barely conscious in my arms.

“I think it’s home time,” I whisper.

Alyssa nods, smoothing Quinn’s hair. “They’ll never admit it, but they’ve worn themselves out.”

We move quietly, gathering toys and tiny shoes, keeping our voices low. When I finally carry Poppy out to the car, she mumbles something about unicorns and best friends before dozing off again.

I tuck her blanket around her and turn back toward the house. Alyssa’s standing at the doorway, arms folded, that soft smile still lingering.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, voice low so as not to wake the girls. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

“It really has,” I reply, meaning it more than I expected to. “You’ve got a wonderful little girl.”

She smiles, pride shining clear in her eyes. “So do you.”

For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us hums again — that same quiet pull from earlier, stronger now.

“Next time,” I say, “dinner’s on me.”

She smirks. “You cook?”

“Not even slightly.”

“Then it’s pizza.”

We both laugh softly, trying not to wake the kids.

The goodbye stretches, unspoken things hanging in the space between us. Eventually, I pull her into a hug — slow, warm, lingering.

She doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do I.

When we finally part, her eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering there.

“Goodnight, Greyson.”

“Night, Alyssa.”

I slide into the G-Wagon, start the engine, and glance once more at the house as the lights glow softly behind her.

As I drive away, I can still feel her warmth against me.

And I know — without any reason or logic — that this isn’t the end of whatever this is.