Safe With You

Who Is This Guy?

~Greyson~

London drizzle always feels heavier after chaos.

By the time I pull away from AQ’s car park, the sky’s a dull pewter sheet and the windscreen wipers on my G-Wagon are working double time. The city moves around me like nothing happened — traffic humming, umbrellas bobbing, a normal Thursday pretending not to notice the world cracking open a few streets back.

The Mercedes engine growls low and steady beneath my hands — all power, all control. I focus on that: the vibration through the steering wheel, the soft thud of the tyres against wet tarmac. Breathe in. Breathe out. Left lane. Indicator. Merge.

It doesn’t help.

My mind keeps dragging me back to the lobby — to the crash of glass, the echo of shouting, the sound of Alyssa’s breath catching before she folded in on herself.

That look in her eyes — recognition first, then pure, paralysing fear.

I’ve seen panic before: on site, when scaffolding gives or a beam slips loose. But this was different. This was history.

Whoever that man was, she knew him.

And whatever he’d done before… it wasn’t something you forget.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and exhale through my nose.

Traffic thickens near Knightsbridge. The rain turns fine and silver, softening the city’s edges until everything feels half-dreamed. I glance at the dash clock — half two. The office will still be alive: phones, espresso machines, Winston barking at someone about a deadline. Normal chaos.

I tap the button on the wheel.

“Call Winston.”

It rings twice.

“You alive, then?” Winston’s voice, amused, slightly too loud.

“Barely,” I mutter. “You could’ve mentioned that Alyssa Rose comes with… extra features.”

“Features?” he says, all mock innocence. “What did she do, throw you out a window?”

“Close,” I say. “Someone turned up in her lobby shouting, smashing things. Security dragged him out before he did any real damage, but she—” I hesitate, remembering how quickly her strength dissolved. “She fainted.”

The laughter dies instantly. “Bloody hell. Is she alright?”

“She will be. She’s tougher than she looks.” I turn down Sloane Street, tyres hissing against the wet road. “But she was terrified, Win. Not startled. Terrified. I’ve seen men freeze on site when something collapses, but that—” I shake my head, jaw tight. “That was something else.”

There’s a pause long enough to hear his breathing shift from shock to worry. “You did the right thing staying with her.”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” I say. “She went down like someone pulled the plug. I caught her.”

A short silence. Then, inevitably: “Oh, you caught her, did you?”

“Don’t start.”

“Come on, mate,” Winston says, laughter creeping back into his voice. “The great Greyson Riley, human shield and fainting-catcher. Bet she looked better than the models you usually work with.”

“Winston.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, still laughing. “At least tell me the meeting was worth it.”

“It was,” I admit. “Two-year deal. Full wardrobe design and management for Mum and Lillian. She’s efficient. Sharp. Doesn’t waste words.”

“Sounds like Mum already,” he says. “You know she’ll adore her.”

“Probably because they’re both terrifying.”

“Speaking of terrifying,” Winston adds, “Lillian’s just emailed me again. She wants an indoor koi pond.”

I groan. “You’re joking.”

“She even sent sketches.”

“Crayon again?”

“Worse. Glitter pen.”

That actually gets me laughing. “I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

“Good man. And Grey?” Winston’s voice softens. “Seriously. About Alyssa — just… be careful. She doesn’t strike me as someone who lets people close easily.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re not a fixer,” he says. “Don’t try to be one.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Sure you weren’t,” he says, tone light again. “You’ve got that look in your voice.”

“That’s not even a thing.”

“It is when you sound like that.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Perfect. I’ll brief the team on the new client — minus the fainting bit, obviously. Can’t have HR drafting safety protocols for strong emotions.”

“Goodbye, Winston.”

He hangs up, laughing.

Traffic clears. The skyline opens — glass and steel cutting through mist, the city stretching itself tall again.

When REH’s headquarters comes into view, the tension in my shoulders eases automatically.

The building stands proud against the grey: sleek black panels, white stone framing, sharp geometry catching the dim light. My design. Three years ago, I’d spent nights sketching it, chasing balance through proportion — clean lines, no clutter, no chaos.

A building that made sense.

The G-Wagon growls softly as I pull into the underground car park. The echo of rain on concrete sounds like static. I kill the engine, and for a moment, silence fills the space.

That’s when it hits me again — her voice, low and deliberate, the faint tremor she fought to hide.

The way her eyes had softened when she thanked me.

The warmth of her hand against my back before she blacked out — barely there, but enough to stay lodged in my memory like a fingerprint.

Alyssa Rose.

Sharp edges wrapped in silk.

Too composed for her own good.

And haunted by something she doesn’t talk about.

I should let it go.

I won’t.

Because whatever that was in her lobby — the man, the shouting, the fear — it wasn’t finished. And as much as I tell myself it’s none of my business, part of me already knows I’m not done with her story.

Not yet.

I grab my jacket, step out into the cool concrete quiet, and lock the car behind me. The sound echoes like punctuation in an unfinished sentence.