Safe With You

Quiet Storms

~ Greyson ~

AQ is quiet when I arrive — the kind of quiet that hums with focus rather than absence.

Fabric samples line the walls, sketches pinned in precise rows, the faint scent of jasmine and coffee lingering in the air.

It’s so very her — structured chaos held together by determination and caffeine.

I find Alyssa in her office, standing over a mannequin with a pin between her lips and a frown on her face.

Her hair’s tied up in a messy bun, a few red-black curls escaping to frame her face, and she’s wearing one of her oversized jumpers tucked into high-waisted trousers.

Barefoot, focused, radiant — the picture of a woman utterly lost in her craft.

She doesn’t even hear me come in.

I lean against the doorframe, just watching her for a moment.

Every movement is careful, precise, like a dance she’s done a thousand times — adjusting fabric, smoothing seams, tugging at the delicate silk until it sits just right.

Finally, she notices me in the reflection of the glass display case.

“How long have you been standing there, Riley?” she asks without turning, her voice calm but edged with amusement.

“Long enough to know that if I speak too loudly, I’ll get stabbed with a pin,” I say, stepping closer.

She laughs softly, removing the pin from her lips. “You wouldn’t survive five minutes in my studio.”

“Maybe not. But I’d die happy.”

She turns then — one eyebrow raised, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks.

“Flattery before coffee, Mr Riley? You’re slipping.”

“I’m learning,” I say with a grin. “If I can’t outwork you, I’ll charm you.”

“Good luck with that,” she mutters, though the smile she tries to hide says I already have.

The dress she’s been working on steals my attention — a deep emerald green, intricate beadwork tracing the neckline, the kind of understated elegance that makes everything else look loud.

“Mum’s going to lose her mind when she sees that,” I murmur.

“She’d better,” Alyssa says, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s my best work this month.”

Month.

Funny how quickly that word feels… natural now.

I take a step closer, close enough to smell the faint hint of her perfume — something warm and floral that always lingers long after she’s left a room.

“You’ve been busy,” I say quietly.

She glances up at me, eyes soft but guarded. “Work’s easier than overthinking.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Her lips twitch. “You always do.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward — it’s charged, electric, the kind that stretches and hums until you either walk away or close the distance.

And I’ve never been very good at walking away.

Before I know it, my hands are on her waist, gentle but firm.

She looks up at me — startled for half a heartbeat — then melts into it, her hands finding their way to my chest.

“Greyson…” she whispers, but it’s not a protest.

“Just wanted to remind you how proud I am of you,” I murmur against her hair. “And how much you’ve changed my life.”

Her breath catches. “You’re getting sappy.”

“Occupational hazard of being in love,” I say softly — so quietly it’s almost lost between us.

Her fingers still for a second, then tighten in my shirt.

She doesn’t say it back — not yet — but she doesn’t have to.

The look in her eyes says everything.

Perfect — here’s the continuation of the same chapter, flowing naturally from the AQ office scene into the evening at home with Greyson, Alyssa, and the girls.

It deepens their chemistry, adds a few subtle breadcrumbs about Alyssa’s health (without revealing anything), and ties the day together with warmth, humour, and quiet love.

~ Greyson ~

By the time we leave AQ, the city’s dipped into that soft golden haze that makes everything look cinematic.

Alyssa insists on driving, claiming she needs the quiet control of the road to “reorganise her brain.”

I let her — though I keep a close eye on her from the passenger seat. She’s been better, brighter, but still gets those moments where her energy dips suddenly, like a light flickering.

The ride home is peaceful.

The radio hums quietly, her hand resting on the gear stick, and every so often I catch her glancing over at me with a faint smile that makes my chest ache.

When we pull into the driveway, the curtains are still drawn, and I can already hear the faint sound of laughter from inside — Quinn and Poppy, by the sound of it, probably in the middle of another make-believe world. Poor Tray, he's probably coveted in glitter.

The moment the door opens, both girls come tearing down the hallway — matching plaits flying, still in their school jumpers, faces lit with pure joy.

“Daddy!” Poppy launches herself into my arms before I can even put my briefcase down.

Behind her, Quinn is mid-explanation about something that apparently involved glitter, snacks, and a cardboard castle.

Alyssa leans against the wall, smiling softly. “You two are meant to be cleaning your playroom.”

“We did!” Quinn insists. “We just… made it better.”

“Better,” Alyssa repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Should I even look?”

“No!” they chorus in perfect unison, which tells me all I need to know.

I set Poppy down and catch Alyssa’s eye. “Dinner or disaster cleanup first?”

“Dinner,” she sighs, tugging her hair out of its bun. “If I see what they’ve done, I’ll lose my appetite.”

The girls disappear into the kitchen, chattering about who gets to set the table while we follow behind.

It’s the kind of chaos that feels like home now — voices bouncing off the walls, the smell of pasta sauce and garlic bread filling the air, the faint sound of a Disney playlist in the background.

Alyssa moves with the kind of ease that comes from finally being at peace.

She looks soft tonight — barefoot, one of my hoodies hanging loosely off her shoulders, a little colour back in her cheeks.

And for the first time in weeks, I don’t see exhaustion etched into her face.

“Greyson?” she says suddenly, catching me staring. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I lie. “Just… looking.”

Her smile falters, faint but noticeable. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Worry when I look fine.”

I step closer, lowering my voice. “You don’t get to read my mind, Alyssa.”

She tilts her head, a knowing glint in her eye. “I don’t need to. You’re an open book.”

I can’t help but smile. “You make me sound predictable.”

“Not predictable,” she says softly. “Just… safe.”

That word hits something deep.

Before I can respond, Quinn appears between us holding two cups of juice like a tiny referee.

“Mummy, Daddy,” she says proudly, handing one to each of us. “You’re not allowed to fight.”

Alyssa snorts, bending down to kiss her head. “We’re not fighting, baby. Daddy’s just being overprotective again.”

Poppy pokes her head in from behind the fridge. “He does that a lot.”

“I heard that,” I say, but I’m grinning now.

Dinner’s simple but perfect — the kind of meal that feels like a celebration of nothing in particular.

The girls tell stories about school, Winston’s latest disaster at the park, and how Lillian apparently “fell in love” with a singer on t****k.

Alyssa laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her pasta, and I find myself joining in, my chest warm and light in a way it hasn’t been in years.

After dinner, baths, and an inevitable bedtime story negotiation, the girls finally crash — tangled together in Quinn’s bed, still wearing their matching pyjamas.

Alyssa stands in the doorway for a moment, just watching them breathe, her fingers lightly brushing the frame.

“They’re so peaceful when they sleep,” she whispers.

“Probably because they’ve spent all day conspiring,” I murmur back.

She chuckles softly, then turns, tiptoeing out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Later That Night

The house is quiet again.

Dishes done, toys tidied, soft light spilling through the hallway.

Alyssa sits on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, hair loose now — a waterfall of dark waves against the pale jumper she’s borrowed from me.

She’s reviewing a fabric portfolio on her laptop, but I can tell she’s barely reading. Her eyelids droop, and her posture slouches just enough for me to reach over and gently close the screen.

“Hey,” she protests weakly. “I was—”

“Working,” I finish for her. “You’ve been ‘working’ for the last hour.”

“I’m behind,” she says with a sigh. “If I don’t get ahead of next week’s deadlines—”

“Then the world will keep turning,” I interrupt. “And you’ll finally get some sleep.”

Her lips twitch in reluctant amusement. “You’re bossy.”

“I prefer ‘efficient,’” I counter, borrowing her favourite word.

She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

“Probably,” I say. “Not planning on stopping, though.”

That earns me a proper smile — the kind that starts small and spreads, lighting up her whole face.

She leans into me, resting her head against my shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”

I brush a kiss across her hair. “You do. And more.”

She hums softly, almost asleep already, her fingers absently tracing circles on my arm.

It’s moments like this — the quiet, the unguarded, the ordinary — that undo me the most.

Because for all the chaos we’ve weathered, this… this is peace.

And I’d move heaven and earth to keep it.

~ Alyssa ~

When I wake the next morning, the house is still — sunlight filtering through the curtains, the faint hum of birds outside.

Greyson’s arm is heavy around my waist, his chest warm against my back.

For a fleeting second, I let myself just exist in it — the rhythm of his breathing, the safety of his hold.

It feels like the kind of forever I used to think I didn’t deserve.

And then, as quickly as it comes, the moment breaks.

A sharp twist in my stomach sends me bolting upright, my hand flying to my mouth.

I barely make it to the ensuite before everything from last night comes up.

“Seriously” I curse, bracing myself against the sink. "I'm supposed to be better not worse. Some sick joke this is."

The sound must wake him, because a moment later, Greyson’s beside me, hair mussed, half-asleep, a bottle of water in one hand and concern written all over his face.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, crouching beside me, rubbing my back. “Easy. Breathe.”

I wipe my mouth, shaking my head. “It’s fine. Just… I don’t know. Probably something I ate.”

He doesn’t buy it.

His eyes search mine, worry soft but sharp beneath the surface. “You’ve said that three times this month.”

“And I’m still here, aren’t I?” I try to joke, but my voice is thin.

He presses the bottle into my hand. “Drink. Slowly.”

I do, the cool water easing the burn in my throat.

When I finally meet his gaze again, he gives me that look — equal parts frustration and fear and love.

“Greyson, I’m okay,” I whisper.

He doesn’t argue this time. Just pulls me close, his lips brushing my temple. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But you’re scaring me.”

And as I breathe him in, steadying myself against his chest, I can’t help but wonder —

how much longer I can pretend this is normal.

How much longer before everything changes again.