Safe With You

The Internet Explodes (Again)

~ Alyssa ~

If someone told me a year ago that the quietest sound in the world is a newborn breathing like a tiny hedgehog, I’d have laughed. But right now, Hope’s soft little sighs on my chest are the only sounds in the house—and it’s bliss.

Eighteen weeks postpartum, and we’ve finally found a rhythm: me and Greyson, the girls, and our sleepy little moon, Hope. Even my coffee is hot. Actual miracle.

The door creaks. Greyson pads in, hair a chaos map, shirt half-done, holding his mug like it owes him rent.

“You’re staring,” he smirks.

“Am not,” I lie, immediately.

He kisses my temple anyway. “You only look at me like that when you’re plotting murder by laundry.”

I snort—and my laptop chimes with a Sunday-morning conference call. Of course it does.

Greyson raises an eyebrow. “Who’s deranged enough to call now?”

I glance at the screen. Elle. Winston. Triston.

“Oh, God.” I accept the call. Hope stirs; I pat, pat, pat.

Their faces pop up and—detonation.

“ALYSSA SAPPHIRE ROSE!” Elle shrieks so loud Hope flinches.

“Human infant,” I whisper-yell. “Volume. Please.”

Winston is wheezing with laughter. Triston’s wearing that smug older-brother-to-your-older-brother grin.

“Alyssa,” Winston manages, “you and Greyson have officially broken the internet again..”

I blink. “What?”

Elle is vibrating. “No, seriously. You broke it.”

She screen-shares before I can ask. The homepages of basically every fashion and lifestyle outlet spin past:

“Alyssa Rose & Greyson Riley: Fashion Royalty, Family, and Forever.”

Front and center: our slow dance under fairy lights—my ivory dress in motion, Hope in Savannah’s arms nearby, Greyson’s mouth at my ear while “Drown” swells.

I just… stare. It looks like a fever dream with better lighting.

“How do they have this?” I whisper.

“Because,” Winston says, smug, “your future mother-in-law emailed it to them at 6 a.m. with the subject line ‘PLEASE RUN THIS, IT’S CUTE.’”

“Of course she did,” Greyson mutters into his mug.

“You’re not even ready for the best part,” Elle sings, scrolling.

Photos flood the feed—Quinn and Poppy twirling in matching dresses I made, Savannah crying, Markus pretending not to, Triston and Kelsi’s catastrophic karaoke, Charlie teaching Bailey to pick hors d’oeuvres like a jewel thief.

Then the comments scroll like confetti:

• @HighFashionFangirl: “This is the aesthetic I’ll never recover from.”

• @ArchitectsAnonymous: “Greyson Riley really said ‘she designed my heart.’”

• @MetalAndManicures: “They danced to Drown?! My emo teenage soul has risen from the grave and is wearing eyeliner.”

• @BringMeTheFanbase: “Alyssa Rose is officially BMTH canon.”

Elle gasps so dramatically I nearly drop my tea.

“Oh. My. God.”

“What now?” Greyson groans.

She zooms in on i********:. The official Bring Me The Horizon account has reposted our dance.

Oli Sykes: “Perfect song for a perfect couple 🖤 congrats to Alyssa & Greyson.”

Half a million likes. Exploding comments. I stop breathing.

Jordan Fish: “The rhythm section approves.”

My soul leaves my body.

Triston wheezes. “Pack it up. You’ve peaked.”

Elle fans herself. “You’re BMTH canon, babe.”

From somewhere downstairs there’s a thump-thump-thump and two small voices: “MUMMY DID YOU BREAK THE INTERNET AGAIN?”

Quinn and Poppy skid into the room, hair chaotic, socks unmatched, eyes huge. They clock the video on screen, then me and Greyson, then the phone grid.

“Uncle Win!” Poppy squeals.

“Hi, tiny humans,” he grins. “Your parents are famous. Again.”

Quinn gasps at the caption. “Oli Sykes said my mummy and daddy are perfect!” She turns to me, hands on hips. “I told you we should’ve learned the other songs”

Poppy nods solemnly. “Next time: confetti cannons.”

I blink at Greyson. “They’re planning a sequel.”

He sips. “As they should.”

Elle isn’t done. “Wait. All the band members reposted to their Stories.”

She rattles them off:

• Lee Malia: “Fit. Song. Vibes. 10/10 would soundtrack again.”

• Matt Kean: “If love looks like this, let me track bass for it.”

• Matt Nicholls: “Paused to check his footwork. Acceptable. Congrats.”

• Oli again, on Stories: a slow-mo with “💀🖤” and “See you at the tour, legends.”

Quinn slaps a hand over her mouth. “Oli called us legends.”

Poppy leans into the camera. “Hi Mr. Oli. I like your hair.” everyone laughs at Poppy, and me?

I bury my face in a cushion. “I’m mortified. And also honoured. Morti-honoured.”

“Do you realise,” Elle adds, cackling, “this video has been reposted more than twenty million times? Trending in four countries. The hashtag is—brace yourselves—#DrownInLove.”

Winston snorts. “Someone made a ‘Greyson’s Hand Placement Appreciation’ edit. It has its own soundtrack.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “Nobody press play.”

Triston sips from a neon mug. “And an account called ‘Alyssa’s Dress For President’ has 40k followers.”

Poppy perks. “Can I be president?”

Quinn considers. “We’ll rule together. Two presidents.”

Greyson gestures at the laptop. “Tell the world. They’ll vote you in by lunch.”

~ Greyson ~

Alyssa is flushed and laughing, eyes glassy with that dazed happy that knocks me out every time. Hope blinks up at us, coos, and gives the smallest kick like she knows her parents went viral.

Elle’s still cataloguing like a sportscaster on triple espresso. “Vogue, Grazia, Vanity Fair, Architectural Digest (??), fan edits, slow-mo strings, one thesis-length Tumblr post about ‘architectural romance’. Oh—and Paramore’s drummer commented with drum emoji and a heart. Cross-fandom diplomacy, we love to see it.”

Winston leans back, hands laced behind his head. “Even Markus is trending because people think he’s a model.”

Triston cackles. “Hashtags also include: #SheSaidYesHeSaidFinally and #BringMeTheHorizonButMakeItMarriage.”

Alyssa groans into the cushion. “Wake me when civilization collapses.”

“No chance,” I grin. “This is brilliant.”

“Not helping,” she mumbles.

“Also,” Elle says brightly, “Savannah’s f*******: caption is: ‘He finally asked (after I asked him fifteen times to ask).’ She added nine hundred flower emojis and a gif of Judi Dench clapping.”

I rub my face, laughing. “Sounds right.”

Poppy squints at the screen. “Does this mean we’re famous?”

Quinn answers like an agent. “It means we accept interviews but only for snacks.”

“Contract negotiators,” I murmur, proud.

Alyssa peeks up. Someone’s comment reads: After everything she’s survived, she deserves a forever that looks like this. She swallows. Her eyes glitter.

“That one,” Winston says softly. “Pin that one.”

I slide an arm around her shoulders. “You’re allowed to enjoy it.”

She nods. And she does.

~ Alyssa ~

Eventually we hang up. Elle is still cackling in my messages. Winston’s sending me memes. Triston’s claiming manager rights to the hashtag. The house calms; the girls curl up on either side of me, heads on my hips, Hope rising and falling on my chest like I’m a dock and she’s a very tiny, very cute boat.

We scroll headlines:

• “Alyssa Rose’s Fairytale Engagement: Fashion’s Most Emotional Moment.”

• “Architect Meets Empire: A Love Story Scored by BMTH.”

• “Oli Sykes Blesses Couture Couple; Internet Ascends.”

Quinn points at a photo of me and Greyson mid-laugh. “That’s the one I want in my room.”

Poppy nods. “Me too. And one of Hope’s feet.”

“Done,” I promise, kissing their hair.

Greyson looks at me, not the screen. “Proud of you.”

“For what?” I tease. “Accidentally causing a global meltdown?”

“For being you,” he says, soft and certain. “Completely, unapologetically you.”

Elle’s voice echoes in my head—obnoxiously adorable—and I decide she’s allowed to be right today.

Poppy leans over my lap, whispers into Hope’s ear, “Mr. Oli said perfect couple. That’s you and Daddy.”

Quinn adds, very seriously, “Also, we’re ordering confetti cannons.”

Greyson salutes. “General Quinn. General Poppy.”

They salute back, collapse into giggles, and then, like it’s choreographed, both sigh and go boneless against me. A minute later they’re asleep. Viral fame can wait; nap time remains undefeated.

~ Winston ~

After the call, Elle’s perched on my kitchen counter, scrolling like her thumb’s on commission. She keeps making tiny happy noises whenever she finds a particularly unhinged meme.

“They deserve this,” she says, soft, and I look up because that voice is the real one. “After everything they’ve been through.”

“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with how full my chest feels. “They really do.”

She tips me a grin. “Think we could break the internet like that?”

“Only if you wear that red dress again.”

She throws a tea towel at me. Then kisses me anyway.

~ Alyssa ~

Late afternoon, Elle forwards a clip from last night’s BMTH show—Oli grinning into a camera: “This one’s for Alyssa and Greyson. Don’t muck it up.” The band slams into “Drown.” I yelp. Greyson whoops. Hope burps and ruins our cinematic moment. Iconic.

We end the day piled up—Hope heavy and warm on my chest, Quinn and Poppy starfished across our legs, Greyson’s arm a quiet anchor around my shoulders. Phones finally facedown. The telly hums. The house breathes.

“This is madness,” I whisper.

“This is love,” he says.

And for once, the noise doesn’t feel like a storm coming for me. It feels like a crowd cheering us on. Like fairy lights in a garden I know by heart. Like a song I used to drown under, finally holding me up.

I’m not sinking anymore.

I’m home.