𐙚⋆.˚🐈‍⬛⋆.˚☾

Arrow House greeted Thomas exactly as it always did.

Silent and empty.

The sprawling country estate loomed against the night sky like a sleeping cathedral, its countless windows reflecting the moonlight, while the gravel beneath his shoes crunched softly as he made his way toward the front entrance.

A butler quietly relieved him of his overcoat the moment he stepped inside.

“Good evening, Mr. Shelby,” the man greeted respectfully.

Thomas gave only the slightest nod.

“Evenin'.” his voice sounded tired even to himself.

The entrance hall echoed with every measured footstep as he crossed the polished marble floor, the vastness of the house seeming almost oppressive at this hour. Expensive paintings lined the walls. Fresh flowers rested upon tables that nobody ever sat at. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead despite there being no one to admire them.

It was a beautiful house.

Grace had once filled it with life. Now it simply contained furniture.

Thomas loosened his tie as he climbed the staircase, one hand trailing absently across the smooth oak railing. The whiskey still lingered pleasantly in his veins, enough to soften the ache in his chest without dulling it completely.

He wished it had.

His bedroom stood exactly as he'd left it that morning.

The curtains remained half-drawn, allowing pale moonlight to spill across the wooden floorboards, while a single lamp burned quietly beside the bed. Grace's photograph still rested upon the bedside table.

He looked at it, only briefly.

“I'm tryin',” he murmured almost under his breath, though whether he was speaking to Grace, to himself, or to no one at all, even he couldn't have said.

Slowly, he began undoing the day's attire. His waistcoat landed across the armchair. His tie followed. He rolled the sleeves of his white shirt to his forearms before finally shrugging out of it altogether, leaving only the thin white undershirt clinging lightly to his frame. His pocket watch joined the rest upon the bedside table. His cigarette case. His cufflinks.

Everything placed neatly where it belonged.

Everything except his thoughts.

Thomas lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress before letting his body fall backwards, one arm settling behind his head while he stared blankly at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes.

Immediately...

You appeared.

Not as you had been years ago, but as you had looked tonight.

Standing beneath the amber lights of the Garrison, laughing softly when he'd kissed your hand.

“Always the charmer.”

Then...

“No.”

He turned the word over endlessly in his mind, had you rejected him… or merely the moment?

A sharp knock suddenly disturbed the silence.

Thomas didn't move, “Come in.” he called and the bedroom door opened carefully.

Frances, his housekeeper, stepped inside, folding her hands neatly before her apron.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shelby,” she said politely, though there was an unmistakable uncertainty in her voice.

“There is…” she hesitated, “...a lady downstairs asking to see you.”

Thomas frowned, sitting up again, “At this hour?”

“Yes, sir.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose, Lizzie wouldn't come unannounced, Polly would simply let herself in and Ada would shout his name before even reaching the front door.

“There wasn't a name?” Thomas asked, but Frances just shook her head, “No, sir.”

Thomas almost dismissed it entirely, perhaps someone from the factory, perhaps a widow asking for money, perhaps someone with business important enough to ignore the hour.

His mind flirted with another possibility.

You?

No.

The whiskey was making him hopeful, and hopeful men made mistakes. 

He sat up properly and fully, “I’ll see who it is.”

Frances inclined her head before quietly leaving the room.

Thomas remained seated for another minute.

Don't be ridiculous.

He slipped his shirt back over his shoulders without bothering to fasten every button, running one hand through his dark hair before making his way downstairs.

The house had grown even quieter.

Only the grandfather clock in the entrance hall marked the passing seconds with slow ticks.

As Thomas reached the foot of the staircase, he noticed the front door already standing slightly ajar.

Cold night air drifted inside, Frances waited respectfully to one side.

“There,” she said quietly.

Thomas looked toward the doorway and for a brief second he thought the whiskey had finally overtaken him.

A single lantern burned beside the entrance, its warm golden light pushing back only enough darkness to illuminate the figure standing upon the front step. Everything beyond remained swallowed by the night, the gardens, the gravel drive, the endless stretch of countryside disappearing into blackness.

You stood there, your face half-lit by the lantern, the rest of you wrapped in shadow.

The violet dress from earlier had disappeared beneath a dark coat, tiny droplets of moisture clinging to the fabric where the mist had settled during your walk. Loose strands of your hair framed your face, stirred gently by the cool breeze, while your expression remained impossible to read from where he stood.

Thomas simply stared.

He had imagined this on the walk home. Imagined it again lying in bed.

Yet somehow the reality felt even less believable.

“...Thomas.” you said, the first to break the brief silence, your voice carrying softly through the quiet entrance hall.

“I'm sorry.”

He blinked once, caught off guard by your sudden apology.

“For earlier.”, you lowered your eyes briefly before looking back up at him, before offering him a small, almost nervous smile.

“I wasn't expecting you to be quite so…” you searched for the right word, “...direct.”

A faint laugh escaped you, quiet enough that it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, “You caught me off guard.”

Thomas remained motionless, he wasn’t sure whether he was breathing.

You took a small step closer, the lantern's glow falling more fully across your features now, revealing an expression that looked thoughtful rather than embarrassed.

“I've been thinking about you.” you admitted, the words settled heavily between you, “Ever since I left…”

Thomas felt something shift inside him, dangerously, the feeling spreading inside him felt wrong.

You clasped your hands loosely together in front of you.

“I kept wondering… whether I was too quick. And … if…” you swallowed, your voice growing quieter now.

“...if your offer still stands… I’d like to stay.”

Thomas searched your face instinctively, looking for uncertainty, for regret, for any sign that this might somehow be another misunderstanding.

He found none.

Only you, standing beneath the lantern.

His hand tightened almost imperceptibly against the edge of the door, then he stepped aside, “...Come in.”

You smiled, “Thank you,” you said softly.

As you crossed the threshold into Arrow House, the lantern behind you flickered once in the cold night air before the heavy front door closed with a quiet, echoing click, sealing the warmth of the house around you both while, somewhere far away beneath the dark waters of an old stone well, a silver coin rested undisturbed at the bottom.

You stood quietly for a moment, taking in the grand entrance hall.

“It really is beautiful,” you said softly, your eyes wandering up toward the staircase before drifting across the portraits lining the walls. 

Wonder coloured your voice, though there was something quieter beneath it, “You always talked about wanting a house like this.”

Thomas stepped closer and, without a word, reached for your coat.

You turned naturally, allowing him to ease it gently from your shoulders. His hands brushed the fabric rather than your skin, before he draped the coat neatly over his arm.

“It finally happened,” he replied simply.

You smiled, “It suits you.”

For reasons he couldn't explain, those three words settled somewhere deeper than compliments usually did.

He gestured toward the staircase.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I'd love one,” you answered warmly.

Thomas gestured ahead then, “Come upstairs.”

His office overlooked the dark gardens beyond Arrow House, however, the room itself felt almost untouched by the season beyond its windows. Shelves overflowing with books, maps and ledgers lay neatly stacked upon an enormous desk, and a small fire crackled quietly inside the stone fireplace, filling the room with soft amber light.

You entered slowly, your fingertips drifting lightly along the spines of several books before your attention settled upon a collection of framed photographs on a cabinet.

There were family portraits.

Then...

Several photographs of racehorses.

Your smile grew a little, “You still love them.”

Thomas glanced toward the photographs before pouring whiskey into two crystal tumblers.

“Horses?” he asked, his voice carrying a low hum.

You nodded, “You used to talk about them for hours.”

Thomas let out a short amused breath, “They'll always be my first love.”

The remark left him almost absentmindedly. It was something he might once have said without a second thought.

But the room fell strangely quiet.

You had turned away from him, still studying the photographs, and from where he stood Thomas could no longer see your expression.

For the briefest moment, your shoulders became perfectly still.

Then, just as quietly, you continued looking around the room.

“I remember,” you murmured.

Thomas watched you for a second longer before carrying the glasses toward the desk.

He offered you one as you joined him, and you accepted it with a grateful smile, “Thank you.”

Instead of sitting in one of the leather chairs, you rested lightly against the edge of the desk while your gaze continued to roam across the room.

“You've done well for yourself.” you complimented again.

Thomas lifted his own glass, “So they tell me.”

You looked at him again, for a long moment Thomas simply watched the firelight dance softly in your eyes. 

“When did she die?” you inquired, the question coming gently, without intrusion. 

Thomas lowered his gaze, staring into the amber whiskey swirling within his glass before answering, “Nearly a year.” 

“I'm sorry.” you whispered, “I truly am.”

“It must have been…” you searched for the right words before letting out a slow breath. “...so difficult.”

Thomas didn't answer immediately. He simply raised the glass to his lips, took a measured sip, and lowered it once more.

“I manage.”

You regarded him for a long moment, a small sad smile touching your lips, “You always say things like that… 'I manage.' 'I'm fine.' 'It's nothing.'”

You stepped a little closer, not enough to invade his space, only enough that he could catch the faint scent of lavender again, softened now, he could smell the sweet undertone of poppy.

Your hand came to rest lightly against the front of his waistcoat, “You don't have to pretend with me.”

The words were spoken so quietly they almost disappeared into the room.

Thomas looked down briefly at your hand, then back into your eyes.

Something about the moment felt strangely unreal, not because of what you were doing, but because of how naturally it came. You had spent years apart, and yet tonight it seemed as though those years had quietly fizzled into nothing.

Your fingertips shifted almost absentmindedly against the fabric before you leaned your head lightly against his shoulder.

Thomas drew in a slow breath, he wasn't certain whether to move, whether to speak, whether any of this was truly happening.

“I thought about you,” you admitted softly, “More times than I ever admitted to anyone.”

Thomas remained perfectly still, and with him the room grew quiet.

Thomas found himself unable to shake the peculiar feeling that had followed him ever since he had stood over the old well.

Everything unfolding before him was everything he had imagined on the lonely nights after Grace's death.

Everything he had secretly wanted.

Your hand remained over his chest, where his heartbeat fluttered beneath his clothes.

You slowly lifted your head from his shoulder, your eyes searched his face with an intensity that made his chest tighten.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

Thomas didn't answer, all he could do was simply look at you.

The years had changed you, yet standing so close now, he could almost believe they had somehow found their way back to that summer before France, before trenches, before blood had become the colour that followed him everywhere he went.

You raised one hand, your fingertips brushing lightly along the line of his jaw, the gesture so familiar it ached. 

You had done it years ago whenever he grew too serious, tracing absent circles against his skin until he reluctantly smiled despite himself.

Then, you leaned forward, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away. Your lips met his, the kiss that followed was gentle, and careful. 

Not hurried by longing nor driven by desperation, but tentative, almost as though both of you were rediscovering something.

Thomas closed his eyes, and kissed you back. It felt better than he had remembered, it felt so familiar. 

Yet beneath it lingered something he couldn't explain.

Something… different.

It wasn't your touch.

Nor the softness of your lips.

It was something underneath.

Maybe it had been the years spent apart? The words left unsaid?

Before Thomas could understand why–

You jerked backwards.

Your eyes flew open.

“What the–”

The words escaped you in a frightened breath just as the crystal tumbler slipped from your fingers.

“What the fuck?”

Thomas watched the glass fall, the whiskey caught the firelight as it spun through the air before striking the hardwood floor with a deafening crash.

Amber liquid spread across the polished boards like spilled honey, glimmering between broken glass shards. 

You stumbled backwards as though someone had shoved you, your heel caught the edge of the rug and you nearly fell, if it wasn’t for Thomas reaching for you instinctively. 

“What the fuck happened?” he demanded, catching your forearm before you could lose your balance completely. His brows knitted together as he searched your face, “Are you alright?”

You stared at him, with raw, unfiltered confusion. 

Your breathing became uneven.

You looked wildly around the office, taking in the fire, the shattered glass, the desk...

Your eyes darted around the room again, your expression growing increasingly distressed.

“I…” you panted, “I was…”

Your hand lifted instinctively to your temple, “What...?”

For one impossible heartbeat, Thomas had the overwhelming sensation that he was standing before an entirely different woman.

You blinked a few times, your shoulders relaxing again, the panic disappearing from your eyes just as quickly as it had arrived. 

You looked down at the shattered glass, “I'm…” you almost choked on a breathless embarrassed laugh, “I’m so sorry… the glass it slipped– I must have startled myself…”

You looked back up at him with apologetic eyes, pressing a hand lightly against your chest as though trying to steady your breathing.

“It frightened me.” you admitted, Thomas just continued watching you. 

Something wasn't right, he knew what he had just seen, he wasn't drunk enough to invent it.

You stepped closer again, your eyes filled with anxious concern, “I didn't mean to upset you. Please…” 

Your voice grew quieter as you reached for his hand, fingers closing gently around his, “Forgive me… I've been nervous all evening.”

You offered another apologetic smile, “I suppose I was clumsier than I realised.”

Thomas looked down at your hand wrapped around his, then back into your eyes.

They were calm again, soft, as though the frightened woman who had stood before him only moments ago had never existed at all.

You slowly let go of his hands, the sudden lack of warmth almost caught him offguard, he wanted to reach for you again but before he could even open his mouth you had suddenly sunk to the floor. 

The polished oak creaking as you lowered yourself onto it. 

“It's alright,” he began, his voice rougher than he intended, as he watched you begin to pick up the broken pieces “Leave it. There's no need.”

You didn't look up at his words. Your focus remained on the glittering fragments scattered around your knees, the bright amber liquid spreading like a dark stain. 

You reached your hand towards the largest shard of glass, “Please,” you whispered, the word barely audible, “Let me…”

But your voice trailed off, your head tilted upwards, and for the first time since you'd entered Arrow House, Thomas saw something in your eyes that truly unnerved him.

It was a raw, vulnerable plea, as if you were truly begging for your life, or perhaps, for a chance to remain. It was a look that bypassed his defenses, bypassed his grief, and coiled hot and unfamiliar in his gut.

He held out his hand again, “Come on,” he said, “Get up.”

Instead of taking his offered hand, you leaned forward. Your soft cheek pressed against his palm, your hand rose from the floor to rest on his upper thigh, a tentative touch that sent a surprising jolt through him.

“Please,” you repeated, your voice muffled against his leg. “Let me stay.”

He froze, he had invited you in, and you had accepted, but this plea, this desperate seeking of his touch, felt like more than just a response to his offer. 

It felt like a need. A profound, soul-deep need that resonated with a similar hollowness within him.

His thumb brushed against your cheek as you nudged closer, you tilted your head again, seeking more contact, and his hand instinctively moved, his thumb settling against your lower lip. 

You parted your mouth slightly, a breathy sigh escaping you, and his thumb slipped past your lips, entering the warmth of your mouth.

A gasp, soft and muffled, escaped you. Your tongue instinctively darted out, dragging gently over the pad of his thumb. It was a bold gesture that both shocked and exhilarated him. 

You looked up at him then, your eyes dark and luminous in the firelight, a small, almost shy smile beginning to form on your lips.

Thomas,” you whispered, the word a breath of invitation, a promise of something he thought he'd lost forever.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

The moment your eyes met his, the noise of the Garrison seemed to retreat somewhere into the distance.

The laughter remained.

The piano continued its weary tune.

Glasses still clinked together beneath the amber lamps.

Yet Thomas heard almost none of it.

There was only the strange pull settling somewhere deep within his chest, quiet but undeniable, urging him forward before his mind had fully decided to move. It wasn't unfamiliar. Years ago, before the war, he used to feel that same inexplicable certainty whenever he saw you standing somewhere across a crowded field or waiting beside your family's painted caravan.

It was ridiculous.

He was no longer that man.

And yet...

His feet carried him toward you all the same.

The polished wooden floor creaked softly beneath his shoes as he crossed the room, pushing between occupied tables and barmaids balancing trays of half-empty glasses. The closer he came, the more details returned to him without invitation; the faint scent of lavender that clung to your perfume, the careful stitching along the sleeves of your violet dress, the delicate silver necklace resting against your collarbone, familiar enough to awaken memories he hadn't allowed himself to touch in years.

You noticed him approaching.

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the glass of whiskey before relaxing again.

Thomas stopped beside you.

For a brief second...

Neither of you spoke.

“Have a drink with me,” Thomas said at last, his voice low and steady, though it carried more certainty than invitation, as though the years between you could simply be stepped across without acknowledgment.

One of your eyebrows lifted, and a small smile touched your lips.

“...Hello to you too, Thomas.” you spoke gently, almost amused, though there was something else beneath it that he couldn't quite place.

Thomas blinked once, almost as if he had forgotten that it was expected to greet someone first, then, despite himself, the corner of his mouth shifted into the faintest hint of a smile.

Without another word he reached for your hand.

His touch remained careful, and when he turned your hand gently enough to press a brief kiss against your knuckles, the gesture felt strangely old-fashioned even for him.

Your laugh came softly.

“There he is,” you hummed, shaking your head ever so slightly. “Always the charmer.”

Thomas released your hand, “I've been called worse.”

“I imagine you have.”

For a heartbeat you simply looked at him, studied him. 

Your eyes lingered over the faint lines time had etched into his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. You looked as though you were trying to find the young man you'd once known somewhere beneath the man standing before you now.

Perhaps you did.

Perhaps you didn't.

“...One drink,” you agreed finally, lifting your glass slightly before setting it back upon the bar. “I can spare one.”

Thomas inclined his head, “This way.”

The private room remained much as it always had.

Separated from the bustling public bar by a heavy wooden door, it offered a welcome silence that muffled the music outside into little more than a distant melody. 

Thomas pulled out a chair for you, you thanked him quietly before sitting.

Only once you had settled did he lower himself into the chair opposite.

The silence between you wasn't awkward.

It was...

Careful.

A barman appeared moments later, “The usual, Mr. Shelby?”

Thomas nodded once, “A bottle.”

The man disappeared without another word.

When the whiskey arrived, Thomas poured two generous glasses before reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, producing a polished silver cigarette case that had accompanied him for years.

He opened it, “Cigarette?”

You looked at them for only a moment before giving a small nod, “Thank you.”

You selected one, Thomas took another for himself before striking a match against the edge of the table.

The flame flared softly between you, he leaned forward first, allowing the end of your cigarette to catch the flame in an orange glow. Then he brought the match to his own.

For one suspended moment your faces hovered only inches apart, separated by little more than the tiny dancing flame reflected within your eyes.

Thomas caught the faint scent of lavender again.

Something inside him tightened unexpectedly.

He extinguished the match with a quiet flick of his fingers.

Both of you leaned back, smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling.

“So…” Thomas began after taking a slow drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke curl between the two of you. “What brings you back to Birmingham?”

You wrapped both hands around your whiskey glass, your thumbs tracing absent circles against the cool crystal before answering.

“My family stopped not far from here,” you explained calmly. “We'll only be staying for the week before moving north again.”

Thomas nodded once, “A week.”

“Mm.”

Your eyes wandered briefly toward the rain-speckled window.

“I thought I'd visit a few familiar places while I had the chance.”

There was something thoughtful in the way you said it. Something that made Thomas wonder whether the Garrison had been one of those places intentionally...

Or merely happened to be along the way.

Before he could ask, you looked back at him, “And you? How has life been treating you?”

A faint smile crossed your face as you continued speaking, “I've heard plenty about Shelby business… But not much about Thomas business.”

The distinction lingered between you, for a brief moment he considered answering with the usual response.

Busy.

Fine.

Working.

Instead...

“My wife died.”

The words arrived simply, without embellishment or self-pity.

“Not long ago.” he added. 

The warmth left your expression almost immediately, your fingers stilling around the glass. 

“Oh…” you breathed the single word so quietly it was almost swallowed by the rain beyond the window.

“I'm sorry.” you spoke gently, holding his gaze, “I didn’t know”

Thomas gave a slight nod, and silence settled again. Heavy silence. 

You searched his face carefully before speaking once more “How are you holding up?”

It was such an ordinary question. Yet Thomas found he had no ordinary answer. He looked down into the amber whiskey swirling gently within his glass, watching the lamp's reflection distort across its surface.

“...I just am.” he spoke, his voice carried no bitterness, no anger, only exhaustion.

“I wake up. I work. I sleep.” Thomas explained as if it was the simplest thing in the world. 

Your expression softened almost imperceptibly, not with pity for the man sitting in front of you, you knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. It was something more difficult to name.

You looked at him for a long moment, your cigarette forgotten between elegant fingers as smoke curled lazily upward, and Thomas found himself unable to decipher what rested behind your eyes.

There was familiarity there.

Perhaps affection.

Perhaps only compassion.

Perhaps nothing more than the sadness one feels when confronted by someone they once loved...

Or someone they almost had.

The rain had strengthened outside.

The bottle of whiskey between you had lowered considerably, though neither of you had spoken enough to explain where the missing liquor had gone. Smoke hung lazily beneath the ceiling, illuminated by the warm amber glow of the oil lamp resting between your glasses, softening the sharp lines of Thomas' face until he looked almost as though he'd stepped out of another lifetime.

He watched you, not openly or with great greed, but his eyes were on you constantly. 

Every now and then your fingers would brush the rim of your glass, or you would tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and each small movement seemed to pull another memory from somewhere deep inside him. It was unfair how easily you still occupied the spaces of his mind he had spent years trying to seal shut.

You had changed.

So had he.

Yet sitting across from you now, with the rain falling beyond the windows and whiskey warming his chest, it became dangerously easy to imagine that the years between you had never existed at all.

He should have known better.

Thomas finished what remained in his glass before setting it quietly upon the table.

His blue eyes found yours once again,  “Come home with me.”

He spoke those words without hesitation, without the careful courtship most men might have attempted.

You didn't look offended. Instead, you blinked once before a small, almost disbelieving smile appeared at the corner of your lips.

“...Thomas.” you breathed his name more than you spoke it, lowering your gaze briefly toward your whiskey before looking back at him.

“You really haven't changed in that regard.”

He said nothing. He simply waited. Perhaps somewhere inside himself he had already convinced himself that you would say yes. Perhaps grief had made him reckless. Perhaps loneliness had.

You rested your cigarette between your fingers, studying the glowing ember for a long moment before speaking.

“...No.”

The answer came quietly, kindly.

Thomas remained perfectly still.

“No?” he repeated, his voice calm enough that another man might have mistaken him for indifferent.

You offered the faintest shake of your head, “No.”

Silence followed.

You searched his face for something, whether understanding, disappointment, or irritation, even you weren't entirely certain, but Thomas' expression remained frustratingly unreadable.

“I'm glad we spoke tonight,” you continued after a moment, your tone gentle enough that it almost hurt more than cruelty would have. “Truly.”

You smiled again, small this time, “But…” 

You looked down into your glass before emptying the last of it in one slow sip.

“I think it's better if I go.”

Thomas felt something tighten inside his chest, the sort of ache that settled between ribs rather than striking the heart.

He wanted to ask, 

Better for whom?

Better because tonight wasn't the night?

Or because there would never be another?

But he remained silent. The uncertainty lingered between you like the cigarette smoke drifting lazily through the warm light.

You stood slowly, smoothing invisible creases from the skirt of your violet dress before reaching for your coat draped neatly across the back of your chair.

Thomas watched every movement. You finished the last draw of your cigarette before pressing it gently into the ashtray beside the bottle, twisting it once until the ember disappeared into ash.

Then you stepped around the table.

For one brief moment you stood beside him, close enough that Thomas could once again catch the familiar scent of lavender mingling with tobacco and rain.

He looked up, seeing that soft smile of yours again. 

“It was good seeing you again.” you spoke, before he could answer, you leaned down.

Your lips brushed his cheek, the kiss lasted scarcely longer than a heartbeat.

And after the shattered second of familiar warmth, you drew away. 

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

You spoke the words quietly.

Whether they sounded like a farewell or merely the end of an evening...

Even Thomas couldn't decide.

He watched you cross the room, watched your hand settle upon the brass handle, watched you disappear through the door without looking back.

The latch clicked shut and silence returned.

For several long moments Thomas didn't move.

His fingers lifted almost unconsciously to the place upon his cheek where your lips had rested.

The warmth had already faded.

He poured himself another whiskey. Then another. The first disappeared too quickly to taste. The second burned all the way down.

He replayed the conversation again and again, searching for certainty where none existed.

You hadn't looked disgusted.

You hadn't been angry.

You hadn't told him never to ask again.

You had simply...

Said no.

But no to what?

To him?

Or only to the suddenness of the question?

He hated not knowing.

The Garrison finally emptied sometime after midnight.

One by one, the patrons spilled out into the quiet streets of Small Heath. Rain still lingered in the air, though only as a fine mist now, leaving the cobblestones slick beneath the glow of gas lamps that burned like little pools of amber against the darkness. 

Thomas adjusted the collar of his overcoat as he stepped outside. The whiskey sat pleasantly warm in his stomach, dulling the sharper edges of the evening without quite stealing his senses. He wasn't drunk enough to forget, and he doubted he ever could.

Arthur stumbled through the doorway, already laughing at something neither Thomas nor John had heard, one hand slung carelessly around his younger brother's shoulders.

“I'm tellin' you…” Arthur barked between bursts of laughter, nearly losing his balance before catching himself against the wall of the pub. “...that bloke never saw it comin'.”

John snorted loudly. “He definitely saw your fist comin'.”

Arthur erupted into another fit of laughter.

Thomas merely glanced at them before beginning the familiar walk home.

The three brothers moved through the streets together, their shoes splashing through shallow puddles left behind by the rain. Somewhere nearby, a stray dog barked before disappearing into an alleyway, while distant church bells announced the late hour with slow chimes.

Thomas walked slightly ahead, his hands buried deep inside the pockets of his coat and his thoughts elsewhere.

He hadn't stopped thinking about you, not for a single moment. He could still picture the way the lamplight had caught in your eyes, still feel the feather-light brush of your lips against his cheek, still hear the uncertainty inside your goodbye.

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

He replayed the words endlessly, searching them, dissecting them, finding meanings that changed every time he examined them. Had there been regret? Closure? Or had he imagined all of it because grief had made him desperate enough to mistake it for possibility?

“Oi!”

Arthur's voice dragged him back. Thomas looked over his shoulder. 

Arthur pointed vaguely toward a narrow side street. “I've gotta piss.”

“Me too,” John added immediately, already veering away from the main road with considerably less coordination.

Thomas sighed quietly through his nose, “I'll wait.”

The two younger brothers disappeared into the alley without another word, Arthur still muttering something incoherent while John laughed at a joke only the two of them seemed to understand.

Thomas continued another few steps before stopping in the centre of the small square.

There, illuminated by little more than the trembling glow of two gas lamps, stood the old stone well.

It had been there longer than he could remember. Thomas had never given it much thought.

He rested one hand against the weathered stone rim. Rainwater still clung to its surface, cold against his palm.

Thomas lowered his head.

He wondered where you were now, whether you'd already returned to wherever you were staying, whether you had fallen asleep, whether you'd thought about him at all after leaving the Garrison... or whether he'd simply become another familiar face encountered during your brief return to Birmingham.

“Tommy!” John's voice rang loudly through the quiet square.

Thomas didn't turn. “What?”

John leaned around the corner of the alley, still very much occupied relieving himself against the brick wall, his words carrying far louder than necessary, “Why didn't you shag her?”

Arthur burst into another drunken laugh.

“Yeah!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. “She's got great tits!”

Thomas remained facing the well, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, “It wasn't like that.”

John laughed loudly, “Bollocks! You practically stared holes through the poor woman all night!”

“Should've just taken her home!”, Arthur chimed in with another laugh.

Thomas said nothing. There was nothing worth saying.

His fingers searched automatically through the pocket of his coat for his cigarette case. Instead, something small slipped free, and a dull metallic sound struck the cobblestones.

Thomas frowned and looked down.

The silver coin.

For a moment he simply stared at it lying there. He'd almost forgotten about it, the old woman, the fair, the strange feeling that had lingered after she'd vanished.

He bent down and picked the coin up between thumb and forefinger. It felt just as unnaturally cold as before.

Thomas turned it slowly, the unfamiliar symbols seeming almost to shimmer beneath the damp light.

He scoffed quietly. “Ridiculous…” he muttered beneath his breath.

He was Thomas Shelby. He believed in guns, money, power, and consequences, not charms, not curses, not wishing wells.

Behind him Arthur shouted something unintelligible, followed by John's booming laughter.

Thomas looked down into the darkness below.

The water rested perfectly still. He sighed, more at himself than anything else, then, with an almost embarrassed flick of his thumb, he tossed the coin.

It spun once, then twice, silver catching the light for the briefest heartbeat before disappearing into the darkness of the water below. A soft splash echoed upward, and ripples spread across the water.

Thomas watched them without knowing why.

It was foolish, childish, meaningless.

Still...

The words left him before he could stop them.

“I wish…”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, “...I wish she'd love me…”

He closed his eyes for only a second.

“...and never leave me again.”

Silence answered him.

Thomas let out a quiet, almost self-conscious breath through his nose before reaching once more for his cigarettes.

“Bloody stupid,” he muttered to himself.

He struck a match.

The cigarette caught.

Behind him, Arthur finally emerged from the alley, buttoning his trousers while John followed a moment later, still chuckling to himself.

“You comin', Tommy?” Arthur called, swaying slightly where he stood.

Thomas took one slow drag from the cigarette before turning away from the well.

“Yeah.”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays @afw5 @ourtiger04 @tsreader @jbrownta

The House Arrow still echoed.

Every footstep seemed just a little too loud, every cupboard just a little too empty. There were curtains now, a proper table in the kitchen, and enough furniture that the place no longer felt abandoned, but there was still an unmistakable feeling that the house was waiting for its family to grow into it.

The kettle whistled softly on the stove.

You carried the teapot to the table just as Chloe wandered lazily through the kitchen, tail swishing contentedly before settling beneath your chair.

A knock sounded at the front door.

"I'll get it," you called.

When you opened it, Polly stood on the doorstep dressed elegantly as ever, one gloved hand holding a small paper bag.

"I brought raspberry jam," she announced matter-of-factly.

You smiled brightly, “Hello to you too, Polly.”

She kissed your cheek before stepping inside, “Thought you might like it, since you're eating for two now.”

She glanced around the enormous entrance hall before raising an eyebrow.

“It's still bloody empty.” she noted.

“We've only just moved.” you said apologetically. 

“So I can see.” Polly noted, glancing around the place again.

Thomas's voice drifted from the kitchen, “Morning, Pol.”

She walked in to find him already seated at the kitchen table, one ankle resting across the opposite knee while a cigarette smouldered lazily between his fingers. 

Sunlight poured through the large windows behind him, making the smoke curl in pale ribbons through the room.

He looked entirely at home.

Polly looked at him for a moment before sitting opposite him.

She accepted the cup of tea you placed before her and dropped one sugar cube into it.

Thomas watched her over the edge of his newspaper.

“So,” Polly finally said as she began stirring her sugar into the tea. 

“So,” Thomas repeated, putting down the big paper.

She continued stirring, “Would you like to explain yourself?”

Thomas tried to suppress the smirk quirking on his lips, “What is there to explain?”

Polly stopped stirring promptly, looking up at him with the faintest smile. 

“Oh, Thomas.” she sighed, leaning back, “You secretly marry the poor girl. You secretly knock her up.”

Thomas inhaled from his cigarette.

“And?” he asked.

“And,” Polly continued calmly, “the rest of us are expected to simply wake up one morning and discover we've acquired another Shelby.”

Thomas shrugged, “Saved time.”

You couldn't help the laugh that suddenly escaped you, you tried to hide it behind your hand. 

“You've got nothing to say for yourself?” Polly asked.

“I married the woman I love.” Thomas said in his only defense.

Polly held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed, “At least you did something right.”

Eventually Polly turned towards you instead, and her entire expression changed.

Her eyes softened immediately, “Now.” she began, reaching across the table, “How are you, dear?”

You smiled a bit, tilting your head, “I’m well.” 

Polly nodded, “No sickness?”

“Just a little.” you let her know, your morning sickness wasn’t too bad at least. 

“No cravings yet?”

“Not really.” you answered.

Thomas spoke without looking up, “She does like marmalade biscuits.”

You turned to him, narrowing your eyes, “I had them once.”

“You cried because we didn't have any.” he reminded you, no ill intent in his tone but just quiet amusement. 

Polly laughed quietly, taking a sip of her tea, “Hormones, love.”

Thomas nodded solemnly, “Terrifying things.”

You kicked him lightly beneath the table, but to your frustration he barely reacted.

Polly looked between the two of you with obvious amusement before her gaze drifted lower.

Your dress rested gently over the small swell beginning to round beneath it.

It wasn't large yet, but it was still there. 

“May I?” Polly asked after hesitating for a moment, she gestured carefully towards your stomach.

You looked down at your small bump and your smile softened, “Of course.” you said.

You stood and stepped beside her chair.

Polly's hand rested against your bump with great gentleness.

“There you are,” she murmured quietly, “Our newest little Shelby.”

She smiled to herself, “You behave for your mother.”

Thomas watched the moment without speaking. There was something strangely peaceful about seeing Polly like this.

When she let go of your stomach, you sat down again.

Polly picked up her tea once more, “Did you think about names already?”

You exchanged a glance with Thomas, “We've talked about a few.” 

Polly took another sip, “Oh?”

You nodded, “If it's a boy…” you began, counting them on your fingers, “Edward, Charles, William, and Adam.” 

Polly nodded along as she listened intently to your list of names, “You've only thought about boys?” she asked, curious about your lack of girl names. 

You gently hummed, only now realising it, “Yes… mostly.”

But before you could continue, Thomas spoke, “Lily.”

Both you and Polly turned to look at him, he hadn’t looked up, simply continuing smoking as though he hadn’t interrupted at all.

Polly tilted her head, “Lily?”

Thomas nodded once, “If it's a girl, I like Lily.”

Polly smiled faintly at that, “I would've thought you'd be hoping for a son, Tommy.”

Thomas was quiet for a moment, then he gently tapped ash into the tray beside him.

“I've got a feeling, it'll be a girl.” was all he said, his voice carrying such quiet certainty that even you found yourself believing him. 

Polly smiled warmly at that, “Good, this family already has enough bloody men.”

You let out a soft laugh, Polly looked thoughtfully between the pair of you before settling back comfortably in her chair.

“A little girl might do this family some good…”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

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The countryside beyond Birmingham stretched endlessly beneath a pale summer sky, where slow-moving clouds drifted lazily across washed-out blue and the afternoon sun cast everything in a warm amber haze. 

The fields had been transformed for the annual Romani fair, colourful caravans on the grass, their painted sides adorned with fading florals and intricate gold detailing. Bright strips of fabric fluttered overhead between wooden poles, children darted between stalls clutching candied apples with sticky hands, fiddles and tambourines carried lively melodies through the air, and the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, woodsmoke, damp earth and horses lingered so heavily that it felt impossible to separate one from another.

Thomas Shelby noticed none of it.

The cigarette rested loosely between his fingers as he walked without direction through the sea of people, its ember glowing a dull orange every time he drew from it.

His black overcoat hung heavily from his shoulders despite the warmth of the day, making him seem almost detached from the bright world surrounding him, as though someone had cut him from a different season entirely and placed him here by mistake.

The music reminded him of another life.

One before France.

Before tunnels.

Before blood.

Before Grace.

His thoughts wandered there far more often these days than he cared to admit. Ever since Grace's death, memories had begun rising from places inside himself he had buried years ago beneath violence, business and ambition. Some belonged to France. Others belonged to Grace.

But today...

Today belonged to someone else.

To a girl with beautiful eyes and weather-worn hands.

To evenings spent sitting outside brightly painted caravans while old women sang songs in Romani that Thomas had once understood better than he did English.

To stolen kisses beneath willow trees.

To promises.

You had been his first love.

Long before Grace Burgess had entered his life.

Long before Birmingham had learned to fear the name Shelby.

He could almost remember the warmth of your fingers slipping between his own, the way you’d laughed whenever he tried to act tougher than he truly was, calling him a fool before stealing another kiss all the same.

Then France had happened.

And when he returned...

He hadn't come back alone.

The war had followed him home.

So had the nightmares.

The drinking.

The guns.

The razor blades sewn into caps.

You had looked at him one evening with tears gathering quietly in your eyes, standing beside your family's caravan while the autumn rain soaked through both of your coats, and although you had reached for his hand, you had never managed to hold onto it.

“You're still over there,” you’d whispered, your voice breaking as you looked into eyes that no longer belonged entirely to the boy you’d fallen in love with. “Every time I look at you... you're still in France.”

He hadn't argued.

Because you had been right.

The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come, replaced once again by the distant sound of fiddles and laughter.

Arthur appeared beside him carrying the unmistakable smell of whiskey, his broad grin attempting to drag life back into his brother who seemed determined to leave it behind.

“You look like someone dragged you here at gunpoint,” Arthur said with a snort, nudging Thomas' shoulder as they walked together through the crowded fairground. “Come on, Tommy. Have a drink. Talk to a girl. Do somethin' besides walk around lookin' like … that.”

Thomas inhaled slowly from his cigarette before releasing the smoke through his nose, watching it disappear into the golden afternoon without ever turning to look at Arthur. His expression barely shifted.

“I'm walkin', aren't I?” he answered quietly.

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Walkin'. Sulkin'. Thinkin'. You're always thinkin'.”

Thomas said nothing, because there was nothing left worth saying.

Words had become difficult after Grace. The grief heavy on him, like another stone in already overfilled pockets.

John wandered over a moment later, Finn following closely behind him, already eyeing the various games and stalls spread across the field.

“Arthur,” John called, pointing toward one of the tents, “They've got ale over there.”

Arthur's face brightened immediately, “Now you're speakin' my language.”

Finn glanced toward Thomas, shifting awkwardly where he stood.

“You comin', Tommy?” the boy asked his older brother, but Thomas only barely lifted his eyes from the cigarette.

“You lot go.” he said, his voice remaining almost absent, “I'll walk.”

Arthur studied him for a long second.

Since Grace's funeral it had become almost impossible to separate Thomas’ stubbornness from the sudden emptiness. 

Arthur rested a hand briefly against Thomas' shoulder, squeezing once with quiet understanding.

“Don't wander too far.” the oldest brother spoke quietly, Thomas offered him a faint nod. 

His brothers disappeared into the crowd soon after, swallowed by painted caravans and cheerful strangers until only the distant sound of Arthur's laughter remained.

For the first time that afternoon...

Thomas Shelby was alone.

He took another drag from his cigarette and continued walking slowly through the fairgrounds.

The further Thomas wandered from the centre of the fair, the quieter it became.

Here, the grass grew longer, brushing against the polished leather of his shoes with every step, and the scent of wildflowers mingled with woodsmoke drifting lazily from nearby cooking fires. 

The sun had begun its slow descent across the sky, turning the pale blue above into warmer shades of honey and muted gold.

Thomas reached into his coat for another cigarette.

He found the packet almost empty.

Only one remained.

He rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers before placing it between his lips, striking a match. The flame flickered briefly in the wind before catching, illuminating the sharp lines of his face for the briefest moment, and then disappeared as he inhaled deeply.

Smoke filled his lungs.

But still, his mind refused to stay in the present.

It wandered instead toward another summer years ago, when he'd walked through a fair much like this one. You had insisted on dragging him to every fortune teller, every card reader and every musician you could find, despite Thomas insisting that fate was made by oneself, not predicted by old women with crystal balls.

“You're too serious,” you’d teased, tugging his hand until he'd finally smiled despite himself.

Back then...

Smiling had been easy.

Now it felt like remembering someone else's face.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden collision.

A slight weight bumped against his shoulder with surprising force, causing Thomas to instinctively step back, his brows drawing together as irritation flared almost immediately.

“For fuck’s sake–”

The complaint died on his tongue.

Standing before him was a woman so old she seemed almost folded into herself, her back curved beneath layers of embroidered shawls, each one stitched with faded reds, deep blues and golden thread. Wisps of silver-white hair escaped from beneath a dark headscarf, while countless wrinkles framed a pair of remarkably bright eyes that studied Thomas with amusement rather than apology.

“Oh,” Thomas muttered, the edge disappearing from his voice almost at once. He took half a step back, clearing the path before her. “Didn't see you.”

The old woman smiled, but something seemed off about it. 

“My mistake,” she replied, her voice carrying an unmistakable accent. “These old legs don't always remember where they're going.”

Thomas gave a short nod, “No harm done.”

He was about to step around her, but she moved with him. 

From somewhere beneath the folds of her shawl she produced a small cloth pouch, carefully opening it before extending it toward him.

“Perhaps…” she began gently, “...you'd care to buy something.”

Thomas glanced inside, seeing small carved charms, dried herbs and a few tiny polished stones.

Odds and ends that might have interested someone else entirely.

“No,” he answered simply, shaking his head once as another slow slither of cigarette smoke escaped his lips. “I'm not interested.”

The old woman did not lower the pouch.

“Protection,” she offered.

“No.”

“Luck?”

“I've never had much use for luck.”

“A blessing, then.”

Thomas let out the faintest breath through his nose, somewhere between amusement and exhaustion, before lowering the cigarette from his lips.

“You'll have better luck with someone else,” he said quietly, “Go on your way.”

For a second, she simply looked at him, then she smiled again, “As you wish.”

She reached once more beneath her shawl, Thomas expected her to pull out another trinket but instead she took his hand without asking.

Her skin was cool, impossibly light against his weathered palm, and before he had time to object she pressed something small and metallic into his hand before gently folding his fingers closed around it.

“Take this as an apology,” she said softly.

Thomas frowned, “You don't have to–”

“You'll know when to spend it.” the old lady interrupted him.

He looked down, resting against the centre of his palm lay a silver coin unlike anything he had ever seen.

It was heavier than any ordinary shilling, its surface worn smooth with age. There was no monarch's face. No number. No lettering he could read.

Just strange symbols surrounding what looked almost like a single eye carved into the centre.

Thomas turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the fading sunlight catch against its weathered edges.

“I've never seen currency like this,” he murmured, lifting his eyes again. “Where's it fr–"

His words stopped, the woman was gone. 

The narrow path before him stood empty, stretching between caravans and market stalls where people carried on with their afternoons as though nothing unusual had happened at all. A pair of children raced past chasing one another with wooden swords.

There was no sign of the woman.

Thomas slowly turned in place.

Left, right, behind him, nothing. 

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

She couldn't have disappeared that quickly.

For a brief moment an unfamiliar feeling settled low in his chest. He looked back down at the coin resting in his hand, then he just scoffed quietly. 

"Bloody hell...," he muttered beneath his breath, though there was no real irritation behind the words, only an attempt to explain away something his mind stubbornly refused to understand.

He slipped the coin into the pocket of his overcoat, where it settled with a surprisingly heavy weight against the fabric, then adjusted the cigarette between his fingers and started back toward the centre of the fair.

Arthur and John would almost certainly have found the ale by now.

If nothing else...

A drink would make the strange encounter easier to forget.

By the time the Shelby brothers returned to Small Heath, the last of the evening sunlight had begun to disappear beneath the Birmingham skyline, leaving behind streaks of burnt orange and deep violet that bled together across the horizon before surrendering entirely to the approaching night. 

The Garrison stood exactly as it always had.

Its amber windows glowed warmly against the dusky street, laughter spilling through the open doorway alongside the scent of whiskey, tobacco and polished oak. 

Men crowded around the tables, and somewhere near the back, someone had begun playing a melancholy tune on an old piano.

Thomas stepped inside first, as he always did.

The familiar warmth wrapped around him almost immediately, carrying with it the comforting haze of cigarette smoke that lingered beneath the low ceiling. 

Arthur and Finn disappeared almost immediately toward the bar, eager for another drink after spending the afternoon wandering the fairgrounds, while John lingered nearby, exchanging greetings with familiar faces.

Thomas barely noticed.

An informant had already caught his attention.

The wiry man stood tucked away near one of the darker corners of the room, hat pulled low over tired eyes, nervously rubbing his hands together before Thomas had even reached him.

“Mr. Shelby,” the man greeted quietly, dipping his head with obvious respect.

Thomas removed his gloves one finger at a time, slipping them into his coat pocket before fixing the man with the steady blue stare that had made far braver men lose their nerve.

“You've got somethin' for me?” he asked evenly.

The informant nodded quickly.

“They've been movin' more guns through Digbeth,” he explained in a hushed voice, glancing over his shoulder before continuing. “Three deliveries this week. Italians are involved.”

Thomas listened without interruption, his expression betraying nothing as he reached into his coat for a cigarette.

“When?”

“Next week… Tuesday night.”

“Where?”

The man leaned closer, lowering his voice even further, “The canal warehouse.”

Thomas lit the cigarette slowly, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face before he extinguished the match with a practiced flick of his fingers.

“You sure?” he inquired

The informant swallowed, “I wouldn't come here if I wasn't.”

Thomas nodded once, “I'll look into it.”

The conversation might have continued had John not appeared seemingly out of nowhere, weaving through the crowded room with great excitement.

“Tommy.” John called, but Thomas didn't look away from the informant, “What?”

John glanced across the room before looking back at his brother, unable to suppress the grin spreading across his face.

“You won't believe who's here.” John mused, watching as Thomas exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

“I'm workin', John.”

“No…” John insisted, shaking his head as he reached out to lightly catch Thomas' sleeve. “Seriously.”

Something in John's tone finally drew Thomas' attention, his younger brother wasn't joking.

“What is it?” Thomas finally asked, his gaze lifting to John’s, who looked toward the bar again before lowering his voice.

“She's back.”

Thomas frowned slightly, something complex chasing over his features, “Who?”

For just a moment… Thomas didn't understand. Who could she be if not his late wife, but that was impossible. 

“The one you used to see before France,” John clarified quietly. “She's here.”

Thomas stared at him, his heartbeat seemed suddenly louder than the piano playing across the room, something that felt like starving hunger clenched his stomach and almost knocked the air out of his lungs. 

John gestured over towards the bar, “She's right over there.”

Almost without thinking, Thomas followed John's gaze, his blue eyes grazing over the many strangers, men leaning over drinks, women laughing together, then…

He saw you.

Standing quietly at the polished wooden bar with one hand resting loosely around a glass of whiskey, your attention fixed upon the amber liquid as though it held your thoughts captive. 

The light from the hanging lamps above bathed your figure in warm gold, softening every line until you almost looked like another memory instead of someone standing only a few steps away.

Thomas forgot to breathe.

Time seemed to slow with startling cruelty.

You looked older. The years had touched you just as they had touched him. Yet somehow...you were still unmistakably you. Maybe even more beautiful than the day he lost you. 

Your hair, softer than he remembered, fell effortlessly around your shoulders, and though the years had refined your features, they had stolen none of the beauty he had once known so intimately. 

There remained the same thoughtful expression he'd watched a hundred times before while you listened more than you spoke, and the same eyes...

God.

Those eyes.

He remembered them better than he remembered France.

Better than he remembered his own reflection.

The deep violet dress you wore fit you perfectly, beautiful simply because you wore it.

Over the many years, Thomas had convinced himself he no longer remembered her face. That he had begun to forget it, but he’d been wrong. He remembered it all. 

His gaze lingered, out of disbelief, as though if he looked away, you might vanish again.

Then, almost as though you had felt the weight of his eyes upon you...

You lifted your head and across the crowded Garrison, your eyes found his.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───