Here for a Good Time and Against All Odds

Thomas is tangled in the sheets, sweat beading at his brow despite the chill in the air. His face is twisted, teeth bared in a silent war with the demons that have followed him home from France.

“Tommy,” you whisper, touching his arm. He flinches violently, eyes snapping open, wide and unfocused. 

For a moment, he’s not here. He’s in the trenches. He’s surrounded by mud and blood, the stench of death thick in the air. 

And then, his gaze lands on you.

His breath becomes irregular like he’s just surfaced from drowning. 

You reach out again, softer this time, letting your fingers brush his cheek.

“It’s me,” you murmur. “You’re home.”

Thomas exhales sharply, his body collapsing into itself. He runs a trembling hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes as though trying to scrub away the images that linger. 

You don’t ask what he saw. He never tells you anyway. 

Instead, you pull him into your arms, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath his ribs. His body is tense, always bracing for another attack, another fight.

He doesn’t cry. He never cries. But in the quiet of the night, wrapped in your arms, you feel the weight of his silence like a stone pressed against your chest.

The nightmares never stop.

They come like clockwork, leaving him breathless and shaking. 

And when the morning sun rises, Thomas drowns it all in whiskey.

“You’re drinking earlier now,” you remark one morning, watching him pour a glass before he’s even touched his breakfast.

He doesn’t look at you. “It helps.”

“With what?”

His jaw tenses, his fingers tightening around the glass. “With everything.”

You cross the room, placing a gentle hand over his. “You don’t have to do this alone, Tommy.”

He pulls away as if your touch burns him. “I already do.”

The words sting, but you refuse to let them cut too deep. 

You know him. You know his sharp edges and the way he keeps everyone at arm’s length, even those he loves. 

Especially those he loves.

“You think I don’t see it?” you ask, voice steady. “The way you wake up gasping for air, the way you bury yourself in work so you don’t have to think? The way you drink yourself numb so you don’t feel anything at all?”

Thomas exhales slowly, staring down into the amber liquid in his glass. “And what would you have me do, eh?” he says, voice quiet, almost broken. “Tell you every bloody thing I saw? Every man I buried? Every scream I still hear when I close my eyes?”

“No,” you whisper. “I just want you to let me in.”

His shoulders slump, the weight of his ghosts pressing down on him. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, in a movement so small you almost miss it, he reaches out. His fingers brush against yours, hesitant, uncertain. 

A silent offering. 

A plea for something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

You take his hand.

It doesn’t happen overnight.

Thomas is not a man who heals easily. He still drinks too much, still buries himself in business and cigarettes, and still wakes up in the dead of night with shadows clawing at his throat. 

But slowly, something shifts.

One night, when the nightmares come, he doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold him, lets your fingers thread through his hair, grounding him.

One morning, he reaches for coffee instead of whiskey.

One evening, as the fire crackles in the home, he takes your hand in his and holds it without saying a word.

And one day, when the ghosts come whispering, he turns to you instead of the bottle.

It’s not a perfect love. 

It’s messy, tangled with pain and fear and too many unspoken words. But it’s real. 

And for the first time in a long time, Thomas Shelby lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, the war inside him doesn’t have to be fought alone.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

You weren’t stupid.

Your father never laid a hand on you. Not once. But power has its own kind of violence, and you learned quickly how silence could be a blade. How absence could bruise deeper than fists.

Still, in his own way, he protected you. He kept the worst of it behind doors, behind words in languages you weren’t supposed to understand. He smiled at you across the breakfast table and told you you’d go to Paris one day, to study art, just like your mother wanted. He let you pretend. Let you believe there was still time to choose your life.

But then he was shot.

And the illusion — of freedom, of safety, of Paris — shattered like porcelain on the marble floor.

Your mother tried, God bless her. She held you and your younger siblings close that first week and whispered that everything would be all right. But whatever power she once had vanished with the bloodstained coat she took from the hospital to remember him by.

Widows in your family didn’t run empires. Your uncles did. The oldest of whom was a man of appetites, not ideals. He liked his brandy dark and his women young. He didn’t much like being told no. And he saw you, barely twenty and grieving, as a loose thread to be tied up — or cut clean. You were a business opportunity for him and heard the words ‘marriage’ for the first time two months after your father’s funeral. Not from your mother, not even from your uncle, but from a servant girl in the hallway.

The name ‘Thomas Shelby’ drifted to you like smoke — never spoken to you, only around you. First from the maids, whispering like children telling ghost stories. Then from your cousin in the courtyard, voice low and urgent when she thought you weren’t listening.

“He’s dangerous. A politician now, they say. Fought in the war. Killed men with his own hands. He runs things. Big things. And he’s not that old — maybe forty. Still, that’s twenty years older than her,” he told one of your siblings and that is when you knew for certain that your life was about to change. You were the oldest in the family and your father was gone and could no longer protect you.

You didn’t ask questions — not because you were obedient, but because you knew the answers wouldn’t matter. In your family, daughters were never asked. Only offered.

What you did piece together, in fragments and silence, was this: the trade route was shifting. British involvement in the East was getting messier. Deals needed new faces. Someone powerful. Untouchable. Someone whose men carried legal badges and illegal weapons. Someone whose family name opened ports and closed investigations.

Someone like Thomas Shelby who, according to rumours, was a man high up in the British underworld. A Member of Parliament as well as a gangster.

Who else would your uncle shake hands with and then seal it with a bride?

Because that was the condition, wasn’t it?

Your family only traded with family. It was tradition. It was how your mother ended up with your father and it was how your cousin ended up with one of Al Capone’s family members too.

A paper contract could be burned. A shipment intercepted. But a marriage — a marriage bred blood. It tied fortunes together and now it would tie you to him, a man you heard so many gruesome stories about.

---

You first encountered him two weeks after you first heard the rumours, in your mother’s sitting room.

The air was thick with tension and cigar smoke, the lace curtains drawn against the glare of the afternoon sun. Your uncle sat like a king in your father’s old chair, a half-empty glass of dark liquor resting on the armrest. Two of his men stood by the door, not speaking, but watching. Always watching.

Your mother stood near the window, stiff as a statue, lips pressed into a thin line. You hadn’t seen her this pale since the day of the funeral.

And then he entered. Thomas Shelby. Your future husband.

He didn’t stride in like a man eager to impress. He walked in like the room already belonged to him. A fitted charcoal suit, dark tie, long overcoat draped over his shoulders despite the heat. His gloves stayed on. His eyes — sharp and unreadable — swept the room once, then landed on you.

“Is that her?” he asked, his gaze shifting towards your uncle who nodded, smiling like a man who had just laid his winning card.

“Yes,” he confirmed, but Thomas Shelby did not look impressed.

“How old is she?” he asked, gaze still fixed on your face.

“Twenty,” your uncle answered before anyone else could speak and Thomas tilted his head slightly, brows drawn.

“She looks younger,” he observed, displeasure evident on his face.

Your mother stepped forward then, voice taut. “She is of age. And educated. And well raised,” she told him, but Thomas Shelby didn’t respond to her and turned to your uncle again.

“I’d prefer someone older,” he said, which wiped the smile off your uncle’s face.

“Older?” he echoed. “Most men we deal with in your position would have preferred someone younger.”

Thomas’s eyes darkened.

“I’m not most men,” he said coldly. “And I’m not looking for a fucking plaything. I want someone who understands what’s at stake.”

The room froze. Even your uncle’s men seemed to shift uncomfortably.

But your uncle recovered quickly, ever the dealer. “Then you’ll take her. Because she’s the only one we’ve got who’s old enough, and blood enough, to make this binding. We don’t trade outside the family. You know how it works.”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to you again — not unkind, but sharp. Like a man measuring risk.

A long silence settled between them before he finally spoke again.

“Have the papers sent to Birmingham,” he said before he turned and left without another word.

And just like that, it was done.

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You set the tray as the tea steeps. You carry it up to your employer’s study. The door is open. He expects you.

You put the tray on the desk as he sits behind it. He toys with a brass compass, tilting it as the needle quivers. He watches it intently. The metal is scuffed and doesn’t belong with all his other shining and golden possessions.

He sets it down and turns to you.

“Would you like me to pour your tea, Mr. Shelby?” You offer.

“Go on,” he says.

You fill the tea cup and add the splash of milk he prefers. He leans closer and reaches for the cup.

“You know how I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you bring up a whole tray…”

“If you prefer otherwise–”

“Didn’t say so,” he sits back with the tea cup.

“Sir.” You sidle away. “Biscuits and gravy for supper. If it is agreeable?”

“Mm. Can’t complain so long as it doesn’t come from a tin.” He mutters.

“Mr. Shelby. I’ll listen for the bell.”

You march across the room. He sighs. You shut the door.

You busy yourself with the linens. You hung a few out back to dry. You will need to get them down before that rumbling storm arrives.

A creak comes from above. You look up at the window as it swings outward. Mr. Shelby blows out a cloud of smoke into the wet air. He peers down as you unclip the tablecloth.

“Do I not pay the laundress?” He calls down.

“You do, sir. I want to get these done before the pick up,” you explain as you fold up the damp linen in the basket. It will likely need to go anyway without proper drying.

You peek up again. He leans on the window ledge as he smokes and watches you. You hurry to retrieve the tea towels and pile them on the tablecloth.

“Best get in.” He chides. “Storm’s…” The sky cracks and you feel the first large droplets splash on your cheeks. “...here.”

He pushes away from the ledge and pulls the window shut. You grab the basket and hurry for the door. Your shoulders and hair are damp as you enter. You set the laundry in the cellar with the rest due to be sent out. You huff. So much for that.

The rain thrashes without as you go to the kitchen. You have some beef from the butcher that should make some rich gravy and the biscuits have rested the perfect amount of time. Your mother would use fat in hers but you’ve only butter.

Your work is simple. It’s pleasant in its stability. You’ve a roof and an income. You know how it is to have neither and how many go without.

You bring up Mr. Shelby’s dinner. He’s smoking as you enter. He lets it out slow through his nose and stamps out the but. You hope you aren’t spoiling his habit.

You place his supper on the table then take the tea tray from his desk. Thunder claps again and you flinch. The teacup shakes on the saucer. You look at it as Mr. Shelby does too.

“Does it scare you?” He asks.

“It is only loud, sir.”

“Mm. Yes.” His eyes roll up to the ceiling as the thunder rumbles, nearly shaking the house. “I never liked the rain since…” He doesn’t finish and shrugs. “Ah, I am only thankful to not be out in it.”

He swivels his chair and grabs the compass. He flips the cover open and shut again. He does that several times. You retreat without remark.

You wash the porcelain and wipe the tray. You keep some of the lukewarm tea for yourself. You drink it with a biscuit then tuck away the gravy and slabs of beef.

Your nightly duties begin. You make sure the kitchen is spotless and that nothing has been disturbed in any of the rooms. In such a large house, it takes some time. You end at Mr. Shelby’s study.

You knock. He grumbles. It doesn’t sound entirely unwelcoming.

You cautiously open the door. “I’ve come to clear your dishes, Mr. Shelby.”

“Yes, yes,” he says abruptly.

He’s at the table. The compass sits on the edge as he cleans his pipe. You stand across from him and slide the tray toward you. He’s not touched any of it. You bite the inside of your cheek.

He taps the pipe. You look at him, the sharp noise tweaking in your ears.

“You look perturbed.” He states.

“Not at all, sir.”

“Hungry?”

“No, sir.”

“So why do you examine my supper so intently?” He challenges.

“You don’t like biscuits and gravy? I could prepare something else.”

“My appetite is… elusive,” he puts the pipe between his lips, then speaks around it. “You’re welcome to sit and clear it yourself.”

“I will save it,” you assure him. “Anything else, sir?” You glance at the glass on the table. “More whiskey?”

He looks at it too. His blue eyes meet yours dully. His lips curve as he lights his pipe. He breathes out. “One vice at a time.”

You take the tray and back away. You leave him. In the kitchen, you do have one of his biscuits. You are hungrier now. The rest you’ll give to the hounds he keeps for hunting once the rain clears.

You retire for the night. You can hear the bell from your chamber. And the wind. It whips at the walls as you untie your shoes.

You take off your apron. As you hang it, you’re reminded of the envelope. You slip it free and sit on your bed. You open it with your fingernail. You open the letter within.

‘Daughter.

I wished to write  of gud things. Those are not. Your father is ill again. The doctor has a fee. Please help.

Love you dearly,

Mother.’

You fold up the paper and slide it away. You put the envelope in the shoebox under your bed. It is unfortunate but not unexpected. Your father has not been well in some years. You sift through the box and count the coins in your purse before placing it within. You don’t have much but you’ll send it.

You hide the box and change into your night clothes. You unwrap the new night coat and hang it over your old one. You blow out the wick. The room is one of a few without electric. You think it is meant to be a closet.

No sooner do you close your eyes than you’re woken by the crash of thunder? Is it thunder? Another deafening thump has you sitting up. You swear it’s come from inside the house.

You untangle yourself from the wool blanket and linen sheet. You gasp as the next bang makes your ears ring. It’s unmistakable. Gunfire.

You wait and listen. The silence is louder. You slowly open your door.

“Stop.” Mr. Shelby’s voice has you frozen. “Stop. Or I’ll fire. Surrender.”

You pause.

“Hey, Hans. Put your fucking rifle down– God, he can’t understand–AHHHHHHHHHH!”

The scream fills your chest with horror. Several shots fire then all you hear is the clicking of the empty chamber. You linger until your ears stop ringing.

You creep down the hall. You smell gunpowder. There are bullet holes in the door of Mr. Shelby’s study.

“Hello, Mr. Shelby? Are you…”

You don’t know what to ask. It’s plain that not all is well. You grab the handle and twist. The door inches inward.

Mr. Shelby is on the floor. The chamber continues to click as he aims it at his own head. His eyes are glassy as he stares at nothing. You can’t truly tell where he’s looking.

You gulp and near him. You gently touch his hand. He quickly aims the gun at you. You wince and shield yourself behind your hands.

“Mr. Shelby,” you eke out.

The gun shakes. You move your hands slowly to grasp it. 

“Shhh, Mr. Shelby. It’s me. The maid.”

You ease his aim down and away from you. His grip loosen and you take the pistol. You put it in his top drawer and lock it.

You go back to him and kneel next to him. You swipe his sweaty hair away from his forehead. His tie hangs loose around his open collar, his suspenders crooked on his shoulders.

“Mr. Shelby,” you whisper. “You’re at home. You’re–”

Thunder rolls again. He grabs onto you. You squeal as he pulls you into his lap. He presses his lips to your temple and hushes you. He rocks you as he locks you in his arms.

“Shh. They’ll hear us.” He rasps. “Voices carry in the tunnels.”

The bell above the betting shop door rang once before you could stop it.

You froze just inside the threshold, your hand tightening instinctively around your son’s. He startled at the sound too, his small fingers curling into yours, body turning inward as if he could disappear behind your skirts if he tried hard enough.

The shop smelled of ink and smoke and damp wool. Men’s voices filled it—low, rough, overlapping. You were used to this place, used to the noise and the looks and the way the air always felt heavy, but today every step felt louder.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured automatically, though no one had said anything yet.

Your son peeked out from behind your leg, dark eyes wide. He didn’t speak. He rarely did with strangers. Instead, he watched, quiet and careful, his thumb finding the hem of your sleeve.

At the far desk, Thomas Shelby looked up.

He didn’t frown. Didn’t smile either. His eyes flicked from you to the child and back again, sharp and assessing in a way that usually made your spine tighten.

You braced yourself.

Before anyone else could comment, before you could rush out an explanation or an apology, he said simply, “He can stay.”

Not loud. Not soft. Just… settled. Like a decision already made.

You nodded quickly, relief and embarrassment tangling in your chest. “Thank you, sir.”

You guided your son further inside, keeping him close, settling him on the stool near your desk. He perched there obediently, legs dangling, still silent. You set a scrap of paper and a pencil stub in front of him, murmuring encouragement. He nodded, already focused, tongue peeking out as he made careful marks.

Behind you, the shop continued as if nothing had changed.

That was the first thing you noticed.

No one complained. No one stared too long. And Thomas Shelby went back to his papers without another word, as though the presence of a small child in his betting shop was the most ordinary thing in the world.

When you glanced at him—just once—he wasn’t looking at you.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

The next few days passed much the same.

You came in with your son when you had no other choice, always tense at the door, always ready to be told it wasn’t acceptable. You kept him quiet. Too quiet, maybe. You corrected him with soft murmurs when he shifted or fidgeted, apologizing under your breath for things that hadn’t happened yet.

Thomas never commented.

What he did do—though you only noticed it gradually—was adjust.

Meetings that usually happened near the front moved to the back room. His voice, which could cut through the shop like a blade, stayed low when your son was near. When men grew too loud, Thomas silenced them with a look before you even realized your shoulders had tensed.

Your son noticed before you did.

On the third day, while you were counting slips, you felt a slight tug at your skirt. You looked down. He was staring—not at you, but past you, toward Thomas’s desk.

“What is it?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just watched.

Thomas didn’t look back. Not yet.

A few minutes later, you heard his voice, calm and measured.

“What’s his name?”

You startled. “Oh—um. It’s—” You cleared your throat. “It’s Eli.”

Thomas nodded once, as if committing it to memory. He didn’t look over when he said it. Didn’t push for more.

Eli shrank a little at the sound of his name spoken by someone else, but he didn’t hide this time. He stayed where he was, fingers tight around the pencil, eyes fixed.

Later—much later—Thomas slid a coin across his desk. Not toward you. Toward the empty space between them.

He didn’t announce it. Didn’t gesture. Just let it roll to a stop.

Eli looked at it. Looked at Thomas. Then looked at you.

You hesitated, heart in your throat. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Eli slid off the stool, small steps careful on the worn floor. He picked up the coin, turning it over in his hands like it was something precious.

Thomas watched him then. Quiet. Still.

“Good lad,” he said, softly enough that it almost didn’t count as sound.

Eli didn’t answer.

But he didn’t run back to you either.

Time moved the way it always did in the shop—measured in days, in ledgers filled and emptied, in the steady rhythm of work.

Eli began to sit closer to Thomas’s desk. Not on it. Never on it. Just near enough to feel… included. He lined coins up carefully, mimicking the neatness you’d drilled into him, the seriousness with which he approached everything.

Thomas spoke to him once a day.

Never more than that.

“How old are you?” “What’s that you’re drawing?” “Do you like numbers?”

Sometimes Eli answered. Sometimes he didn’t. Thomas accepted both with the same calm nod, as if silence were simply another form of conversation.

You watched all of this from the corner of your eye, your chest tight with something you didn’t want to name. Gratitude, maybe. Fear, too.

You kept your distance from Thomas. Polite. Efficient. Quiet. You answered when spoken to and not much more. Trust was not something you gave easily. You’d learned that early.

Thomas seemed to understand.

He never stood too close. Never touched you without warning. When he needed you to stay late, he told you early in the day and added, without hesitation, “Bring the boy. I’ll have food sent in.”

Not a request. Not an order. A fact.

The first time he did it, you nodded and said thank you and spent the rest of the day waiting for the catch.

It never came.

The day everything shifted was unremarkable in every way that mattered.

Rain streaked the windows. The shop was busy. A man near the counter grew agitated, his voice rising sharp and sudden.

Eli flinched.

It was small—just a stiffening, a breath caught too fast—but you saw it. Panic bloomed instantly. You were already moving, already reaching for him, already forming an apology—

Thomas was faster.

“That’s enough,” he said.

Not loud. Not angry. Final.

The shop fell quiet in a way that felt almost reverent. The man muttered something and backed down.

Thomas turned his attention back to his desk like nothing had happened.

You stood there, hand hovering uselessly in the air, heart pounding. Eli looked at Thomas, eyes wide, something like wonder flickering across his face.

“He’s all right here,” Thomas said, not looking at you.

You swallowed and nodded.

For the first time, you believed him.

That night, when the shop finally emptied and Eli fell asleep against your side, head heavy on your arm, Thomas paused by your desk.

“You can take tomorrow morning off,” he said. “He looks done in.”

You hesitated. “I—I can manage—”

“I know,” he replied evenly. “Still.”

He left it at that.

You watched him go, something unfamiliar settling in your chest—not hope. Not yet.

But the quiet understanding that maybe, slowly, without force or demand, Thomas Shelby was making room for both of you.

----------

Eli started talking more after that.

Not all at once. Not loudly. Just… more.

It showed first in the way he narrated things to himself while he worked—soft, half-formed words under his breath as he lined coins or counted slips. You’d catch fragments when you leaned close enough. Numbers. Colors. Names you didn’t recognize.

Thomas noticed too.

One afternoon, as the rain cleared and light crept back into the shop, Thomas paused beside Eli’s makeshift corner. The boy had spread coins in a careful line, smallest to largest, tongue caught between his teeth.

“What’s that?” Thomas asked.

Eli startled, just a little. He glanced up, then sideways—to you.

You met his eyes and nodded, a quiet encouragement. It was the same nod you’d given him every day of his life when he’d needed to be brave.

“Coins,” he said. The word came out soft, almost shy.

Thomas crouched—not all the way down, just enough to bring himself closer to Eli’s level without crowding him.

“Good sorting,” he said. “You do that often?”

Eli nodded solemnly.

Thomas straightened again, the interaction complete. No praise heaped on. No demand for more.

But later, when Eli tugged gently on your sleeve and pointed toward Thomas’s desk, you felt something in your chest loosen.

Weeks passed.

Spring edged toward summer, the days stretching longer, the shop growing warmer and louder in the afternoons. Eli learned the rhythms of the place—the busy hours, the quiet ones, the way Thomas’s footsteps meant something different depending on how heavy they sounded.

He stopped hiding behind you.

Not completely. He still leaned into your leg when strangers came too close. Still reached for your hand when voices rose unexpectedly. But he no longer flinched at Thomas’s presence. Sometimes, when you were distracted, you’d look up to find Eli sitting near Thomas’s desk, legs folded beneath him, watching the steady scratch of pen against paper like it was a kind of magic.

Thomas never told him to move.

One evening, well past Eli’s usual bedtime, you noticed Thomas pause mid-calculation.

“He should be home,” he said, glancing toward the small form slumped in a chair, eyes drooping.

You straightened, guilt rising sharp and familiar. “I’m sorry—I lost track of time.”

Thomas shook his head once. “No need.”

He went into the back room and returned with a coat—far too large for Eli, but warm. He draped it over the boy’s shoulders without waking him, movements careful, practiced in a way that surprised you.

Eli stirred but didn’t pull away.

You watched, heart in your throat, as Thomas adjusted the coat gently, then stepped back as if afraid of disturbing something fragile.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Thomas looked at you then. Really looked at you. His gaze lingered, thoughtful, searching, before he nodded.

It was a small thing, the first real conversation you had with him.

It happened late one night, after the shop had closed and Eli slept curled against your side, breath warm and steady. You were finishing the last of the paperwork when Thomas approached, setting a cup of tea on the desk beside you.

“You didn’t eat,” he said.

You opened your mouth to deny it. Stopped.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you murmured instead.

He didn’t challenge you. Just leaned against the desk opposite, arms folded loosely.

“He’s like you,” he said, eyes flicking briefly toward Eli.

Your chest tightened. “In what way?”

“Quiet,” Thomas replied. “Watches first. Decides later.”

You swallowed. “That’s not always a good thing.”

Thomas’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Keeps you alive.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The silence between you felt different after that. Less brittle. More… shared.

Eli’s confidence came in bursts.

One morning, you were distracted with a customer when you heard his small voice—clearer than usual.

“Tommy.”

The sound hit you like a dropped plate.

You turned sharply, heart hammering. Eli stood beside Thomas’s desk, looking up at him with something like determination.

Thomas froze.

Slowly, he looked down. “Yes?”

Eli held up a coin, frowning. “This one… wrong.”

Thomas crouched this time, properly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Show me.”

Eli did, pointing carefully, explaining in halting phrases why the coin didn’t belong with the others. Thomas listened as though this explanation was the most important thing he’d heard all day.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “Good catch.”

Eli beamed.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes burning. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed to see someone take him seriously.

Thomas glanced at you then. Just once.

He didn’t smile. But something passed between you—an understanding you hadn’t agreed to, but felt all the same.

You trusted him before you realized you did.

It showed in the way you no longer hovered as closely. In the way you let Eli wander. In the way you stopped apologizing for his presence.

Thomas noticed.

He never commented.

Instead, he stayed.

Stayed consistent. Stayed patient. Stayed exactly where he’d always been.

And one night—long after you’d meant to leave, exhaustion weighing heavy on your bones—you finally faltered.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you said softly, staring at the ledger rather than at him.

Thomas didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was low, steady. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You looked up at him then, really looked, and for the first time you didn’t feel like you needed to look away.

Eli shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Thomas reached out—hesitant, careful—and steadied him with one gentle hand.

You watched the gesture, something warm and terrifying blooming in your chest.

And when Thomas finally met your eyes again, you didn’t pull back.

-----------

Eli reached for Thomas’s hand for the first time on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no moment of tension beforehand, no sudden burst of courage. It happened the way most important things did with him—quietly, almost accidentally, as though he hadn’t realized he was crossing a line until he was already on the other side of it.

The shop was slow that morning. Light filtered in through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. You were sorting slips, mind half elsewhere, when you felt Eli shift beside you.

“Stay here,” you murmured automatically.

He nodded—but didn’t.

Instead, he took three careful steps toward Thomas’s desk, stopped, and stood there, uncertain. Thomas was writing, brow furrowed, attention fixed on the page. He didn’t notice at first.

Eli waited.

When Thomas finally looked up, his expression stilled—not startled, not displeased. Just attentive.

“Yes?” he asked gently.

Eli hesitated, then reached out. His small hand closed around two of Thomas’s fingers, loose but sure.

You sucked in a breath before you could stop yourself.

Thomas looked down at their joined hands. He didn’t move away. Didn’t tighten his grip either. Just stayed exactly as he was, letting Eli decide.

After a moment, Thomas said, “All right,” as if this, too, had been agreed upon long ago.

Eli smiled—small, shy, triumphant—and leaned a little closer.

You watched from your desk, heart hammering, something fragile and precious settling into place. No one said a word about it. No one needed to.

From that day on, Eli gravitated toward Thomas without fear.

He sat closer. Spoke more freely. Asked questions that came out crooked and earnest and sometimes only half-formed. Thomas answered every one of them as though they mattered. Especially the ones that didn’t make much sense.

And you—slowly, carefully—began to let go of the tight hold you’d kept on the world for so long.

The first time Thomas walked you home, it felt unreal.

It was late, the streets quiet and damp, Eli half-asleep in your arms. You’d been struggling with his weight, arms aching, when Thomas stepped in without comment.

“I’ve got him,” he said.

You hesitated. Old instincts flared—protective, wary—but you were tired. So tired.

“All right,” you whispered.

Thomas lifted Eli with ease, cradling him against his chest like it was something he’d done before. Eli stirred but didn’t wake, face pressing into Thomas’s coat, breath evening out again almost instantly.

You walked beside them, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Thomas’s body. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. The silence felt companionable, wrapped around you like a shared secret.

At your door, Thomas paused.

“You’re doing well,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than you expected. You swallowed. “I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s how I know you are,” he replied.

He handed Eli back to you with care, lingering just long enough for his fingers to brush your sleeve—a touch so light it might have been accidental.

It wasn’t.

After that, Thomas became a presence beyond the shop.

He checked in when Eli was sick. Sent food without explanation. Arranged your hours around nursery schedules you hadn’t told him about—but he’d noticed all the same.

He never pushed. Never demanded more than you could give.

And slowly, you found yourself speaking to him more.

Not about anything important at first. Just small things. The weather. Eli’s drawings. A story he’d told you at bedtime that made no sense at all but had made you laugh anyway.

Thomas listened.

One evening, as Eli played on the floor with coins and scraps of paper, Thomas looked at you and said, “You don’t apologize as much anymore.”

You blinked. “I didn’t realize I was.”

He nodded. “I did.”

You smiled then—just a little, but real—and Thomas felt it like a victory he hadn’t known he was fighting for.

The moment you realized you trusted him came quietly, too.

You were exhausted, the kind of tired that settled deep in your bones. Eli was asleep on the settee in Thomas’s office, curled up under a blanket that had somehow appeared there without you noticing.

You sank into the chair opposite Thomas, shoulders sagging.

“I’m scared,” you admitted softly. “Sometimes.”

Thomas leaned back, studying you—not with scrutiny, but with care.

“So am I,” he said.

You met his gaze. Something shifted then. The last wall you hadn’t even realized you were holding upright finally lowered.

Thomas didn’t reach for you. Didn’t need to.

He stayed.

And that was enough.

By the time you realized what the three of you had become, it felt less like falling and more like arriving somewhere you’d been heading all along.

Eli laughed more. You breathed easier. Thomas—quiet, steady Thomas—made space for both of you without ever asking you to change who you were.

One night, as you walked home together, Eli between you, holding both your hands, Thomas glanced down and said, almost to himself, “This works.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yes,” you agreed. “It does.”

You did not.

Birmingham greeted you with wet cobblestones and gray skies. The wind cut through your coat like knives. You stayed at the Grand Hotel, the entire top floor rented out for your family. Your mother filled the suite with fresh flowers and tried to keep her voice even as she answered calls. You barely left your room.

Your new aunt, Polly, sent you a package with your wedding dress, designed by one of London’s finest, as well as box of shoes, gloves, a simple pearl necklace and a hair comb set in silver. With the items, there was a note said that everything was chosen with care for you, and you weren't sure if it was kindness or strategy. Perhaps both.

Every evening leading up to your wedding, there was a dinner — not for you, but for your uncles and the men who came to negotiate, toast, smoke, nod. You weren't invited. But you could hear it all through the walls.

Two nights before the ceremony, you saw Thomas Shelby for the second time, but only briefly.

He came to the hotel for a private meeting. He didn’t stay long. You passed him once in the corridor, his coat slung over his shoulder, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He glanced at you — nothing more than a flicker of blue and silence — and then he was gone.

The night before the wedding, sleep did not come. You lay awake in the dark, palms pressed to the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You weren’t scared. Not exactly. But there was a feeling like standing at the edge of something vast and irreversible.

And then, morning came.

You bathed in silence. Your hair was twisted and pinned. Your dress laid out with surgical precision. You had tried it on a few days ago and your mother had it altered, but only slightly, to make it fit better.

After your bath, you got dressed and ate nothing and, when the car came, you climbed in without looking back. Your uncle sat beside you, whistling.

“You’re doing the family proud,” he said.

You said nothing.

The church came into view too quickly. Small. Gothic. Birmingham stone. You stepped out, the wind catching your veil — and when you walked down the aisle alone, it felt less like a wedding and more like a surrender.

***

It was the church that surprised you most.

Not the ornate marble or the stained glass — but the fact that it was a church at all. You knew Thomas Shelby had been married once before. You’d heard the whispers from your uncle’s men. A woman named Grace. Shot in front of him, they said. Left him with a son.

So why a church?

Because your family insisted. That’s what you were told. Your mother said it was symbolic — something to reassure the elders, something that would keep up appearances.

The Birmingham air was cold and wet that morning. The city smelled of coal and rain.

The church itself was quiet when you arrived. Small. Private. Elegant in a way that suggested money, but not warmth. The guests were minimal — select men from both sides, some with wives, none with children. A few women in hats, silent and ornamental. The pews weren’t even half full.

Thomas stood at the altar already.

He wore black, of course. Black tie. Black coat. Black gloves he didn’t remove. His face unreadable, carved from something colder than stone. His brothers flanked him — Arthur shifting from foot to foot, too much energy even for a wedding; John calm, sharp-eyed, still as marble. A few others behind them, men you didn’t know yet but would come to learn by voice and shadow.

You walked down the aisle alone.

It felt deliberate. And maybe it was. Your uncle sat in the front pew, nodding with pride like he was watching a merger close. Your mother, pale and tight-lipped, looked like she might unravel if you so much as glanced at her.

Thomas didn’t smile.

But he looked at you the whole time — steady and unmoving, like the tide.

Then, when you finally reached the altar, no time was lost and the priest began to speak.

“Dearly beloved,” he said and you didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

You watched Thomas as he shifted only once, calculated and cold.

The vows were said in murmurs. The priest asked you if you took this man. You said you did. Thomas’s voice was a little lower when he repeated the same. He looked at the ring before sliding it onto your finger, and for the briefest moment, you thought he hesitated.

There was no kiss. Not even a cheek.

Just a handshake with the priest, a few tight nods, and then it was done.

You were Mrs Shelby now and stood beside your new husband like a statue in a tableau. And he gave you nothing but a nod and a single, quiet word as he turned toward the door.

“Come,” he said and, with that, you followed him outside.

***

Once outside, some photos were taken in silence.

There was no laughter. No soft instructions from a smiling photographer. Just a man with a camera, clicking in short bursts as you and Thomas stood side by side in front of the church steps. His hand rested lightly against your back for exactly two photos. Then he let it fall.

You didn’t speak to each other during any of it.

His brother Arthur made a crass joke at one point, trying to lighten the mood. Someone — possibly one of your cousins — laughed too loudly. Your mother didn’t come outside for the pictures. She said she had a headache.

When it was over, you were ushered into a black car, Thomas beside you in the back seat. He didn’t look at you. Not really. Just lit a cigarette, cracked the window, and stared straight ahead.

Arrow House was a thirty-minute drive away, through the rain-dark countryside. You passed fields and stone walls, winding roads and empty land that looked older than anything you had ever seen.

And then — there it was.

Arrow House. Your new home.

It was bigger than you expected. Grand without being showy. Beautiful, but cold. A house that had seen war and whiskey and blood and grief. A house that belonged to men who rarely smiled and women who learned not to flinch.

Inside, the reception was already underway.

The main hall had been transformed — candles lit, long tables set with crystal and silver, bottles of champagne already uncorked. The fire roared in the massive hearth, casting dancing shadows across the polished floors.

Polly, who refused to come to the ceremony out of spite for the agreement reached between your uncles and your new husband, greeted you with a kiss on the cheek and a warm, steadying hand.

“Come in, sweetheart,” she said. “Let them see you. Then I’ll steal you away,” she told you kindly and, even though this was only the second time you had met her since arriving in Birmingham, you already began to like her.

Once you were inside the grant mansion and under Polly’s wing, Thomas disappeared quickly into the corner with Arthur and your uncles. Business, always business.

You stood there for a moment, untethered. Watching the room. Listening to the clink of glasses, the low hum of power in conversation.

And then, just as Polly turned her back to get you something to drink, she approached.

Lizzie Stark. Brunette. Tall. Wearing navy blue and pearls. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You must be Y/N,” Lizzie said brightly — too brightly — as she stepped closer, swaying slightly in her heels.

You turned, offering a polite nod. “I am indeed. Yes,” you confirmed as, clearly, it was obvious. You were the only woman here wearing white and that had to speak for itself.

“Well,” she said, her smile stretched a little too wide. “Then I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” you responded, still wonder who she was at this point, but being too shy to ask.

“I’m Lizzie by the way,” she finally declared. “I am Tommy’s secretary,” she told you as she pushed the words out quickly, like she wanted them on record. “Well — I mean — I help him with a lot of things, really. Not just secretarial work,” she went on to say, which caught you somewhat off guard.

You gave a soft, noncommittal hum. “I see.”

She looked you up and down. Not cruelly. But not kindly either. More like someone studying a shop window and not liking what she saw.

“God, you look young,” she then blurted before laughing too loudly. “I mean, not in a bad way. Just — fresh-faced, that’s all,” she told you with a slight slur, clearly having had too much champagne and, of course, you said nothing in return because there was really nothing to say.

Lizzie smoothed her dress unnecessarily. “Tommy’s not really the romantic type, you know. He doesn’t do candlelit dinners or poems or whatever girls like.”

Her tone was light, but you felt the weight of her words and you wondered who she was really talking to.

“I hope you’re good at pretending,” she added with a nervous giggle. “This house... it takes a bit of adjusting.”

You tilted your head. “Does it?” you asked, remaining calm.

“Oh, definitely. You’ve got to learn the rhythms. And the silences. Especially with him.” She took a sip of her drink, eyes flicking toward where Thomas stood talking with Arthur and your uncles. “He’s… complicated.”

You didn’t ask the question that hovered between you both. But you were starting to piece things together. The way she looked at him. The edge in her voice when she said his name.

She cared for him. Probably more than she should. Probably more than he ever returned.

You weren’t angry about it though. Not even threatened. Just… aware.

Before you could respond, Polly appeared at your side, calm and graceful as ever.

“There you are,” she said, slipping her arm through yours. “Come with me. Ada’s dying to meet you.”

Lizzie gave Polly a tight smile. “Pol.”

“Lizzie,” Polly replied evenly. Not unkind. Just... knowing.

As she steered you away, you glanced back once.

“I think she likes him,” you said quietly.

Polly didn’t look surprised. “She does,” she said, knowing right away who you were talking about.

“Were they ever—?” you wondered, your curiosity piqued.

Polly glanced down the hall. “Yes, but it was never going to be what she wanted.”

That was all she said for now. And honestly, that was enough.

***

As Polly steered you through the crowd, her hand gentle but firm on your arm, you exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.

“She means well,” Polly then said quietly, realising that you were still pondering about Tommy’s relationship to Lizzie, “but she drinks too much and speaks before she thinks. Always has.”

You glanced at her. “She said she helps him. With a lot of things.”

Polly didn’t blink. “She does. But don’t confuse that with what you are. Or what you’re becoming.”

That phrase lingered in your chest like perfume — what you’re becoming.

The hallway opened into a quieter lounge, slightly away from the noise of the reception. The light here was lower. Softer. A woman with dark curls and sharp eyes stood by the fireplace with a cigarette half-burned between her fingers.

“Ada,” Polly called gently.

Ada turned, appraising you instantly. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t sneer either. She studied you the way someone might study a book’s cover before opening it.

“This her?” she asked.

Polly nodded.

Ada stepped forward and extended a hand. “Welcome to Birmingham. And to this circus.”

You took her hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Thank you.”

“She’s smart,” Polly said to her niece. “Quiet. But she sees.”

“I figured,” Ada said and, with that you entered into some conversations with her about love, philosophy and politics until, eventually, she excused herself, having to leave to tend to her son who was at home with the caretakers.

After that, the night wore on.

There were more faces, more names. The clink of glasses. The hum of conversation. The heavy scent of perfume, whiskey, and woodsmoke lingering in the air like fog. You met more of the Shelbys — some curious, some kind, none of them as terrifying as you’d imagined.

John, Thomas’s younger brother, was sharper than he let on and polite in a way that felt learned, not natural. He greeted you with a nod, kissed your knuckles like it was instinct, and told you to call him only if you needed someone to “translate the Shelby madness.”

Arthur, loud and brash, had been drinking steadily since the toast and kept giving you looks like he wasn’t sure whether to say something sentimental or wildly inappropriate. Eventually, he settled for, “You’re prettier than the last one,” and weren’t sure whether to laugh or leave, assuming that he did not refer to your husband’s late wife Grace but, rather, a more recent love interest instead.

Someone brought you champagne — you didn’t ask who — and a waiter passed with canapés you couldn’t stomach. Your mother sat quietly in the corner, eyes on the fire. Your uncles were still deep in conversation with Thomas and Arthur, voices low, faces too serious for celebration.

Eventually, you grew tired of it all — the socialising, the watchful eyes, the endless introductions wrapped in veiled compliments and measured glances. Every conversation felt like walking a tightrope in heels you hadn’t chosen. Your cheeks ached from polite smiles. The pearls at your throat felt like a noose.

Polly must have sensed it. She didn’t say anything, but her gaze lingered on you a little longer, and the next time the music swelled and the champagne flutes clinked, she took your arm and whispered low enough for only you to hear.

“Time for you to disappear and get some rest,” she suggested and you nodded gratefully.

***

She led you through the side of the hall, past a pair of French doors and into the quieter wing of the house — all shadows and history, the kind of silence that had a weight to it. The chatter behind you faded. The floors beneath your shoes creaked just once. A house like this didn’t groan unless it wanted to.

“This way,” Polly said.

She walked with quiet purpose, her silhouette sharp against the candlelit corridor. Finally, she stopped in front of a tall wooden door near the end of the hall. She opened it, and the air inside was warm, still, softly lit by the fireplace in the far corner.

“This is yours,” she said, causing your brows to furrow.

You looked past her into the room — high ceilings, pale wallpaper, a large four-poster bed draped in soft ivory linen. A fireplace flickered in the corner, and a low armchair sat beside it with a folded blanket slung across the back. There were fresh flowers on the vanity and a tray with a carafe of water and a glass.

You blinked. “This is… mine?”

Polly nodded once. “Yes.”

You stepped inside cautiously, your shoes silent against the thick rug. It was warm. Clean. Almost comforting. There were none of the cold edges or masculine shadows that clung to the rest of Arrow House.

You turned to Polly again. “I thought…” you hesitated, unsure if it was proper to even say it aloud. “I thought I’d be staying with him.”

Polly gave a soft hum, stepping into the room behind you. She didn’t close the door, but she did place a gentle hand on it, as if to keep the world out a moment longer.

“He has his own rooms,” she said calmly. “Always has. Hasn't shared a bedroom with anyone since… well. Since Grace.”

That name — Grace — landed in the quiet like a pebble into deep water. You didn’t flinch, but you felt it ripple all the same.

“He’s a man of habit,” Polly went on. “Routine. Boundaries. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes necessary. He needs control more than comfort most days. And comfort, when it comes, confuses him.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the coverlet. “So he won’t—”

Polly stepped in gently, cutting you off before you could finish the question. Her voice was quiet but sure.

“No, sweetheart. Not unless you ask him to. And even then, Thomas won’t take what’s not offered freely.”

You stared down at your hands, resting in your lap, the weight of the day finally starting to settle in your bones.

“I’ve never… I don’t have experience with men,” you admitted, the words low, as if saying them aloud made you smaller somehow. “Not like that. I have never been attracted to anyone,” you explained and Polly didn’t laugh or flinch. She simply came closer, sitting beside you on the bed, folding her hands in her lap the way women do when preparing to tell a truth.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, with a fondness that wrapped around you like a blanket. “That’s your business. And it will remain your business. Tommy might be many things — cold, complicated, too clever for his own good — but he’s not cruel. And I can tell you right now, he won’t lay a hand on you against your will.”

You looked at her then, your throat tight. “Are you sure?”

Polly gave a small nod, her expression unreadable for a moment — something like pride and sorrow threaded together. “I’ve known him longer than anyone. Raised him after his mother passed. He’s not a good man, not by most standards. But he’s not a bad one either. Especially not to those he considers his.”

That made you pause.

“And I’m… his?”

Her smile deepened, gentle but sharp around the edges. “You are now. Legally. Strategically. Emotionally? That will take time. But he chose you, didn’t he? In a world where most things are transactions, he made the decision to go through with it. And that says more than you think.”

You nodded slowly, trying to absorb it all.

Polly stood then, smoothing her skirt. “There’s a wardrobe over there. I had a few things picked out. I hope they fit — and I hope you like them. Nothing too fashionable. But there’s time to make it your own.”

You stood too, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Polly,” you said, stopping her at the doorway.

She looked back, her expression expectant.

“Thank you,” you said, and Polly’s eyes softened.

“You don’t have to thank me, love. Just take your time. Breathe. Rest. The night’s been long enough.”

She gave you one last look — a quiet nod, full of some truth she didn’t need to say aloud — and then she left, the door clicking shut behind her with a softness that made your chest ache.

Alone now, you turned slowly, letting the stillness settle around you.

You stood for a long while, just looking at the room. Your room. Every detail carefully chosen — nothing sharp, nothing jarring. Just warmth and quiet and space to breathe. The dress still clung to your frame like memory. You stepped out of it slowly, folding it over the back of the armchair before reaching for the dressing gown that Polly had left draped by the fireplace.

The fabric was soft. Clean. It smelled faintly of lavender.

Outside the wind howled faintly against the old glass. Inside, the fire cracked.

You poured a glass of water, sat on the edge of the bed, and let the silence wrap around you like a second skin.

You were alone — not in a frightening way, but in a way that was entirely yours. For the first time since you boarded the plane, you could hear your own thoughts clearly. You could feel the beat of your own heart without the noise of ceremony or strangers or duty weighing on your spine.

It was done.

You were a Shelby now.

And whatever came next — whatever shape this life would take — would be built from this moment forward. Slowly. Carefully. One breath at a time.

You laid back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed.

You did not dream of white dresses or champagne.

You dreamed of open windows, quiet voices, and the scent of woodsmoke in the dark.

And you slept.

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