you knew something was wrong when tommy shelby refused a cigarette.

he just sat there at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, jaw ticking like a bomb mid-countdown. sunlight slanted through the curtains all soft and gold and holy, but your husband looked like war. looked like 1914 come back to haunt the breakfast dishes. looked like he was seconds from setting something on fire just to feel warmth.

you set the kettle down. hard.

“what?” you say, sharp like the edge of his razors, voice still sticky with sleep. “what is it now, thomas?”

he doesn’t answer. just stares straight ahead at absolutely fucking nothing, like the ghost of a thought has him by the throat. which, fine. you’re married to a man whose favorite pastime is brooding, right next to murder and tax evasion.

but then he says it. and it’s so goddamn unexpected, you forget how to breathe for a second.

“i want a baby.”

you blink.

“you—what.”

his blue eyes meet yours. stormclouds. cigarette smoke. something ancient and aching. “a child. ours. i want one.”

you laugh. because it’s easier than screaming.

“jesus christ, tommy. is this another one of your near-death existential spirals? do we need to call polly again?”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. just says, deadly serious, “you’d be a good mother.”

and it hits you in the chest like a fucking freight train.

because here’s the thing about tommy shelby: when he loves, it’s not flowers and poetry. it’s knives. it’s promises soaked in blood. it’s protection so feral you almost choke on it. and when he looks at you like that—like the world is a house on fire and you’re the only thing worth saving—you believe him. against your better judgment. against every ounce of self-preservation.

you sit down. slow. because your knees aren’t working properly anymore.

“you’ve got three siblings with kids. and a fucking horse. why do you need this?” you ask, weak.

“because none of those are you. and none of them are mine.”

and there it is. raw and selfish and soaked in possession. tommy shelby in one fucking sentence.

you run a hand through your hair. “this is so unhinged. you can’t just—just decide you want a kid out of nowhere.”

he arches an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm. “i’ve wanted one since the wedding.”

you gape. “then why didn’t you say anything?”

“because the war never ended, love. just changed shape.”

you’re gonna cry. and you hate crying. especially in front of him, because he gets all tender and tragic and you end up in bed for three days trying to fuck the pain out of each other like that ever works.

you reach across the table. lace your fingers through his. and he lets you. because when you touch him like this, it’s the only time he doesn’t flinch.

“it’s not that i don’t want one,” you whisper. “it’s just … what if you get killed, tommy? what if i’m left raising a baby on my own, telling stories about a ghost who smelled like gunpowder and good whiskey?”

he squeezes your hand.

“then name him after me.”

you laugh through a choked sob. “you arrogant bastard.”

“takes one to love one.”

and then he’s pulling you into his lap like he’s starved for you. like he needs to feel your heartbeat just to keep his own steady. he kisses you like it’s a vow, like he’s swearing something to your bones. and you kiss him back because of course you do. because you love him in spite of everything. because of everything.

his mouth trails down your neck. “let me show you,” he murmurs against your skin. “how much i want this. how much i want you.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay rational, but the way he touches you should be illegal in at least seventeen countries. and when he says, “wanna see you round, carrying my baby. mine. all mine.” you’re done. you’re just done.

somewhere between the second orgasm and the wreckage of your dignity, you realize he’s serious. he holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your future. palms flat against your belly like he’s trying to will life into it. and for the first time, you’re not scared. not really.

because if there’s anyone who can stare down the apocalypse and still plan for tomorrow—it’s thomas shelby.

and maybe, just maybe … you’ll give him one.

but not before you punch him in the arm and mutter, “next time, lead with flowers. not fucking baby fever.”

he smirks. “thought you liked me feral.”

“unfortunately, i do.”

and he kisses you again, this time soft. like the war has ended, if only for now.