Here there be film majors.

You had danced until your feet hurt. Laughed until your stomach ached. Let one of your friends fix your lipstick with her thumb, both of you giggling in the mirror like girls who had never known fear. Someone had bought a round too many, and someone else had said something filthy enough to have you nearly choking on your drink.

By the time you all stepped out into the cold, your cheeks were sore from smiling.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” Clara asked, tightening her coat around herself.

You shook your head, still smiling. “I’m nearly home.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “But you live the other way. I’ll be fine.”

Maggie gave you a look. “Tommy would have our heads if he knew we let you walk alone.”

“Tommy doesn’t own the streets.”

The three of them stared at you.

You rolled your eyes. “Alright. He owns most of them.”

That made them laugh, the sound carrying out into the foggy road. Clara kissed your cheek. Maggie squeezed your hand. Ada — not Tommy’s Ada, but your Ada, your friend with the same sharp tongue and no patience for men — pointed at you with a gloved finger.

“Straight home.”

“Yes, mother.”

“I mean it.”

You softened at that. “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They split from you at the corner, their figures disappearing slowly into the yellow smear of streetlamps. For a little while, you could still hear them laughing, their voices thinning with distance.

Then there was only the sound of your own shoes.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The street felt different once you were alone.

It always did.

The fog seemed lower, curling around the edges of buildings, collecting in the mouths of alleys. The noise from the pub faded behind you until it was just a dull murmur beneath the wind. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then went quiet. A window shutter tapped softly against its frame.

You pulled your coat tighter and kept walking.

You were not far.

That was what you told yourself.

Not far from home. Not far from the door. Not far from warmth and Tommy’s cigarette smoke and the familiar sound of him moving through a room as if every bit of it belonged to him.

Your fingers found the edge of your purse, holding it close against your side.

The first time you heard the footsteps, you did not think much of it.

Birmingham was never truly empty. Men came home late. Men left home later. Drunks wandered. Workers dragged themselves back after long shifts. Boys lingered in alleys with cigarettes and too much nerve.

You kept walking.

The footsteps kept pace.

Not close.

Not far.

Just there.

Your smile faded before you even noticed it was gone.

You turned your head slightly, not enough to look afraid, only enough to glance over your shoulder. Behind you, the street stretched dim and damp, smoke and fog blurring the far end of it. A man crossed in the distance, but he went the other way, collar up, hands tucked beneath his arms.

No one else.

You breathed out a small laugh at yourself.

“Stupid,” you whispered.

Still, you walked faster.

So did the footsteps.

Your stomach tightened.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. That the gin had made your head too light. That Tommy’s world had crawled too far under your skin, making shadows look like threats and silence sound like warning.

But then the footsteps stopped when you stopped.

You froze beneath a streetlamp.

The light above you buzzed, weak and yellow, flickering once over the wet cobbles. Your pulse began to thud hard enough that you felt it in your throat.

You turned.

Slowly.

There was a shape near the mouth of an alley.

A man.

You could not make out his face at first, only the dark coat, the flat cap, the way he stood half-hidden where the light did not touch him. He was not walking now. He was watching.

Your mouth went dry.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped forward.

You turned and hurried.

Not running yet. Running felt like admitting something terrible was happening, and some frightened, stubborn part of you was still trying to deny it. You could see your road now. The corner. The turn. Home was close enough that you almost wanted to cry from it.

Almost home.

Almost home.

Your breath quickened. Your shoes scraped harder over stone. Your hand shook as you dug for the small key in your purse, fingers fumbling through lipstick, coins, a folded handkerchief.

Behind you, the pace changed.

Faster now.

You looked back just as he reached you.

A hand caught your arm so hard pain shot up into your shoulder.

You opened your mouth to scream, but he slammed you sideways into the brick wall before the sound could properly leave you. The back of your head struck first, then your shoulder, then your cheek scraped rough against the brick.

The world flashed white.

Your purse slipped from your hand and hit the ground, spilling open. Coins scattered across the cobbles. Your lipstick rolled into the gutter. The little compact Polly had once given you cracked beneath someone’s boot.

You sucked in air, dizzy, trying to twist away.

The man grabbed the front of your coat and shoved you back again.

“Quiet.”

His voice was low and rough, soaked in cheap gin.

You tried to hit him. Your hand caught his jaw, nails scraping skin, and for half a second there was satisfaction in the way he hissed.

Then his fist struck your mouth.

Pain burst hot across your face.

You stumbled, tasting blood immediately, thick and metallic on your tongue. Your knees nearly gave, but he held you up only to throw you down. Your body hit the street hard, hip first, then palms, skin tearing against grit and stone.

You tried to crawl.

You didn’t think about dignity. Didn’t think about your torn stocking, your missing shoe, your hair falling loose from its pins. You only thought of the corner. The door. Tommy.

Your fingers slipped against the wet ground.

The man caught your ankle and dragged you back.

A sound tore out of you then, broken and panicked, but the street swallowed it. Or maybe you were not loud enough. Maybe fear had closed too tightly around your throat.

He kicked you in the ribs.

Once.

Hard.

The air vanished from your lungs.

Your body curled around the pain before you could stop it. You pressed one hand to your side, mouth open, unable to breathe. For a moment, you were certain something inside you had cracked.

The man crouched beside you, grabbing your hair near the roots and forcing your face up.

You saw pieces of him.

A pale scar near his chin. A dark ring on his right hand. Blood on his cheek where you had scratched him. Mud caked along the edge of his boot. His breath smelled sour, gin and smoke and rot.

“Pretty thing like you,” he muttered, “should’ve known better than to belong to a Shelby.”

Your eyes burned.

He knew.

The fear changed shape inside you. It became colder. Deeper.

This was not bad luck. This was not some drunk man seeing a woman alone.

This was a message.

He shoved your face away, and your temple struck the street. You heard yourself cry out, but it sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.

“Tell Thomas Shelby,” he said, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, “men remember what he takes.”

You tried to look at him. Tried to remember him. Tried to keep your eyes open through the blur of tears and blood.

Ring. Scar. Torn cuff.

You gripped his sleeve and pulled with everything left in you. Fabric ripped under your fingers.

He cursed and raised his hand again.

Then a voice cut through the street.

“Oi!”

The man froze.

Another voice followed, louder, rougher.

“Get the fuck away from her!”

Arthur.

Even through the blood rushing in your ears, you knew that voice.

The weight above you disappeared. The man shoved himself up and ran, boots striking hard against the cobbles as he vanished into the alley.

You tried to move, but your body would not obey.

Your cheek rested against the cold street. One eye would not open properly. Blood slipped warm from your split lip down to your chin. Your ribs screamed with every shallow breath.

Footsteps thundered toward you.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur breathed. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

John dropped to his knees beside you first, his face white beneath his cap. “Y/n? Y/n, love, can you hear me?”

You blinked at him, but his face swam in and out of focus.

Arthur was pacing one step, then back again, like he did not know where to put his rage. “That’s Tommy’s girl. John. That’s Tommy’s fucking girl.”

“I know who she is!” John snapped, though his voice broke at the edges. He leaned closer, careful now, one hand hovering near your shoulder. “Y/n, look at me. Can you look at me?”

You tried.

Your mouth moved before sound came.

“Tommy.”

Arthur’s face changed.

All the fury in it cracked open into something almost afraid.

“Right,” he said, dropping down beside you. “Alright, sweetheart. We’re takin’ you home. You hear me? We’re takin’ you to Tom.”

John gathered your purse with shaking hands, shoving the spilled things back inside, while Arthur slid his arms beneath you as gently as a man like him could manage. Still, pain tore through you when he lifted you, and you cried out against his coat.

“I know, I know,” Arthur muttered, jaw tight. “Sorry, love. I’m sorry.”

You pressed your face weakly against him, blood staining the lapel.

John walked fast beside you, one hand at your back as if he could keep you from breaking apart. He kept looking behind him, teeth clenched, eyes sharp and wild.

“Did you see him?” Arthur asked.

“Only the back of him.”

“Fuck.”

“She scratched him,” John said, glancing down at your bloody fingers. “Look.”

Arthur’s hold tightened a fraction.

You barely heard them after that.

The streets blurred.

Light, fog, brick, footsteps.

Somewhere between the corner and Tommy’s door, you slipped in and out of yourself. One moment you were in Arthur’s arms. The next you were back on the ground, tasting blood, hearing that voice.

Tell Thomas Shelby.

Then a door opened.

Warmth hit your face.

Voices stopped.

For one terrible second, there was only silence.

Tommy stood in the doorway.

He had not been expecting this. You knew that at once, even through the haze. Tommy expected many things. Betrayal. Blood. Guns. Men coming to him with bad news and worse intentions.

But he had not expected his brothers to bring you home like this.

His cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.

Arthur shifted you in his arms. “Tom.”

Tommy did not move.

His eyes moved first.

Over your face. Your split lip. The blood at your temple. Your torn sleeve. The dirt on your knees. The way your hand hung weakly against Arthur’s coat.

Something went out of his expression.

Or maybe something came in.

Something cold enough to freeze the room.

“What happened?” he asked.

His voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

John swallowed. “Someone got to her on the way home.”

Tommy’s eyes lifted from you to him.

“Who?”

“Don’t know.”

Arthur shook his head. “He ran before we could catch the bastard.”

Tommy stepped forward then, slowly, like if he moved too fast the violence inside him might come loose before he meant it to. His hand came near your face, then stopped just short of touching you.

You wanted to say his name.

You tried.

It came out broken.

His eyes snapped back to yours, and for the first time, his face shifted.

Only a little.

Enough.

“Y/n.”

Your name in his mouth made your eyes fill again.

Tommy turned his head, his voice still controlled but sharper now. “Polly!”

She appeared almost instantly, tying her robe around herself, irritation already on her face until she saw you.

Then she went still too.

“Bring her in,” Polly said.

Arthur carried you to the sitting room, laying you carefully on the sofa while John hovered uselessly nearby, still holding your ruined purse. Tommy stood over you, one hand flexing at his side.

Polly moved faster than any of them. She snapped orders before anyone else could breathe.

“John, water. Clean cloths. Arthur, stop standing there looking like death and get the whiskey. Thomas—”

“I’m staying.”

Polly looked at him once.

“You’ll frighten her looking like that.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened.

“She’s not frightened of me.”

“No,” Polly said, softer but no less firm. “She’s frightened because of you.”

The room changed.

Arthur looked away.

John stopped moving.

Tommy’s eyes did not leave Polly’s face, but something in him absorbed the hit. You saw it. The way his throat moved once. The way his mouth pressed into a hard line.

Polly stepped closer to him.

“You go out there with murder written all over you, and she’ll think this is her fault. Stand there if you can be gentle. Leave if you can’t.”

For a moment, you thought he would argue.

Then your fingers twitched against the sofa.

Tommy saw.

He crouched beside you, all that cold fury forced down behind his eyes. Carefully, slowly, he took your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, avoiding the torn skin.

“Who was it?” he asked quietly.

Your lips trembled.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s alright.”

“He…” You swallowed, wincing at the blood in your mouth. “He knew me.”

Tommy went very still.

Polly paused with the cloth in her hand.

You forced yourself to keep going because you knew it mattered. Because Tommy needed pieces. Tommy could build a whole death sentence out of pieces.

“Said…” Your breath caught when your ribs pulled. “Said I should’ve known better than to belong to a Shelby.”

Arthur swore under his breath.

Tommy’s hand closed more tightly around yours, then loosened at once as if he remembered you were hurt.

“Anything else?” he asked.

You blinked hard. “Ring. On his right hand. Dark stone, I think. Scar here.” You lifted your fingers weakly toward your chin. “I scratched his face. Tore his sleeve.”

Tommy nodded once.

That was all.

One nod.

Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your hand, so gently it hurt worse than if he had shouted.

“You did well,” he said.

“I was nearly home.”

His face changed again, and this time he could not hide it fast enough.

“I know.”

“I was nearly—”

“I know, love.”

Polly touched your shoulder. “Let me clean you up now.”

Tommy stood.

Your hand tightened around his before he could fully pull away.

Panic rose fast, sudden and humiliating. “Don’t go.”

The words were small.

Tommy looked down at your hand gripping his sleeve.

For a second, the whole room waited.

Then he bent close, his mouth near your ear.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said. “Polly will sit with you. I’ll be back before morning.”

You knew what that meant.

You knew where he was going.

Part of you wanted to beg him not to. Another part of you remembered the man’s hand in your hair and his voice in your ear and could not speak at all.

Tommy kissed your forehead, just above the bruise beginning to rise.

Then he looked at Polly.

“Look after her.”

Polly’s face hardened. “Always.”

Tommy turned to his brothers.

The softness vanished from him completely.

“Arthur. John.”

Arthur was already reaching for his cap.

John set your purse down with shaking care and followed.

At the door, Tommy stopped without turning around.

“Lock this house.”

Then they were gone.

☾ ⋆｡𖦹 °✩

Polly cleaned you with hands that were firm but kind.

She wiped blood from your mouth, your cheek, your brow. She checked your ribs with careful fingers and muttered curses under her breath when you flinched. She helped you out of your ruined coat and torn dress, wrapped you in something warm, and made you drink a little water even when your lip stung.

You cried only once.

Not loudly.

Not in a way that made the house shake.

It happened when Polly tried to wash the blood from your hands and you saw the red beneath your nails.

His blood.

Yours.

You didn’t know.

Polly saw your face crumple and sat beside you at once.

“Here now,” she said, pulling your hands away from the basin. “Look at me.”

“I couldn’t stop him.”

“You’re alive.”

“He knew who I was.”

Her expression tightened with something old and tired.

“I know.”

“He knew Tommy.”

“Most men in this city know Tommy.”

“That’s why he did it.”

Polly did not lie to you.

Maybe that was why you trusted her.

She held your hands in the towel and lowered her voice.

“Men like that don’t need much reason to be cruel. If it wasn’t Tommy, it would’ve been something else. Your dress. Your smile. The fact you were alone. Don’t hand him more power than he already took.”

You stared at her through watery eyes.

“He said I belonged to a Shelby.”

Polly’s mouth twitched, not with humor.

“You belong to yourself first.”

The words settled somewhere deep, though not deep enough to fix anything.

Nothing fixed it that night.

Not the fire. Not the whiskey Polly made you sip. Not the blanket tucked around your shoulders. Not even the knowledge that Tommy was out there with Arthur and John, turning Birmingham over stone by stone.

You sat awake until dawn.

Every noise made you flinch.

Every footstep outside pulled your breath short.

And when Tommy finally returned, the sky outside was grey and thin, and his coat smelled of smoke and cold.

There was blood on his cuff.

Not yours.

You saw it before he could hide it.

He paused in the doorway when he noticed you were awake.

Polly stood from the chair beside you. Her eyes moved over him once, reading everything.

“Done?” she asked.

Tommy took off his cap.

“Yes.”

That was all he said.

No details.

No names.

No grand promise that the man had suffered. He did not need to say it. It was there in the quiet. In Arthur’s absence. In John’s pale face behind him. In the way Tommy’s eyes looked almost black when they came back to you.

Polly left the room without another word.

Tommy crossed to you slowly.

You were curled beneath a blanket on the sofa, too sore to move properly. Your lip was swollen. One side of your face had bloomed purple near the cheekbone. Your ribs ached when you breathed too deeply.

Tommy lowered himself onto the table in front of you, close enough that his knees nearly touched yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, “He won’t come near you again.”

Your eyes burned.

“Is he dead?”

Tommy looked at you.

The answer sat between you.

You nodded once, though you did not know if you felt relief or horror or both.

Tommy reached for your hand.

This time, his hands were clean.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked up, startled.

Tommy Shelby did not say those words often. Not because he never meant them, but because meaning them cost him too much.

His gaze held yours.

“I should’ve had someone walk you home.”

“I told the girls I’d be fine.”

“I should’ve had someone there.”

“You can’t have men follow me everywhere.”

“I can.”

“Tommy.”

“I can,” he repeated, and there was steel beneath it now. Fear dressed as command. “And I will.”

You looked away.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“What?”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not living.”

His jaw shifted.

You hated the hurt that crossed his face, brief as a match strike.

“I just want you safe.”

“I know.”

“That man touched you because of me.”

The words were blunt, almost cruel in their honesty.

You looked back at him.

Tommy stared at your bruised face like it was evidence against himself.

You reached for him despite the pain in your side. Your fingers brushed his wrist.

“He touched me because he was a coward.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to yours.

“And because he wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “But that doesn’t make it your hand that did it.”

Something in Tommy’s face pulled tight.

He leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against your hand. For a moment, he did not look like the man Birmingham feared. He looked tired. Young in a way he never allowed himself to be. Haunted in the way only you ever seemed to catch.

“I’ll kill every man who thinks your name is a way to reach mine,” he said.

You believed him.

That was the problem.

☾ ⋆｡𖦹 °✩

For the next few days, the house became your whole world.

Polly came and went. Ada sat with you when she could. John brought flowers and acted offended when you asked if he’d stolen them. Arthur lingered in doorways, guilty and quiet, until you finally told him to stop looking at you like that and come sit down.

Tommy stayed closer than anyone.

He worked from home, held meetings behind closed doors, and slept lightly beside you at night. Every time you woke from pain, dreams, or footsteps that weren’t really there, he woke too. He never told you it was over. Never told you to be brave. He only reached for you slowly and waited for you to come closer.

The bruises faded.

The fear did not.

You still flinched when someone knocked. You still hated standing with your back to the door. And every time you thought about stepping onto that street again, your body remembered brick, blood, and a hand in your hair.

On the fourth evening, Tommy came into the bedroom while you were sitting at the vanity.

“Come out with me tonight,” he said.

Your fingers stilled on the pin in your hair. “Out?”

“Dinner. Somewhere quiet.”

You looked at him through the mirror. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“I know.”

“And no one will bother you.”

You stared down at your hands. Part of you wanted to say yes just to prove you could. To put on a pretty dress, let him hold your coat, and pretend the world had not changed.

So you nodded.

“Alright.”

Tommy’s shoulders eased slightly. He kissed the top of your head.

“We’ll go slow.”

You dressed carefully, choosing a blue dress because you knew he liked you in blue, even if he rarely said it. When you came downstairs, Tommy looked at you for a moment too long, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

The words warmed you.

You smiled. “Thank you.”

He helped with your coat, his fingers gentle near your throat.

“Ready?”

You nodded.

You made it to the door.

That was all.

Your hand touched the handle, and your body stopped.

Your mind knew Tommy was beside you. Your mind knew the man was gone. Your mind knew you were safe.

But your body remembered the footsteps.

The brick.

The blood in your mouth.

Tommy noticed immediately.

“Y/n.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, but your voice shook.

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you. “Look at me.”

You shook your head. “I can go. Just give me a second.”

“We don’t have to go.”

Your eyes burned. “I said I can.”

“I know you can,” Tommy said softly. “You don’t have to prove it to me.”

That broke you.

Your hand slipped from the door, and you turned away as the first sob came out small and angry.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I don’t know why I’m—”

“No.” His voice was firm now. “You don’t apologize to me for being frightened.”

You looked at him through tears. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I can’t even open a door.”

Tommy reached for your hands slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t.

“You opened it before,” he said. “You’ll open it again. Doesn’t have to be tonight.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then we wait.”

“What if I’m like this forever?”

His thumb brushed over your glove.

“Then I’ll love you indoors.”

You stared at him.

“And by the fire,” he continued quietly. “And in the kitchen. And when you make it to the door. And when you make it past it. However far you get.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he wiped it away carefully.

“You don’t have to be brave every minute.”

“I’m with you,” you whispered. “I should feel safe.”

“You can feel safe and still be scared.”

Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“No one touches you again,” he murmured. “Not in the street. Not in this house. Not while I’m alive.”

Then he reached past you, opened the door just enough for the cold air to touch your face.

You stiffened.

He saw.

Without a word, he shut it again.

“Right,” he said, taking off his coat.

You blinked. “Right?”

“We’re staying in.”

“But dinner—”

“Can come here.”

“Tommy.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “You wanted a date. I didn’t say it had to be outside.”

A weak laugh escaped you.

Within minutes, the house shifted around you. Food was brought in, candles were lit, and the fire was built higher. Tommy moved your chair close to his, not making a fuss, not making you feel fragile, just keeping you near.

You ate slowly. He talked quietly. Nothing about blood or business. Just small things. John being stupid. Arthur being worse. Polly threatening a man who deserved it.

By the end, you smiled for real.

Later, you sat beside him on the sofa, legs tucked beneath you. Tommy didn’t pull you in. He waited.

Eventually, you leaned against him.

His arm came around you, warm and steady.

Outside, hooves struck stone. A door slammed somewhere down the street.

You tensed.

Tommy’s hand moved gently over your arm.

“I’ve got you.”

You breathed in.

Smoke. Whiskey. Soap. Him.

The fear was still there, tucked somewhere behind your ribs. Maybe it would be there tomorrow too. Maybe for longer.

But Tommy’s hand stayed steady.

His mouth brushed your hair.

And for the first time in days, the room felt bigger than what had happened to you.

“I was almost home,” you whispered.

Tommy held you closer.

He had not expected the boy to hold out a folded scrap of paper with your name written across the front.

“What’s this?” Arthur demanded, cigarette already paused halfway to his mouth.

The boy swallowed. “Found at Y/n’s home, Mr Shelby.”

Thomas’s hand stopped before it reached the paper.

Arthur was looking at him now. “What woman?”

The boy shifted his eyes between them, already regretting being the one sent to deliver it. “Y/n, Mr Shelby. Front door of the building were hanging off. Mrs Palmer from downstairs said two men went in not ten minutes before she heard the crash.”

Thomas took the paper from him without speaking.

There were only four words inside.

We know her name.

For a moment, Arthur said nothing. He had never been especially good at silence, but even he understood the look that came over his brother’s face. Thomas did not swear. Did not throw the paper. Did not reach for his cap or glass.

He simply folded the note once and slid it into his coat pocket.

“Get the car,” he said.

“Tom—”

“Get the fucking car, Arthur.”

Arthur moved.

Your building was three streets over from where Thomas had last seen you, though it felt longer than three weeks since you had stood in his office doorway with your gloves clutched in one hand and told him you would not be staying that night.

You had not made a scene. That was never the kind of woman you were.

You had only become more difficult to reach.

At first, he had allowed it. Thomas Shelby had never chased a woman down to ask why she had stopped warming his bed. If you wanted something said, you would say it. If you were tired of him, that was your right. He had told himself he understood. There had been nights when he wanted you beside him badly enough that he poured himself another whisky instead of sending for you, but he had left you alone.

Then he started noticing the details.

You did not come into the Garrison anymore.

When he caught sight of you on the street and stopped the car, you made some excuse about being late and kept a careful distance between your body and his.

Once, when he had stepped close enough to touch your cheek, you had caught his wrist gently and given him a smile that had looked too tired to be real.

“I ought to go home, Tommy.”

He had let you.

By the time Thomas reached your building, the front door was hanging from one hinge.

He stepped through first, Arthur hard on his heels. The downstairs hall had been pulled apart. A small table lay on its side beneath the stairs, its lamp smashed across the floor. Arthur swore under his breath as Thomas took the steps two at a time, reaching the landing above before him.

Your door upstairs had been forced open too, splintered wood scattered across the floorboards.

Someone had broken into your home because they knew you mattered to Thomas Shelby.

Thomas entered first.

The little front room had been pulled apart. Cushions slashed open. Your drawer turned onto its side. A cup smashed beneath the table, tea stained dark across the rug. There was a fresh dent in the wall beside the door where someone had thrown it open with enough force to break the latch.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur muttered.

Thomas scanned the room quickly, then moved into the bedroom.

Your handbag was on the floor, the contents scattered near the bed. A comb. A little coin purse. A handkerchief. Two hairpins. Your bedcover had been dragged halfway off the mattress.

No you.

He opened the wardrobe. Nothing disturbed except a missing coat and one empty hanger left swinging.

“She got out,” Arthur said behind him. He spoke too quickly, as though saying it firmly enough might make it true. “Her coat’s gone. She heard them, got out before they could get her.”

Thomas did not answer.

His eyes had caught on the window.

One pane had been smashed through from the inside. Jagged glass remained in the frame, and along the lowest edge, where someone had pushed a hand through to unlatch it, there was a thin red smear.

Thomas crossed the room and touched it with one finger.

Still tacky.

Arthur saw it a second later. “Tom.”

“Get John to the station,” Thomas said, his voice quiet. “Get boys at every road out of Small Heath. Check her friends, the dressmaker on Camden Street, the church she goes past on Sundays.”

“Right.”

“And find out who the fuck was at that door.”

Arthur turned, then stopped. “Where are you going?”

Thomas took one last look at the blood on the window.

“Everywhere else.”

༺ ☾ ༻

You had known someone was outside your building before they broke through the front door downstairs.

The feeling had settled over you sometime after supper, a crawling unease you could not explain. You had been standing at the washbasin, trying to hold down a piece of bread and half a cup of tea, when you glanced through the curtain and saw a man leaning against the lamp post across the road.

He had not been smoking.

Had not been waiting for anyone.

Only looking at your window.

Your stomach clenched, one hand instantly moving beneath your loose dress. The gesture had become habit before you even realized it: every sudden noise, every jolt of fear, every time a man lingered too long behind you in the street, your hand went to the quiet little secret tucked beneath your clothes.

You backed away from the window.

Perhaps he had nothing to do with you. Perhaps he was waiting on a woman downstairs, or watching the rain, or drunk enough not to know where his own feet had brought him.

Then you heard the front door of the building give way with a violent crack below.

Your breath stopped.

Heavy footsteps charged up the stairs.

The floorboard outside your door creaked once.

Someone knocked.

“Miss Y/n?”

You did not move.

Another knock came, harder this time.

“Message from Mr Shelby.”

The baby seemed suddenly impossibly precious inside you. Too small. Too helpless. Your own heart began beating so violently it made you feel sick.

Thomas would not send someone to you like this. Not with a voice you did not know. Not at night, after you had spent weeks making it clear you did not want his men turning up at your door.

You took one careful step toward the back window.

Your door shuddered beneath a heavy blow.

A frightened sound escaped you before you could swallow it down. You seized your coat from the hook, pulled it over your shoulders with trembling hands and climbed onto the narrow ledge outside the kitchen window just as the door split open behind you.

A man shouted when he saw you.

You slipped.

For one awful second, your stomach dropped as your foot skidded on wet brick. Your palm came down hard against the shattered corner of the pane, glass biting into your skin, but you managed to catch yourself before you fell fully.

Pain tore through your hand.

You did not stop.

You scrambled down the back stairs, one hand clasped beneath your stomach even as blood ran down your wrist. Behind you, boots hammered against the floorboards. A hand caught the back of your coat as you reached the alley, jerking you off balance. You twisted out of it so quickly the fabric tore at the shoulder, leaving the man with a fistful of wool while you ran.

You did not think about where you were going until your legs had already taken you there.

His house.

The place you had sworn you would not return to. The bed you had stopped sleeping in. The door you had avoided because the longer you kept away, the more possible it felt that you could have this baby without his world closing around the both of you.

But when men came into your home because of Thomas Shelby, it was Thomas Shelby’s house you ran to.

The maid who let you inside went pale when she saw you.

“Miss, are you injured?”

“No,” you lied quickly. “No, I only— I need somewhere to sit. Is Mr Shelby here?”

“No, miss.”

Relief and terror moved through you together.

“Please don’t send for him,” you said, too fast. “Please. I just need a moment.”

She looked at the blood dripping from your hand, then at your face, but you were already past her, climbing the stairs with your heart trapped somewhere in your throat.

You knew his bedroom too well. Knew the handle that stuck slightly before it opened, the heavy curtains, the smell of tobacco and clean linen and the faint cologne that clung to his collars. You locked the door behind you and stood very still, trying to breathe.

You were safe.

You thought you were safe.

Then a cramp pulled low in your belly, and all thought vanished beneath a wave of panic.

You looked down at yourself. Your coat was torn. The side of your dress was wet from the rain and streaked with grime where you had scraped against the wall. There was blood on it too, though you could not tell at first whether it had come from your palm or somewhere else.

“No,” you whispered.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons. You tore the dress down from your shoulders and let it pool on the floor, then pulled your damp stockings away, barely aware of your own movements. You were left in your brassiere and knickers before the long mirror by the wardrobe, bare skin prickled from the cold, hair loose from its pins, your cut hand shaking badly.

Your eyes dropped instantly to your stomach.

There was no blood there.

Nothing wrong that you could see.

Only the slight roundness that had become harder to disguise these past few weeks, rising softly beneath your navel. Nearly four months, the doctor had told you. Soon enough you would not be able to hide it beneath wide coats and lowered eyes. Soon enough the choice would be taken from you.

You turned slowly to the side, pressing your uninjured hand beneath the curve.

For weeks, you had avoided looking at yourself for too long. It made everything too real. The nausea. The tiredness. The quiet terror that would come over you at night when you lay alone and tried to imagine raising a child whose father carried a razor blade in his cap and enemies in every street.

But now you could not look away.

Your eyes filled with tears before you felt them fall.

“Please be all right,” you whispered, smoothing your hand over your stomach. “Please, darling. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Downstairs, the front door slammed open.

You did not hear it.

You did not hear the voices, the hard rhythm of men’s boots on polished floorboards, or Arthur demanding where Thomas thought he was going when he suddenly changed direction at the bottom of the stairs.

You only saw them when the bedroom door opened behind you.

In the mirror, Thomas stopped dead.

Arthur nearly walked into him.

Neither man spoke for a moment.

Thomas had come into the room with his pistol still in one hand, his coat wet across the shoulders and his cap low on his forehead. He looked as though he had been running through the whole of Birmingham with murder on his mind. Arthur stood just behind him, face flushed, breath heavy, mouth already parted around whatever he had been about to say.

Then Thomas’s eyes moved down the reflection of your body.

Your bare shoulders.

The torn dress on his floor.

The blood dried across your palm.

Your hand, resting carefully around the little swell of your stomach.

The color drained from his face.

You turned too quickly, reaching for the first thing within reach: one of his white shirts lying folded at the foot of the bed. You held it against your front, shame and panic rushing through you at once.

“Tommy—”

Arthur leaned slightly around his brother, squinting as though the answer would change if he stared a little harder.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “Is she—”

“Out.”

Thomas’s voice was so low that Arthur did not immediately understand him.

“What?”

“Get out, Arthur.”

Arthur stared at him. “Tommy, is that yours?”

A silence passed through the room that made you wish the floor would open beneath your feet.

Thomas turned his head only slightly.

“Go downstairs.”

“But, Tom—”

“Now.”

Arthur’s gaze flicked to you again, his expression part shock, part alarm, as though he wanted to say something kinder and could not find the words quickly enough. Then he retreated into the hall and shut the door behind him.

You and Thomas were left alone.

He had not looked away from you.

Your shaking fingers worked at the shirt, forcing your arms through the sleeves and dragging the fabric around yourself. It smelled like him, which made the tears threatening behind your eyes feel even closer. The hem fell over your thighs. You buttoned it badly, missing one near the middle, but it covered enough of you that you no longer felt completely stripped before him.

Thomas put the gun down on the dresser.

He took off his cap next.

Slowly. Carefully.

As though the smallest sudden movement might break whatever little control remained in the room.

His eyes lowered to your stomach beneath his shirt, then moved to your face.

“How long?”

You swallowed. “Tommy…”

“How long, Y/n?”

You pressed your lips together, unable to soften the answer no matter how badly you wanted to.

“Nearly four months.”

He stared at you.

“Four months?”

You nodded once.

Something moved in his jaw. His gaze dropped from your face, as though he needed a moment before he looked at you again.

“Is it mine?”

It was the wrong thing to ask. You saw him know it almost as soon as the words had left him.

Still, it cut.

“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“Then why would you ask me that?”

“Because I have just walked into my bedroom and found a woman I have been searching half this city for standing here carrying a child I knew nothing about.”

His voice had started controlled, but the last few words sharpened. He moved away from the door, dragging a hand over his mouth as though trying to pull himself back together.

“You knew,” he said. “All those weeks, you knew.”

You looked down.

“When you stopped coming to see me, you knew.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“You tell me.” He turned toward you suddenly. “That is what you do.”

“Is it?”

The question came out smaller than you meant it to, but it struck him all the same.

His eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we were never anything, Tommy. Not properly. You never asked me to stay. You never said what I was to you.”

“You know what you are to me.”

“No, I knew where I was expected to be when you sent for me.”

The hurt in his expression only lasted a moment before anger covered it.

“That is not fair.”

“Perhaps not.”

“No.” His voice rose. “No, you do not stand there with my fucking child inside you and speak as if you were some woman I used and discarded when you know damn well you were more than that.”

You flinched before you could help it.

He saw.

But the shock and hurt in him were already burning too fiercely for him to stop.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded. “Were you going to come knocking at my door when it were born? Or was I meant to hear about it from someone in the street?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I said I don’t know!”

“You had four months to know!”

His voice struck through you so hard that one hand went automatically to your stomach again, covering the baby through the thin white shirt.

Thomas saw the gesture and went still for half a second, but his breathing remained heavy.

“I had men tearing your home apart tonight looking for some sign of where they had taken you,” he said, lower now, though no less furious. “I stood with your blood on my hand and thought you might be lying somewhere because of me. And all that time, you were carrying my child.”

Your mouth trembled.

“That is exactly why I couldn’t tell you.”

His brows drew together. “What?”

“You think keeping it from me keeps it safe?” he asked, bitter disbelief breaking through his voice.

“No.” Your voice cracked before you could steady it. “I think staying away from you might have.”

The words landed between you harder than any shout.

For one awful moment, Thomas did not move.

Then he laughed once, without humor, looking away from you as though you had slapped him.

“Staying away from me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” He paced toward the window, then turned again, his face drawn tight with anger. “You’ve got my child growing inside you, and you thought you could simply disappear from my life to keep it from my name?”

“I was trying to protect it.”

“From me?”

“From this!”

You gestured at the discarded dress, the torn coat on the floor, your injured hand. Your voice wavered violently, but you could not stop anymore. Everything you had been forcing down for weeks was coming up too quickly.

“From men kicking through my door because I once let you into my bed. From running through an alley believing somebody might catch me and hurt my baby because hurting me would hurt you.”

His gaze snapped to your hand.

For the first time, he seemed to truly see the blood.

“What happened?”

You shook your head, tears starting to spill down your cheeks.

“What happened to your hand, Y/n?”

“I broke the window getting out.”

“Getting out of what?”

“Men came into my home because of you, Tommy. Because they knew I meant something to you.”

His face went still.

“Two men,” you continued through your tears. “One was outside the building and the other came up the stairs. They said they had a message from you, and then they broke into my home. One of them nearly caught me in the alley.”

Thomas’s expression changed.

Not softened. Not yet.

But the rage was no longer all pointed at you.

“He put his hands on you?”

“He grabbed my coat.” You looked toward the wool torn across the floor. “I got away.”

Thomas turned his head toward the door, as if Arthur might somehow hear the order he had not yet given. His hand flexed once by his side. He looked terrifying in that moment, quiet in the particular way that meant someone would be bleeding before the night was done.

And still, the sight of him frightened you.

Not because you thought he would hurt you. Never that.

Because this was exactly what you had tried so desperately to avoid.

The violence. The fury. The men being sent out after other men. A child growing inside you who would one day see the way a room shifted when Thomas Shelby became angry.

Your tears began coming harder.

“I can’t do this, Tommy.”

He looked back at you.

“I cannot live like this.” You tried to wipe your face, but the cut across your palm stung and made you wince. “I cannot have a child and spend every night wondering who knows about it. Wondering whether someone is watching my door. Wondering whether you are coming back alive.”

“You think I would let anything happen to you?”

“You cannot stop everything!”

Your cry seemed to knock the rest of the anger out of the room.

Thomas went quiet.

You took a shuddering breath, wrapping both arms around your stomach now, his shirt bunching in your fists.

“I am scared all the time,” you said, hardly louder than a whisper. “Since I found out, I’ve been scared. I wake up scared. I walk down the street scared. Every time I see your car or one of your brothers, I think somebody else has seen it too. Somebody else has figured out that I mean something to you.”

“You do mean something to me.”

“I know.” You let out a broken little sob. “That is the problem.”

His expression tightened.

You looked at him through blurred eyes. “I’m not frightened of you, Tommy. I’m frightened of what loving you costs.”

He looked away then.

His hand went automatically to the cigarette case in his pocket. He took it out, thumbed it open and drew one cigarette free, but when he went to light it, his hands were not quite steady. He stared at the tremor for a second, then closed the lighter again and set the cigarette down unlit beside his cap.

The sight of that nearly broke you more than his shouting had.

Thomas always knew what to do with his hands.

He took a breath through his nose and glanced back at your belly.

“You saw a doctor?”

You nodded.

“When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Alone?”

The hurt in that single word made you lower your eyes.

“Yes.”

He swallowed, the muscles in his throat shifting. “And?”

“He said everything looked well. I’ve been sick, but not badly. He said that was normal.”

“And tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice became small again. “I slipped climbing out. I didn’t fall badly, but I was frightened. There was blood on my dress from my hand, and I didn’t know where it came from at first.”

Thomas crossed the room before you could think to move.

You shrank back on instinct, only half a step, but he stopped immediately.

His face changed again when he saw what you had done.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

The question came out rougher than he intended. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers once, looking down at the floor between you.

“I should not have shouted at you.”

“You’re angry.”

“Yes.” He met your eyes. “I am.”

You nodded, tears still sliding silently down your face.

“I don’t know what to do with the fact that you kept this from me,” he said. “I do not know how to look at you and pretend four months is nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“I don’t want you sorry because I frightened it out of you.”

You did not answer.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint clatter of movement downstairs, Arthur likely pacing holes into the floor while trying to decide whether he ought to interrupt or run to tell Polly what he had just seen.

Thomas looked at your wounded hand.

“Let me see it.”

“It is only a cut.”

“Let me see it, Y/n.”

This time there was no anger in the command. Only the familiar certainty in his tone, made gentler by something neither of you quite knew how to name.

You held your hand out.

Thomas moved slowly, taking it in both of his as though even your fingers required care. His touch was warm against your cold skin. The cut across your palm had already begun to crust with blood, but there were tiny shards glittering near the base of your thumb.

“There’s glass in it,” he said.

“I know.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Tommy, please don’t start sending people everywhere.”

“I’m sending for a doctor because you are hurt.”

“And then what?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“And then he checks the baby,” he said quietly. “And then we know you are both all right.”

Your throat tightened at the word both.

He released your hand carefully, then stood in front of you without touching anywhere else. His gaze dropped again, almost helplessly, to the slight curve under the white shirt.

You saw him hesitate.

For the first time since you had known him, Thomas Shelby looked uncertain of whether he was permitted to reach for something he desperately wanted.

“May I?” he asked.

You started crying again before you could stop yourself.

It was ridiculous, perhaps. After everything. After his raised voice and your terror and men breaking through your front door, it was the quiet request that undid you.

You nodded.

His hand came to rest over your stomach with unbearable gentleness.

He did not press. Did not pull you to him or act as though that single touch had made you his possession. His palm only settled against the small roundness beneath his shirt, fingers spread carefully around the place where his child was growing.

Thomas looked down.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

You saw a dozen emotions move across his face in the space of a breath: disbelief, pain, fear, something so soft it almost looked foreign on him. His thumb shifted once, scarcely more than a brush of fabric.

“That’s mine,” he said finally, so quietly you nearly missed it.

“Ours,” you whispered.

His eyes closed for a moment.

“Yes.” His hand remained where it was. “Ours.”

You stood there in silence, close enough now to feel the warmth from his body. You wanted to lean into him. You wanted to push him away. You wanted him to promise nothing bad would ever happen again, even though you knew the promise would be a lie.

When he looked at you again, there was still anger there. Not the shouting kind anymore. Something deeper and wounded.

“I am not finished being angry with you,” he said.

“I know.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know.”

“I would have wanted to know from the first day.”

Your mouth tightened. “That’s what frightened me too.”

His brow creased.

“That you would want it,” you explained, looking down at the hand covering your belly. “That you would put your hand there and I would see this look on your face, and I wouldn’t know how to take the baby away from you even if I still believed I should.”

Thomas’s jaw worked slightly.

“You were planning to leave Birmingham?”

“I thought about it.”

The words wounded him visibly.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere nobody knew your name.”

“There is no place far enough for that.”

“I know.”

It was the sort of thing he might once have said with pride. Tonight, it sounded like a confession.

A knock came at the bedroom door.

Both of you stiffened.

“Tom?” Arthur called cautiously through the wood. “I ain’t trying to interrupt whatever… whatever the fuck this is, but Polly’s downstairs, and she knows something’s going on because I apparently don’t have the face for keeping secrets.”

Thomas exhaled slowly through his nose.

Despite everything, a small, watery laugh escaped you.

His eyes flicked to your face, and for the briefest moment, something close to relief appeared in his expression at the sound.

“Tell Polly to send for a doctor,” Thomas said.

Arthur paused. “A doctor?”

“Yes, Arthur. A doctor.”

“Right. For the…” He cleared his throat loudly. “For her hand, yeah?”

Thomas gave him no answer.

“Right,” Arthur muttered. “Doctor. Going.”

His footsteps retreated quickly.

You wiped beneath your eyes with the heel of your uninjured hand. “He is going to tell everyone.”

“No, he won’t.”

“He already brought Polly into it.”

“Polly does not require Arthur to tell her anything. She looks at a man and knows what he had for breakfast four days ago.”

You let out another tiny, unsteady laugh, then immediately pressed your lips together as guilt came over you for finding anything funny while the night still hung so heavily around you.

Thomas noticed.

“You are allowed to breathe,” he said.

“Am I?”

His face sobered.

“Tonight, yes.”

“And tomorrow?”

His hand remained on your stomach, but his eyes held yours.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we speak properly.”

“Meaning you decide what happens?”

The question made his mouth tighten.

You expected him to say yes. Expected him to begin immediately: which house you would move into, which men would guard the door, which streets you were no longer permitted to walk alone.

Instead, he looked down at your bare legs, at the torn dress, at the blood dried on your palm.

“Tonight I want you somewhere no man can break through your door,” he said. “I want a doctor to tell me you and the baby are unharmed. And I want the men who frightened you found.”

“Tommy—”

“I know.” His voice dropped. “I know what you are going to say. That this is the very thing you were running from.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The honesty of it stopped you.

He drew his hand back from your stomach, slowly enough that it seemed difficult for him to do it, then reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and placed it around your shoulders. He did not fasten it around you himself. He allowed you to take it and close it across your chest.

“I do not know how to make being near me harmless,” he said. “I cannot stand here and tell you danger ends because I know about the child now.”

Your eyes filled once more.

“But I can listen before I start making decisions for you,” he continued. “I can try.”

You held the blanket tightly around yourself.

“Are you only saying that because I might run again?”

A faint shadow passed over his face.

“I am saying it because you looked at me like you thought I might lock you in this room and call it love.”

You looked away.

He reached up then, very carefully, and wiped a tear from the edge of your cheek with his thumb.

“I may not be good at gentle things, Y/n,” he said. “But I know I don’t want my child’s mother frightened of speaking to me.”

The words settled painfully in your chest.

Not his woman.

Not his wife.

His child’s mother.

It was not romantic, exactly. It was larger than romance. More permanent. More terrifying.

“I don’t know what happens now,” you confessed.

“Neither do I.”

You almost smiled at that. “Thomas Shelby admitting he doesn’t know something?”

“Do not repeat it. I have a reputation.”

The softness disappeared quickly, but not entirely. His thumb moved once more along your cheek, then lowered.

A second knock sounded, followed by Arthur speaking before he was invited to.

“Doctor’s coming. Polly wants to know whether she can come up, and I told her I did not think now was the moment, but you know Polly, Tom, she’s already halfway—”

The door opened before he finished.

Polly stood behind him, perfectly composed except for the sharp worry in her eyes. Her gaze took in the blanket around your shoulders, the blood on your hand, Thomas standing close beside you, and then the gentle shape beneath the oversized shirt.

She looked at Thomas.

Then at you.

No surprise reached her face. Only understanding.

“Oh, love,” she said quietly.

That nearly set you crying all over again.

Thomas shifted at your side, his shoulder brushing yours as if to steady you without drawing attention to it.

“Someone came to her home,” he told Polly. “She got out through a window. Doctor checks her hand and the baby, then she rests.”

Polly’s eyes sharpened at the mention of the men, but she nodded once. “Of course.”

Arthur remained in the doorway, still appearing as though someone had struck him over the head with a chair. His eyes moved down toward your stomach once before snapping quickly away in awkward embarrassment.

“So,” he began, pointing vaguely downstairs. “I’ll, er… go see about tea.”

“Whisky,” Thomas said.

Polly turned on him. “Not for her.”

“For me.”

“You’ll have tea as well.”

Arthur gave you a helpless look from behind her shoulder, as though to say this was how every family crisis ended: with Polly taking command and no man quite brave enough to stop her.

For the first time since the door to your home had splintered open, you felt a little of the panic inside you loosen.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But loosened.

Polly and Arthur disappeared downstairs again, leaving the bedroom door cracked open this time.

Thomas did not move away from you.

He lifted your uninjured hand and brought it briefly to his mouth, his lips pressing once against your knuckles. The gesture was so quiet, so unlike any grand claim you had feared from him, that you could not find words for it.

“I should have told you,” you said finally.

“Yes.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You could pretend to make that easier for me.”

“No.” His gaze stayed on yours. “Not tonight.”

Strangely, you were grateful for that. Grateful he was not making the hurt prettier than it was.

After a moment, his eyes lowered to the blanket over your belly.

“May I again?”

You nodded.

He placed his hand against you for the second time, warmer now through the layers of cloth. This time, when his fingers spread over the small curve, you covered them with your own.

His breath caught slightly.

Downstairs, Arthur’s voice rose in an argument about where the good tea had gone. Polly ordered him to stop shouting. Somewhere outside, rain struck steadily against the windows, and somewhere farther away, men were already being sent into the streets to find the ones who had come for you.

None of that had been solved.

The Shelby name was still what it was. The child beneath Thomas’s hand was still bound to a world you had tried to keep away from them. Morning would bring questions, decisions, and fear that love alone could not take from you.

But Thomas stood in front of you with his forehead gently touching yours, one hand covering the life you had hidden from him and the other keeping yours carefully raised so the glass would not press farther into your palm.

“You are not alone tonight,” he said.

You closed your eyes, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks.

For tonight, you let yourself believe that was enough.

Your hands clenched in your lap.

“Surprise,” he drawled, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not going to invite your old man in?”

Your body remained frozen. “What… what are you doing here?”

Your father let out a chuckle, his eyes scanning the entryway as if he was appraising it. Then, he stepped forward without waiting for permission. “What? A father isn’t allowed to come see his only daughter once and a while?”

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How did you get the address?”

He waved a hand. “Your brother gave it to me. Had to practically bully it out of him.”

Your jaw tightened. 

“What a place,” he mused, looking around before his eyes landed on Tommy. “And you must be the husband, aye?”

Tommy stood there, unreadable, his gaze cool and detached. He stepped forward, offering his hand, because that’s what men like him did– offered respect until given a reason not to.

Your father shook it.

“Thomas Shelby,” Tommy introduced himself, his voice measured.

Your father smirked. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you alright.”

Tommy merely hummed, but his attention flickered back to you. He saw it then– the way your arms had wrapped around yourself, your fingers gripping your sleeves, your body tensed like a coiled spring.

You barely spoke all evening.

At dinner, Tommy tried to gauge your mood, throwing you small glances, subtle touches, but each time, you withdrew. When his hand brushed yours under the table, you flinched.

Just slightly. But Tommy noticed.

That night, after you’d made up the spare room and your father went to bed, Tommy pulled you into the hallway. His fingers tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing against your jaw.

“Everything alright?” His voice was soft, but there was something in it– something heavy.

You forced a small smile. “Of course. Just tired.”

Tommy studied you for a long moment, his gaze searching. He didn’t look convinced.

You exhaled, glancing toward the closed door of the spare room, then back at him. “I’m sorry he just showed up like that. I– I didn’t know he was coming.”

Tommy shrugged slightly, his thumb still absently stroking your cheek. “It’s alright. Family’s always welcome here. Lord knows mine barges in whenever they damn well please. It's kind of nice having it be yours for a change."

You let out a dry laugh, but it was hallow as your stomach twisted. “Right. Thank you.”

He watched you for a beat longer before sighing. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, almost too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He exhaled through his nose, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face gently. Tommy watched you for another second, his thumb pausing at your cheekbone before he finally nodded.

“Alright, love.” His voice was quiet, but you knew him well enough to hear the doubt behind it. He wasn’t convinced.

You both made your way to the bedroom in silence. Tommy moved around the room, shrugging off his vest, unbuttoning his shirt. You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at your hands, the weight of your father’s presence pressing heavy on your chest.

You should have told Tommy the truth.

You should have said something.

But you couldn’t. You didn’t know if it was the shame that stopped you– not wanting Tommy to know where or what you really came from… 

He saw you as strong, capable, resilient.

But if he knew… If he knew that you used to be a girl who flinched at raised voices, who held her breath when footsteps neared, who learned how to measure a person’s anger like a storm on the horizon, would he still look at you the same?

The thought made your throat tighten.

You lay beside Tommy, facing away from him, curled in on yourself. A moment later, his arm draped over your waist, pulling you into his warmth.

“You’re tense,” he murmured against the back of your neck.

“Just tired,” you said again. 

He studied you for a moment before sighing, obviously unconvinced. But he kissed your shoulder anyway. “Get some rest, then.”

It took a long time before you finally did.

…

The days stretched on.

Your father made himself comfortable in your home, slipping into the space between you and Tommy like he had a right to be there.

He drank Tommy’s whiskey like it was his own, spoke to him like they were equals, like there was no history of violence, no reason for you to avoid looking him in the eye.

And yet, you did what you had always done…

You played the part: the dutiful daughter. The quiet peacemaker. The one who let his sharp words roll off her back like they didn’t cut.

But the part that made you sick to your stomach, was how easily you fell back into it. How, in his presence, you became her again– that pitiful version of yourself… that scared little girl who walked on eggshells, who measured her words carefully, who held herself so still when he passed by, like movement alone might set him off.

You hated it– hated that he still had that power over you. Hated that, despite the years of distance, despite the fact that you had built a new life for yourself, he still made you feel so small.

You tried desperately to keep Tommy from seeing that version of yourself. You smiled when you needed to. Laughed at the right moments. Acted like everything was fine.

But the longer the visit stretched out, the harder it was to hide your discomfort.

Days passed. Then nearly a week. Your father showed no sign of leaving.

One afternoon, while Tommy was away at work, you found your father in the hallway, stretching, rolling his shoulders like he’d spent the day laboring instead of lounging.

You took a deep breath.

“Dad.”

He looked up, raising a brow as if you had interrupted something important.

“How long are you planning to stay for?” you asked, keeping your voice even, cautious.

He shrugged, running a hand through his graying hair. “Dunno. Not sure yet.”

You shifted your weight, forcing yourself to hold your ground. “I just– Tommy has a lot going on, and I don’t want to impose.”

Your father scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Your husband’s got plenty of room. He’s not hurting, is he?”

You swallowed your frustration and tried again.

“Did you tell Mom you were coming?”

His expression changed. 

The lighthearted arrogance drained away, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. His posture stiffened, and his gaze turned sharp.

“That’s none of your business,” he said coldly.

You should’ve stopped there. Should’ve let it go. But something inside you, some small ember of defiance, pushed forward. “It is my business. And this is my house–”

The slap came so fast, you barely saw it coming.

The sharp crack echoed in the hallway, and before you could register what had happened, you were stumbling back, one hand flying to your cheek as heat bloomed across your skin.

Your breath hitched. Your father loomed over you, his face twisted in a sneer. “You don’t get to speak to me like that. Do you understand me? What I say or don’t say to your mother is between me and her. Understood?”

You nodded quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. “Sorry– I– I was just–” you stopped yourself. “Sorry.”

Your cheek burned and your heart pounded in your ears as you turned on your heel and walked away.

You closed yourself into the bathroom, locking it behind you before turning to the mirror.

The mark was already forming. A bright red outline, the shape of his palm clear against your skin. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles went white.

…

That evening, you made dinner. A nice dinner. A meal you knew Tommy liked– something warm, familiar. A distraction. Maybe even something to please your father.

You set the table carefully, your hands only shaking slightly as you arranged the plates. You kept your face turned slightly away, hoping the dim lighting would mask the worst of it.

When Tommy got home, the door creaked open, and the familiar weight of his presence filled the space.

You were stirring something at the stove when his arms slipped around your waist from behind.

His touch was warm and grounding. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he murmured, “Smells good in here.”

You smiled– forced and practiced. “I thought I’d make us something nice.”

His arms tightened briefly. “God, it’s been a long day,” he murmured.

Then, as he leaned in, pressing another kiss just below your ear, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch the side of your face.

You felt him go still. His hands, steady on your waist, tensed.

His lips parted. “What’s this?” he asked, finger ghosting along the edge of your cheek.

Your stomach twisted. You knew what he had seen. The mark. The redness that you couldn’t fully hide. 

You turned your head slightly, brushing him off. “Oh, it’s nothing. I–” You exhaled, forcing a lighthearted tone as you stepped away from his embrace. “I walked right into that hallway shelf. Must not have been paying attention. I was stupid.”

Tommy didn’t say anything for a long moment. You could feel his eyes trained on you, sharp and assessing, as you moved around the kitchen. Before he could challenge your excuse, another voice cut in.

“Tommy!”

Your father stepped into the room, grinning, swirling a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. “Good to see you, son. How’s business today?”

Tommy and your father sat at the table, engaging in light conversation. Your father asked about business. Tommy responded, his voice steady, polite.

But his eyes kept flicking to you.

You barely spoke. You moved carefully, quietly, only nodding when necessary.

Tommy noticed. He saw the way you kept your head slightly down. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for a glass.

You forced yourself to sit through dinner, every bite feeling like it might turn to ash in your mouth. Every sip of water was just an excuse to avoid speaking.

You were suffocating. You needed to get out.

So, when the dishes were cleared, and the conversation between Tommy and your father began to stretch into the evening, you pushed your chair back and stood.

“I think I’ll turn in early,” you murmured, keeping your voice light. “Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Tommy’s gaze snapped to you immediately.

Your father barely glanced up. “Night, sweetheart,” he muttered, already swirling the last of his drink in his glass.

Tommy, though– he studied you. You didn’t meet his eyes.

He opened his mouth like he might say something, might challenge you, might ask you to stay, but after a moment, he simply nodded.

“Alright, love.” His voice was careful. Measured.

You forced a small smile before slipping from the room.

…

It was late when Tommy finally came to bed.

You heard him before you saw him, the slow creak of the bedroom door, the quiet sound of his footsteps across the floor.

He moved carefully, as if not wanting to wake you.

You kept your breathing steady and your eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. 

The mattress dipped slightly as he crawled in beside you. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest on your hip. His touch was gentle, hesitant. You didn’t move. Didn’t react.

A deep sigh left his lips, and you felt the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, just for a moment, before he exhaled again and let it relax.

You waited for him to say something– to ask, maybe demand answers. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he did what Tommy Shelby never did. He hesitated.

And it was at that moment you realized, he was waiting for you.

Waiting for you to come to him.

But you weren’t ready. So, you remained still, your heart hammering against your ribs as his thumb trailed lazily along your hip. Then, he stretched his arm carefully around your waist and pulled you close.

… 

You kept up the act– kept making dinner. Kept playing hostess. Kept pretending like the walls of your own home weren’t closing in on you.

A few nights later, you found yourself in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, when you heard the front door swing open.

The sound was jarring, clumsy, forceful, followed by the sound of staggering footsteps. 

The hair on the back of your neck stood up before you even turned around. Your father stepped into the kitchen, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glassy, the stench of whiskey thick in the air.

He wasn’t just drunk, he was angry. A cold wave of fear ran down your spine.

You froze, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he loomed in the doorway.

“Look at you,” he slurred, waving a hand at the dinner on the stove. “Little housewife, cooking for your big, important husband.”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, picking up a glass cup from the counter and trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sit down.”

His eyes narrowed. “What? You're giving me orders now?”

Your grip tightened on the glass. He took another step closer.

“You always were a smug little thing, weren’t you?” He muttered, shaking his head. “Always had something to say.”

You held your breath as he took another unsteady step forward, his eyes dark and unfocused, but sharp enough to cut straight through you. “I didn’t mean–”

“Now that you've married a Shelby, you're arrogant, too. Tell me,” he interrupted, the word twisted with venom. “Was it him who kept you from coming home all this time? Or was it you? Think you’re too good for your own family now? With your rich fucking husband at your beck and call?”

Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’re drunk.” You tried to turn away, but your father reached out to clutch your wrist. 

“Don’t walk away from me.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice.

Your stomach twisted violently. “Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your efforts to sound firm.

He didn’t. Instead, he yanked you back toward him, forcing you to stumble. The glass in your hand wobbled precariously, liquid sloshing over the rim.

“The king of fucking Birmingham, aye? And you’re what? His housewife? Or his whore?”

“Stop it,” you cut in, trying to wrench your wrist free. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I don't care who you're married to. You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do,” he spat.

Your pulse hammered, panic rising in your chest. “Dad, just stop– you’re drunk.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound jagged, cruel. “Drunk?” He sneered. “I’ve been drinking since before you could fucking walk, girl. You think you know better than me? Think that slimey Shelby husband of yours turned you into something special?”

“Tommy,” you swallowed thickly, forcing the words out. “Is a good man. I know that term might be hard for you to comprehend–"

A dark flash crossed his face. And then– the slap. It struck you with enough force to snap your head to the side, the sting burning hot across your cheek. The room blurred for a moment, your ears ringing.

Your father didn’t give you time to react. Before you could move, before you could process, he shoved you hard against the wall.

The glass slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor and shattering, fragments scattering across the kitchen tiles.

Your back collided with the surface, your breath leaving you in a sharp gasp. The pain barely registered before his hands were on you again– this time around your throat, squeezing. 

Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrists, your body struggling instinctively. But his grip was tight, unrelenting.

Your chest heaved.

Your lungs burned.

A strangled sound escaped you, but it wasn’t loud enough. Not enough to stop him.

His breath was hot against your face as he leaned in. He was seething. His teeth clenched together as his eyes bore down on you with pure hatred. 

Your vision blurred. Your limbs weakened. The edges of your consciousness began to flicker, the darkness creeping in.

In the hazy distance, you vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by heavy footsteps.

Then, the pressure around your throat disappeared instantly as your father was ripped away from you. You collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping, your hands flying to your throat as air rushed back into your lungs. Your body shook violently, but you barely noticed.

Because in front of you, Tommy had your father by the collar, slamming him against the kitchen table with enough force to rattle the dishes.

The look on Tommy’s face was lethal.

Your father coughed, groaning, trying to push himself up. But Tommy was on him before he could move.

His fist connected with your father’s jaw– once, then twice. The crack of bone meeting bone echoing through the room.

Blood splattered across the floor. Your father groaned, but Tommy wasn’t done. He grabbed him again, dragging him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall this time.

Your father choked, spitting blood.

Tommy leaned in, his voice eerily calm now. “You ever touch her again, and I’ll kill you with my barehands. You hear me?”

Your father wheezed, coughing weakly. “Fuck you–”

In an instant, Tommy pulled his gun.

He pressed the barrel beneath your father’s chin, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. The air in the kitchen was thick, the only sound the ragged breathing of the men in front of you.

Your father’s eyes widened, his drunken haze fading into something closer to fear.

Tommy’s finger flexed on the trigger.

Your stomach twisted violently.

“Tommy,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.

His grip didn’t loosen.

At least not right away. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around the handle of the gun. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tommy exhaled sharply and lowered the gun.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spat before releasing your father’s collar. 

Your father crumpled to the floor, coughing, gasping.

Your father didn’t wait to be told twice.

His hand clutched where Tommy had struck him, his movements shaky as he scrambled to his feet. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the kitchen floor, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He staggered toward the door, barely able to walk straight, a mix of pain and drunken stupor slowing his steps.

He didn’t even bother to grab his things. Or have the courage to look back at you.

Just stumbled toward the exit, his breath ragged and uneven, one last curse muttered under his breath as he shoved the door open and disappeared into the night.

Tommy followed him to the threshold, his cold gaze never leaving the man’s retreating figure.

Then, click. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed through the house.

Tommy exhaled sharply, pressing his palm against the door, as if physically barring your father from ever stepping foot in this house again. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his arms flexing as he gripped the wood tightly.

Your focus shifted to the glass– the shattered pieces lay scattered across the floor, sharp edges gleaming under the dim kitchen light.

Your hands trembled as you scrambled forward, sinking to your knees, desperate to clean it up. You needed to fix this. You needed to make things right.

Tommy was angry. You knew he was.

And if there was one thing you had learned in your life, it was how to keep the peace. How to stay quiet, to smooth over the damage, to do whatever it took to make things okay again.

So you reached for the shards, ignoring the way your fingers shook. One after another, you gathered them in your hands, barely noticing when a sharp edge knicked your skin.

A thin line of red beaded at your skin, but you kept going.

If you could just get it all cleaned up– 

Strong hands stopped you, fingers curling around the wrist you had collected pieces in.

“Love.”

The word was soft, but firm.

You hadn’t even realized he had moved, but now he was crouched in front of you, his hands gently prying your fist open so that he could take the glass from you.

You tried to protest, shaking your head. “I– I just need to clean this up, Tommy, I–”

“Leave it,” he said quietly, reaching his arm up and discarding the shards on the countertop.

Your lip trembled. “I– Tommy, I–”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Because the panic was setting in now, hitting you all at once. Your hands shook violently, the tremors traveling up your arms, your whole body beginning to quake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast.

You were unraveling.

“I– I can fix it, Tommy, I have to–” Your words broke apart into a sob as you tried to pull away from him, your limbs weak and frantic all at once. “I can fix it–”

Tommy didn’t let you go. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently. "It's alright."

Your eyes flickered back to the rest of the shattered glass, your mind spiraling. “It’s a mess, I made a mess, I– I didn’t mean to, I–”

“Love, stop…” His voice was a tether, grounding you even as you spiraled.

But you couldn’t stop.

Your fingers clawed weakly at his arms, desperate for something, anything, to keep you from sinking completely.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your whole body trembling so badly you could barely keep yourself upright. “I– I didn’t mean to–”

Tommy swore under his breath. Then, without hesitation, he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady.

You let out a broken sound, your fingers gripping his shirt in fists as sobs racked your frame. You were shaking so hard it felt like you might come apart completely.

But Tommy held you together.

His hand cradled the back of your head, anchoring you to him. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Stop, just stop.”

The words tumbled out anyway. “I– I swear I didn’t mean to make him angry, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”

You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly. 

“Do not apologize,” he said, voice low and steady. “Do not apologize for that man. You hear me?”

You shook your head, barely able to breathe. “But I– I should’ve just–”

“No.” Tommy’s tone left no room for argument.

His hand slid from your back to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were burning now– not with rage, not with violence, but with something unwavering.

“Now you listen to me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “He did this. Not you.”

A sob caught in your throat, but he didn’t let you look away. 

Tears blurred your vision, but the panic still gripped you tight, its claws lodged deep in your ribs. You shook your head weakly. “I– I should have done something.”

Tommy’s gaze darkened, his hands firm but gentle as they cradled your face. “Like what?” His voice was unwavering, pushing you to say it.

You swallowed, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “I should’ve just kept quiet. But I pushed him. I should’ve known better.”

The moment the words left your lips, shame burned through you like acid. It felt filthy to say it out loud.

Tommy inhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His thumb skimmed over the fading red mark on your cheek, the bruises forming along your throat, and something behind his eyes fractured.

“He would’ve done it anyway,” Tommy said, his tone quieter now. “No matter what you did. No matter what you said. Because men like that don’t need a reason to hurt people.”

Realization washed over you.

He didn’t blame you.

Tommy didn’t blame you.

You had spent your whole life believing it was your fault. That every slap, every harsh word, every cruel punishment was something you had earned.

But Tommy didn’t see it that way. He saw him as the problem. He saw him as the one at fault.

Not you.

The weight of that realization shattered something inside you, splintering through your chest like glass. You let out a broken sound, your body crumbling under the weight of all of it.

And Tommy caught you. He pulled you into his arms again, crushing you against him, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to anchor you to the world, to him.

And you let him.

You clung to him, your fingers twisting into his shirt, needing to feel the solidness of him, the warmth, the safety.

Tommy pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there as his breath shuddered against your skin. And he didn’t let go. Not when your sobs finally quieted, not when your breathing finally steadied, not even when your body had stopped trembling in his arms.

He just held you.

His hands ran slow, soothing strokes down your back, grounding you in the steady rhythm of his touch. His breath was warm against your hair, his chest solid beneath your cheek, rising and falling in time with yours.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. 

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You stiffened slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“I would’ve thrown him to the wolves the second he walked through the fucking door,” he murmured, his jaw tightening against your forehead. “Christ, I thought you wanted him here.”

You swallowed, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your hands, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

Because how could you explain that some wounds never really heal? That no matter how far you run, no matter how much time passes, the fear always lingers– deep, insidious, always waiting for an excuse to crawl back up your throat and choke the words before they ever leave your lips?

You felt Tommy sigh against you. His arms tightened, just slightly, like he was bracing himself.

And then, his voice dipped lower. “I should’ve pushed harder,” he murmured. “I knew– I knew something was wrong. And I let you tell me it wasn’t.”

That got your attention.

Your breath hitched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his shirt.

“Tommy, no.” Your voice was hoarse, shaky, but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

His jaw tensed.

“I just wasn’t ready to talk about it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. 

Tommy studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, exhaling slowly.

“How long?”

You gazed up at him questioningly.

"How long has he been hurting you for?"

His blue eyes burned into yours, steady, patient, but unrelenting.

You took a breath, one that barely filled your lungs, and whispered,

“I think I was six the first time. I accidentally left the laundry out in the rain. Ruined his favorite suit."

You felt the shift in him. The way his hands, still cradling your face, tightened slightly. The way his breathing turned just a shade too slow, too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

"I figured I deserved that one. It was an expensive suit and… well, we didn't come from money."

You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing the words out even as they scraped against something raw inside you.

“But the next time it happened, it was something smaller. I don’t even remember what I did.” You let out a weak, humorless breath. “I think I knocked over a drink. Or maybe I spoke when I wasn’t supposed to.”

You shifted slightly, staring at the spot on the floor where the glass had shattered earlier, as if it might somehow piece itself back together.

“Eventually, the reasons stopped mattering, I guess,” you murmured. “He’d get angry over anything. If you looked at him the wrong way, or even if you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, a subconscious need to hold onto something solid.

“When I was nine, he threw me against the table." Your throat felt tight, but the words were coming now, unraveling like thread. “I hit the edge. It cracked a rib, I think. I couldn’t breathe right for weeks.”

Tommy exhaled, sharp and controlled, like he was holding something down, something dangerous.

“The next day, he brought me flowers.” A bitter smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “To say he was sorry.”

Your voice wavered. “I don't know why but kept them in my room until they wilted. Because no matter how badly he hurt me... I think I still wanted to believe he loved me.”

The words felt foreign coming out of your mouth, like admitting them made them more real. More pathetic.

"I don't know what happened," you admitted. "He showed up here and I just... I panicked. It felt like I was that nine year old girl again. Just trying to make him happy, despite how scared he always made me. It felt like... Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore."

Tommy's hand rose to cup your face, his fingers brushing tenderly over your bruised cheek. His thumb traced the fading outline of your father’s fingers, and his gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Fear that deep that never goes away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, distant. “Not completely.”

You blinked at him, something heavy settling in your chest. He wasn’t just talking about you anymore.

“France?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Aye.”

His thumb brushed absently over your skin, but his gaze had drifted, staring past you now, as if he was seeing something else entirely.

“I used to think I’d come back and it would be over,” he continued, his voice steady, but different. He was using that careful, guarded tone he used when speaking of the war. “That the things I saw, the things I felt... they’d stay behind, buried in the trenches where they belonged.”

A humorless breath left him. “They didn’t.”

A silence stretched between you. You wondered if he had ever admitted that the war hadn’t ended when he stepped back onto English soil.

Just like your past hadn’t ended when you left home.

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, your breath uneven. “How do you live with it?”

Tommy’s eyes refocused on you.

“I haven’t quite figured that one out yet,” he admitted.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your collarbone. “But it helps to find things that keep you here.” His voice dropped lower, his eyes locked onto yours. “Things worth staying for.”

Tommy exhaled, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin. “And maybe one day, you wake up, and you realize that even though it's still there, that fear doesn’t own you anymore.”

You swallowed thickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what keeps you here, Tommy?”

His hand on your chest tightened slightly, his fingers curling over your heart. His breath brushed against your skin. Then, softly, almost so softly you didn’t hear it, he sighed. “I thought that was obvious.” 

His hand slid up, fingers trailing along your jaw before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“I’ll always protect you,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. Certain. “I mean it,” he said. “You never have to be afraid in this house again. Not while I’m breathing.”

The way he said it– it wasn’t just a promise.

It was a fact.

A truth carved into the very foundation of who he was. 

You swallowed thickly, pressing your forehead against his chest, letting his warmth, his presence, his words wrap around you like armor.