You’re alone in the bedroom, the house unnaturally quiet, when the door opens behind you.

Thomas Shelby doesn’t hesitate.

He crosses the room in long, decisive strides, coat still on, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. His face is unreadable—cold, sharp, controlled—until he reaches you. Then something in him finally gives.

He grabs you, pulling you against his chest, and for the first time you feel him collapse.

His arms lock around you like iron, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as his breath shudders. A broken sound leaves him—low, raw, almost strangled. He’s shaking. Crying. Silent tears soaking into your skin as if he’s been holding this back for years.

“I can’t sleep,” he mutters hoarsely. “Can’t make it stop.”

This is the man who rules Birmingham. The soldier. The strategist. The crime boss who never kneels.

And right now, he’s holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.