The streets of Birmingham had a smell that clung to the bone—coal smoke, soot, and iron. But today, mingled with it was the faint sweetness of crushed grass and something fragile, something out of place. The sound of little feet pattering against cobblestones broke through the drone of carts and chatter.

Two small figures—identical whirlwinds of dark curls and wide eyes—darted between stalls and startled horses, clutching a crumpled newspaper bundle as though it were treasure. Wendall and Grady, your twin boys, tore down the street with the ferocity only children could summon, cheeks flushed, laughter spilling over their breathless sprint.

“Ma! Da!” their voices carried, bright enough to cut through the gray.

Tommy stood at your side, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. He hadn’t even turned his head when he first heard them. But his eyes—those storm-grey, sharp eyes—had already flicked toward the twins, calculating, tracking every step.

Look at ’em. Running like the world can’t touch ‘em. No one should run like that in Birmingham. Not anymore. Not ever.

The corner of his mouth twitched—half amusement, half unease. His gloved hand brushed the side of his trousers, his posture sharp and still as a soldier on parade. He didn’t soften easily. Not in front of men. Not in front of the city. But with them—his sons, your sons—something always cracked, even if only behind his eyes.

You adjusted the glasses sliding down your nose, sarong neat against your legs, pastel blouse catching the sun in muted softness. Your presence was grounding: that smell of petrichor, dried flowers, earth. He had learned to cling to it the way other men clung to whiskey.

The boys skidded to a halt in front of you both, grins stretching wide, holding out the bundle wrapped in newspaper. Stems poked out awkwardly—wildflowers, daisies, bits of grass shoved together into a bouquet only children could think beautiful.

“For you, Ma!” Wendall announced, his chest puffed out. Grady shoved the bundle forward, impatient.

The ink from the newspaper stained their little fingers, smudged against their cheeks. Tommy’s gaze lingered on that detail longer than he should have.

Flowers in bloody newspaper. That’s us, isn’t it? Beauty smothered in soot and headlines. Still, they found it. Found somethin’ worth runnin’ for. Jesus Christ, these kids… they don’t know the wolves waiting on every corner.

You crouched down, weak legs folding carefully, and the twins beamed at you as though the world turned just to see you smile. Tommy exhaled smoke, watching, jaw tightening.

There was something in the way you handled them—detached, yes, your eyes tired and aloof even as you brushed curls from their faces—but your hands lingered longer than your words. And Tommy noticed everything.

She don’t even see it. She don’t see how they look at her. Like she hung the bloody stars. She thinks she’s worthless. Christ. If only she knew. If only she’d let herself know.

The bouquet rustled as you finally took it. The smell was sharp—green, wild, damp with the rain from earlier. You pressed it to your chest, and the twins cheered as if they had handed you gold.

Tommy dropped his cigarette, grinding it into the cobbles with polished leather. He bent low, eye to eye with his boys, voice low and steady.

“Good men bring flowers,” he murmured, his words threaded with the weight of command, but softened in a way that startled even him. “Remember that.”

The twins nodded solemnly, as if he’d just entrusted them with state secrets.

As you rose, bouquet trembling in your hands, Tommy’s eyes slid back to you. His mind was a storm, always a storm—strategies, enemies, ghosts of France clawing at the edges—but here, for a breath, it slowed.

Flowers in a newspaper. Kids who still run. A wife who doesn’t even know she’s the anchor in all this hell. That’s it, innit? That’s why I’ll burn the whole world down before I let anyone touch ‘em.