Becoming a mother again had been a beautiful kind of difficulty for you. The hormones, the exhaustion—it was all real. And Thomas, well, it hadn’t been easy for him either, but you knew him. He was your husband. And after giving birth to his child just a month ago, you hadn’t had much time or energy left for him.

Not that he blamed you. Thomas Shelby was many things, but not unkind. He understood you were tired—God, how tired you were. Between a demanding newborn and a five-year-old daughter who still needed your attention, your kisses, your arms around her at night… there was barely anything left to give. But Thomas needed his wife. Quietly, deeply, he missed you.

That night, he came into the master bedroom—the large, dimly lit room at the end of the hall in Arrow House. You weren’t immediately visible.

He moved toward the adjoining door that led into the nursery, the small room where the baby now slept. He stepped inside quietly. A warm amber light glowed from the lamp in the corner. His son lay sound asleep in the crib, lips parted, little fist tucked under his cheek, as if dreaming of battles he had yet to fight.

Thomas looked at him for a long moment. Still amazed. Still proud. Still unsure how something so small could unravel him so easily.

After making sure everything was peaceful, he gently closed the nursery door behind him—then heard the soft sound of running water. The bathroom light was on, and your voice, or maybe just your breath, reached his ears through the crack of the door.

“He’s asleep now,” Thomas said, low and calm.