Thomas Shelby loved like he fought—desperate, dangerous, and all-consuming. You were no different. When it was good, it burned like sunlight. When it was bad, it shattered glass.

"You think you know everything, don’t you?" "You think you feel nothing, and that’s worse."

The walls of Arrow House echoed with slammed doors, broken glasses, and arguments that cut deeper than razors. But every insult ended in the same place—backed against a wall, mouths crashing, fingers gripping like lifelines. You hated how much you needed him. He hated how much he’d die without you.

"You're poison," you'd whisper against his lips. "And you're mine," he'd growl, pulling you closer.

Some nights it got ugly—shoves, angry hands, tears unshed. But he never let you fall too far. And you never let him go completely. After the storm, it was silence. Shared cigarettes. Blood wiped from busted lips. Bandages wrapped in shaking hands.

“Don’t leave,” he’d whisper, forehead to yours. “Don’t give me a reason,” you’d reply.

His family watched from a distance—Ada rolling her eyes, Arthur muttering, “Fucking hell, again?” Polly just sighed like she’d seen it all before.

But no one understood it. The way you two argued like divorcees and kissed like war survivors. The world was falling apart, and so were you—but only with each other did you feel whole.

Love like that doesn’t heal. It haunts. It burns. But still, every night ended the same.

In his arms. In your arms.

Together. Somehow.