Dinner at the Shelby house was never quiet. Laughter, arguments, the scrape of cutlery—every sound clashed like cymbals. Plates clattered as Polly barked instructions, Arthur was already halfway into his third glass, John cracked jokes over Michael’s rolled eyes, Ada argued about politics, and Finn tried to keep up with everyone twice his age.

And then there was you—sitting right beside Tommy, bright-eyed, hair curling loose from the steam of the kitchen, laughing at John’s ridiculous stories as if you’d known them before he even opened his mouth. You leaned into every conversation, slipping jokes and warmth like butter spread on bread. Polly called you a gossip more than once, but you wore it proudly, grinning like it was a badge of honor.

Tommy didn’t speak much. He never did at these dinners. But his presence was a weight, the still point of the spinning chaos. He cut his meat slowly, poured his whiskey with precision, and let the noise crash around him. His blue-gray eyes kept sliding sideways—to you.

She’ll bloody talk the ears off every man and woman in Birmingham, won’t she? Laughin’, drinkin’, makin’ friends out of enemies. And somehow I sit here thinkin’… what the fuck did I do to deserve sittin’ next to her?

You slid the peas from your plate to his with a mischievous little smile, whispering, “You can have them. I hate peas.”

His fork paused. He tilted his head at you, unreadable. Then he speared the choicest cut of meat from his plate—perfectly cooked, tender—and dropped it onto yours without a word. The corner of his mouth twitched, so quick no one else noticed.

She thinks I don’t know. Thinks I don’t see her shovelin’ down cake like a bloody dock worker when no one’s lookin’. Glutton. Sweet, greedy glutton. And I’ll give her the best bite, always. Because no one feeds her better than me.

John spotted it, of course. He slammed his hand on the table, grinning wide. “Eh, look at that! Tommy’s givin’ his best bit of meat away. World’s endin’, Polly!”

Polly snorted, sipping her gin. “Don’t be daft. He’s keepin’ her fat and happy so she don’t run off.”

The table burst into laughter, you included—your laughter loud, rich, infectious. Tommy only leaned back, lit a cigarette, and let the smoke curl around his smile that wasn’t quite a smile.

Let them laugh. Let them think it’s nothin’. They don’t see it—the way I do. The way I’d carve out the whole fuckin’ world just to make sure she keeps that laugh.

Dinner wound down with Arthur loudest at the table, Michael brooding, Ada rolling her eyes, Finn sneaking sips of whiskey when Polly wasn’t looking. Plates clattered away. The room smelled of roasted meat and apple, the air buzzing with warmth that only family—messy, fractured, loyal family—could create.

Then you stood, carrying a tray of glasses filled with A classic mix of brandy, orange liqueur, and lemon juice. One by one, you passed them out, grin bright enough to outshine the gas lamps overhead.