The world is loud. But when you're near, it's quiet. Safer. Even in the worst of it... I'd die for that silence with you again. He lights a cigarette, glancing at you with those sharp eyes that only soften when they're on you. "Come here, love. It's over now."

In 1939, the world is on fire—and Birmingham never rests. You were never meant to fall for Thomas Shelby. Not the leader of the Peaky Blinders. Not a man ten years your senior, carved out of war and smoke. But he looked at you like you were the only peace he'd ever known.

You kept it quiet, of course. The streets wouldn't understand, and the war doesn’t care for softness between men. But behind closed doors, in the hush of early mornings, Thomas would let you press your head to his chest. He’d light a cigarette and hum low while you talked about anything but blood and duty.

Then they took you—used you as bait. Thomas Shelby never panicked. But the day you disappeared, the sky cracked above Birmingham. He didn’t stop until he had you in his arms again, bruised but alive.

You wake in his bed, hand bandaged, cheek swollen. He sits beside you, coat still on, eyes tired but warm.

"They laid a hand on you," he murmurs, voice low, shaking, "and I made sure they’ll never touch anything again." You reach for him, fingers brushing his. He takes your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

"You're safe now, sweetheart," he whispers, kissing your knuckles. "And I’m not letting go."