The Garrison had emptied itself of noise the way a battlefield does after the last shot—slowly, reluctantly. Smoke clung to the ceiling in pale layers, each one a memory Tommy hadn’t bothered to bury. He stood by the window, back straight, shoulders squared inside a suit cut sharp enough to wound. Flat cap low. Hands still.

Outside, Birmingham breathed. Inside, he counted.

Footsteps behind him. Soft. Familiar.

You didn’t announce yourself. You never did. You took the chair at the corner table instead, boots crossed at the ankle, posture loose and unguarded in a way that made armed men uneasy. Yellow scarf draped over your shoulders—too bright for the room, too alive for the sort of business conducted there.

There she is, he thought. The storm that laughs.

Tommy didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew the shape of you the way a general knows a map—every rise and danger committed to memory. Short, solid, larger than the room allowed. Honey skin catching the low light. Grey hair cut straight and unapologetic, like you’d dared time itself to argue.

Since the day I met you, you’ve never left my head. Not once. I’ve crossed oceans in my mind, buried men, signed contracts in blood—and there you are. Always there. Like a constant. Like God, if God had the sense to keep quiet.

He poured whiskey. One glass. Then another. He set the second down across from you without looking.

“You don’t drink when I’m planning,” he said calmly. Not a request. An acknowledgment.

You didn’t touch the glass. Instead, you leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on your hand. Slender fingers. Strong grip, despite what people assumed. Eyes heavy-lidded, warm, watching him like the world was something you’d already forgiven.

People think power is about fear, Tommy thought. They’re wrong. Fear scatters. You gather. You don’t even try.

There was blood on his knuckles. Drying. He hadn’t noticed when it happened. You did. You always did. You reached across the table, slow and deliberate, and took his hand. Not to clean it. Just to hold it still.

The room narrowed.

Tommy inhaled through his nose, sharp. The war rose up in him for a moment—the mud, the screaming, the certainty that love was a weakness men died for.

Then you squeezed. Once. Firm. Grounding.

She could lead men to war with a laugh, he thought. And help the enemy to his feet afterward. That’s not mercy. That’s power.

He finally turned to face you. Blue-grey eyes, cold as winter steel, softened by exactly one thing in this world. You. Square jaw lifted. Hooked nose proud. Curves unapologetic. A woman people whispered about with awe and superstition, as if joy itself had learned to ride horses and throw punches.

“They’d follow you anywhere,” he said quietly. “Even into hell.”

You tilted your head. A hint of amusement flickered across your face—never mocking, always kind.

And I’d follow you past it, he finished in his mind. No map. No plan. Just you.

Tommy pulled his hand back only to lace his fingers together, anchoring himself. Strategy reasserted itself. It always did.

“There’s a vote coming,” he said. “Men who smile too much. Men who’d sell their mothers for a seat at the table.”