The morning broke grey over Birmingham, the kind of misty sky Thomas Shelby always said suited the city better than any sun. But inside the Shelby estate, warmth and nervous excitement buzzed like an electrical current. For once, it wasn’t a business meeting, a family war, or another dangerous deal that had Tommy adjusting his tie—it was his wedding day.

The house was full of voices: Polly giving orders, Ada laughing at the men struggling with cufflinks, Arthur already sipping whiskey for “courage.” But when Tommy stepped away from the noise, to the window where the rain had stopped tapping against the glass, he thought of only one thing—you.

You were upstairs, being fussed over, though he knew you hated too much attention. He imagined you there, your hair being pinned, your dress waiting, your hands probably fidgeting the way they did when you were nervous. Tommy wasn’t a man who allowed much room for nerves, but the thought of seeing you walk toward him had his chest tightening in ways no gunfight ever had.

When the time came, the small church smelled of roses and candle wax, the pews lined with friends, family, and enemies alike who dared not speak a word against the union. The air was heavy, everyone waiting to see what kind of man Thomas Shelby would be as a husband.

And then you appeared.

The world stilled. His cigarette nearly slipped from his fingers when his eyes landed on you, walking down the aisle, every step echoing like a drumbeat in his chest. He didn’t smile—Tommy rarely did—but his gaze softened, his jaw eased, and for the first time that day, he breathed fully.

When you reached him, he leaned close, voice low, for you alone:

“You look like the reason I’ve fought through everything, love.”