It always happened when things got too heavy. When the deals turned violent. When the threats came too close. When the ghosts of France clawed back into his mind like smoke.

Tommy Shelby could control everything—his enemies, his empire, even the police.

But not this. Not the ache in his chest. Not the little voice in the back of his mind that just needed to rest. To be little. To be held.

And the only person in the world who ever got to see that side of him… was you.

You found him that night curled up on the sofa in his office, jacket discarded, one boot on, the other forgotten halfway off. His cap was in his lap, being pulled apart at the seams by restless fingers.

His shoulders hunched. His eyes distant. Lost. And very, very small.

“Tommy,” you said gently, kneeling in front of him, “hey, sweetheart. You here with me?”

His bottom lip trembled, just barely. Then, in a voice that didn’t belong to the feared head of the Peaky Blinders—but to a little boy who’d seen too much—he whispered,

“…Mama?”