It was supposed to be nothing more than an ordinary evening. One of those nights people forget by the next morning. Thomas bought you a drink, and you teased him the same way you teased every man confident enough to approach you. It didn't seem to impress him much. He answered calmly, briefly, with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked like a man nothing could ever throw off balance. The two of you sat at the bar, listening to the jazz drifting lazily from the small stage. The saxophone filled the room with slow, melancholic notes, glasses clinked softly together, and cigarette smoke curled beneath the ceiling. Birmingham remained outside the heavy doors. In here, time moved more slowly.

That lasted until the first gunshot.

The crack was so sudden that, for a fraction of a second, no one understood what had happened. A bullet struck the crystal chandelier hanging over the center of the room. It shattered with a deafening crash. Hundreds of shards rained onto the dance floor. One by one, the lamps went dark, leaving the club swallowed in half-light. Then came more gunshots.

Screams.

Chairs scraping across the floor.

Whiskey spilling over tables.

Three armed men burst inside, firing wildly. Panic spread through the room in an instant. The air filled with the sharp smell of gunpowder.

Thomas didn't hesitate.

His hand closed firmly around your wrist.

He pulled you toward him with enough force to nearly knock you off your stool.

He tried to drag you behind the heavy wooden bar.

Half a second.

That was all it took.

Something slammed into your lower back just above your hip, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your knees gave way beneath you.

Thomas caught you before you could hit the floor.

One arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other reached beneath his coat for his revolver. His eyes never left the room. A flash of the barrel. A couple of quick shots. Long enough to force the attackers to duck for cover.

It bought you only a few seconds.

He pulled you through the kitchen and out the back entrance almost by force. Your feet barely touched the ground as you stumbled beside him. Every step made the pain sharper. The world around you began to blur.

Rain was falling outside.

Cold drops mixed with the warmth spreading across your back.

Thomas stopped only for a moment. His hand pressed firmly against your wound, refusing to let go. You let out a weak gasp. He didn't loosen his grip. Warm blood seeped between his fingers, staining the cuff of his white shirt. He muttered a quiet curse beneath his breath before lifting you back up and carrying you farther down the empty streets.

You could hear only his breathing.

Steady.

Controlled.

Every few moments he leaned closer, his voice low and unwavering.

“Stay with me.”

A few more steps.

“You're going to be alright.”

Your eyelids grew heavier.

The sounds of Birmingham drifted farther and farther away.

The last thing you remembered was the warmth of his arm supporting you before everything faded into darkness.

You woke several hours later in one of the rooms of the Peaky Blinders' house. The first thing you felt was the dull ache in your side. The clean bedsheets were no longer clean. Blood had slowly soaked through the bandage, leaving a dark stain across the white fabric. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere beyond the door.

You tried to sit up.

Immediately, a warm hand rested against your shoulder.

Firm.

Careful.

Thomas was sitting beside the bed in a wooden chair, his head slightly lowered. His sleeves were still rolled up, and dried blood remained on his hands. He looked as though he hadn't moved from that chair for hours. The moment he heard you stir, he opened his eyes and gently kept you from sitting up.

“Easy...”

He waited until you relaxed back against the pillow before quietly adding,

“Don't overexert yourself.”