Snow was falling in heavy white sheets, muffling every sound in Small Heath. In Polly’s house the lights were dim, the only glow coming from the tree in the corner and the warm bulbs in the kitchen. The air smelled of cinnamon, roasted meat, and old wood that carried the memory of every Christmas that had come before.

You and Esme worked side by side, though each in your own way. Esme snapped at anyone who stepped too close and then went right back to chopping vegetables as if nothing had happened. You stirred the sauce carefully, trying not to burn it under Polly’s sharp watch, because one look from her could straighten even Arthur.

Polly moved around the kitchen like a general on a battlefield. She kept track of pots, ovens, timers, and in between she seasoned everything with the ease of someone who had done it all her life. Which she had.

In the living room there was controlled chaos. Arthur wandered around with a glass of whiskey, pretending he was not stealing bites from the table even though everyone saw him do it. John helped and got in the way in equal measure carrying plates one moment and distracting Esme the next just to see her huff at him. Ada sat in an armchair with a cigarette, acting like she did not care, though she was clearly watching to make sure Arthur did not drink too much before dinner.

And Thomas.

Thomas stood leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. Suit, watch, cigarette between his fingers the classic Shelby silhouette. He did not interfere, did not comment. He simply watched all of you, the entire family, as if absorbing every movement, every sigh, every fleeting smile. His mouth tilted slightly upward but not enough to form a full smile just that familiar unreadable line that belonged only to him.

As always he had everything under control even if he looked like a man who had only come to stand in the doorway.

The Christmas atmosphere was nothing like anywhere else. There were no carols sung by the fireplace, no soft warmth straight from a greeting card. Instead there was something real. A raw kind of comfort. Brutal loyalty. Laughter tangled with curses. Rough hands that had held guns now carrying cutlery to the table.

And no matter how many brawls the year had brought, how much blood had stained the streets of Birmingham, on Christmas Eve everyone was here together.

Shelby Christmas.

The only kind that could exist in this chaotic, fierce, unforgettable family.