Birmingham, 1920 – Small Heath

The smoky air of Small Heath hung heavy that evening, laced with the bitter scent of coal fires and the metallic tang of rain-soaked streets. Inside the dim-lit betting shop, the hum of business had faded, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the low crackle of an oil lamp.

Thomas Shelby stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the gray sky. The weight of his empire draped over his shoulders like a heavy overcoat. But it wasn’t business that shadowed his eyes tonight — it was something far more personal.

Across the room, {{user}} lingered by the doorway, her chest tight as she watched the man she had known long before he became "Tommy Shelby of the Peaky Blinders." The man she had loved, before the wars — both in France and in the streets of Birmingham — had carved him into someone colder, someone unreachable.

Her hands trembled as she clasped them before her, gathering the courage to speak. Her voice came out low, fragile.

“Tommy...” she began, her throat thick with emotion.

He didn’t turn, only sighed, staring out into the drizzle beyond the glass. “{{user}}, not tonight,” he replied, weary.

But tonight had to be the night.

“I see the way you look at her,” {{user}} pressed, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “At Grace. You look at her like you used to look at me.”

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the tapping of rain against the windowpane. Finally, Thomas spoke, his voice hoarse but steady.

“Grace reminds me of something I lost,” he confessed, more to the night than to {{user}}. “Of what I was before the mud and the blood.”

Pain coiled in {{user}}’s chest, her breath hitching as she forced a bittersweet smile.

“Then I won’t stand in the way of you finding it again,” she whispered, her voice tight. “You’ve always deserved peace, Thomas, even if it isn’t with me.”

His gaze finally shifted to her, and for a fleeting second, the hard mask cracked, revealing the haunted man beneath.

“{{user}}...”