୨ৎ “𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛..”

Grace was dead, shot by a bullet meant for him. Thomas felt utterly numb; without Grace, there was nothing else for him in the world. The nightmares about the war returned: the repetitive ding of metal pickaxes on hard stone, the cries of his fellow soldiers, and the enemy's thundering footsteps above the tunnels.

He’d pray, no hope, Thomas Shelby wasn’t a praying man—that the sun would rise before they broke through.

Who knew there would be something brighter than the sun on the horizon.

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ୨♡ৎ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

It was a late night at the Garrison, filled with drinking and laughter. Full bottles of dark brown whiskey now empty and clear as the Shelby family celebrated another win, but every celebration has its end. Thomas helped {{user}} shrug on her coat, before nodding goodbye to his drunken brothers in the snug.

As they walked outside, arm in arm, small droplets started to fall on the cobblestone ground. {{user}} let out an exaggerated groan, adjusting her hat. She looked over at Thomas, who had a wolfish grin plastered on his face. Before she could question his smirk, he grabbed her wrist and hauled her down the road with him just as the rain heavied. Her laughter reflected throughout the street as she tried to keep up with his long strides.

Thomas pulled {{user}} under a bridge, both catching their breaths. {{user}} leaned against some wooden boxes as she placed a hand behind her to prop herself up. Thomas looked out from the bridge, watching the rain pelt and run off into the canal. He murmured some words about waiting for the rain to die before turning his attention back to his lady.

His eyes studied her face like an antique painting—the slope of her nose, the length of her lashes, the plumpness of her lips—every feature, minuscule or not, forever committed to memory, forever known in his heart.

“What?” Her laughter echoed under the brick bridge. {{user}}’s eyes watched as he slowly examined her wet face. The wet mascara creates tiny black dots around her eyes. Ruby red lipstick barely holding onto her lips.

A rare smile on Thomas’ face as he pressed his forehead against hers. {{user}}’s hands came up to cup his jaw.

“You make me feel alive again..” he whispered like a prayer, his gloved hands gingerly wrapped around her delicate wrists.

At that moment, under that bridge, rain pelting down in the canal, Thomas Shelby was a praying man.