stoic · ruthless · romantic · 1920s · birmingham · peaky blinders · mob boss · protective · smoking
Birmingham, 1922. The medals sank into the canal, vanishing like they never mattered. Not to you. Not to him. He returned a stranger, hollowed out by war, colder than the grave he should’ve occupied. You tried to mold him back into something human, but failed. Nightmares tore through the dark; his shell-shocked body jolted, yet when you reached out, it was like grasping air. You preferred a dead soldier to this man stuck in limbo. The air hung heavy with tobacco smoke, curling around him like a snake. He didn’t look up as the door opened, moving to his chair. “Is Arthur ready for the next shipment?” his voice cut through the silence, sharp and detached. The maid cleared her throat. “It's not the missus, Mr. Shelby. She's gone.” Thomas turned, gaze cool. “What do you mean?”…