Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 18
Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 18
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6|Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18
Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.
Chapter summary: You struggle under the weight of guilt, convinced you've become a burden in Tommy’s life.
Word count: 6.6k
Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.
A/N: Hey y'alllll, thank you again for reading this far. I'm getting my gallbladder taken out tomorrow (wish me luck) so I won't be able to update for a little while. In the meantime, please feel free to send me suggestions / feedback for if you want this story to continue or if I should start something new :)
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The scent of fresh bread and strong tea hung in the air as you moved around Tommy’s kitchen, the morning light filtering through the windows in hazy streaks. Your head still ached faintly, but the worst of the pain had dulled since the night before.
You poured tea, keeping your movements steady, deliberate. It felt good to be upright, to be functioning, to be contributing in some small way, even if your body still moved slower than it used to.
Tommy sat at the table, cigarette in one hand, the morning paper in the other, half-read and already smudged with ash. He glanced at you once over the rim of his cup, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary, like he was still waiting for you to collapse.
The front door creaked open a few minutes later, and you heard the familiar shuffle of boots and low voices. Arthur’s laugh carried in first, followed by John’s unmistakable muttering and the lighter tap of Ada’s shoes across the floor.
“Morning,” Ada called, walking into the kitchen and pausing when she saw you. “Oh good, you’re up. How’s the head?”
You offered a small smile. “Better. Sorry I missed the dinner you lot had planned last night.”
“No need to apologize,” Polly said as she appeared behind Finn and Esme, her voice gentle but resolute. “You rest when you need to.”
You nodded, but that gnawing guilt nestled just a little deeper beneath your ribs.
Everyone filtered into the kitchen, plates pulled down, chairs scraped along the floor, casual conversation building between bites and sips. For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Then Finn, already halfway through a slice of toast, leaned towards you and frowned. “John said someone knocked your head around pretty bad. Are you alright now?”
You managed a soft smile, trying to keep your tone light. “I’ve had better weeks, Finn.”
Finn gave a small, sheepish grin. “Yeah… well, you still look better than Arthur after the bar fight he had last spring.”
Arthur, mid-sip of tea, snorted. “Oi! What’re you sayin’ about me over there?”
Finn chuckled, shaking his head before muttering, “It’s true. You looked like a mucky boot. Plus he ended up puking in Polly’s roses.”
“That was one time–” Arthur grumbled.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Polly interrupted, though the corner of her mouth twitched with the faintest amusement. She turned her attention back to you. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for taking time to heal. Especially not us.”
You nodded again, but the guilt didn’t ease. Not fully. You could feel it growing roots beneath your ribs.
As the noise returned, mugs clinking, light teasing continuing, Tommy quietly set a plate down in front of you, his hand brushing your shoulder for the briefest moment before he took a seat across from you.
You looked up, catching the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his posture carried more tension than usual.
John leaned forward. “Tom, you set to still head to London tomorrow?”
Tommy didn’t even look up from his tea. “No.”
John blinked. “Thought you said you needed to meet with the solicitor about that deal.”
“I’m not going,” Tommy said flatly, final.
There was a small beat of silence around the table.
Arthur glanced at him. “Tommy…”
“I said I’m not going,” he repeated, voice quieter now, but firmer. “It can wait. Or one of you can go in my place.”
The guilt tightened around your chest like a vice. He hadn’t said it, but you knew. He wasn’t going because of you. You dropped your gaze back to your plate, appetite slipping away entirely.
Across the table, John frowned. “Tommy, we’ve been working on that deal for weeks. If you’re not there–”
Tommy cut in, sharper this time. “You and Arthur can handle it.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed. “It’s not about whether we can handle it. You’ve been lead on this since the start. They’ll want to see you.”
Tommy leaned back slightly in his chair, his jaw tight, eyes cold and unreadable. “Then they’ll have to learn to deal without me.”
John scoffed under his breath. “Right. And what happens when you keep pushin’ things off? You think that’s not going to cost us?”
Tommy set his tea down with a heavy clink. “What happens when I’m not around someday, aye?” His voice was low but firm, edged with something that cut deeper than the surface tension in the room. “You two need to stop acting like I’m going to hold your hand through every meeting.”
Arthur and John both stilled at that, exchanging a quick glance.
You kept your eyes down, fingers curling slightly around the edge of your plate.
Arthur leaned forward, his forearms braced against the table. “This deal… it’s not just numbers on a bloody page, Tom.”
John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the shipping route. That new line through the South docks– if we lock it down now, we control half the imports before anyone else even knows it’s on offer. Weapons, whiskey, opium, whatever the hell we want moved.”
Arthur exhaled sharply. “And if Sabini or Solomons get wind of it first, it’s gone. Slips right out from under us.”
You looked up slowly, watching the tension settle deeper into Tommy’s frame. He didn’t move, but his jaw worked, tight and deliberate.
John added, more quietly now, “It’s not just money. It’s positioning. Power. This deal puts us ahead of every other crew this side of Camden.”
Arthur nodded, tapping his fingers once against the table. “Could make the Blinders untouchable for a long time– if it goes through.”
There was a long silence. You could feel Tommy’s gaze drift your way, just for a second, and the guilt in your chest twisted tighter.
“You lot always balk about having more responsibility. You want to run the business like we talked about,” Tommy added after a beat. “Then run it.”
Ada's gaze flicked between the three of them but she didn’t speak. Even Finn had gone quiet. The clatter of cutlery and soft rustle of chairs filled the silence, but the unease lingered just beneath the surface, along with the guilt still blooming in your chest.
The tension still lingered, heavy in the air like smoke, but Polly, ever the one to smooth sharp edges, lifted her teacup with a pointed glance around the table. “No more talk of business over breakfast. Not today.”
She didn’t raise her voice, but it was final. The kind of tone that settled everyone without question.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Since when do we have rules at breakfast?”
“Since now,” Polly said sharply. “Some of us would like to finish our eggs without hearing about bloody ledgers.”
Ada chuckled. “Amen to that.”
John muttered something under his breath, earning a swat on the arm from Esme.
Then Finn piped up, voice light but earnest, “This is the first time we’ve all had breakfast together in weeks. That’s something, innit?”
Ada grinned and ruffled his hair. “Look at you, getting all sentimental.”
Finn shrugged. “Just sayin’. It’s nice, that’s all.”
That earned a few smiles, a little warmth returning to the room as conversation shifted to less business, and more stories and teasing.
Eventually, the clatter of cutlery slowed, plates emptied, and conversation mellowed into quiet chuckles and soft sighs of contentment. Esme stood to pour more tea. Ada started teasing Arthur about his terrible handwriting. Finn tried to sneak another piece of toast before Polly swatted his hand away with a muttered, “You’ve had four already, love.”
But you stayed mostly quiet, your fork absently nudging crumbs around your plate.
Tommy hadn’t looked at you since the London conversation. Not directly, anyway. But you felt his presence beside you, steady and close, the way you always did.
Eventually, the table cleared, and the others filtered out of the house after saying their goodbyes, leaving only the two of you behind. You stood at the sink, rinsing plates in slow circles, your movements more for something to do than out of necessity. The ache in your head was growing now, along with the heaviness in your chest.
Tommy was still seated at the table, cigarette between his fingers, eyes following the lazy curl of smoke drifting upward.
“You didn’t eat much,” he said softly.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
A beat passed. The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain and the faint hiss of his cigarette. You wiped your hands on a towel, lingering at the sink a moment longer before finally turning back toward him.
“Tommy, why aren’t you going to London?” you asked quietly.
His eyes didn’t move from the smoke curling toward the ceiling. He took another slow drag before replying, “John or Arthur can go for me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His gaze dropped to you then, steady and unreadable. “It’s not urgent.”
You studied him, arms folding across your chest like a shield. “But John said it was. That it was a deal that needed to be handled in person.”
“It can wait,” he said again, the edge of finality creeping into his voice.
You hesitated, the words sitting sharp behind your teeth. “Is it because of me?”
He didn’t answer right away, but he didn't deny it either. Instead, he just sat there, smoke curling from his fingers, jaw tightening slightly.
You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “Tommy, you don’t have to stay here with me all the time.”
His eyes finally lifted to yours, sharp and unreadable. “I know.”
“Then why are you?” The question came out thinner than you’d meant, wrapped in guilt you hadn’t quite managed to bury. “I’m not asking you to babysit me. I’m not asking you to put everything on hold.”
“You’re not asking,” he agreed, voice quiet. “I’m choosing."
The finality in his voice left no room for argument, no space for guilt to take root again.
So you just nodded, small, almost imperceptible.
“Okay,” you murmured softly.
Tommy held your gaze a moment longer, then slowly stood. The chair scraped gently against the floor as he moved, shoulders rolling back with a quiet exhale. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match with one fluid motion. The flame flickered briefly before catching, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke curling through the air in soft ribbons.
Then, without a word, he picked up the folded paper from the table, eyes scanning over the print like nothing had just happened.
You watched him move, watched the shift of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled around the edge of the paper, the quiet steadiness in him that always seemed just out of reach but somehow comforting.
After a moment, your voice broke the silence again. “Can I at least make myself useful and go back to the Garrison soon?”
Tommy’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable. You pushed on, quieter now. “I can work the bar. Just a few hours to help Harry out.”
His mouth twitched, not in amusement, but something closer to disbelief. Tommy stood slowly, cigarette still between his fingers. The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stepped toward you, eyes fixed on your face.
“When you can make it through an entire day without going blind or vomiting,” he said dryly, “we’ll talk about it.”
You looked down, lips pressing into a tight line. You nodded again, biting back the sting in your chest. His hand found your shoulder, warm and steady. A moment later, you felt the press of his lips at your temple, soft, grounding, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.
He didn’t say anything else. Just let his hand drift down your arm briefly before stepping away, footsteps soft as he walked toward the door.
When it clicked shut behind him, the silence wrapped around you again.
…
Three days passed.
You could feel it– the distance growing between you and Tommy. Not because he had changed, but because you had.
It was Campbell’s shadow that lingered, not Tommy’s. But it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy reached for you, every time his hand grazed your waist or his lips found your temple, your body flinched before your mind could catch up. And it wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t the one who hurt you. But the memory lived under your skin like poison, curling in your muscles, coiling behind your ribs.
There were moments when you reached for him first. When you pressed into his arms and, for just a breath, the world stopped spinning. Because somehow, in his arms, you didn’t feel fragmented. Only when he held you did you feel put back together, like your pieces might actually belong somewhere again. Like you weren’t entirely broken.
But only when it was on your terms. Only when your body didn’t feel like a battleground, when your skin didn’t feel like it still belonged to someone else.
And then came the shame, the quiet, creeping shame that made you want to crawl out of your own skin. That made you feel like none of it should be this hard. Like you should’ve healed faster. Like it was your fault that every soft, loving touch still carried a ghost.
That night, back at the house, the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Tommy sat in his armchair, legs stretched out slightly, a stack of papers in his lap, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes skimmed over the documents, brow occasionally furrowing in thought, the silence between you filled only by the scratch of the fire and the rustle of turning pages.
You watched him for a while from your spot on the couch– watched the way his jaw flexed as he read, the way his fingers shifted the pages with that same quiet control he carried in everything he did. The ache behind your ribs hadn’t lessened, not really.
But your body moved before your mind could talk you out of it. Quietly, without a word, you rose from the couch and padded across the rug toward him.
Tommy looked up, eyes flicking to you, but he didn’t speak, just set his papers aside slightly, already shifting in the chair to make room.
You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees folding on either side of his hips as you settled into him, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
Still, he didn’t ask. Didn’t question it. He just opened his arms and let you in.
One arm curled around your back, anchoring you gently against his chest. The other reached for the papers again, as if this was nothing unusual, as if holding you there, close and steady, was just as natural as reading through business ledgers.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as his warmth wrapped around you. His heartbeat thudded softly beneath your ear, and for the first time all day, your chest eased just enough to breathe.
Tommy’s fingers absently ran along the curve of your spine, slow and comforting, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Then his hand drifted upward, tracing lightly over your shoulder blades before settling at the base of your skull.
His fingers moved gently there, slow circles worked into the tense muscles at the nape of your neck, easing the tightness you hadn’t even realized you were holding.
After a moment, his voice came low, near your temple. “How’s your head tonight?”
You didn’t answer right away, just let yourself lean a little heavier into him, eyes still closed, letting the rhythm of his touch lull some of the ache from your bones.
“It’s okay,” you murmured eventually.
His thumb brushed tenderly along the edge of your hairline. “You’re a horrible liar.”
You sighed. “So you’ve said.”
Tommy’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed that slow, grounding motion at the base of your skull.
The fire had burned low by the time you drifted off in Tommy’s arms, but at some point during the night, you vaguely remembered the feeling of being lifted– strong arms curling beneath you, the warmth of his chest against yours, the soft rasp of his voice murmuring something you were too far gone to understand. A door creaked open. Sheets shifted. A blanket tucked carefully around your shoulders.
Now, you stirred again to quiet stillness. The bed beside you was empty, the space where he’d been still faintly warm. You sat up slowly, your head heavy but clear. You rubbed your eyes and glanced toward the door, catching the faintest trace of light beneath it. Voices followed, low, hushed, but tense.
You stood, careful not to make the floorboards creak, and padded silently toward the hallway. Down the stairs, flickering firelight spilled from the open door of Tommy’s study.
And then, the voices grew clearer.
“I told you they were skittish,” Arthur was saying, his voice low and tense.
“They didn’t just get skittish,” John shot back. “They pulled out, full stop.”
A pause.
Then Tommy’s voice, sharper, more clipped. “Just tell me what happened.”
“The deal is shot, Tom. The whole fuckin’ thing,” John muttered. “Said they didn’t like that you weren’t there yourself. Didn’t trust it.”
“Thought you were hiding something,” Arthur added darkly.
You stayed frozen at the bottom of the stairs, barely breathing.
“Word is they’re talking to Sabini,” John said. “Maybe already signed with him.”
A beat of silence. You could picture Tommy now, leaning back in his chair, jaw clenched, that familiar flicker of calculation in his eyes.
And then you heard it, the thing that made your throat tighten and your chest ache.
“Because you weren’t in London,” John muttered. “Because you stayed here.”
You stepped back instinctively, the words hitting like a blow to the chest. It wasn’t said with malice, not really, John’s voice hadn’t carried blame. But the implication rang louder than anything else in the room. The guilt crawled up your spine like something cold and living.
You turned quietly, retreating up the stairs before your presence could be noticed. Each step felt heavier than the last, your head buzzing, chest tightening with the weight of everything unsaid.
By the time you reached the bedroom again, the silence felt different. Not comforting this time, but thick and echoing, like it was pressing in around you.
You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling in the bedsheets, eyes unfocused.
You had to get it together.
You couldn’t keep falling apart every time the air got too still, every time your head ached or your heart clenched with a memory. You couldn’t keep leaning on Tommy like he was the only thing holding you upright, not when it was starting to cost him.
He’d already sacrificed too much. And if things kept slipping, if the business continued to suffer, you’d be the reason. You couldn’t stomach that. Not after everything.
Even if your chest still tightened at night. Even if there were moments when the world tilted sideways and it felt like your ribs might crack from the weight of it all.
Even if it meant smiling when your head was pounding. Even if it meant pretending your hands weren’t trembling the moment Campbell’s face flashed behind your eyes.
You’d just have to hide it better. Be steadier. Stronger. More convincing.
…
The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen.
The dull ache in your head had returned– not blinding, but ever-present, pulsing quietly behind your temples like a reminder that your body was still catching up to your bravado. You sat up slowly, blinking away the haze, willing the room to stop its slow tilt. It didn’t. Not entirely. But you braced your palms against the mattress and breathed through it until it passed.
When you made your way downstairs, the scent of tea drifted from the kitchen. Tommy stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he stirred something in a pan.
You straightened your posture and forced your steps to stay steady.
“Morning,” you said lightly, grabbing a mug from the counter like your limbs didn’t still tremble faintly.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder. “You’re up early.”
You shrugged, taking a sip of coffee, trying not to wince at the way the bitterness sparked behind your eyes. “Figured I’d get a head start. Thought I might stop by the Garrison.”
Tommy’s brow lifted, his stirring slowing just slightly. “You thought you might?”
You nodded, pretending not to notice the weight behind his gaze. “Just for a few hours. Nothing too much. I’ll help Harry with the stockroom or polishing glasses– whatever he needs.”
He said nothing at first. Just turned back to the pan, jaw tight, the silence dragging.
“I feel fine,” you added, softer now, trying to meet his eyes.
Tommy didn’t turn around right away.
“Do you now?” he said finally, low and clipped.
You held your ground, trying not to shift under the weight of his voice. “I do.”
He turned slowly, setting the spoon down, his eyes narrowing just slightly as they met yours. “You’re still flinching when you stand up too fast. You get quiet when the light’s too bright. And you think I haven’t noticed how your hands shake when you think no one’s looking?”
You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I’m not saying I’m at a hundred percent. But good enough to go back."
Tommy studied you, arms folding across his chest now, brow furrowed in that unreadable way that always made your chest tighten. “You pushing yourself to prove something to me isn’t going to help you heal faster.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything to you,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m just trying to be useful.”
He stared at you for a long beat, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then finally, he sighed, slow and reluctant.
“One shift,” he said, pointing toward you slightly with the hand holding the cigarette. “A short one. And if you so much as wince or wobble, you come straight home. You don’t argue.”
You nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Fine.”
Tommy’s mouth twitched, barely a smile. He stepped forward, pressed a kiss to your temple, and muttered against your skin, “You’re bloody stubborn, you know that?”
“Must be catching,” you murmured back, just under your breath.
He gave a faint scoff and turned back to the pan.
...
Your shift had started slow– organizing glasses, taking light orders, helping Harry restock the shelves in the back. At first, it felt manageable. Easy, even. The motions were familiar, your body moving on instinct, muscle memory guiding you through the steps. For a while, you almost felt like yourself again. Like things could go back to normal, if only you tried hard enough.
But somewhere along the way, the hours had slipped by unnoticed. You’d told yourself it was fine. Just one more hour. Then another. And another after that. You hadn’t even realized how long you’d been standing, how much you’d been pushing, until the dull throb behind your eyes started to build into something sharper.
Now your head was pounding– a slow, pulsing ache that bloomed beneath your skull like a storm brewing just out of reach. The lights above the bar felt too bright, the low chatter of the patrons far too loud. Every clatter of glass, every burst of laughter sent a fresh spike of pain radiating through your temples.
Still, you kept moving.
You couldn’t fall apart here. Not in front of everyone. Not when you were trying so damn hard to prove you could handle it.
You smiled politely at the next patron, even though it felt like your skin was stretched too tight across your face. You wiped down the countertop with a damp cloth, even though your fingers trembled slightly against the rag. Your vision blurred at the edges, just enough to make you blink hard and press your lips together to keep from swaying.
Harry glanced over from the end of the bar, eyes narrowing slightly. He’d been watching you more closely than usual all day, though he hadn’t said much. Until now.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, tone low but gentle, concern evident in his lined features as he approached.
You straightened a little, forcing a breath through your nose and nodding too quickly. “Fine,” you said, a little too brightly. “Just a bit warm in here.”
But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the ache pulsing again– like a warning just beneath your skin.
Harry didn’t look convinced.
In fact, his brow furrowed deeper as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Thought Tommy said you were only meant to do a few hours,” he said, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “You’ve been on your feet half the bloody day.”
You gave another faint smile, trying to keep it casual. “He worries too much.”
Harry huffed. “Aye, well… in his shoes, I might too. You look pale, love.”
“I’m fine,” you said again– quieter now, more like a prayer than a statement.
But before Harry could push further, the front door creaked open. A rush of cool air filtered in with it.
And there he was.
Tommy's eyes scanned the Garrison with calculated ease before locking onto you behind the bar. His jaw tensed instantly, just a flicker, but you saw it. It felt it like a punch to the ribs.
You stood a little straighter, tried to summon a smile, pretended like everything was fine. You even picked up another glass to polish, just to look busy.
But Tommy didn’t move right away. He just stood there in the doorway, watching you with that unreadable look– like he already knew everything he needed to know before you’d even said a word.
Harry muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Shit.”
You turned to face Tommy fully, heart thudding as if the pounding in your skull wasn’t already loud enough.
“Hey,” you said, feigning lightness. “Didn’t think you’d come by tonight.”
His eyes flicked to the rag in your hand, then back to your face. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
His voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t sharp. But it cut through the room like a blade.
You straightened your spine a little more, holding that polite smile like a shield. “Just lost track of time,” you said softly, setting the glass down. “It’s not a big deal.”
Tommy stepped forward now, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving yours. “You were supposed to be here for a few hours.”
“I know.”
“And how long’s it been?”
You hesitated, your eyes darting toward the clock. The answer hung in the air between you. Too long. Long enough for him to be right. Long enough to feel it in every throbbing pulse behind your eyes.
“I’m fine, Tommy,” you said again, quieter this time.
“I’m not asking how you feel,” he said, voice lower now as he came around the bar, closer to you. “I’m telling you your hands are shaking.”
You instinctively curled your fingers tighter around the rag, hiding the tremor. But it was too late, he’d already seen it. He always saw everything.
“I said I’m fine. Let me finish wiping down–”
“No.”
You stiffened. The word landed heavy between you, sharp and final.
You blinked up at him, your jaw tightening. “You don’t get to tell me when I’m done.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “We’re not doing this here. Let’s go.”
You shook your head, the frustration swelling in your chest like a rising tide. “Christ, Tommy. I’m not made of glass. You can’t keep dragging me out of rooms like I’m going to fucking collapse every time I breathe too hard.”
Tommy sighed, like this whole thing was a massive inconvenience. “I’m not dragging you anywhere. I’m telling you you’ve done enough for one day.”
“Enough for your standards, you mean.” You stepped back, trying to shove past the heat crawling up your throat.
"Yeah, my standards. Last time I checked, I was the one employing you."
Your jaw flexed. Fuck, you thought. He was right. You hated that he was right. You hated that your body was still betraying you. That every time you tried to prove you could keep going, you ended up like this, shaking, dizzy, broken glass at your feet and tears you couldn’t swallow down fast enough.
"I'm not something fragile that needed protecting all the time."
“Then stop acting like it,” he snapped.
Your eyes widened, breath catching hard in your chest.
The words cut deeper than they should have, sharp and unrelenting, worse than the sting of the glass or the pounding in your head.
You turned on your heel before he could say anything else, pushing your way into the back room and slamming the door shut behind you. You needed space– just a second to breathe, to collect yourself, to stop the way your chest was tightening.
You reached for a glass on the shelf, anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep from feeling the sting in your eyes.
But your fingers trembled. The ache in your head flared sharp again. And before you could even react, the glass slipped from your grasp.
Crash.
It shattered against the floor, loud and jarring. And that was it.
The tears came before you could stop them– hot, angry, humiliated tears. Not from the glass, not from the pain, but from the frustration, the helplessness, the exhaustion of pretending everything was fine when your body was still screaming otherwise.
You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to blink it all away, trying to hold yourself upright even though your legs suddenly felt too weak.
But then you heard footsteps behind you.
“Are you done proving your point–”
Tommy stopped mid-sentence.
You didn’t have to look at him to feel the shift in his presence, or the way his entire demeanor softened the moment he saw your shoulders shaking, the tears on your cheeks.
“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now, quiet. “Hey.”
You turned away, trying to wipe your face, but he was already there, stepping over the broken glass, reaching for you carefully like he was afraid you’d break just like the pieces on the floor.
“Come here,” he murmured, arms outstretched, steady and warm.
You turned, eyes wet, throat tight, just in time to see his arms start to reach for you.
But you stepped back sharply, shaking your head. “Don’t.”
Tommy stilled.
“I’m so sick of this,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Sick of being treated like I’m some fragile thing that can’t take a deep breath without falling apart.”
His jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak. Just stood there, steady, watching you with that infuriating calm.
“I’m trying,” you said, voice rising. “I’m trying to feel normal again, to be normal again. But you don’t get it,” you said, bitter now. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not even recognize your own body anymore. To be afraid of your own mind and what it can do to me.”
Your breath hitched, another tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. “I don’t want to be a burden, Tommy.”
He stepped closer again, slower this time. “You’re not.”
You shook your head, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You can say I’m not all you want, but I am, Tommy. You’re giving everything up just to babysit me, and I–” Your voice cracked, raw and exposed. “I heard you.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Heard what?”
You swallowed hard, chest tightening. “The other night. You were talking to Arthur and John… about the London deal.”
Tommy went still.
“I wasn’t trying to listen,” you rushed to add, voice shaking. “I’d woken up, and you weren’t there, and I came downstairs and… I heard John say it. That they pulled out because you weren’t there. Because you stayed here with me.”
Tommy’s expression didn’t change much, just a subtle flicker in his jaw, the smallest shift in his eyes.
You blinked through another wave of tears. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. That I cost you something important. That the whole reason it’s falling apart is because I couldn’t keep it together.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “What happens when you fall behind on business? When things start slipping? What happens then?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “Since when are you up for giving me business advice?”
You straightened slightly, heart pounding, the tension curling tighter beneath your ribs.
“I’m not giving you business advice,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just saying… you don’t have to stay with me all the time, Tommy. I’m not expecting you to.”
He looked at you then, and there was something unreadable behind his eyes.
“You think I’m here out of obligation?” His voice was low, steady, but there was a clipped edge beneath it. “You think I stayed because I felt I had to?”
You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched.
“I think you’ve got a business to run. A family to look after. And you’re putting that on hold.”
His jaw flexed.
“And I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t.”
He let out a humorless breath, more a scoff than a laugh, and turned away.
You pushed a little further, the guilt pressing harder. “You stayed in the hospital with me for a week– you must have missed other meetings, other deals.”
He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the profile of his face, his clenched jaw, the flicker in his eyes. “What’s your point?”
You stepped closer. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re falling behind. Christ, I’m not completely helpless– I can take care of myself.”
You held his gaze for a moment longer, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I heard the way Arthur and John talked to you.”
You swallowed, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “I don’t want to be the reason things start to unravel.” You hesitated, your throat tightening. “They think I’m holding you back. And maybe they’re right.”
His expression hardened slightly, not with anger, but something quieter. Something wounded.
“I’m not trying to cause a rift between you and them,” you added. “They’re your family. Your blood. I’m not even–” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not part of that. Not really.”
You crossed your arms tightly, the tension in your shoulders finally catching up to you, dragging you down with it. Your hands came together in your lap, twisting over one another, trying to wring the nerves from your fingertips.
There was a beat of silence. Tommy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders squaring as he studied you. The muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed, slow and deliberate.
“You think that’s how I see you?” he asked finally, low and quiet, but laced with something that stung more than shouting ever could.
“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
After a moment, Tommy’s mouth tugged into a crooked, humorless half-smile. “I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” he said, voice low.
Your eyes stung before you could stop it, a sharp pressure building behind them as your chest tightened. That ache, deep, quiet, relentless, spread beneath your ribs, heavy and hollow all at once.
“Pretty ones. Clever ones. Ones who only wanted to ride the high while it lasted.” His gaze flicked over you.
You blinked hard, a tear slipping free despite your best efforts. Your hands curled tightly in your lap as you tried to imagine where the hell he was going with any of this.
“I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” Tommy said again, quieter now, like he regretted saying it the first time at all. “But none of them ever made me give a fuck about anything but myself. They were good for a night. That’s it. Never once made me want to change a thing. They were just noise. Something to fill the time.”
His voice lingered in the air, quiet but weighted, hanging between you like smoke.
You didn’t look up, not yet. You couldn’t. Not with your eyes burning and your throat thick with the ache of it. But you felt him move closer.
The scent of him, smoke and cologne and something warmer, something familiar, wrapped around you like a balm. His shoes stopped in front of yours, and slowly, carefully, he reached out to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“But you…” he said. “You’re not just noise.”
You met his gaze, finally, and there it was, laid bare in the blue of his eyes. Not just guilt or tenderness. But need. Affection. Something deeper than all of it.
“You’re not just in my life,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “You’re the only part I give a damn about.”
Your eyes met his again, full of something fragile and raw. “I’m scared that you’ll look at me and regret these choices– because you were too busy worrying about me and my mess.”
Tommy’s expression didn’t waver. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable. “I thought you were dead, you know?”
The words stopped you cold. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. It was low. Heavy. Final. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Done worse. But that…” His jaw locked, throat shifting with the effort to keep it together.
“That’s not something I can just walk away from.” He finally looked at you again, eyes shadowed and tired. “So if I’m skipping meetings, taking time… it’s not because I think you need me. It’s because I don’t want to be away from you right now. Because I need to remind myself that you didn’t die because of me.”
You didn’t know what to say. The heat in your throat burned, your chest tight with emotion you couldn’t quite name.
Tommy held your gaze, his jaw set now, voice steady and resolute. “John and Arthur can handle the business. That’s what we’ve been building toward. And if they can’t–” he shrugged once, slow and deliberate, “then I’ll deal with it later. Business comes and goes. Deals fall through. We build new ones.”
He stroked the softness of your cheek, enough to make sure you were looking at him. “But I lost you for two whole fucking days. I nearly lost you for good– and I refuse to lose you now,” he added, jaw clenched. “Not because you wanted to prove something. Not because you wanted to work a bloody shift at the Garrison when you should’ve been in bed.”
Tommy’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice giving way to something more fragile, something far more human.
“So, will you please stop arguing and just come home with me?” he asked quietly.
You blinked up at him, breath catching.
“So that I can remind myself that you’re still here. That I didn’t lose you.”
His words settled into your ribs, aching and tender.
You hesitated, eyes flickering toward the shattered glass on the floor behind you. “But… what about the glass? I can't leave that for Harry..”
Tommy let out a rough breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head as he closed the distance between you.
His arms wrapped around your frame, firm and grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other anchoring you against his chest.
“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with affection. “Bloody hell.”
You sank into him, fingers clutching the front of his coat, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day.
“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go home.”
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