The streets of Birmingham streets were busy and tonight wasn’t different, you were making your way to the Garrison after receiving a call from a frantic man begging to call them. Saying it was an honest mistake and it would never happened again. You tried to calm the man down, but it was not a success. The only thing that you learned was that Isaiah had gotten into some sort of fight. Isaiah always pushed his luck, you just hopped he didn’t push it too far. There were only two places he would go, to your home or the Garrison and he obviously wasn’t with you.
When you walked through the Garrison you went straight to the the private room and when you walked in you saw him Michael, Arthur, and John sitting around the table. The had blood and bruises on them and still looked as if they conquered the world.
“Are you fucking mental!?” “Y/N chill.” You glared at him as the words left his mouth and scoffed at his pure audacity.
“Don’t worry love, we’ve taken care of it.” “Arthur.” “Yeh?” “Shut up.” “Right. Right.” You loved Arthur, but you did not need him to talk right now. You shifted your attention back to your cousin as he shifted in his seat underneath your gaze along with Michael. You crossed your arms and walked closer to them.
“Stop Being a fucking idiot or give you something worse than some bruises. Do you understand me?” “Yeah. Yeah I understand.” You looked between him and Michael and sighed. “Come by the house before you both go home.” You turned your attention back to Arthur and John, giving them a small smile.
If it wasn’t so late and you had the energy you would have stayed, caught up with them, and maybe have a couple of drinks.
“I have to go, but I’ll see you both soon?” You asked hoping it would be true. “We’ll have a drink yeh.” John replied with that mischievous smirk on his face. “I’ll have to prepare myself then.” “Have a goodnight love.”
You waved goodbye to them, and as you made your way out of them room you saw him sitting at the bar with a drink in his hand. Most likely an Irish whiskey, which turned out to be the only drink you deemed acceptable. You stopped in your tracks when you noticed him, it had been so long since you had seen him let alone spoken to him. The war changed so many things including your relationship.
You debated with yourself on whether should approach him, on one hand you wanted to ask him something on the other you weren’t completely sure if he would even want to speak to you. Before you had even finished the debate your feet were moving as if to tell you to just get over with. You took the seat next to him, you didn’t even have to say anything and a drink was sat in front of you with a warm smile and a wink from the bartender. You took a small sip before saying anything.
“Hi Tommy.” You said softly, looking at the side of his face. “Y/N.” He didn’t even look at you, just stared straight ahead. A scoff escaped you as you turned back to your drink, deciding to skip the pleasantries.
“I have to ask for a favor.” His drink was paused at his lips before he finally looked at you. “A favor?” “It’s Isaiah, he’s getting into too much trouble, starting fights, intentionally putting himself in danger. And he’s doing it because he thinks he wont get hurt as long as he’s a peaky blinder. But being a peaky blinder doesn’t stop people from looking at his skin first.” You sighed turning your head back to Tommy, meeting his intense blue eyes. “I don’t want you to coddle him or keep tabs on him. I just want you to talk to him, knock some sense into him. I don’t want to come home one day and find him dead.”
You couldn’t read his face, didn’t know what he was thinking. It made you nervous, not being able to read him any more, the war had taken the man that you knew. It had destroyed him and replaced him with a colder version a harder version.
“I’ll talk to him.” You smiled softly at his response. “Thank you. I… I hope to see you soon. It would be nice to catch up.” He nodded his head curtly before facing the bar again. You didn’t push any further just simply got up and made your way home.
It was deep into the night when the boys finally decided to show up. You had been curled up on your couch music playing and a good book to keep you company when they arrived. You let them in guiding the to your living room.
“You finally decided to show up.” “Sorry Y/N. We lost track of time. “ You hummed at there response grabbing the first aid kit that you already had sat out. “No doubt letting Arthur and John shove drinks in your faces. Sit down.” You started with Michael, dabbing the blood off his lip and making sure to cleanup any other wounds you saw.
“How do you know my cousins?” “I grew up with them.” You said plainly. “You were like really closer to Tommy right?” Isaiah asked making your hand pause slightly at his question. “Umm yeah.” “Really?” You finished cleaning them quickly and closed the kit before answering.
“We'll I was close with them all, but yes Tommy and I were the closest. He taught me how to ride horses and shoot, and spent a lot of time with each other.” You sighed. “When they went off to war I would write to all of them and they would write back, but slowly they stopped responding. When they got back it was hard, they all had been affected by what happened in battle, especially Tommy…” You drifted off into your thoughts before clearing your throat and bringing your attention back to them.
“It’s getting late. You boys should go home.” You walked them both to the door, giving Isaiah a quick hug before he left. “Be safe.” “We will.”
That night you lied in bed with a heaviness on your chest and little hope in your heart. You never waited on him, but you held on to hope that he would come around, but now you didn't what to do. You turned onto your side and closed your eyes, hoping sleep would bring you some clarity.
Summary: You're Isaiah's cousin and grew up with Tommy. When he got sent off to the war you both had slowly drifted apart, but by fate you were brought together again. Will your relationship survive the ups and down of Thomas' life?
That’s what you felt at this very moment. You were on the ground, hands shaking, trying your best to stop the bleeding. It just kept coming, and in the midst of the gunfire and chaos that was surrounding you both. Grace grabbed your hand.
“Please… Take care of them.” She struggled to get out. “Please.” Words refused to escape your lips and as you stared into her eyes you gave her a soft nod.
This was the first time you had actually been this close to death. You had never seen life leave someone's eyes or witness them take their last breath. Poll appeared next to you quickly, trying her best to ease Grace’s pain, but it was too late. She was gone. You looked down at your blood covered hands and dress and a soft cry left your lips, you might not have liked Grace, but she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be taken from her son or husband so soon.
Weeks had passed since that night. During that time you stayed at his home helping with Charles, and Tommy was dealing with the hardest thing in the world. Grief.
In the midst of all the craziness and pain he had entrusted you with two of his businesses: a bar and a restaurant. It took a lot for him to ask for your help so of course you agreed. You spent a lot of sleepless nights learning about both and a proper way to run them, but you didn’t mind because when you closed your eyes the images of that night haunted your sleep, you could still feel her blood and the look of her face was engraved into your brain now.
The hardest thing of all was telling the sweet boy you had grown to love that his mother was never coming home. When he looked at you with those big beautiful eyes you almost broke into tears.
You stood next to the window outside of his office waiting for Tommy, Ada, Micheal, Poll stood in the room with you, but you paid them no mind. When he came into view you let out a soft breath and turned your head towards them.
“He’s back.” You said before turning your gaze back to Tommy’s figure. “Was he out there all night?” Micheal asked concern dripping from his voice.
“Every night since the funeral. He comes back in the morning to see Charles and feed the horses and when dark comes he’s off again.” You explained as you finally drifted away from the window.
When you would see Tommy during the day you wouldn’t prod him, give condolence, or tell him everything would be alright. You just sat in silence if he needed something you were just there. You hated the pain that he was going through and wished you could just take it all away.
"How's the babe?” Poll asked as she put her paper down. You took in a sharp breath and sighed. “Asking for his mother at night.”
Ada stepped in, apparently Tommy didn’t want to do a regular family meeting, you looked at her confused as she said the order Tommy wanted to see everyone in.
“ He made a list he wants to see you and Micheal first, then you Y/N.” She said looking between the three of you. “What about John and Arthur?” You asked.
Before she could answer Tommy walked in, not giving anyone a second glance as he made his way into his office. After a couple of seconds Poll and Micheal stood and made their way inside. John and Arthur came soon after ready to go inside the office.
“What’s going on?” John asked. “Umm… Well you see.” Before she could finish her sentence once again Poll and Micheal walked out from the office.
“Right, let's go.” “We’ve already seen him.” John paused for a second, before slowly looking over at everyone. Confusion and hurt flashed behind his eyes.
“What?” He spoke. Ada cleared her throat and brushed off imaginary dust off her skirt. “He wanted to see everyone in a particular order.” She tried to explain to him. “And … Y/N is next.” Ada said your name warily as she met her brother's gaze.
“I thought this was a Fuckin’! family meeting. All of us… Together…. I thought." John trailed off hurt by this whole entire ordeal. He was truly trying his best for an answer, one that wouldn't hurt his heart.
“John.. He's grieving… To see everyone together would be too much.” Poll spoke softly as she attempted to defuse his anger.
She looked over at you for a second, nodding her head over to the door for you to go in. You took a deep breath and slowly stood, avoiding John's eyes in the process. You understood his anger, you really did, but he had a bad habit of projecting it at the wrong people even when he was younger. The tension in the air became thick and you could tell they all began to hold their breaths waiting for your response.
“You're not even family.” He said bitterly as you walked by. His words made you pause and your heart began to ache, you took a small breath and looked at him over your shoulder.
“I know you’re angery and I understand where it's coming from, but I will cut your fuckin’ tongue and make you eat it. Don't test me.” You spoke, voice low and eyes hard. You didn't wait for a response, just simply continued to make your way to Tommy.
When you walked in he was looking down and shuffling through some paperwork, not looking up even once. You walked in further and took a seat across from him.
“Mornin’ Tom.” you said softly. He stayed quiet for a minute longer before he finally looked up at you.
“How's the bar and restaurant?” He asked. “ They've been good. We have a loyal clientele, and I made sure we have rotating entertainment so they won't get bored for both and we've only had one incident. No one was hurt and it was handled quickly.”
Tommy nodded his head absent-mindedly as you explained to him everything that had transpired in this short period of time.
“How would you like to travel?” He asked nonchalantly. You blinked a couple of times before speaking.
“Sorry?” “I’m thinking of expanding to Wales and Scotland. So do you like to travel.” He said matter-of-factly. “Are… Are you sure?” You asked cautiously. “I am. So are you in.” You nodded your head at first.
“Yes.” “Good. I'll get Micheal to draw a new contract.” And just like that he was done speaking.
He looked down at the papers that piled his desk once more, you looked him over. You looked at the bags under his eyes, the way his face was set in a permanent grimace, and you looked at the way his hand would twitch every once in a while.
“If you ever need anything I'm here for you. I… I hope you know that.” You said with a serious look on your face.
You slowly got up from your seat and began to make your way to the door and just when you were about to open it you heard his voice. Soft and low.
“Thank you.”
After everyone had seen him you all somehow found your way into the servant area to in some way have your own family meeting. It was nice for what it was, you sat on the floor with Ada's son playing with the blocks as the others began to pour themselves some drinks. The nice moment was quickly ruined when Finn ran down, panicked.
“Tommy’s gone. Swear to God in a wagon with Johnny Dogs.”
Your sank and you all quickly made your way to the front of the home, the boys ran after the wagon and you stood there. Your breathing became shorter and shorter with each breath you took and it was becoming difficult for you to stand up right. You never thought he would do something like this, it worried you to the bone that he would do something like this.
You only began to calm down slightly when Poll came by your side and placed her hand on your back.
“It's okay. Let him go… The note says he'll be back. That's the important thing.” She led you back to the house and you let her.
He'll be back.
I hope you've been enjoying this story, there will be 16 chapter (excluding the prologue) and I've already finished writing chapter 10! After I finish posting the rest of this series I have another one that will be coming very soon after hopefully.
I'm very excited to get my work out there and I hope you enjoy it and stay along for the ride 🫶🏽
Summary: You're Isaiah's cousin and grew up with Tommy. When he got sent off to the war you both had slowly drifted apart, but by fate you were brought together again. Will your relationship survive the ups and down of Thomas' life?
Days had passed since the wedding and you had eventually caught up with Lizzie, she divulged what had taken place at the reception after she slipped away from you and Poll. What she had to say slowly began to piss you off.
“He acts like he has some sort of claim on me. Like all I am is fuckin' property. He's married for God's sake!” She said pacing back and forth as her voice gradually got louder.
“I love the boy, I truly do, but if you would like I can slowly make his life a living hell.” You spoke sincerely. She chuckled lightly, stopping in her tracks and turning her attention to you.
“I just wish he would let me move on.” “I know and I'll do my best to make sure he stays in his place.” You said as you took her hands in yours. “Thanks.” “Of course.”
Unfortunately John didn't stop there, he had to take things a step too far like always. Word was quickly going around that John had threatened to shoot Angel Changretta and you prayed that nothing bad would come of it.
When Arthur heard he called on Poll and you to reason with John and apologize and make things right to avoid a war., but when you both made it to his office to talk it didn’t go exactly to plan.
“Did we run Kempton or not?” John asked, only giving us a small glance. “ Danny Lee got drunk. Instead of injecting the horses with cocaine he decided to share it with his cousins.” Poll responded. “Jesus Christ.” “Tell Esme to speak to him.” She added. You on the other hand were waiting to discuss the situation at hand. So you sat quietly just looking at him waiting for Poll to begin and to find the right time to chime in.
“Look before I start I don't want you to do anything about this.” “About what?” He questioned, finally giving you both his attention.
“Angel Changretta.” You said simply, crossing your arms. “What? He’s no bigger than two pence worth of change.” He said defensively. “ Well he heard you threatened to shoot him in the knees. Now he's going around Nechelles telling everybody he's going to kill you. You crossed a line John.” Poll said clearly frustrated by his actions.
John on the other hand was getting agitated himself and what you had to say surely wouldn't help.
“You don't own her, John. You're a married man and you're acting like a little boy that got his toy stolen.” You said with a sharp look, when he met your eyes he flinched and quickly avoided eye contact. You sighed and crossed your arms before speaking again.
“She isn't property John and punishing her for moving on won't bring her back to you.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat before huffing. “What does Arthur say?” He questioned. Poll spoke this time as she walked closer to his desk.
“Apologize. We own the city, but we don't need to rub everybody's noses in it. If the old man decides to make a stand he might get Sabini feeling sentimental.” “What does Tommy say?” John responded, trying to grasp at any hope of justification for his actions.
“He left me in charge.” Poll said simply. “And what do you say?” He said looking between the both of you.
“ Compromise. Lizzie, against my advice, will cut things off and apologize on your behalf. No one will lose face.” You said. “ For Fuck sake!” John spoke frustatedly. “Watch your fucking tone.” You said as a disgusted look crossed your face. He was acting like a child and it was starting to piss you off.
“ I'll tak his fuckin’ face. How ‘bout that!” He said as he slammed his hand on his desk and stood up in the process storming out. You rolled your eyes and turned your attention to Poll as she took a deep breath and sighed.
“ I told that fucking idiot it wouldn't go well.” She said, referring to Arthur. “At least he let us finish speaking before storming out like a toddler.” You said trying to look on the bright side.
A couple of days or so passed after the talk with John and you sat at Lizzie's desk drinking tea with her when Poll had called you over letting you know that Tommy wanted to talk to the both of you.
Now you were sitting in a little meeting with Poll, John, Arthur and of course Tommy, you had a small inkling that this conversation was not going to go well.
" John, you cut Angel Changretta even though Arthur told you to apologize and Poll, and Y/N told you to compromise. You chose not to listen to Mr. Apologize and Ms. Compromise, now I got an Italian walking around saying he's going to kill my brother. So what do we do John.”
This was the first time you had heard about this honestly and you slowly turned your head to John and stared daggers into the side of his face as he shifted nervously. Before you could even think you moved and whacked John in the head with your bare hands.
“What the fuck!” “You are so Fuckin' stupid I swear if the Italians don't kill you I will!” You shouted at him. “Alright, love calm down.” Tommy said with a small smirk on his lips. When you had finally settled back down in your seat, he continued.
“The only way to guarantee peace is by making the prospect of war seem helpless. Do you want to bring the house down Arthur.” Tommy said and your mouth fell open at his words. Starting something with the Italians was like playing with fire. If you keep a good enough distance it's fine, but once you get too close you will be set ablaze.
“Are you serious Tommy?” “I am.” You scoffed and laughed at his stupidity. “You really want to risk everything you built over what? Pride? I can't fuckin' believe this.” You stood up grabbing your purse with you.
“Where are you going.” “Away from your stupidity, I'm not risking my life over this shit. John had no right to start this Lizzie isn't an inanimate object or dog you can control. All of this is because John can't fucking grow up and your encouraging him. You know what the Italians can do. What they are capable of.” You sighed and shook your head before continuing.
“ Nothing good will come of this. War doesn't placate people, it brings them together to defeat their common enemy and at the moment it you and John. I'm not going to sit here and let you believe that I agree."
Little did you know that John's actions would lead to a tragic night filled with grief and pain. A little part of you blamed him for everything.
You hated that you were right.
Nothing good comes from fighting with the Italians.
Please let me know how you like this series so far ^-^
Summary: You're Isaiah's cousin and grew up with Tommy. When he got sent off to the war you both had slowly drifted apart, but by fate you were brought together again. Will your relationship survive the ups and down of Thomas' life?
You sat in the pews of the church next to Poll, you both had a sour look on your faces at the fact that this was all happening. He was marrying Grace, and on top of all of it her family was sat across from you all in their uniforms as if to intimidate you. You could feel their eyes constantly on you, you weren’t surprised nor did you make yourself small or scarce to placate them. You sat in the front row tall and proud next to Poll never once giving them the satisfaction of seeing crumble.
The looks they gave was something you were used to, though no one would out right say anything to you as you got older. The boys were always there, to shield you away from outsiders' words. By the time you had turned fifteen the looks had stopped and no one dared to even say anything nasty towards you. A soft smile grew on your lips at the memory, because you knew that even in the face of Grace’s family you would be protected.
Tommy stood at the front, you could tell he was nervous. His eyes were darting around and his fingers kept fiddling with his cuff links. You, well you were trying your best to be as supportive as you could, before you entered the chapel you spoke with him. Told him you were happy for him and that Grace was perfect. You both knew you were lying, but he still gave you the smile that was always reserved for you and gave you a quick hug.
An alter boy pulled you from your thoughts as he was only handing out the music to your side of the pew, when he approached Poll and you a grin began to sneak on your lips.
“Some of us know the words.” Poll said and you couldn’t help yourself, a small chuckle left your lips. The boy quickly moved to you and you gave him a sincere smile.
“I know the words love. Thank you.” He gave you a sweet smile and nodded his head as he moved on.
“The whole lot of em’ wore their uniforms.” You said as you leaned slightly over to Poll. “To scare us no doubt. But we aren’t that easily scared, are we love?” You nodded your head in agreement and sat back.
Soon the choir began to sing and your uncle walked through the doors. You glanced over at burgess and a laugh left your lips at their reaction. Their gasps and horrified looks were just too hilarious. The laugh wasn’t loud enough to carry it was minuscule even, so Tommy’s eyes must have already been on you because when you turned your attention back to him he was giving you a pointed look. As if to tell you to behave. A sweet smile was on your face now and you could tell he was resisting to give you one in return. Eventually you broke eye contact, his intense blue gaze being too much for you.
The wedding went on, and you could feel bile growing in your throat at the site of her, and Poll well…. If looks could kill Grace would be six feet under already. When the ceremony was finished pictures were taken, you stood off to the side at first until John stopped everything and pulled you at the last second. You chuckled at him and smiled and he gave you a devilish grin in return.
As you walked through the doors of Tommy’s new home you had to resist the urge to gawk at the extravagance of it. It was grand and entirely too big for three people, you assumed this is what Grace wanted it screamed her.
You walked with Poll laughing and joking about a multitude of things when he made his way to you both, with a serious look on his face.
“Alright Poll. Tell the Lee girls I’ve counted all the paintings.” You covered your mouth as you hid a laugh, you quickly pursed your lips holding it in as Tommy looked between the both of you.
“ Some people are here that are not on the list.” He said lowly, and before either of you could say anything he was walking away.
“Not invited, huh.” “Do you know what he’s been up to Poll?” “He’s barely told me anything.” She replied.
Eventually you both made it to the table sitting next to Lizzie as John began to make a joke, one that the Calvary would not appreciate. Poll and Lizzie quickly grabbed your attention.
“Very strange indeed.” Poll said as she looked over at a man across the table, he had a timid look about him.
“He’s looking over.” Lizzie whispered back, and took a sip of her drink. “What?” “He’s coming over.” Lizzie added. You followed both of their gazes and you realized they were talking of two very different men. Poll did the same and let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fuck. It’s the wrong one Izz.” Poll said faintly. “What do you mean the wrong one? How many are there?” Lizzie questioned in surprise and you just chuckled at this whole entire interaction. This night was already entertaining woth John getting under the Burgess' skin and the reception wasn’t even close to being over.
“There are two givin’ me the eye. I prefer the other one, seems harmless.” “It must be that lipstick Tommy brought from New York.” You joked. “Drawing them like a moth to a light.” Lizzie said as she laughed.
The man was standing next to you and as he spoke you could hear the thick Russian accent he had. That immediately caught your attention and you shifted in your seat. When he asked to join Poll you stood up with Lizzie, but before you fully rose you gave her a light kiss on the cheek and whispered.
“Be careful, I think he’s our uninvited guest.” You pulled back with a small smile trying not to alert anyone around you. No upsets tonight, at least that was supposed to be the plan.
The night dragged on and you resorted to just walking around until Poll found you and filled you in and as you both were getting some punch. You heard Grace’s voice and a headache already started to form.
“Polly. Y/N.” “Hello Grace.” Poll said with a fake, tight lipped smile. You on the other hand looked at her as if she had something on her face until you remembered Tommy’s words and him asking for no trouble for today. So you followed Poll’s lead and a fake smile was planted on your face.
“Grace. You look absolutely beautiful.” You gritted out. “Yes, welcome to the family.” Poll added. Grace looked between the both of you and crossed her arms.
“Oh I see Tommy’s orders. No upsets tonight.” Grace concluded. “Your hair, everything, is just beautiful.” Poll continued. You on the other hand couldn’t stand being around her for another moment.
"Congratulations Grace. Hopefully this doesn’t end with someone being back stabbed.” You with a sickeningly sweet smile and proceed to walk away.
Hours had passed and you mingled with some of the younger girls who were feeling a bit rebellious for the night and would quickly regret it come morning. A sigh left your lips as the party ended and sun began to peek out and as you made your way to the vehicle that was already ready for you Tommy was there to guide you in. You gave him a sleepy smile as you sat down and he gave you one in return.
“Will I see you later today?” He asked. You hummed at his question. “I’m not sure I think I will be in a coma once I hit my bed.” You joked. “Well. Get some good rest.” “You too.” He looked at you for a bit longer.
“Thank you for coming.” He said. “I wouldn’t have missed it.” You said truthfully, even though you hated her, you would never allow her to cause a rift between you two.
“Night.” “Night.” He stepped back from the car slightly and closed the car door. Once you were dropped off at home, sleep consumed you and laid a blanket over your mind.
credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 dividers I’ve made to fics and things that are sitting in my drafts and decided to share.
Summary: You're Isaiah's cousin and grew up with Tommy. When he got sent off to the war you both had slowly drifted apart, but by fate you were brought together again. Will your relationship survive the ups and down of Thomas' life?
You had heard whispers of her name, but you had never seen her face, and you were glad you never had, when you heard of the pain and hurt she caused as she left the city to escape the wrath that was bound to find her. She was many things, things you couldn't say unless you wanted to be banned from heaven's doors, so you just settled on a simple word. Rat.
So you thought it was rumors at first, make believe when you were told of her pregnancy and that she was back for Tommy, and that Tommy had taken her back. You laughed as you sat in Polly's living room telling her of the craziness. Tommy wasn't that easily persuaded surely, he wouldn't let the snake back into the garden, right?
The look on Pol’s face told you everything you needed to know and your laughs stopped and a look of shock crossed your face as you slumped back into your seat.
“He took her back.” She said as she got up from her seat and made her way to the liquor to fix you both a drink.
“What?’ You said as your eyebrows knitted together. “Said he wanted to do right by her. That fucking idiot.” She said walking back over to you and handing you a drink, which you took gratefully as you took a swig.
“Fucking idiot.” You echoed. “He plans to marry her.” She spoke cautiously. Your drink paused at your lips for just a second, but you were sure Pol noticed, she noticed everything. You took a big sip before looking back at her.
“He's marrying her… After everything.” You said defeatedly at the situation at hand. “It won't last love, she's not like us.” “It'll last…”
If Tommy was in love with her, he would make sure it would last. He always loved hard. That was one of the things that connected you with each other. You would go to the end of the for Isaiah and any of the Shelby's so you were sure he would do the same for her.
Later that night you found yourself at the Garrison, having a drink as you tried to process everything. You were three drinks when you heard Arthur and his distinct loud boisterous voice. He obviously had a couple of drinks in him or had taken something, but only God knew the answer to that.
He had quickly laid his eyes on you and your name filled the room, you chuckled lightly at how ridiculous he could be. You turned toward his voice and smiled as you got up from your seat and made your way to him.
“It’s been ages love.” He shouted as he gave you a bear hug, you laughed and smiled as you wrapped your arms around him. “I saw you a couple of days ago.” He finally pulled away and smiled down at you.
“That's too long!” you laughed again as he began to guide you to the room, you glanced behind him as you walked in tandem and you noticed Finn, John, and Micheal. Once you made it inside you sat down next to Arthur, giving him your full attention again.
“How are you?” “Oh I've been great love. Absolutely soaring.” You chuckled. “I can see that.” You said as you nudged him in the arm. You looked around and your eyes set on Finn. He had grown since the last time you saw him.
“It's been awhile since I've seen you. Do you remember me?” You questioned with a smile. Finn nodded softly as he looked at you, he had always been a sweet kid. He was always smiling and soft spoken, never too rambunctious or rough.
“Yeah, I remember you. It's great to see you again.” “Its good to see you too love.” Before you could continue the conversation John's voice filled the room.
“Alright! Let's have some drinks!” “Yeah!” The boys cheered and you shook your head at them and an endearing smile found its way on your lips.
You all were a couple of drinks in within minutes a soft filling filled the air as you looked at the men in front of you. You were happy, You looked at John with a playful smile as you spoke.
“You went and got married on me.” “It all happened so suddenly. I would've invited you love if I had more time Love.” You nodded your head, you knew all about how his marriage began and how quickly it all happened, it still stung though not being able to see it.
“ I would love to meet her.” You said and you soon saw a big smile grace his lips as he nodded his head. “Stop by Small Heath sometime. She's there most of the time.” “I will then.”
Hours had passed and you hadn't even noticed, you got to hear the story of Micheal and how he found his way here, it was nice to catch up to talk. After many drinks and laughs later you said your goodbyes and made your way out of the room. As you walked out you bumped into a tall, blonde woman.
“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you.” You apologized. She looked you over coldly with a look you had seen throughout your whole life. Disgust. It was soon replaced quickly with a fake smile.
“It's alright. Is Tommy in there?” “Umm… No. Just his brothers.” You said, as you looked at her longer it finally hit you. “Your Grace right?” “I am.” You hummed at her response and you returned her fake smile with a cold look of your own.
“Well. Have fun finding him.” You said before turning away and walking out.
You made your way with a sour taste in your mouth and as you approached your home the devil himself sat at your doorstep.
“What are you doing here Tommy?” “Just wanted to see you.” He said as he stood. You walked past him to open your door. “Let you know I wasn't dead.” You chuckled at his comment as you walked inside, him following closely behind.
“Have some whiskey with me?” “Yeah.” You lead him to the living room as you sit your keys and purse down on the way. You got out two glasses and poured the drinks.
“I Just saw your brothers and Micheal.” He hummed at your words as he took a seat. “John actually invited me to Small Heath to meet his wife.” “Fucking idiot.” Tom breathed out. “What? You don't want me there?” You said playfully as you sat the glass in his hand and sat down aswell.
“I just don't want you getting caught up in any mess with that side of the business.” He said as he looked down into his drink as if it was the answer and the downfall to everything.
“I'm a big girl Tommy. I can handle myself.” You said, you looked at him for a couple of seconds longer before speaking again. “Are you alright?” “I'm fine love.” He sighed before looking up and meeting your eyes, he looked like he had so much he wanted to say and he did. There were so many things weighing on his mind and he wanted to tell you it all, but he wouldn't allow himself to.
“I should get going.” He said as he sat the drink down on a side table and stood. “Oh, Okay.” He began to walk to the door before you could even sit down your own drink. You caught up with him and stood at the door.
“Be safe.” You said to him as he walked down the steps. “No promises.”
Summary: You're Isaiah's cousin and grew up with Tommy. When he got sent off to the war you both had slowly drifted apart, but by fate you were brought together again. Will your relationship survive the ups and down of Thomas' life?
It had been days since you spoke with Tommy, you of course saw him in passing and you were sure he saw you, but he hadn’t said a word. You use to wonder what you had done for him to push you to the side when he had come back, you questioned if it was because he was hurt or because he realized you weren’t needed. It use to eat at you, but now you just push on, as much as it hurt to you had to remember that you still had a life to live and you shouldn’t stand still in time just for him.
You had spent all day working at the hospital, you were a care giver for the elderly. You spent most of the day making sure they were comfortable, and the healthiest they could be at this time in their lives. You didn’t mind the work and they didn’t mind you, you often sung to them to calm their nerves when they got antsy or would forget. It was hard work, hard, but good.
You had just gotten home from a long day of work and errands, when you had finally stepped through the door the weight of the day was lifted off your shoulders. Just when you were about to get ready for bed you heard a sharp knock on your door. You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not now at this hour so you cautiously made your way over to the door. As you opened it slowly you were met with his blue eyes.
“Tommy?” You questioned with wide eyes. “Y/N.” He said calmly, his eyes looked tired like something was eating away at him. “Can I come in?” You blinked a couple of times before answering, you really wasn’t expecting this.
“Oh, yes. Come in.” You said as you stepped aside from the door and opened it wider and soon closing it behind him. “Do you want some tea?” You asked as you lead him to the living room. “No.” He said tiredly as he looked around. “I don’t mean to come off rude Tommy, but why are you here?” He took a second before answering as he looked at a picture of you and Isaiah from.
“I’ve been putting my affairs in order.” Your brows furrowed immediately at his words, you walked closer to him. Not so close you were invading his personal space, but close enough that he could still reach out.
“Are you in trouble?” “Aren’t I always.” “I’m serious.” You said sternly. “I know. I know.” He breathed out. “In the event that I die there will be money and a building waiting for you in London. It’s for you to do whatever you want, whatever you need.” He said as he pulled out a cigarette and just before he could light it you reached out your hand and plucked it out his mouth.
“There’s no smoking in my home.” You sighed as you crushed it in half. “We haven’t spoken in years, I’ve barely seen you, and now you show up at more door going on about your death. What’s going on?” You said as you tried to keep a voice calm. “I know… I know that we haven’t spoken in years, but your family and I want to make things right with you.” He looked at you, really looked at you as if he was trying to remember your face. engrave it into his memory.
“Don’t die anytime soon then okay? We have too much to talk about.” “I’ll do my best.” You smiled softly at his response. “I should go.” “Right.” You walked back to the door with and before he walked out he gave you a paper with his wishes on it.
“Goodnight Y/N.” “Goodnight Tommy.” His eyes stayed on you for a little longer before he finally walked away.
You laid in bed that night with a mixture of worried-ness and happiness. You were worried that he had gotten himself in danger that something was at hand that was more malicious than you could comprehend. Happiness because he thought of you and if he lived through whatever it was that had him scared he wanted to mend what was broken. It was hard to go to sleep but once you did you dreamed, dreamed of one of your favorite memories you shared with Tommy.
“Tom! I don’t know about this.” He chuckled at your response as you sat on the back of the horse with a terrified look on your face. “You’re fine Y/N don’t worry.” He patted the horse instead of you which you were a little offended by, but he was only trying to calm her so she didn’t bolt and take you with her.
“Okay, loosen your grip on the reigns and when your ready squeeze your thighs gently and she’ll know to move. I’ll be right here to guide you both.” You let out a nervous breath as you did as he said. When you looked over at him you were meet with this smug smirk plastered on his face.
“Shut up.” “I didn’t say anything!” “It’s written all over your face asshole.” He laughed. “Okay I’m sorry. Come on lets continue.” You squeezed your thighs gently like he said. “That’s good. Just relax a little more Dove. She can feel when your nervous.” After awhile you did your limbs weren’t as stiff and your nerves had calmed. Once they did a small smile appeared.
“Okay. It’s not that bad.” You said softly. “I knew you would like it.” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.” You looked over at him and your eyes began to trace his sharp features.
“Why do you like horses so much?” He looked up at you and smiled. “Because they’re free.”
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*credits to a dear friend of mine for this idea.
summary: You hire a crew to renovate your house and accidentally start bringing them lemonade and food every day. The loud ones tease you, but it’s Daryl who lingers, who talks a little more each time, who looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out. Somewhere between exposed walls and shared silences, you realize you’re not just rebuilding the house.
warnings: some arguing, tension
a/n: this lovely fic was commissioned by @michelleknight ! thank you so much for the support and trusting me with your ideas!
**dividers made by @saradika
The house is too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Not cozy quiet.
Just… empty.
The kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel bigger than it should.
The refrigerator hums. The air conditioner clicks on and off. The neighbor’s dog barks somewhere down the street. Each noise echoes like the walls are hollow.
You sit at the kitchen table with your laptop open, one leg tucked under you, still in the oversized sleep shirt you threw on last night. Your coffee has gone cold again. You take a sip anyway and immediately regret it.
Gross.
You make a face and shove the mug away.
Another email pops up.
Another spreadsheet.
Another “just circling back.”
You stare at the screen, blinking, trying to remember what you were even doing five minutes ago.
Working from home sounded nice when you first started.
No commute. Pajamas all day. Your own space. Now it just feels like you never leave. Your world has shrunk down to these same four rooms. Wake up. Walk ten steps to the table. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Some days, you realize you haven’t spoken out loud to another human being in twelve hours.
You flex your fingers and keep typing, but your eyes drift — again — to the wall across from you.
The stupid wall.
It separates the kitchen from the living room for no real reason, just cutting the space in half like someone thought, you know what this place needs? Less light.
The paint is that weird beige landlords love. Not warm. Not cool. Just… there.
There’s a scuff near the bottom where you bumped a chair months ago. A tiny crack in the corner. You’ve memorized every flaw because you’ve had nothing else to look at during meetings.
You lean back in your chair and sigh. “I hate this wall,” you mumble to yourself.
Your voice sounds strange out loud, like you don’t use it enough. You swivel slowly and look around. The house isn’t bad.
It’s just… not you.
The cabinets are outdated. The bathroom tile is ugly. The lighting makes everything look slightly gray. Even the furniture feels temporary, like you’re waiting to move instead of settling in.
Like this is a place you’re passing through.
And you’re tired of passing through your own life.
You stand and wander into the living room, stretching your stiff back. The floor’s cold against your feet. The couch cushions dip in the same spot you always sit. There’s a blanket tossed over the arm that you never bother folding.
Your whole life lately feels like that blanket.
Left there. Half-finished.
You run your hand along the wall again. Solid. Heavy. Closing things off. You don’t know why it suddenly makes your chest feel tight. Maybe it’s just cabin fever.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been stuck inside for months.
Or maybe it’s something deeper — like you’ve been waiting for your life to start instead of actually starting it.
Later. Someday. Eventually.
You want something that feels like yours. Maybe you want proof that you’re allowed to change things. Even small things. Even just a stupid wall. Your heart starts beating faster — that nervous excitement you get right before doing something impulsive but necessary.
You walk back to the table, open your laptop, and without giving yourself time to overthink it, type:
local home renovation contractors near me
Your finger hovers over the mouse. You should probably research more. Compare prices. Think it through. Be responsible.
Instead, you click the first decent-looking company.
If you think too long, you’ll talk yourself out of it.
And you’re tired of talking yourself out of things. Outside, the porch step creaks in the wind. The house settles around you, old and quiet and waiting.
“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s change something.”
When the trucks pull up next week morning, the sound startles you enough that you almost spill coffee across your keyboard. You glance at the clock on your laptop. 8:12 a.m.
Right. Thursday.
They had said Thursday.
You stare at the screen for a second, trying to place why your stomach suddenly feels tight, and then it clicks.
The contractors.
They’re actually here.
Another engine rumbles outside, louder this time, heavy tires crunching against the gravel at the edge of the driveway. Doors slam one after another, followed by the low murmur of men’s voices carrying through the air.
Your house, which is usually so quiet you can hear the refrigerator turn on from the other room, suddenly feels small and exposed.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine.”
You look down at what you’re wearing. An oversized sleep shirt. Old leggings. No bra. Hair barely brushed. Fantastic. You consider hiding. It’s a genuine thought for at least five full seconds. You could pretend you’re not home. Maybe they’d just… go away.
Immediately you feel ridiculous. You hired them.
With a sigh, you stand up and stretch, padding toward the living room window. You don’t mean to peek, but curiosity wins out before pride can stop you. You tilt one of the blinds just enough to see outside.
Two trucks are parked along the curb, one of them hauling a small trailer stacked with equipment. Toolboxes, ladders, wooden boards, coils of wire. The kind of organized chaos that screams construction site.
Three guys climb out.
The first one is tall and broad-shouldered with a shaved head and sunglasses already perched on his face. He’s talking loudly before both feet even hit the ground, gesturing with his hands like he’s halfway through an argument.
The second is shorter and stockier, wearing a backwards baseball cap. He laughs at something the first guy says and shoves him lightly in the shoulder as they head for the back of the truck.
Their voices carry easily, overlapping and energetic, the kind of effortless noise that comes from people used to working together every day.
You didn’t realize how unused you were to hearing that sound until now.
Then the passenger door opens.
The third guy steps out more slowly.
He shuts the door instead of slamming it and adjusts the strap of a worn tool bag over his shoulder. While the other two keep talking, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just moves straight to the truck bed and starts unloading equipment like he’s done this a thousand times.
There’s something different about him.
He grabs the heaviest toolbox first, lifting it without hesitation, muscles in his arms flexing under a faded sleeveless shirt. His movements are efficient and careful, like he doesn’t waste energy on anything unnecessary. No showing off. No jokes. Just work.
His hair falls into his face when he looks down, dark and messy in that way that suggests he trims it himself or doesn’t really bother. A little too long at the ends. A little sun-bleached.
He doesn’t join the argument the other two are having about measurements. He just listens, eyes scanning the house, already assessing things.
For some reason, you can’t stop watching him.
He looks… steady.
You take a second to fix your hair with your fingers and debate changing clothes, but before you can decide, there’s a knock at the door.
Right. No more hiding.
You open it with what you hope is a normal, well-adjusted smile.
“Morning,” the tall guy says cheerfully, already halfway up your walkway. “We’re here about the renovation job.”
“Yes— hi. Good morning. Come in,” you say quickly, stepping aside. “Sorry, it’s a little messy. I wasn’t sure where you’d want to start or— well— yeah. Hi.”
You hear yourself rambling and want to gently launch yourself into the sun.
The guy in the baseball cap grins like he’s used to nervous homeowners. “No worries. We’ve seen worse, trust me.”
They head inside, boots heavy against the floor, and suddenly your house is full of movement and noise. Toolboxes clank. Someone drops something metal with a loud crash and swears under their breath. The space that used to feel too quiet now feels almost too small to hold all the sound.
It’s strange how quickly the energy changes. Like the house woke up.
You’re halfway through explaining which wall is coming down when you realize the quiet one hasn’t said anything yet.
He steps through the doorway last, ducking slightly out of habit even though he doesn’t really need to. Up close, you notice the details you couldn’t see from the window. Faint stubble along his jaw. Tired eyes. Hands rough and scarred like they’ve worked hard for a long time. He glances at you briefly. Just a quick look.
But his eyes are striking — pale, almost gray-blue — sharp and observant, like he notices everything whether he means to or not.
Your brain blanks. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence. He gives you a small nod, polite and reserved.
“Ma’am,” he says quietly.
His voice is low and rough, softer than you expected.
One word.
That’s all.
But it sends a weird, nervous warmth through your chest anyway.
“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of yourself.
He moves past you without another word, already focused on the wall like you’re not even there, like work is the only thing that matters.
Which makes sense.
Totally normal.
By early afternoon, the noise has settled into something almost rhythmic.
At first every bang and scrape had made you flinch, like the house was being attacked, but after a few hours the sounds start to blur together into a steady background hum. The whine of a drill, the hollow knock of wood hitting the floor, the murmur of voices drifting in and out through the open windows. It’s strange how quickly your brain adjusts. The quiet from this morning already feels distant, like it belonged to a different day.
You try to work through it, answering emails and half-listening to a meeting you probably could have skipped, but your attention keeps wandering. Every time someone laughs outside, you catch yourself glancing toward the window without meaning to.
It feels… lively.
You hadn’t realized how much you missed that.
Around one o’clock your stomach growls, loud and insistent. You mute your laptop and head to the kitchen, pulling leftovers out of the fridge. While you’re waiting for the microwave, you find yourself staring through the back door at the three of them moving around the yard.
They’ve been working nonstop since they arrived. Lifting, measuring, hauling boards back and forth like it’s nothing.
The two louder guys are arguing about something again, voices rising and falling in that familiar, friendly way that doesn’t actually mean they’re upset. One of them laughs so hard he has to brace himself against the porch railing.
And then there’s the third one.
He’s a little farther away, near the stack of lumber, carrying twice as much as either of the others without making a show of it. He doesn’t talk unless someone talks to him. Just moves from one task to the next like he’s following a list only he can see.
There’s something steady about the way he works. Careful. Focused. Like he takes the job seriously, even when no one’s watching. You don’t know why that sticks with you.
The microwave beeps and startles you.
You plate your food, then hesitate. They probably haven’t stopped for lunch yet. The thought tugs at you more than it should. It feels wrong to sit inside eating while they’re out there sweating in the sun.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a few bottles of water from the fridge. Then you open the pantry and add whatever’s easy to carry—granola bars, a couple bags of chips, the blueberry muffins you baked last night when you couldn’t sleep.
You arrange everything on a tray and immediately feel self-conscious.
Is this too much?
Do people even do this anymore?
Maybe they’ll think you’re weird.
You stare at the tray for a second longer than necessary, then sigh at yourself. It’s just food. Worst case, they say no. You slide the back door open and step outside.
The air is warmer than you expect, thick with that dusty, sunbaked smell of wood and concrete. Someone’s radio is playing faintly from one of the trucks. For a second you just stand there, adjusting to the brightness.
The baseball cap guy notices you first. “Oh hey,” he says, straightening up.
“I, um—” You lift the tray slightly like proof of life. “I brought you guys some water and snacks. Figured you might want a break.”
His face lights up immediately. “You’re officially my favorite person today.”
The other one laughs and grabs a bottle without hesitation. “You didn’t have to do that, but we appreciate it.”
“It’s really no trouble,” you say quickly. “I was grabbing some for myself anyway and thought I’d just bring extra. There’s muffins too, but they might be a little dry. I’m still figuring out my oven.”
You don’t know why you add that. No one asked about the muffins. You feel your mouth continuing before your brain catches up. “And there’s chips and stuff if you don’t like sweet things and—”
You stop yourself, heat creeping up your neck.
God. You’re rambling again.
“Sorry,” you say, a little quieter. “I talk a lot.”
They wave you off good-naturedly, already distracted by the food, and for a second you consider retreating back inside before you can embarrass yourself further. But then you realize you haven’t given anything to him.
He’s standing a few feet away, wiping his hands on a rag, watching the others with that same quiet, distant expression. He looks like he might just skip the whole break and go straight back to work.
Without really thinking about it, you walk over and hold out a bottle of water.
“Here,” you say.
He looks at you like you’ve surprised him.
Up close, you notice things you didn’t notice earlier—the faint stubble along his jaw, a thin scar across one knuckle, dust clinging to the fabric of his shirt. He smells faintly like sawdust and clean soap.
For a second he doesn’t move, like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to take it.
Then he accepts the bottle carefully, fingers brushing yours. His hands are rough and warm, calloused in a way that makes your own feel soft by comparison.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says.
His voice is low and quiet, almost swallowed by the noise around you.
You nod, then immediately start talking again, nerves kicking in. “Yeah, of course. You guys have been working all morning, and it’s getting hot, and I know how easy it is to forget to drink water and then suddenly you feel awful and—”
You hear yourself and wince.
Too much.
Always too much.
You look down at the tray like it personally betrayed you. “Sorry. I kind of… ramble.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. You expect the usual reaction—an awkward smile, someone politely pretending not to notice, maybe a joke. Instead, he just shrugs a little. It’s such a small movement you almost miss it.
“S’alright,” he says simply.
Not dismissive. Not annoyed. Just matter-of-fact. Like it genuinely doesn’t bother him. Like it didn’t even occur to him that it should.
You glance up, surprised.
He’s already twisting the cap off the bottle, taking a long drink, eyes drifting toward the yard again. No impatience. No hurry to get away from you.
If anything, he seems… comfortable.
The next day, you tell yourself you’re not going to do it again.
Yesterday was just a one-time thing. A neighborly gesture. A normal, well-adjusted adult thing to do. You are not going to become the weird girl who keeps feeding the contractors like stray cats.
You repeat this to yourself while making coffee.
You repeat it again while opening the fridge.
And then, somehow, you’re slicing lemons.
It happens absentmindedly at first. One wedge for your water, then another. The knife tapping softly against the cutting board. The citrus smell sharp and bright in the air. By the time you realize what you’re doing, there’s already a small pile of peels curled near the sink and a pitcher half-filled with pale yellow lemonade.
You stare at it like it personally betrayed you.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
But you still add sugar.
Still stir it.
It feels practical, you tell yourself. It’s supposed to be hot again today. It’s just hydration. That’s all. Nothing weird about hydration. The lie would work better if you didn’t also pull out bread.
By noon, you’ve packed a small tray, lemonade, paper cups, a few leftover muffins wrapped in foil, and some sandwiches you threw together too quickly, the edges uneven and messy. It looks homemade in a way you’re not sure is charming or embarrassing.
You hesitate by the door longer this time. Yesterday could pass as spontaneous. Today feels intentional.
Still… you go.
Outside, the air hums with late-summer heat. The sound of the saw kicks up dust that smells dry and woody. The guys are already moving when you step onto the porch, shirts damp with sweat, voices louder than the tools.
You don’t even have to call out this time.
The one with the baseball cap notices you and grins immediately. “Ohhh, it’s our lunch lady!”
Heat rushes straight to your face. “I am not—”
“You brought stuff again, didn’t you?” the other one says, already abandoning whatever he was doing.
“I just— it’s hot,” you say, lifting the tray like evidence. “I made lemonade. Figured you guys might want something cold.”
“Marry me,” he says, taking a cup.
You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure this isn’t legally binding.”
The teasing is light, harmless, but it still makes you feel hyper-aware of your hands, your voice, the way you’re standing.
Like you’ve stepped into a spotlight you didn’t mean to.
And then you feel it.
That quiet awareness. The sense of being watched. You glance up without meaning to. He’s across the yard. Just leaning back against the truck, rag tucked into his back pocket, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Watching.
Not in a creepy way. Not even obvious.
Just… observing.
Like he’s trying to figure you out. The moment your eyes meet, something in your chest tightens. He doesn’t look away immediately. Most people do. That polite, automatic glance elsewhere. He doesn’t. His gaze is steady. Curious. A little guarded. It makes your skin feel warm, like you’ve stepped too close to a fire.
You look down first.
Of course you do.
“Is your other friend not hungry?” you ask the others, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
They both smirk like you just told them everything.
“Ohhh,” baseball cap says. “You mean Daryl?”
Your stomach flips at hearing his name out loud.
Daryl.
It fits him too well.
By the third day, it stops feeling like a coincidence.
You don’t even pretend anymore.
You wake up already thinking about what you could make.
Not in a big, elaborate way, just small things that feel easy to carry outside. Things that make sense to offer. Things that give you an excuse to step into the yard without looking like you’re hovering by the window like some kind of neighborhood cryptid.
Today it’s iced tea and turkey sandwiches. Nothing fancy. You cut the crusts off without realizing you’re doing it, the way your mom used to when you were little.
You tell yourself it’s just habit.
Not care.
Definitely not care.
The house sounds different now. Open. Hollow in places where walls used to be. Every hammer strike echoes deeper than it should. The air smells faintly like drywall dust and fresh wood, like something halfway between destruction and rebuilding. You’ve started recognizing the rhythm of their work. When they’ll break. When they’ll move outside. When the saw goes quiet.
Without checking the clock, you know it’s about lunchtime. You gather everything onto a tray and head out like it’s routine. Because now it kind of is. The two loud ones greet you like you’re a regular at their favorite diner.
“Look who it is,” the baseball cap guy calls — you learned his name is Abraham, loud and big and impossible to miss. “Our saving grace.”
“You’re gonna make us soft,” the other adds — Glenn, quieter, always smiling like he knows something you don’t. “Next job we’re gonna be mad when nobody brings snacks.”
You roll your eyes. “You guys act like I’m cooking five-course meals. It’s literally sandwiches.”
“Best sandwiches of my life,” he says dramatically, already grabbing one.
They fall into their usual chatter, easy and loud, and you relax into it more than you expect. It’s strange how quickly strangers can start to feel familiar. How the presence of other people makes the house feel less heavy.
You’re pouring iced tea when you notice him missing.
Again.
You glance around casually, or what you hope looks casual, and spot him near the side of the house, crouched by the exposed framing where they knocked out part of the old wall. His toolbox is open beside him, tools spread out with careful precision.
He’s working alone.
Of course he is.
For a second, you debate leaving him be.
He doesn’t always join the others. Sometimes he eats quick and gets back to work like breaks make him restless.
You don’t want to bother him.
You really don’t.
But your feet are already moving.
You tell yourself you’re just offering tea. That’s it. Same as everyone else. It just… happens to be him. He hears you coming before you say anything. Glances up briefly, then back down at whatever he’s tightening. Up close, the house looks different. The bones exposed. Beams, wiring, the skeleton of something that used to feel solid. It should look ugly, but it doesn’t. It looks honest.
“Hey,” you say softly. “I brought tea, if you want some.”
He sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag before taking the cup from you. “Thanks.”
You linger.
You don’t mean to linger.
But you do.
“So… is it bad?” you ask, nodding toward the open wall. “Like, did I accidentally buy a house that’s falling apart?”
There’s the faintest huff of air from him. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“Nah,” he says. “She’s solid.”
She.
The way he says it makes your chest tighten a little.
As if the house is something alive.
“You can tell?” you ask.
He shrugs, looking at the wood instead of you. “Old places got good bones. Jus’ gotta fix what’s rotted.”
You nod like you understand, even though you mostly don’t. “So… I didn’t ruin your life by deciding to knock down walls?”
Another almost-smile. Quick. Gone.
“Seen worse.”
You’re slicing tomatoes for lunch when you hear it: the sharp snap of a board, followed by a curse so sudden it makes your stomach lurch. You freeze, knife hovering above the cutting board.
“Shit!”
Your eyes snap to the window. He’s crouched on the deck, one hand pressed to his palm, the other gripping the edge of a plank. Blood seeps between his fingers.
Your chest tightens. Your hands are suddenly useless. You drop the knife onto the counter and step back, mouth dry, as if speaking aloud will make the moment stop or start it over again.
He’s trying to laugh it off, but the color drains from his face in a way that makes your stomach drop. He’s pale, tense. The board slips from his hand, clattering to the ground. You can hear the sharp jolt of panic in the air around him.
“Daryl!” you call, voice cracking without meaning to. Your feet are moving before your brain catches up, carrying you out the back door. You don’t care about heat, dust, or sawdust sticking to your arms. All you see is him.
He looks up at you, eyes wide, a thin line of blood running down the side of his hand. There’s a small tremor in his fingers as he tries to grip the wood again, and your chest clenches painfully.
“Come on,” you say, breath sharp, voice rising despite yourself. “We need to get inside. Now.”
He hesitates, but the moment his hand shakes again, and a drop of blood falls to the deck with a dull thud, he finally follows. You grab his elbow gently but firmly, guiding him inside. Every step feels like a jolt through your ribs — panic and relief all tangled together.
Inside, the house suddenly feels too small. The familiar walls, once comforting, now seem to close in. You move him to the kitchen table, palms slightly shaking as you reach for a clean towel. He sits slowly, jaw tight, watching you with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” he says quietly, trying to brush it off.
“No, you’re not,” you reply sharply. Your hands are shaking, fumbling to pull out the first aid kit. You’re suddenly aware of every sound. You feel like you’re losing control, and panic makes your words tumble out of your mouth.
“Okay, okay, we need to get it cleaned first. Isopropyl, gauze… do we have scissors? Where’s the bandage? I think we have bandages in here somewhere—oh God, hold still, hold still.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just lets you fuss. The way he sits there, quiet and still, makes your chest ache. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t even flinch when you grab his wrist gently to inspect the cut.
You rinse the wound under cold water, wince yourself at the sight of red against pale skin. “Okay, okay, it’s not too deep. Not too deep,” you mutter, more to yourself than him, as if repeating it enough will make it true.
He watches you, silent, expression unreadable. And that makes you talk faster. “We should probably elevate it, right? I think that helps. Does it help? I read about this somewhere. And then keep it clean, obviously, but I don’t want it to clot wrong. Do you need your sleeve rolled up? Sorry, I’ll be gentle. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t worry about anything.”
You’re babbling nonstop now, the words tumbling out in a nervous, chaotic rhythm. And slowly, after a few minutes of frantic care, you notice something — he’s smiling. A small, faint smile that makes your chest twist in a way that’s almost painful.
“You talk a lot,” he says softly.
You freeze mid-motion, gauze in your hands, eyes snapping up to meet his.
“I know,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “I… I can’t help it.”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and rough. “You ain’t annoyin’. It’s nice.”
Your stomach twists at the softness in his tone. “Nice?” you echo, barely above a breath.
“House sounds less empty,” he adds, eyes flicking briefly to the doorway, the table, the scattered papers, before returning to you. “When you talk, it… feels… alive.”
The words land like warm water on frozen skin. You sit back, hands slack in your lap, and feel something shift inside you. The panic that had been knotting your stomach, the sharp ache at seeing him hurt, the jittering of nerves from fear and proximity — it all softens, melts into something quiet and heavy. Safety.
For the first time, you realize you can breathe. Really breathe. That the house — your life, your messy, temporary, waiting world — feels less hollow, just because he’s here and because he let you care.
You meet his eyes, still pale gray-blue and observing, and something unspoken passes between you. You’ve been frantic, babbling, hovering, watching. And he’s letting it be okay. He’s letting you be okay.
Your chest tightens, but in the best possible way. You lean forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, watching him flex his hand slightly to test the movement. The cut is red but already clotting, the faint line still sharp and alarming, but not as frightening as the first moment.
“I… I didn’t mean to panic,” you murmur, tone softer now. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, cutting you off, still quiet, still steady. “I know you care. That’s enough.”
You swallow hard, and for the first time, you let yourself stop moving. No hands wringing, no restless pacing, no words tumbling out. You just sit there, watching him. Watching the way he tilts his head, testing the cut, letting you fuss. Watching the way the afternoon sunlight pools across the table, across the floor, across him.
It feels intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Domestic, almost — the kitchen smells of soap and lemons, the faint tang of metal from the blood lingering in the air. Outside, the hum of the world continues, distant, irrelevant. The house feels smaller in its own way, closer somehow. Safe.
You realize, slowly, that the longing you’d been carrying, watching him from inside, imagining touches, imagining small gestures, can rest, just for a moment. That the panic, the intensity, doesn’t have to be constant. You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to act on it yet.
“You’re not mad,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
“Mad?” he repeats, faintly puzzled.
“No. That I…” You trail off, realizing the words don’t matter anymore. That he doesn’t need them to. That safety isn’t spoken, it’s felt.
You can’t stop the small smile from creeping across your face. It’s ridiculous and tender and utterly unguarded. And in that moment, your chest loosens, your throat unclenches, and the quiet, aching longing that had been following you since the first day he arrived… softens into something warm and grounding.
The morning starts with a quiet kind of happiness. You stand at the counter, sipping your coffee, letting the sun spill across the floor. The house feels… good. Lively, almost. The sounds of Daryl and the others outside — hammering, measuring, casual chatter — make it feel inhabited in a way it hasn’t in weeks. You glance through the blinds and catch him adjusting a plank along the side of the house, the sunlight catching on his damp hair, the way his muscles flex and move like they belong to this space.
For a moment, your chest lifts. You almost laugh to yourself. The tray of sandwiches you packed yesterday suddenly feels worth it. You feel light, like maybe being home — truly home — could feel like more than just passing through.
You set the coffee down, leaning on the counter, and watch. He glances up briefly, maybe sensing your eyes. You pretend not to notice, but your chest tightens in that familiar, thrilling way. The air smells faintly of sawdust and warm wood, and it feels like a secret only the two of you share.
And then, almost imperceptibly, a shadow drifts across the edges of your mind.
“You talk too much.”
It’s not a voice from this morning, this week, this house. It’s from a dozen different mornings you can’t forget. The teacher in high school, sighing as your sentences tumbled over themselves. The friend who rolled her eyes, half-laughing, as if your enthusiasm were a flaw. Your own mother’s patient, quiet critique, echoed in the back of your skull. “You always have to fill the space, don’t you?”
You blink. The sunlight feels sharper now, harsher, almost accusing. That soft thrill you had a moment ago — seeing him, watching him — starts twisting in your chest.
Maybe you are too much. Maybe he’s tired of you already. Maybe the lemonade yesterday was fine once, but a habit now, a nuisance. Maybe your words, your presence, your wanting — it’s too loud.
You retreat instinctively, turning back to the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter as it could anchor you. You try to steady your breathing, but your mind spins: If I go outside, I’ll bother him. If I bring anything again, he’ll think I’m annoying. If I speak, if I do anything… I’ll ruin this.
And in that moment, you realize something: no matter how much you hide, how much you retreat, how much you silence yourself… you are still aching to be seen.
Still yearning.
Still, quietly, desperately, wanting him.
Daryl wipes his hands on the rag again, watching the yard as the sun climbs higher. He had expected her to be there. She’s usually at the back door or leaning over the railing, tray in hand, offering lemonade, water, something to eat. Something homemade. Something that makes the noise and dust of work feel lighter, warmer, human.
But the porch is empty. Just the faint echo of yesterday’s footsteps. The tray of snacks and the little pitcher of pale yellow lemonade are gone. Not replaced. Not waiting for him.
He frowns, almost imperceptibly. The air feels different somehow, quieter, like the house is holding its breath. He glances toward the windows, tilting his head, scanning for movement, for a shadow, for a hint of her presence. Nothing. The curtains are drawn just enough to obscure the kitchen, but not enough to hide the faint shimmer of sunlight across the counter.
His stomach twists in a small, unfamiliar way. He feels it before he can name it—a hollow, stretching ache. It’s absurd, he thinks, a little sharp laugh under his breath: she’s been avoiding me, that’s all. She’s busy. Practical. Responsible. Not hovering.
And yet, the empty porch makes it sting. The absence of the tray makes it sting. The silence where her voice usually fills space makes it sting.
The realization is quiet and sharp: he misses her presence. Not the chatter exactly, he doesn’t always need words, but the sound of her voice, the motion of her hands, the way she moves around the house. It fills the space he doesn’t realize is empty until she isn’t there.
He glances once more toward the windows, a faint, almost imperceptible hope threading through the line of his jaw. The blinds sway slightly in the breeze. The house breathes. And somewhere inside, he knows she’s thinking of him.
Even if she’s staying back.
Even if she’s hiding.
Even if she doesn’t yet realize it, he notices.
And it hurts in a way that makes him want to fix more than hinges, more than steps, more than the physical parts of the house. He wants to fix the quiet between them too, the space that stretches long and hollow across the porch, the yard, the windows, the empty pitcher of lemonade.
But for now, all he can do is notice.
All he can do is hope she’ll come back.
The last day of work arrives with a strange stillness. The house looks different somehow—lighter, open, more alive. Beams are sanded, walls patched, floors polished. Even the air feels changed, carrying the faint scent of wood and paint and the memory of afternoons spent here together.
You walk through each room slowly, fingers brushing the smooth edges of counters, tracing the lines where the wall had been removed, noting the little fixes he made without being asked. The squeaky step no longer wobbles. The hinge swings silently. The faucet no longer drips. Even the light bulbs you’d ignored for months now shine, steady and warm.
Everything feels… finished. Not perfect, but yours. And yet, the perfection is bittersweet.
You’re aware of the day ending. The trucks are packed. The tools stowed. The dust settled. Your routine—the daily rhythm of offering lemonade and sandwiches, watching him work quietly, feeling the soft weight of his attention—has come to an end.
Your chest tightens in a way that makes you take a breath you don’t realize you’re holding. You want to step outside one last time, offer a tray, say something clever or harmless to fill the silence. But even as you hesitate, you know it might be the last quiet moment before the workday ends.
Then there’s a knock at the door. Quick, deliberate.
You freeze, pulse skipping.
Opening it, you find him standing there. Tool belt still slung low around his hips, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders squared, but his eyes… they’re not like they usually are. Something softer, heavier, searching. Almost… vulnerable.
“I… did somethin’ wrong?” he asks, quiet, measured, as if testing the air.
You blink, heart hammering. You hadn’t expected words. You hadn’t expected clarity.
Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out, uneven, messy, but true: “I like you. And… and I got scared.”
He blinks, just a faint twitch of a brow. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t turn away. Just stands there, quiet, listening.
Your chest tightens further. You want to explain. To apologize. To qualify. But the words dry up. Your usual chatter has vanished, leaving only the bare truth, unpolished, exposed.
He lets a moment pass. No teasing. No sighing. No small talk. Just him, steady, present. Then, softly, almost lost in the hum of the empty house:
“Don’t hide from me.”
The weight of the words lands in your chest like a steady hand holding yours. Not demanding. Not judgmental. Just… heavy with meaning.
You swallow, blinking rapidly. “I… I didn’t want to—”
“You ain’t annoyin’,” he interrupts, voice low, gravelly, careful. “I like hearin’ you.”
Something in your chest loosens, a little. Relief, tinged with embarrassment, tinged with longing. You realize you’d been bracing yourself for rejection, for a quiet withdrawal, for him to step back and leave the space you’ve claimed in his quiet. But he hasn’t. Not once.
You laugh softly, almost disbelieving. “I… I wasn’t sure if—if you… if it was too much.”
“Feels quiet without you.”
“You like me talkin’?” you mimic him softly, teasing.
He glances at you, a faint smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, low, deliberate. “Don’t stop.”
The air between you thickens, charged and trembling. Daryl doesn’t take a step back. He doesn’t even blink. He just tilts his head slightly, watching you. You swear the room has shrunk, that the walls, the floor, the half-finished renovations has disappeared, leaving just the two of you suspended in a quiet bubble.
He moves closer, slow, careful. His eyes never leave yours, pale gray-blue and steady. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t say much, just enough that every word carries weight.
You feel your shoulders loosen slightly, the tension you’ve carried tightening and twisting in your chest. And in that moment, everything feels fragile, like a string stretched too tight—ready to snap, but safe in his hands.
You take a small step toward him. One. Then another. Until the space between you is measured in inches, heartbeats, and the faint smell of sawdust clinging to his shirt. You can feel it now—the warmth radiating off him, solid and steady.
He leans in first, forehead brushing yours, a gentle, deliberate touch that sends your chest fluttering. It’s soft, grounding. He pauses, lets you register it, lets the quiet stretch for a heartbeat too long before anything else happens.
You close your eyes. You're the first one to lean in. Just a little. Your lips meet his, slow and soft, nothing flashy, nothing urgent. Just a tentative brush at first, testing the waters, tasting the warmth, the steady presence that has drawn you in since day one.
He shifts slightly, careful, guiding you without force. His hands rise to your waist, grounding you, letting you feel that he’s here, real, steady. You rest your hands lightly against his chest, fingertips brushing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling him through it.
The kiss deepens ever so slightly, still slow, still careful, as if the world itself is holding its breath for you. Every nerve in your body seems alive, heightened, the quiet around you growing heavier, fuller, as though the house itself is aware of the small explosion inside your chest.
You pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his again, heart thumping. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head toward yours, letting the silence speak.
“You’re… really here,” you murmur, voice soft, almost trembling.
He hums quietly, low and steady, and presses his forehead a little closer. “Yeah. Been here all along.”
You let out a shaky laugh, small and unsteady, because it feels like everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve feared, is balanced right here in this slow, steady moment. He leans in once more, lips brushing yours again—soft, insistent just enough to let you know he’s not going anywhere.
When you finally pull back, foreheads still touching, you catch him smiling faintly. Not a big smile. Not flashy. Just a little tilt of his lips that makes your chest swell, that makes the quiet between you feel like it’s been waiting for this exact moment all along.
“Feels… right,” he says, low, almost shy.
And you can’t stop the soft smile spreading across your face. You shake your head, breath catching. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Feels right.”
He rests his forehead against yours again, longer this time, hands still at your waist, grounding you. The quiet stretches, but it isn’t heavy or uncomfortable anymore. It’s full. Warm. Safe.
And somewhere deep inside, you realize: this, this slow, steady, gentle touch, this shared warmth, is exactly what you’ve been waiting for all along.
Summary: The reader is Isaiah's cousin and grew up with Tommy. When he got sent off to the war they had slowly drifted apart, but by fate they were brought together again. Will their relationship survive the ups and down of Thomas' life?
Note: This is an 18 part series if you include the prologue, I plan to mainly post this on A03 so if you want to get updated quickly you should keep up with me on there.
Prologue
It was an early summer morning, the sun was out and the heat was blistering. You stood in the stables sweating and hair sticking to your wet skin, but you ignored it all to sing to Champion. A beautiful gelding that was about seven, he was so sweet and kind, but curly had said he was cursed. You didn’t want to believe him, thought he was wrong, but here were singing to him after hearing he was lame and there was nothing they could. You got the grooming brush and began to comb out his mane as you continued to sing.
‘Found in forgotten fields o flaxen was the leveret in hiding. Rowdy and rigorous they reave and rally. there where the houses once stood.’
“You’re a beautiful singer.” You didn’t have to look to know who it was, his voice always gave him away. “You think?” “Yeah.” he walked closer to you, standing in your peripheral vision.
“It’s time. We have to go.” They had let you say goodbye to Champion before they did anything. You let out a small solemn breath before you said anything .
“But he’s such a sweet boy.” You whispered to yourself, searching for an answer as to why this was happening. “He’s in pain. He’ll suffer more if we let him continue.” Tommy said as he moved to touch the small of your back, rubbing his thumb gently, trying his best to soothe you.
“I know.” “Come on.” You petted Champion once more before following Tommy’s lead and leaving.
He took you to the Garden, yours and his. A place you guys had found and brought you both peace. You sat down bringing your legs to your chest and looked up at the sky, so many things were changing around you and it hurt you to know you couldn’t stop any of it. You wanted things to stay the same forever.
“You leave tomorrow.” you stated meekly. “Yeah.” “Will you write?” You asked as you turned you head to him. “Of course. How could I not.” You gave him a weak smile staring into his eyes, they told you he meant it, that he was telling the truth.
hi everyone! i'm coming on here to say my life has taken a toll for the worst, and I'm currently living in a shed. aka homeless. as well as jobless, i was living up in texas with a full time job, but unfortunately none of that money is saved as it was only for a few months and my sister took everything I made. as well as allowed her husband to try and hit me, verbally abuse me, and overall treat me disgusting. she forced all her responsibilities onto me, as making me care for her child in the process. and because I was so tired from working 8-10 hours every day upon walking an hour to work as well, and coming home and cleaning the rest of the day, i was kicked out. so I'm now back in my home state. and once again struggling, i still can't drive as i came from a abusive family who wouldn't teach me, and where her husband was supposed to help me he never did, all they cared about was my money and for me to do their jobs for them as they sat on their asses. trying to talk about this situation in a mature way with out saying how disgusting and vile they absolutely are.
anyways with that out there, my commissions are open and these are emergency commissions so i can support myself somewhat as, finding a job is very difficult right now and this is my only means of income.
if you want to send anything during this time it will help immensely here is my kofi ➡️ buy me a kofi
prices! are starting out at $10 per every 1k words (prices are negotiable but pls no lowballs!)
I will write for anything besides NO JUDGEMENT HERE whatsoever!!
some examples of commissions i do!
oc x canon
oc x oc
x reader fics !!!
research !
if your fic requires research it’s an additional $10 for every hour of research.
depending on what the research is and or requires it could be less and or free!
WHERE TO FIND MY WORK
masterlist - on my blog aka tumblr
ao3 - strwbrrymochiwow
I will research any topic, any fandom that you're needing me too!
I am accepting payment through venmo, (primarily) but will also do cashapp and paypal aswell as chime if needed! and if none of those work, doordash gift cards are always welcomed.
I have done plenty of commissions so far!! so I can verify I'm true to my word and get commissions done very fast!
AGAIN i write for anything and any length THANK YOU (anything helps seriously!!).. also will write english essays, or any essays + poems !!
