She Should Know Part 4
THE TASTE OF SOMETHING KNEW
Summary: New feelings and old wounds are in abundance for Y/N. Unlearning everything she knew, is a lot harder than planned. But sometimes all that is needed is help.
Warnings: Mild Angst, some fluff
Part 1🟣Part 2🟣Part 3
Masterlist—Thomas Shelby Masterlist
Life moved on in its slow, unrelenting way, and you did your best to keep pace. The well of disappointment and insecurity nestled in your chest never emptied, but you’d learned to cover it with a façade. Smiles, fleeting and strained. Creations, some half-formed, some failed entirely. Laughter, light and fleeting, never quite touching the core of you. You buried the ache under long hours of work, let it mingle with the persistent sting of distance—distance from a past you had left behind but not truly escaped.
Still, there was progress. Small, almost imperceptible steps. Waking up in the mornings without the weight of fear pressing against your ribs was new. You no longer jumped at shadows or cast nervous glances over your shoulder, expecting trouble to materialize in the form of one of Thomas’s ill-conceived schemes—or someone worse. There was a kind of peace in being surrounded by people who followed the rules, who found joy in simple routines and shared goals. It wasn’t an exhilarating life, but it was steady and quiet. A breath of fresh air after years of suffocation.
Then there was Claude.
Claude was unlike anyone you had ever known. His edges weren’t jagged or worn down by the harshness of life. His hands, though strong, didn’t carry the calluses of violence or the stains of misdeeds. He didn’t need to command attention or weave charm with ulterior motives. He was simply himself—Claude—with green eyes that held an endless calm, a boyish smile that softened even the hardest days, and a presence that was as warm and comforting as fresh bread coming out of the oven.
Yet, the thought of Thomas lingered like a shadow. Your heart twisted at the memory of him, at the chaos and damage he had wrought. Your grip on the rag tightened as you scrubbed the counter with mindless fervor, the repetitive motion a small comfort in its predictability.
“Mon cher,” Claude’s voice broke through, soft and melodic, laced with that ever-present accent that sent an unbidden warmth curling in your chest. His fingers brushed your arm—a fleeting touch, light as a whisper.
You stilled, your gaze snapping up from the counter to meet his. His green eyes studied you, searching, but without prying. They were too soft, too patient, and somehow that made them more intimidating than any piercing blue gaze you’d known. You swallowed, forcing your breath to steady.
“Oui,” you murmured, shifting under the weight of his attention. “Lost in thought.”
Claude tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Busy thoughts,” he teased lightly, though his gaze lingered, brushing over the faint lines of exhaustion that etched your face. He had never pressed you for details about your life—about Birmingham, about Thomas—but his curiosity was there, quiet and unobtrusive.
“Always,” you replied softly, eyes dropping to the counter. His presence was unnervingly steady, a stark contrast to the tumult you carried within. When you looked up again, he had settled against the counter beside you, arms folded, his posture relaxed yet attentive.
“You’re staring again,” you said, a weak attempt at deflection, your heart hammering against your ribs as you turned your attention back to scrubbing the same worn spot on the counter.
Claude hummed, a low, amused sound. “And you have been cleaning the same spot for the last twenty minutes,” he retorted smoothly. His smile widened, boyish and disarming. “You are lucky Chef isn’t here. He’d have you rearranging the entire storage room by now.”
A small laugh escaped you, light and genuine. “I suppose I am lucky then,” you said, shaking your head. But your fingers fidgeted with the rag, betraying the nervous energy you couldn’t quite contain. “Did you need something?” you asked, risking another glance at him.
He shook his head, his green eyes warm, holding your gaze like a steady anchor. “I’m walking you home,” he reminded you, his tone gentle yet firm.
Your breath caught, and you nodded, the weight of his insistence settling over you. It was hard to forget that he had made this his nightly ritual, ensuring you got home safely after the long shifts at the restaurant. At first, you’d protested. You’d argued, reasoning that you were perfectly capable of walking yourself home. Claude, however, was persistent in a way that wore down even the strongest of defenses.
Initially, he had pretended it was coincidental, walking the same path as you. But you knew better. He lived on the opposite side of town, yet there he was, strolling at your pace, always a few steps behind until you relented. It was maddening—and endearing.
“I’ll get my things,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. There was no point in arguing anymore. As you turned toward the back room to fetch your coat, you caught his smile—patient, unwavering, and so full of quiet care that it sent a ripple of warmth through the icy walls around your heart.
Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, you thought, to have someone like Claude. Someone who waited, who didn’t demand but offered. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to let the warmth in, just a little. But that thought was as terrifying as it was comforting, and as you grabbed your coat, you found yourself hoping he wouldn’t see the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes.
When you returned, Claude was waiting, the soft light of the café catching the warmth in his gaze. He didn’t rush you, didn’t comment on the time you had taken. He simply smiled, and in that moment, the air felt lighter.
“Shall we?” he asked, holding the door open for you.
You stepped out into the cool night air, your heart racing as you fell into step beside him. His presence at your side was steady, unshakable, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something akin to safety.
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Did you mention that Claude was persistent? Because he was. His kind of persistence wasn’t the loud, aggressive type. It was quieter, more patient, but no less relentless. You laughed softly, almost incredulously, as you watched him navigate your small kitchen like he belonged there. His movements were graceful, as if he had done this a thousand times before.
“Honestly, Claude,” you said, your voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, “I can cook for myself just fine.”
His fingers didn’t falter as he sliced through a carrot with practiced ease. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board punctuated the silence before he spoke. “You are tired, mon cher,” he said, his tone carrying a gentle resolve. He glanced up briefly, his green eyes meeting yours with a warmth that made your breath hitch. “In many ways. Let me help.”
It wasn’t a command, nor a suggestion. It was a soft plea, and something about it hit you harder than it should have. Your brows furrowed as you sank into the creaky kitchen chair, suddenly feeling the weight of everything you had been holding at bay. The walls you had built felt flimsy, the steady cadence of his voice unsettling them in ways you didn’t fully understand.
Your eyes watered, and you blinked rapidly, as if that could banish the sting. It was stupid—unbelievably stupid. He hadn’t said anything groundbreaking. And yet, the way his green eyes held yours, unwavering and steady, spoke volumes. His voice softened when he said “let me help,” the words cradling something deeper, something unspoken. It wasn’t just about dinner. It couldn’t be.
Help with what? Dinner, just this once? The ache in your chest that had never quite gone away? The chaos in your mind that refused to quiet? The parts of you that still couldn’t trust, still couldn’t believe someone like Claude could exist without an ulterior motive? The questions swirled, tangling with the rawness of your emotions.
You dropped your gaze, your fingers brushing absently over the rim of your wine glass. The cool surface grounded you, but only slightly. “You didn’t exactly give me a choice, Claude,” you said quietly, the faintest tremor in your voice. You forced a small, bitter smile as you added, “You’re very persistent.”
He sighed softly, the sound so gentle it seemed to blend with the simmering pot of stew on the stove. Setting the knife down, he picked up the cutting board and scraped the neatly chopped herbs into the pot. The aroma of simmering herbs and broth filled the room, a comforting scent that did little to ease the tension in your chest.
“You’re worth it, mon cher,” he said, his voice low but firm. He turned to look at you then, the sincerity in his gaze so piercing it made your throat tighten. “I think, you forget this.”
The words landed with the weight of a stone in your chest. Your heart clenched painfully, and your lips trembled as you pressed them together, trying to hold back the flood threatening to spill. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know how to reconcile the ache in your chest with the warmth his words ignited.
The room was quiet save for the bubbling stew and the faint sound of your unsteady breath. Claude didn’t press. He didn’t push or demand more from you than you could give. He simply turned back to the stove, stirring the pot with careful attention, as though his only purpose in that moment was to ensure the stew didn’t burn.
You stared at him, at the way his shoulders moved, steady and strong, at the way he seemed so sure of what he was doing—both with the meal and with you. He wasn’t Thomas. He wasn’t chaos or manipulation or control masquerading as care. He was Claude, with his green eyes and quiet persistence and words that lingered in the air long after they were spoken.
Your finger traced the edge of the wine glass again, and this time, the tears fell silently and your lip trembled as you glanced at your glass. You didn’t realize how much a part of you had craved to hear those words from anyone but yourself. How often had you imagined Thomas saying it to you. Choosing you. Staying with you. He never did, 'Obviously'. Yet, in the here and now with Claude in your kitchen, in your life, a small part wondered if that had been a good thing. To not be chosen by Thomas Shelby despite how much your heart had craved his love and affection.
Claude didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. Not directly, anyway. But he didn’t need to. His movements were unhurried and calm as he stirred the pot of stew, his back to you. The quiet between you wasn’t heavy—it wasn’t demanding or awkward. It was… patient. Like him.
The bubbling of the stew filled the space, a rhythmic, soothing sound that seemed to match the steady cadence of his breathing. He reached for a wooden spoon and, with practiced ease, dipped it into the pot. He tasted the broth, nodding slightly to himself before adding a pinch of salt and stirring again. The aroma of the meal enveloped the room, rich and savory, wrapping itself around you like a comforting blanket.
You wiped at your cheeks hastily, frustrated with yourself for letting your emotions spill over. When you glanced up again, Claude had turned, a bowl in one hand. He didn’t speak, didn’t comment on the redness in your eyes or the way your fingers fidgeted.
Instead, he set the bowl down gently in front of you, along with a spoon. “Eat,” he said softly, the command wrapped in a kindness that didn’t leave room for argument.
You hesitated, looking down at the steaming stew. The rich, earthy scent of herbs and vegetables filled your senses, a quiet reminder of how little you’d eaten lately. Your stomach twisted from the vulnerability of the moment. You looked back up at him, unsure, only to find his green eyes waiting for yours, steady and unyielding but not overbearing.
“I’ll make a bowl for myself,” he said, as though he could read the reluctance on your face and wanted to ease it. “We’ll eat together.”
You nodded, the small gesture all you could muster as your voice caught in your throat. He returned to the stove, ladling stew into another bowl with the same care he had given to yours. When he joined you at the table, the chair across from you creaked slightly under his weight as he sat down.
Claude didn’t rush you. He didn’t press you with questions or try to coax you into talking. He simply started eating, his movements slow and unhurried, as if to remind you that there was no expectation here. You watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders relaxed, the soft hum of approval he gave as he savored the stew. It was a sound so small and genuine that it made your chest ache all over again.
You picked up your spoon, the warmth of the bowl radiating into your hands. The first bite was tentative, the flavors rich and grounding. For a few moments, the stew was all you could focus on—its warmth, the way it spread through you like a quiet reassurance that you were, at least in this moment, cared for.
Claude glanced up at you, his gaze softening as he saw you eat. He didn’t smile—he didn’t need to. The slight relaxation in his expression said enough. “Good?” he asked simply.
You nodded, swallowing the bite before murmuring, “It’s perfect.”
He hummed softly, returning to his meal, but not before reaching for the wine bottle on the table. He poured a little more into your glass without asking, his movements deliberate and thoughtful. “You’ve worked hard today,” he said, not as a question but as a fact. “You deserve to rest.”
The lump in your throat returned, but this time, it wasn’t from sorrow. It was something softer, something that made you want to believe him, even if part of you still doubted. You sipped the wine, letting the quiet between you stretch. The room felt smaller, cozier, the air tinged with the warmth of the meal and the man sitting across from you.
Claude’s presence wasn’t overwhelming. It was steady, a quiet assurance that he didn’t need you to fill the silence or explain yourself. His way of offering comfort wasn’t in words or grand gestures, but in the way he shared the space with you, letting you take what you needed at your own pace.
When the bowls were empty, he stood, gathering the dishes without a word. You moved to protest, to take them from him, but he waved you off with a slight shake of his head. “You sit,” he said firmly but gently, carrying the bowls to the sink.
You stayed where you were, your fingers tracing the rim of your wine glass again. For the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest felt… quieter. It wasn’t gone—it never fully was—but it had receded, softened by the warmth of the meal, the steadiness of his presence, and the quiet way he reminded you that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.
“Claude,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence as he rinsed the bowls. He turned, looking over his shoulder at you, waiting. The words you wanted to say caught in your throat, too big and too raw to voice just yet. So you settled on the simplest truth. “Thank you.”
His lips curved into a small smile, one that didn’t need words to say everything you couldn’t. He nodded, turning back to the sink, leaving you to sit with the quiet warmth that had settled in your heart. For now, it was enough.
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A/N: Thank you so much for making it this far 💕I actually had to rewrite this chapter because I wasn't feeling the last one. This feels better than what I originally planned. Claude was literally going to be a minor character. he appeared briefly in Part 2 near the end. Somehow his persistence transcended the second chapter and he fought for a more prominent role for our ole gal🤣❤️
Anywhoooo, please comment, like, and reblog🫰❤️