𝑪𝑶𝑺𝑰𝑴𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝒙𝒗𝒊. 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒚

Karl began wriggling in Cosima’s arms. She set him down gently, and he trotted over toward a nearby grave, crouching to pick at the wildflowers that grew between stones. Dandelions, white ones. He blew one into the air and laughed, the sound light and soft like a bell in the fog.

Cosima felt her throat tighten. There was so much life in him. So much of Freddie. Her eyes watered, not from grief, but from awe—that life should continue so fearlessly in the face of death. A few minutes passed before Ada returned, scooping Karl into her arms.

Then came the low roar of a motorbike. It approached from the road, cutting through the quiet murmurs like a blade. One of the Blinders dismounted quickly, walked straight to Arthur and leaned in to whisper something behind his hand.

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Tommy,” he called.

Thomas turned. Cosima watched his whole body change—the calm shatter, the soldier return. He walked to Arthur, and she followed with her eyes, dread blooming slow and steady beneath her ribs.

Another whisper. Then silence.

Thomas turned and came toward her. His strides were careful, but his eyes were distant, fixed on something far away. A fire, a memory, something unraveling at the edges.

He stopped before her. “I’ll let them take you home, okay?” he said, his voice gentle—softer than he had spoken all day. “The pub’s been blown up, they said.”

Cosima’s breath caught, Thomas placed a hand on her arm, fingers trembling. “I’ll come when I’ve settled everything right.”

She searched his face, there was something fragile in his expression—guilt, maybe, or fear. Not for himself. For her. For the way death always seemed to follow him like a loyal dog, snapping at every bit of peace he tried to build.

Cosima nodded. “Be careful,” she said.

He gave a faint smile, the kind that doesn't reach the eyes, and then turned away, already pulling his cap low over his brow as he walked back toward the car, toward the war that never ended.

She stood still a moment longer.

Rain curling down her temple, the boy in Ada’s arms, the grave still open behind them. Freddie was gone, the pub was ash, and the storm was coming back.

It was well past midnight when Thomas came to the Blackshaw Funeral Home.

The key turned with a soft click, deliberate and practiced, careful not to stir the house. He didn’t knock, he didn’t have to anymore. The spare key was his now, nestled in the inner lining of his coat beside his cigarette tin and a loaded pistol. He moved through the quiet house like a shadow, shedding his jacket in the front hall, his boots by the stairs.

Upstairs, the light was off, but the door was open. A single candle still burned on the nightstand—Cosima never let the room go completely dark, not since the Spanish flu, said death liked the dark.

She was already tucked beneath the covers, one arm thrown over her eyes, curls spilling over the pillow like smoke. But when the floor creaked beneath his weight, she stirred, murmuring in that soft, sleepy voice that always seemed to draw him closer no matter what weight he carried on his back.

“You’re here,” she whispered, her voice a cloud drifting through the stillness.

Thomas sat down beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Yes, my love,” he murmured.

Her eyes opened slowly. Even in the low light, she saw it—something off in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his shoulders held tension like a noose. She blinked, trying to wake herself fully. “What happened?”

He didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he reached out and pushed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that betrayed the things he’d done just hours before. “You don’t need to worry, alright?” he said gently. “Go back to sleep now.”

Cosima didn’t press. She never did when he spoke like that—quiet, final, wrapped in velvet but sharp as a blade. If Thomas Shelby told her not to worry, then she wouldn’t. She knew how he moved through the world. Knew he walked into darkness on his own terms and came back bloodied, but breathing. She would not make the mistake of dragging his ghosts into the bed they shared.

So instead, she asked something else. “Is the pub okay then?”

He paused, just long enough for her to notice. “Blown to the ground,” he said simply. “Nothing left.”

She blinked. “Not even the whiskey?”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “There’s a bit left, I think. John’s got it. They’re probably drinking it now, to celebrate the fact none of us were in the blast.”

Cosima let out a breath—part laugh, part sigh. “I liked that pub,” she said.

He reached for her hand under the blanket, laced his fingers through hers. “So did I.”

She squeezed his fingers, eyes softening again. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he said, too quickly. Then quieter, “Now go to sleep.”

But he wasn’t.

He could still feel the heat of the gun in his palm, the warm spray on his skin when he fired it into the Irishman’s head, point-blank. It had been a message, the IRA wanted fear and Thomas gave them death. They had blown up the Garrison; he’d taken one of their own. There would be more to come, he knew that but Cosima didn’t need to.

She cared for the dead; he brought them.

She didn’t ask again. Just nodded, pressing closer to him until her forehead met the hollow of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. After a long silence, Thomas spoke again. “I’ve been thinking,” he murmured, “about expanding the business into London.”

Cosima opened her eyes. “You’ll go?”

He nodded. “A few nights. Make some arrangements, there’s more money to be made there… new partners. But I’ll keep you out of it.”

She didn’t argue. He never wanted her in the thick of it. He never let her close to the books, the meetings, the men who came and went with loaded guns and lies behind their teeth. But the fact that he told her—shared even a thread of his plan—meant something. She wasn’t part of the business but she wasn’t just a shadow on the wall either.

“You should be careful,” she whispered.

He looked down at her, meeting her eyes in the candlelight. “Always.”

“And the boys?”

“We’re going tomorrow night. Me, Arthur, John.”

Cosima shifted, bringing her hand to his cheek, her fingers cool and gentle. She cupped his face like something sacred, something that might vanish if she didn’t hold it just right. “Don’t go causing trouble there now, okay?”

Thomas huffed a soft laugh, the first real one that had left his chest all day. “Yes, ma’am.” She smiled and let her hand fall. He kissed her once—slow and quiet and tired—and then they lay back, bodies entwined beneath the covers, and they slept.

For now, the world outside could burn.

Tomorrow, London would come.

Tonight, he was home.