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Chapter Text

Thomas Shelby
Undisclosed Island
1938

"You don't fucking get it, do you?" His voice rises, fingers clenching around the delicate vase she made—the same one that bastard had dared to look at. With a violent shove, he hurls it against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

The shards scatter across the floor as he jabs a finger in her direction. "They’ll come back, and when they do—" His words falter, breaking off abruptly when he sees it in her eyes.

She is shutting down, her lips tremble and her eyes that were once calm turn into a sea of emotions in that same way he knows all too well. 

There’s no way in hell he’s going to become that monster to her.

Not now. Not ever.

In an instant, the distance between them is gone. His hands cradle her face, thumbs gently brushing the softness of her skin as his forehead presses to hers. She’s like a frightened animal—caged, vulnerable. He’s felt that terror before.

"No no." His voice is quiet, blue eyes shifting from anger to pleading. "I'm not him. That's not what—" He pulls her head to his chest, cradling her against him as he feels her tremble. "It's not what this is. I'm not him. I'm not going to hurt you. You know that, eh? You know that. When have I—"

It's no use, he did it, he let his anger take control in front of her once again. If she never speaks to him again, she would have the right.

But he can't have that. Not now. Not after everything.

Yet she pushes at him, fights against him now as if snapping back to herself, afraid he will what? Smother her against his chest?

He gets it, so of course he relents. Letting her go, letting her distance herself from him as she tries to calm herself down, as she makes herself feel some semblance safe again.

"They're the reason I'm here. They are the reason I'm on this fucking island in the middle of the ocean. Away from home, yeah?" He's careful, so very careful with his tone.

She nods but doesn't look his way. He's a monster in her eyes right now and he won't make her look at him. 

"A war is coming...and the crown wants to have leverage. To be ready. And that. That is what this is." His hand lifts to wipe at his dry lips, his tongue coming out to wet them but it's no use. His mouth is dry. "It's what this is so when I tell you to go upstairs, to lock the doors, to not come down no matter what you hear..."

Thomas Shelby
Undisclosed island
1937
Eight months earlier

There's a fog rolling in from the sea, hiding the water from view. Something uneasy wriggles it's way down Thomas' throat, down his chest and spreads through his veins the moment the sensation hits his stomach.

"Getting late. Bring 'em up" He flicks his cigarette off the cliff and down into the dense fog before turning and heading over to the men who are beginning to emerge from a man made hole in the ground. 

Thomas moves past them before they can strike up a conversation. He's tired, everything aches in a way it never has before. Yet — being here, on this island, away from enemies and allies — it's growing on him. Getting into his bones and seeping in through his skin. 

How easy it would be to get lost. 

How tempting.

The Island is not what he's accustomed to. There's one place for groceries, the sheriff who also runs the ferry that comes in as well as out of the island, one butcher who is also the main farmer, a few other lives who do this or that which he had only seen in passing so far, and no working electric or telephone system aside from the one red telephone box smack in the middle of the qaint place.

No cars, either. Horseback, caravan, carriage, or foot are the preferred means of transport here. 

Civilization, it seems, is stuck somewhere before the war. The war... it'll be the first war soon. Another is already on the horizon.

"Evenin', Mr Shelby." Isla pipes up as soon as he walks into the small shop in town. She's a woman in her late thirties. Her long locks pulled up away from her shoulders in a tight bun. 

"How's the weather, Isla?" Thomas asks, his voice deep as he speaks around the cigarette perched between his lips.

"Little storm comin in through the east." She answers.

"Ah, the east." He says then brings his items to the counter. She counts it, tells him the price but he always just puts a few pounds out for her regardless.

She's kind, the woman running the shop. Always telling him he shouldn't overpay, that she'll exclude it from his next visit, that he should take an extra bottle for his troubles.

The last thing he needs is an extra bottle. 

"Herbalist drop by today?" He shouldn't be searching for it, but he is. Always.

"I thought you would be inquiring about the morning glory seeds, here you are." Isla slips the red velvet bag to him and takes the money he hands over in kind.

"Keep the rest." With a swift clear of his throat, Thomas heads out of the little shop and starts to make his way towards the red phone box in the middle of the island. 

Once inside, he places the items he purchased onto the ground before speaking.

“Put me through to the English commander.” The words come out sharp, practiced. The women running the phone lines here know what’s needed—no need for explanation.

Once the line connects, he says only, "On schedule. Storm coming in from the east." A click. Silence. Isla seems to know when any boat is coming in, their secret code already in use. 

With that, he hangs up and walks back toward his lodging.

It takes him twenty minutes to reach his place, five more to stoke the fire and warm the stone walls. Four minutes to shed his coat, pour whiskey, and sink into the creaking sofa.

The quiet is almost unbearable. It has been for days.

He raises the glass to his lips, savoring the warmth of the whiskey, the smooth curve of the glass against his mouth. He tips the glass back, reveling in the sensation as it slips down his throat.

With a sigh, he fishes the red velvet bag out of his pocket and slips just enough of the morning glory seeds into his mouth.

As with everything he's ever tried, it takes a bit for it to kick in. Minutes tick past as his eyes watch the flame dance and lick the stone walls of the hearth. 

But then...

It doesn't start with a high energy flood, no. This one is a soft shift in his chest.  As if his heart is racing and slowing at the same time. His nerves pulse with tingling energy, and his limbs begin to feel electric.

His eyes are half open, lips parting as he takes up space. Legs open and head falling back against the cushion of the sofa. The glass he has in his hand falls to the ground,.

There must be carpet he thinks because the sound of shattering doesn't reach his ears. He's not sure if he has carpet, had he ever noticed? 

Poison. The herbalist had warned him the first time. Warned of the things people would see if taking these in heavy amounts. 

A groan escapes his lips as he feels himself being pulled under. He blinks and he's standing with his legs in water. The sea rising up to his knees as waves lick at him, rolling against him and through to the shore. 

He looks around, the sky above bright and clear as the sun warms his skin. A hand comes up to shield his eyes, to look along the shore, at the sand, at the rocks, the cliff.

There's someone there at the top. He squints, focusing but then he's looking back at himself. From the top of the cliff, eyes looking down at the version of himself that is confused and looking up.

Romani pours from his tongue, telling his confused self to get out of the water, the tide is coming in. It'll rise. 

But he's exposed, far from himself, unable to hear his own words, unaware that it's him standing on that cliff.

In the blink of an eye, he's in a cave, his gaze drifting to the sea as the tide rolls in. He lets it wash over him, splashing against the cave walls and tugging him beneath the current.

But he doesn't resist.

No.

Not now.

His body surrenders to the waves, the sweet, rolling tide drawing him deeper, pulling him out to the ocean, soaked and weightless.

But then his eyes are watching from the cliff, watching as his body goes with the waves only to wash up on shore once more. 

A sigh of resolution leaves his throat.

He turns, only to find himself back at Arrow House. No.  

The highs—those fleeting peaks—never bring him here. Never pull him back.  

His heart races as he sprints down the halls, throwing open doors to nothing but darkness. But he keeps moving, searching for something.  

What?  

A way out?  

"Get a grip." He mutters to himself, but his voice feels distant, muffled, like it's sinking beneath the weight of seawater. Panic begins to tighten in his stomach, his muscles locking in response.

"No..."

He's breathless now, from all that running. How long has this hallway been? How far has he come?  

He spins around, and there she is—Grace, standing before him.  This is not what he’s wanted. But as he reaches for her, the sharp crack of a gunshot shatters the silence, and she falls into his arms, just like that day.

"No!"

A single blink and he is on the floor alone, blood on his hands. Wild blues look away, look to the windows and the door and watch as blood bursts in like the ocean. Flooding the place, flooding him, seeping into his skin and bones. He chokes on it, spluttering as his body leans forward and he vomits onto the floor. Body retching.

His vision is coming to, the fireplace long gone out and his body shivering from the cold — from the sick as he retches once more, emptying himself of the poison. 

"Fuck" He groans, wiping his mouth as he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling outside with the whiskey bottle in hand. One sip, and he swishes it around, rinsing his mouth before spitting it onto the earth. Once, twice... three times. Then, he slams it back like it’s air, the liquid burning his throat so intensely that he coughs, choking on it.

He throws it in the bin and steps back inside, but the moment he does, he recoils, coughing violently. He whips around, throwing open the door to let the cold air rush in. It feels like relief against his sweaty skin as he kicks a small rock with his foot to keep the door ajar.

"Can't let me have a moment, eh?" he mutters, as if to no one. She's back. Back in his head after all this time. He knows better than to drink or take anything; it always brings her back.

He may have escaped the haunted halls of Arrow House, but she’s never truly been trapped there. No, she’s always been with him.

Once the mess is cleaned up, he sinks back onto the sofa, letting the cool air drift in through the open door. He welcomes it as he slips into a restless sleep.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

She deserves this good thing. Evelyn reminds herself as she makes her way into the small shop she has found respite in. There's no working electricity on this island and that comforts her. No telephone lines aside from the small red telephone booth in the middle of the island. No working lights or loud automobiles.

Quiet. Peace and comfort in such a small community.

Evelyn pulls open the curtains and ties them back with tassels, detailed in her movements as she ties them in knots she knows will be easy for her to undo. 

The door is wide open, propped ajar by a large boot that could belong to anyone. She found it washed up ashore and wondered which fisherman had lost it to the sea. She hoped they had managed to replace it, that they made it back safe.

Soft hums fill the air as she goes through the motions. Everything flows effortlessly, as natural as breathing, comforting in its repetition.  

She starts in the back, dipping a cloth into the small basin of seawater on the counter. She savors the cool liquid as she wrings out the cloth, then moves back to the main room. Slowly, she drags the cloth across the shelves, her other hand carefully lifting the pottery, holding each piece one by one as she cleans.

Taking her time in her chores because this little shop doesn't see much action, she doesn't need it to. One person every now and then is fine enough for her. 

Once every surface is dusted and wiped clean, she retreats to the back room again, laying the cloth beside the basin to dry.

She grabs a ribbon, tying her long ginger hair into a messy updo, pulling it away from her neck. Then, she slips her apron on, tying it tight before settling into her place at the pottery wheel—her second favorite spot, just after the sea.

Her hands tremble slightly as she adjusts the pottery wheel. The island is quiet this time of morning, save for the soft sound of the ocean rolling against the shore in the distance. She had always loved the sound of the waves, but now, it carries a deeper meaning, a reminder that she is far from the chaos she'd fled. Here, in this small corner of the world, she can breathe without looking over her shoulder.

She sets the lump of clay down in the center of the wheel, the soft, wet mass cool against her palms. 

Her fingers run lightly over the clay’s surface as she begins to work, pushing down gently but steadily to center it. The wheel spins slowly  as she works the peddle with her foot. 

She dips her fingers into the water in a small bowl of seawater beside her then she begins to shape the clay. Her hands, steady now, guiding the mound. Her foot speeds up — causing the wheel spin slightly faster, and she adjusts the pressure of her palms, letting the clay rise higher.

The clay responds well to her touch, soft and yielding, its cool surface now beginning to take shape under her careful guidance. She slowly forms the base, allowing the walls to rise steadily. 

Now — she begins to shape the edges of the vase, smoothing out the rough spots with a gentle touch. Her movements are fluid, each one a small act of care. Willing the item to be cared for even after she creates it. She is not the same person she had been when she first arrived on this island, not the same person she had been when she'd walked away from everything.

Eventually, the wheel slows as she finishes the piece. She allows herself a moment to admire the vase—simple and almost complete. 

Once the piece is in the kiln, she removes her apron and goes to wash off the clay from her skin. Scrubbing until it's all gone and then toweling off her hands and wrists before heading back into the main area.

The day unfolds just like the ones before, with no surprises. She sells a piece to the local butcher before closing up her shop as the sun sets. Living above her shop means she has no need to venture out, no reason to walk alone for any stretch of time.

But that doesn’t help when she needs to pick something up from the store.

It only takes a few moments to head upstairs, slip on a heavy coat, and grab her purse. Then she’s back out the door, making her way down the stairs and toward the one shop in town where she can find most things.

"Evelyn, nice night out there, huh?" Isla says as soon as she gets through the door. "I'm thinkin I might need a new vase this week. I broke the other one when tryin' to switch out the flowers."

"I can put it back together if you saved the pieces." Evelyn says, her eyes going to the shops owner. 

For a moment Evelyn idles by the counter, hands in the pockets of her coat, head down, not really meeting Isla's gaze.

"Nah, I threw them out." Isla sighs. "You doin' alright today?"

"Yeah" Evelyn says, nodding quickly, then she is off to browse the shelves, calling back over her shoulder. "Stop by my shop tomorrow and I'll give you a replacement. On the house."

She’s always done that, since everyone here looks out for one another. If she ever found herself short, she knew she could still get food. In a close-knit community, they take care of their own. At least, that’s been her experience so far.

A figure with an aura unlike anyone here brushes past her, heading back to the alcohol section as she thinks over if she wants noodles tonight or wants to settle for making her own pastries.

She grabs a few of the neatly packaged noodles the shop owner makes herself, along with some canned sauces, and heads to the counter.

"You need to come over and help with cannin' again," Isla says, eyeing the items. Before she can even start to say the price, Evelyn hands over the exact amount.

"Yeah, anytime. You'll come over tomorrow, right?" Evelyn asks as she gathers the items in her hands, beginning to head out. She glances back at Isla, who nods just as the man who brushed past her earlier places his items on the counter.

Evelyn shifts her gaze to the night, feeling the cold air bite at her skin. 

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

Thomas sets out his items on the counter—more whiskey this time. His eyes flick to the ginger-haired woman leaving the shop. He hasn't seen her before.

"Did she come in on the ferry recently?" he asks, more to keep track of who is on the island than out of curiosity.

"Evelyn? Nah, she's been here a few years now," Isla says, placing the small velvet bag down with the rest of his items.

"Mm. What does she do?" He places the money on the counter, already familiar with the total, adding extra for the whiskey.

"She owns the pottery shop by the shore. You can't miss it." Isla is quick to share details on the locals—one reason Thomas shops at the end of each day.

"Anything concerning, aside from the east?" His eyes meet hers.

"Funny thing, that," Isla says with a clipped laugh. "Nothin' aside from that storm. It's slowed down for some reason."

He raises a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips before he pushes it down. With a nod, he gathers his items and heads out.

He drops the velvet bag into the bin before making his way back to the small stone house he calls home—for now.

The walls are cold when he steps inside. This quiet life is settling into his bones, sinking under his skin, making itself at home deep in his marrow. 

He'd be better off under the sky, in a caravan, somewhere else. Somewhere he isn’t ordering men to dig holes again, to help in yet another war.

A groan escapes him as he crouches by the hearth, worn hands stacking wood with scraps of old newspaper. He digs into his pocket, takes out his lighter, and watches as the flame comes to life. He holds it to the paper, watching it catch and spread.

*Light the fire again and get warm. And you will see that you must live.*

Slipping the paper into the hearth, he stands, dusts off his trousers, and takes out his cigarette case. With a sigh, he shrugs off his coat and settles onto the sofa.

The click of the case opening echoes in the silence. He takes out a cigarette, wets the filter against his lips, then sets the case aside to flick open his lighter. The flame flares, and he leans in, drawing in a slow breath. The tip burns amber before he snaps the lighter shut and tosses it onto the table.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island  
1937

Morning comes too soon. Back on the cliff, he overlooks the sea. His gaze sweeps the water, then shifts to the beach. The woman from last night heads into the pottery shop.

Cocking his head, he lifts the cigarette back to his lips and takes a pull.

"Mr. Shelby, unit one and two here." Briggs calls out, military sharpness in his tone. 

"Right." Tossing his cigarette off the cliff, he turns to his men, stepping toward the wooden table laid out with their plans.

Calloused fingers trace the lines on the map, following the slope of the land.

"Unit one. We're nearly through. Four more hours of digging and we'll hit the cliff wall. We'll dig a tunnel wide along the edge. Small holes for gun barrels here, here, here, and here." His index finger taps at the page in each spot. "Every barrel hole will be five paces apart. In between those paces at each third will be a hole four times that size. Got it?"

They nod.

"We'll be here for months, lads. Get used to it." He pulls out his cigarette case as his men head back to the pit, disappearing one by one. He lights another cigarette, watching them go.

"And unit two." He speaks around the cigarette before pulling it away. "Start construction. The locals think we’re building a house. You lot should have had this going already, but Rowe says it took a few days to get the materials. That right?"

"Yes, Mr Shelby." Rowe answers right away.

"Then lay the foundation along the perimeter. Watch the pit—don’t fall and break a fucking leg. No doctor here, no way off the island till we're done. Wounded gets shot. Got it?"

It’s simple. No one can know why they’re really here. Isla is his informant. That’s as far as it goes. To any passing boat, they’re just  men building a house contracted by the island.

Plans are in place should information leak, should anyone inquire about those on-site. It took a full year to plot before getting this far.

Failure is not an option.

Churchill would have his balls. 

Thomas walks away from the site, leaving the men to do as they are told and he would be back up in a few hours time.

Thomas walks away from the site, leaving the men to their work. He’ll be back in a few hours.

"Where are you going?" Thomas asks Anton, the butcher, catching the man peeking around one of the oaks a few paces away.

"I'm just out for a stroll." Anton says, eyes drifting past Thomas to the site.

"Best not to stroll that way. We’re very busy." Thomas steps in front of him, stance wide, squared shoulders, leaving no room for argument.

"I used to do construction in my early days." Anton protests, attempting to shift the boundary Thomas has drawn.

"Good. Well, if we need your help, we know where to find you." Thomas exhales a plume of smoke between them. "Three yards exactly from the phone booth. The building with the red door."

"Yes. Yes. Alright." Anton finally understands and turns to walk. Thomas follows, taking a pull from his cigarette.

"You see… Anton, is it?" Thomas knows the name, but says it anyway—to show he knows the man, knows the island. When Anton nods, Thomas continues. "We keep a very close eye on that area. On who comes and goes. On the materials used there. Nod if you understand."

Anton nods.

Thomas continues. "Because it’s very dangerous." A pause. "The materials. And if something is out of place, well, that could pose issues for us. Nod."

Anton nods again, fingers beginning to fidget. Good. He’s getting the picture.

"Issues for us… we take those very seriously. Very seriously. Yeah? So let’s not stroll over there. Wouldn’t want an accident to happen. Like you falling into the concrete we pour for the basement, right?" Thomas watches him, even as Anton refuses to meet his gaze.

"Right, Mr Shelby." Anton responds.

"Good man." Thomas pats his shoulder, feeling the other flinch. Then he tosses his cigarette to the ground, stamping it out with the heel of his boot.

Thomas walks on past him. He stops at Isla’s store, pushing open the door with his shoulder. 

Isla looks up from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Mr Shelby — visiting while the sun is up, what a treat."

"Lunch." His voice is low.

She nods, moving to where she has some prepared food already laid out. "Got some sandwiches done up fresh. Cheese and pickle, ham and mustard. Few pork pies too."

"Enough for ten." He taps his fingers on the counter, glancing at the food. 

Isla works quickly, wrapping up it all up. Each sandwich having that small town flare, a little golden ribbon tied around each to keep the parchment closed. "You feedin' an army?"

Thomas exhales through his nose, jaw tensing. "Something like that."

She wraps it up in a cloth, tying them tight so they don't fall out, eyeing him. "You’ll want beer as well?"

A quick nod. She goes into the back for a minute, returning with a crate which she sets atop the counter. Isla holds out her hand and takes back the tied up packed lunch and places it atop the crate. 

Thomas glances at the price written on the crate and on the table with the sandwiches, then adds a few extra shillings for her troubles. 

"Right, see you tonight then?" she quips as he picks it up off of the counter.

"Mhm." He’s already turning for the door.

"Enjoy your feast, Mr Shelby."

He steps back into the morning air without another word, making his way back to the site.

Once he returns to the site, he sets the crate of beer and the wrapped sandwiches down on the wooden table. A few of the men glance over but don’t stop their work. It’s not lunch time yet, they'd only just begun a bit ago. 

He lets them be, lighting a fresh cigarette as he moves toward the cliff’s edge. His eyes drift downward, toward the strip of beach below and down along the shore. 

Near the pottery shop, Evelyn stands in the doorway, sweeping sand through the threshold and down the steps. Her movements are unhurried, taking time as if in the middle of a thought.

The lighthouse keeper, Ellis, lingers nearby, adjusting his cap against the wind as he says something to her. She laughs, there's a brief lift of her shoulders before she waves him off in a kind manner. Ellis nods, heading toward the lighthouse, while Evelyn leans against the doorframe with the broom in hand, gazing out at the sea for a moment before disappearing inside.

Thomas takes another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before exhaling. His eyes remain on the shop a moment longer, then shift back to sea.

He flicks the cigarette away before turning back toward the men. "We'll burn the midnight oil, boys. Don't expect any sleep til sunrise. Jenkins, Kipner, Davies, Smith. Back to your lodgings. Come dawn you'll guard the area and you'll be heavily armed."

There’s still plenty of work to do. 

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island  
1937

Evelyn wipes down the shelves with a damp cloth, watching as the sand and dust that have settled throughout the day slowly disappear. She's always found it pleasing—no, rewarding—to do such things, helping her shop start fresh at the end and beginning of each day.

Sure, some would argue that no one is going to see the shelves shine through the night and that by morning, she'll just have to clean them again. But they mistake the feeling that comes from simply knowing they'll be clean during that time. A shred of relief would settle in her veins as she closes up the shop tonight and that is enough for her to get a good nights rest.

Hearing the door open, she looks up to see Isla stepping inside, rubbing her hands together against the evening chill.

"Evening, love," Isla greets, shutting the door behind her. "Cold one tonight."

Evelyn nods. "The wind’s picking up again. You here for that vase?"

"Yes, figured I’d take you up on that before it got too late." Isla smirks, wandering over to a shelf while Evelyn picks out a sturdy vase that has a soft green glaze. She sets it on the counter. "This one should hold up better."

Isla lifts it, turning it in her hands. "You always make them so lovely. Almost a shame to actually use them."

Evelyn snorts. "If they were never used, what would be the point of having a vase in the first place?"

Isla grins but then leans on the counter, "Suppose you're right. Just need Richard to get me more flowers to put in them. "

"Where will you put it?" Evelyn asks, moving over to a shelf and beginning to wipe it down. 

"In the store window, I'm thinkin' would be a good place as any" Isla answers, her eyes watching the redhead move around. "Might be nice now with all the new customers."

Evelyn hums, adjusting some mugs on a shelf nearby. "The builders?"

"And soon the mainlanders comin' in on the ferry to spend a couple of days this time of year. Before winter comes on in full swing." Isla says with a sigh, helping herself to the boxes behind the counter, picking up each one by one and comparing them to the size of the vase that had been picked out.

"Hard not to notice those men" Evelyn says as an after thought — going back to the builders, the image of someone standing up on the cliff coming to her mind. She'd seen them up there today again, looking out at the sea. "Strange choice for a house, don’t you think? With the winds?"

"That’s what I said!" Isla gestures vaguely. "There are far better spots, but no, they have to plant themselves right where the gales come roarin' through."

Evelyn shakes her head. "Must be someone with more money than sense commissioning it. Can’t imagine anyone wanting to live up there permanently."

"Yeah." Isla’s voice is light, but there’s an edge of something difficult to place behind it.

Evelyn gives her a look. "Is there something I don't know, Isla?"

Isla grins, seemingly back tracking fast "Just seems odd, that’s all. They don’t mix much, do they? Aside from Mr Shelby popping in for food or drink daily."

Evelyn shrugs. "Perhaps builders aren’t the chatty type. I sort of prefer it that way." Her voice quiets, as if not wanting others to hear even though no one is within earshot. Hell, no one is near the beach this time of day. "Strangers put me on edge."

"That lot seem fine to me."

Evelyn considers that as she rearranges a tea set that had been perfectly displayed beforehand. "Well, whatever they’re doing, it’s their business. I'll keep to myself."

"Like you have since the day arrived here." Isla lifts the vase and places it in one of the boxes, pleased when it fits perfectly. "You comin' by tomorrow to help me with the food preparations?"

"Of course." Evelyn responds, watching as Isla picks up the box with the vase. "I didn't think you would run out so soon."

Isla laughs. "As fate has it, those builders have an appetite."

"They do?" Evelyn's eyes widen in surprise, she hadn't guessed they would venture often from the site. Then again, everyone has to eat. It's just that she hadn't seen many of them out and about. Not that she often ventured around the island unless she needed something or to clear her head.

"Mr Shelby walked right into the store and swiped up almost all of my sandwiches." Isla laughs, shaking her head as she lets the redhead walk her out of the pottery shop. 

The two stand there on the porch for a moment, the sound of the waves crashing are loud out here along the beach. 

"Five in the morning a good time?" Evelyn offers, her fingers reach out to brush some sand from the porch railing.

"Good for me if you don't mind Richard sawin' logs." Isla chuckles, imagining them trying to prepare food to the tune of her husbands sleep sounds.

"Fine with me." The two let their gaze go into the distance, watching as a few islanders head home. It makes it seem as if large fireflies are gliding along a path with them all holding lanterns to illuminate their way.

"Not many out now."

"No," Isla agrees. "Too cold." A brief silence falls between them before Isla sighs. "Well, I should get going before it gets any darker."

Evelyn nods. "Please be careful. Watch your step and don't let anyone give you any trouble."

"Yeah, will do, love." Isla adjusts the weight of the box in her hands.

"See you tomorrow, then."

As Isla leaves, Evelyn lingers on the porch for a moment before she heads back inside to grab her keys — then with a quiet sigh, she walks back outside and locks the door.

Slowly, Evelyn ascends the stairs that lead to her rooms above the shop. The soft creak of the wooden steps echo in the semi-quiet, and once inside, she moves toward the small kitchenette. The kettle is still sitting on the stove where she left it that morning. 

It takes her a few minutes to coax the fire in the stove to life, the flame flickering weakly before it catches and begins to heat up. She feeds it a few pieces of kindling. A faint whistle of wind sneaks through the cracks in the window frames, making the glass shudder with the slightest tremor.

As the minutes pass, the kettle begins to whistle. It's an unnerving sound, one that makes her jump every time. She pours herself a cup of tea, her fingers brushing the porcelain as the liquid warms it. Then she carries it over to the small table by the window. The cup rests in her hands as she sits, gazing out into the darkness. The cliffs loom in the distance. She can just make out the faint glimmer of light — work still being done, even at this hour.

A frown tugs at her lips. It’s strange. The builders usually packed up before sundown, but tonight they haven't. They were still at it. There's something odd about them. She just cannot seem to put her finger on it. 

But it wasn’t her concern, was it? Whatever they were doing, it had nothing to do with her. Even so, the island felt... different now. Or perhaps it is just her who feels that. After all, she had found comfort in such a small place and anytime mainlanders come around, she gets the same sensation.

Sighing softly, Evelyn finishes her tea. She stands, her movements slow and tired, and walks over to the wash basin. Not up for dealing with the dishes, she sets the empty cup into the basin. She leaves the stove on, the heat slowly filling the space, and walks back to the bed.

The corner where her bed sits is still chilled. She sheds her outerwear swiftly and slips beneath the thin sheets, pulling the blankets up to her neck. A slight shiver runs through her frame as she settles in, cold still lingering in the fabric. She closes her eyes, hoping for a restful nights sleep.

Though she knows that's wishful thinking.

Chapter Text

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937
Heavy breaths ring out in the silence as her eyes snap open. Every muscle in her body is tense—limbs shaking violently as she pushes herself upright. She struggles to untangle herself from the sheets, which feel more like vines trapping her, and tumbles to the floor with a thud.

Her mind is too muddled to register the pain, too caught in fight-or-flight mode—even if the danger exists only in her dreams, not in reality.

The darkness doesn’t help.

Her hands claw at the floorboards as she moves on all fours through the small room, unable to see without any light. Her hair clings to her skin, messy—unkempt—soaked in sweat, much like the rest of her body.

Her own ragged breaths echo in her ears, yet it feels like she can’t breathe. She feels as if something—imagined or not—is pressing against her windpipe. She gasps, sputters, fights against it until her hands finally find the door.

With trembling fingers, she grips the handle—twists—pulls.

Cold air rushes in, hitting her face. She looks out at the sea, at the dark expanse stretching before her—a reminder.

She is far from him. Far from pain. Far from anything that could trap her.

Here, all she needs to do is open a door.

Here, everything is her choice. She can open her shop anytime she wants. Close it any day she pleases. Swim, sleep, eat, breathe, bathe—_live_—whenever she decides.

Images float to the surface of her mind causing her stomach to clench—to which she twists, turning towards the railing and lifts herself up in time to hunch over and spill bile out onto the sand below.

The world spins which causes her to fall to her knees. 

Girls like you don't deserve lives like that.

Her uncles voice rings in her ears, causing a buzzing in her head.

Girls like you don't deserve anything.

Her hand comes up to wipe at her drenched skin, her throat constricting as she tries to steady herself, to push it all back, to will it away.

It doesn't work.

The tears come.

And they don't stop until sunrise.

Thomas Shelby  
Undisclosed Island  
1937

Early morning light filters through the window. The large bed, its blankets in disarray, sits against the wall, a nightstand beside it with an oil lamp resting atop.

Thomas Shelby stands in the middle of the room, completely naked, dipping a cloth into the water he warmed over the wood-burning stove.

Slowly, he runs the wet cloth along his neck. Each muscle in his body relaxes at the contact as he moves it down to his chest.

His mind is elsewhere. He’s been here one month, and they are on schedule, but the island’s climate could change that in an instant.

He scrubs at his skin, noting the wear of time on his body. Scars, lines, reminders of things long past.

Once done, he moves closer to the stove, letting the heat dry him off. He reaches for his cigarette case on the dresser, plucking one free before striking a match to light it. His lighter had run out last night. That much he remembers before blacking out, drunk.

Sighing out a plume of smoke, he steps to the window, scanning the land stretching beyond his house. He lives near the site, but not directly on it. On it would have been better.

“Mr. Shelby.”

Briggs enters unannounced. Thomas doesn’t flinch, his gaze never leaving the scenery beyond the window.

“No one tried looking around last night,” Briggs reports. “Our men checked in this morning, first thing.”

“Good,” Thomas mutters, his mind drifting to the war. To what lack of preparation had cost.

“How much of the second half of the tunnel is complete?”

“Most of it, sir. It’ll be ready for inspection today.”

Thomas nods absently, still staring out at the land.

“How long have you been here?” he asks after a pause.

“Sir?”

“In my house.” Thomas turns, brow raised as he waits for an answer.

Briggs shifts on his feet. “Just three hours, sir.”

“You didn’t have a look around?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re lying.” Thomas takes a slow step forward. “Your left eye twitches when you lie. Your jaw ticks when you’re upset. And your hand trembles when you betray someone.”

“I—”

“Relax.” Thomas waves a hand dismissively. “I keep nothing within reach that has real details about what we’re doing here. Everything you find hidden and scattered about—” he steps closer “—all of that. Strategically placed for a reason.”

Briggs swallows hard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby.”

“No, you’re not,” Thomas replies, eyes locked on the man before him. “But had I not done that, Briggs, you would be.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, then exhales. “Now fuck off and don’t come in here again.”

Briggs hesitates, then thinks better of speaking and leaves without another word.

Thomas waits until he hears the front door close before turning back to the window. His eyes settle on the land again, but his thoughts drift elsewhere.

The older he gets, the more the memories come.

Evelyn  
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn pushes open the wooden door to Isla’s shop. The scent of fresh bread lingers in the air. The main room is empty, save for Isla, who stands at the counter, kneading dough with steady hands.

“You’re early,” Isla notes, glancing up.

Evelyn steps inside, the warmth of the shop sinking into her skin. “Didn’t sleep much,” she admits, moving past the counter and into the back room. “Thought I would get an early start on this.”

Isla wipes her hands on her apron and follows, her brow creased slightly, but she doesn’t press the matter. That’s one thing Evelyn likes about her—she doesn’t pry where she isn’t wanted.

The kitchen area is small but well-kept, the wooden table in the center already laid out with ingredients. Fresh bread, slices of ham, a block of cheese waiting to be cut. Evelyn rolls up her sleeves and reaches for a knife.

“Richard still asleep?” she asks, slicing through the cheese with a practiced hand.

Isla hums, reaching for a loaf of bread. “Snoring like a bear. He was up late fixing that damn hinge on the front door.”

Evelyn smirks. “And here I thought nothing could keep him up past sundown.”

They work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional clatter of a knife against the wooden board and the distant sound of Richard snoring in the room off to the side where Isla and him sleep. 

The routine is familiar, easy. It’s something solid, something simple, and Evelyn finds she needs that this morning to keep her mind from straying—to keep herself from crumbling.

After a while, Isla wipes her hands on her apron and turns toward the storage shelf. “Almost forgot—Sheriff came by last night with some packages for you. I told him to leave ‘em here since you’d be in.”

Evelyn straightens, brushing a stray ginger curl from her face. “Packages?”

Isla nods, crouching down to pull a crate off from the lower shelf. “For your shop, I figure. Usual sort of thing.” She sets the crate on the table—away from the food they are preparing. “Heavy.”

Evelyn wipes her hands clean before going over to it. Inside, wrapped in brown paper and twine, are the supplies she’s been waiting on—clay, glazes, tools. But nestled between them, tucked in neatly, are several envelopes. Letters.

Heat spreads on the back of her neck—behind her ears.

Not the good heat—no. It's the type that churns the stomach and comes with the sensation she might faint.

Her fingers hesitate over them for a fraction of a second before she scoops them up and tucks them into her coat pocket. Not one day has she received a letter since coming here. Not one letter.

Isla watches her, not nosy exactly, but aware. Still, she doesn’t ask. Instead, she turns back to the bread.

“Everything you need?” she asks casually.

Evelyn exhales through her nose, nodding once. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

“Good.” Isla finishes up, placing the dough into the pan and then popping it into the stove. “Help me get the first batch set out, then we’ll have some tea.”

Evelyn nods, falling back into the rhythm of their work.

Hoping with every ounce of her being that those letters are not from who she thinks they are.

Thomas Shelby 
Undisclosed Island 
1937

The air inside the tunnel is thick—heavy with the scent of damp earth and sweat. Lanterns flicker along the rough walls, casting shadows that make the space feel even narrower.

Thomas Shelby stands at the front for a moment, listening to the sound of shovels and picks before stepping further inside. The ground beneath his boots is uneven, a mixture of loose dirt and compacted rock.

He has spent enough time in trenches to recognize exhaustion when he sees it. The men have been at this for hours, their shirts soaked through, faces streaked with dirt. Some move with the slow, methodical pace of those used to hard labor, while others—newer, less accustomed to this kind of work—are beginning to falter.

Thomas’s gaze sweeps over the tunnel, his mind quickly going through a checklist he never thought he would have to go through again. 

The structure is holding well. The timber supports, cut and positioned at precise intervals, keep the ceiling from collapsing in on them. Along the walls, small openings have been carved, future placements for the hidden gun ports. When the time comes, these tunnels will serve their purpose. The island will be fortified from within, the enemy never knowing what lies beneath their feet until it is too late.

A sharp clang rings out as a pickaxe strikes stone, followed by a frustrated grunt. Thomas turns his head just in time to see one of the younger workers—Hughes, he thinks his name is—lean against his shovel, wiping sweat from his brow with a dirt-streaked sleeve. The lad is slowing down, dragging his feet, his arms trembling from the weight of the tool in his hands.

“Hughes,” he calls, his voice cutting through the noise inside the tunnel.

The young man’s head snaps up, his face paling slightly as he straightens his back. “Sir?”

Thomas steps closer, his boots grinding against the dirt. “You tired?”

Hughes hesitates. “No, sir.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, his gaze steady. “You lie as badly as you work.”

A few of the other men glance up at that, their expressions carefully neutral. No one wants to draw Thomas’s attention unnecessarily.

“I—I’ll pick up the pace, sir,” Hughes stammers, gripping the shovel tighter.

Thomas watches him for a moment longer before turning his head to the others. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice carrying through the tunnel. “You don’t get to be tired. You don’t get to slow down. This—” he gestures to the space around them, the very earth they stand in, “—is the difference between being ready and being dead. Between holding the line and letting them walk through our front door.”

Silence stretches between them.

“We dig,” Thomas continues, his voice low, steady. “And we do it quietly. No one up there knows what’s happening down here, and it stays that way. The islanders can’t find out. We make sure when the war comes, we’re ahead of it.” His gaze sweeps over the men, letting the weight of his words settle. “This is the first tunnel. It won’t be the last. We’ll be digging through this entire island before we’re done.”

He turns back to Hughes, giving the lad a long look before jerking his chin toward the wall. “Get back to it.”

The young man swallows hard and immediately goes back to work, driving the shovel into the dirt with renewed effort. The others follow suit, the tunnel once again filled with the sound of labor.

Satisfied, Thomas continues his inspection, walking deeper into the tunnel where Briggs is waiting for him.

“The first section is nearly complete,” Briggs reports, his voice low. “Gun ports will be ready for placement tomorrow for this section.”

Thomas nods, scanning the rough holes in the walls, made from his previous instructions. “Make sure they’re positioned right. No mistakes.”

“They will be.”

Thomas doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it using a match. He takes a slow drag before exhaling through his nose.

“Keep them working,” he says finally. “We can’t afford delays.”

Briggs nods.

Thomas casts one last look at the tunnel before turning and making his way back to the surface. He steps into the daylight, the salty sea air replacing the damp underground staleness.

He takes another drag of his cigarette and exhales, his mind already calculating the next steps.

This island will be ready.

He'll make sure of it.

Evelyn 
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn works quietly, her fingers deftly wrapping sandwiches in brown paper, stacking them neatly. The simple rhythm of the repetitive work soothes her. It's predictable. 

Across from her, Isla kneads dough, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. “You should eat something,” she says without looking up. “You’ve been at this since you got here.”

Evelyn ties off the last sandwich and wipes her hands on her apron. “I will,” she murmurs, not quite ready to commit to it.

The door opens in the front of the store. Footsteps—heavy, measured. 

“Isla,” a voice calls out.

Isla wipes her hands on a cloth and pushes through the doorway to the front. 

Evelyn wipes down the counter that she had been working on for hours, removing any leftover crumbs from the sandwich making. She had no reason to go out to the front. She'd let Isla handle it and soon head back to her pottery shop—maybe make a few pieces with her new supplies and placate the part of her that needed to stick to her everyday routine. 

But then Isla’s voice carries back. “You need those supplies at your shop, don’t you?”

Evelyn stills.

Isla knows she hates relying on people. She'd rather handle most things herself if and when she can. 

But before she can say no, Isla adds, “Mr. Shelby here can carry them for you.”

Evelyn’s stomach tightens. Her instinct is to refuse outright, to shake her head, insist she can handle it. But Thomas has already stepped into the backroom, his sharp blue eyes landing on her.

She forces herself to meet his gaze, even if it is just for a second. He doesn’t look particularly interested in the task, but he also doesn’t argue with Isla’s suggestion. His face, as always, is unreadable, except there may be the faintest shadow of irritation, though she can’t tell if it is her own mind trying to find something there or how his face just looks naturally. 

“I can manage,” she says quickly, her voice steady despite the way her chest tightens. She doesn’t want anyone’s help. Least of all his. 

Not a stranger. Especially not one as broad as he is.

Thomas exhales, slow and measured, then reaches for his cigarette case. “I’m carrying them,” he says simply, lighting a cigarette as if the matter is already settled.

Isla appears soon after, leaning against the door frame and shoots Evelyn a look—one that says not to bother arguing. With a tight nod, Evelyn unties her apron and removes it, folding it neatly over the chair before gathering her coat.

The walk to her shop is silent at first. Thomas carries the crate seemingly without much effort—cigarette dangling from his lips.

Evelyn keeps a careful distance, her arms crossed, fingers gripping at her sleeves. She is too aware of him, of the way he moves. Men as broad as he is are usually seen as dangerous to her. Mostly due to her own experience with her uncle. Unpredictable, volatile. Even standing beside him makes her skin feel too tight. 

She's tried to work through her trauma, to tell herself to get comfortable and stop seeing every man as a threat to her existence. Even to her it doesn't make sense, but she can't seem to make herself see sense. Not now. Not in the time she's been here.

“Busy morning,” Thomas says after a long stretch of silence.

She hesitates before answering. “Yes.”

Another pause.

“Shop’s doing well?”

She glances at him. He isn’t looking at her, just ahead, as if this conversation is nothing but idle chatter. Maybe to him, it is.

“Yes,” she replies quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Yes, it is." Her voice a little louder now.

Thomas nods and she could swear she sees a hint of a smirk on his lips, but it's gone as quickly as it had appeared.

They reach her shop, and she quickly unlocks the door, pushing it open. This is her space. Her world. Here she is safe. Here she is at home.

She turns back to him, her arms tightening around herself. “You can leave it there.”

Thomas sets the crate down by the door, straightens, and takes another drag of his cigarette. Flicking the ashes off outside the open door.

He doesn’t leave right away—no. Instead, he looks at her, really looks at her, like he is trying to figure something out.

Evelyn forces herself to hold his gaze for as long as she can, but eventually breaks it. She doesn’t like feeling observed. Scrutinized.

People look your way because they are disgusted. You sicken them.

Finally, Thomas exhales smoke and turns back toward the door. “See you around, Evelyn.”

And just like that, he is gone.

She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

The moment is over, but the unease it leaves behind lingers.

She never told him her name. 

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

Thomas lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. There's a fire in the stove, warming the bedroom of the small stone house. 

His second bottle of whiskey of the night sits empty on the table beside him, the first finished hours ago. He feels it dulling the edges of his thoughts but not enough to let them rest.

The tunnel is coming along. Slower than he’d like, but the men are getting the hang of it. Some never served in the war, it had been easy to spot the moment he met them. 

Enough, still, they were chosen as his men now and he would command them as needed. Keep them in line. Get what needed to be done—finished.

As for the tunnels, the timber braces hold for now, but if they go too fast, if they push too hard, it could all come down on their heads. He hasn't said it to them—yet, but it’s in the back of his mind every time he steps inside—how quickly it could all be buried. How quickly they could be buried.

After all, he knows what it's like to have a tunnel collapse. Only his experience had been in the middle of a fucking war. 

He rubs a hand over his face, feels the roughness of a dusting of stubble against his palm. The whiskey should have knocked him out by now. But his mind keeps circling back, restless, turning over details — checking for flaws.

The tunnel needs more support. Briggs mentioned reinforcing certain sections in the evening before he left, said they might need more wood than they planned for. That means extra shipments, more questions, more chances for someone to notice what they’re doing. He’ll have to work around that. 

His hand drifts to the cigarette case on the table. He considers reaching for one, but the effort feels like too much. Instead, he lets his eyes close for a moment, but it doesn’t help. There’s no sleep waiting for him. Just more thoughts, more scenarios playing in his mind, more plans — numerous ways this could all go wrong.

He doesn’t notice at first. The thought creeps in, settles itself before he can push it away. Evelyn.

His brow furrows, and his eyes snap open. The fire crackles, steady and warm, the only sound in the room. He lets out a slow breath, but the thought doesn’t leave.

Evelyn.

He said her name before she ever gave it to him. It only hits him now. That time when he carried that crate for her. When she stood there, arms tight around herself, eyes sharp and wary. He said her name like he already knew it.

Of course he did. 

He knows the name of every person on the island. He has known since before stepping foot in this sodden place. He has acted as though he did not know the names of anyone until they told him it — save for Isla who he is working with here. 

He remembers how Evelyn looked at him. How she stiffened, just slightly. How could he be so careless?

He rubs a hand over his jaw, exhales through his nose. He doesn’t like things slipping past him. Doesn’t like messing up like this.

Thomas thinks he could possibly blame it on Isla, say the woman mentioned Evelyn before. Isla would play along. 

Evelyn. Why is he overthinking it? Perhaps she would just write it off as that already, maybe he wouldn't need to explain himself. It's not as if the woman ever seeks him out, they hadn't crossed paths until recently. 

Why is he thinking so much about this. About her. 

She’s careful. Keeps her head down, keeps to herself. But he’s seen careful before, and it’s never just careful. It’s something else. Caution, maybe. But he hasn't given her a reason to be cautious.

Has he?

Does that matter to him?

He sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the room tilting slightly from the whiskey. His boots sit where he left them, his coat draped over the chair. He could sleep if he tried hard enough. If he drained a third bottle. But there’s no use in forcing something that won’t come.

Instead, he reaches for the cigarettes, lights one with a match, and watches the smoke curl toward the ceiling. The tunnel is what matters. The work. The preparation. That’s what he needs to focus on.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1934

Evelyn sits at the kitchen table, the envelopes resting in her hands feel toxic, like they could burn her if she let them. But they cannot hurt her, she knows that, it's just paper after all.

The envelopes look as if they have been through hell and back. The paper stiff and rough. She doesn’t need to open them to know who sent them. The handwriting is unmistakable—sharp, rigid, like every word had been carved into the page rather than written.

Her uncle.

Her throat tightens as she stares at the ink, her name scrawled out as if so much pressure had been applied from just writing.. It's only her name and the name of the island. No address. 

She presses her lips together, swallowing against the bile threatening to come up. How long has he known that she’s here? The thought makes her grip the letters tighter, heart rate speeding up.

She shouldn’t be surprised. No matter how far she’s gone, how careful she’s been, she should have known he would find her. That her freedom would never truly be real.

You'll never amount to anything. Never be any one but who are you. What you are. 

Her hands shake as she turns the first envelope over, running her thumb beneath the flap. The idea of reading his words makes her stomach churn. The threats, the demands—maybe even a twisted attempt at feigned concern. She can hear his voice in her head already, sharp and pointed, the way it always was when he wanted to make sure his words dug deep and stayed there.

You're like an animal, easily frightened. You could never make it on your own. You're weak.

She clenches her jaw and drops the envelopes onto the table. She won’t open them. She won’t give him that.

Even if he would never know she didn't read them.

The fire in the wood burning stove crackles, warming the small room. She stands, taking the letters with her, her fingers stiff as she grips them tight. She crosses the room, her movements sharp, determined.

The iron door of the stove groans as she pulls it open with a thick cloth—careful not to burn her hand on the handle. Inside, embers glow beneath the kindling. The heat rushes out against her skin, but she barely feels it.

She hesitates only for a second. Then she throws the letters inside.

The paper curls almost immediately, the edges blackening, then catching. Flames crawl across the envelopes, swallowing them whole.

She watches until there’s nothing left but embers.

A shuddering breath escapes her, but the tightness in her chest doesn’t ease. The letters are gone, but the threat they carried is still heavy on her shoulders.

She closes the stove door and steps back, wrapping her arms around herself.

He knows where she is.

She is not safe.

She has never been safe.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

Thomas pushes open the door to Isla’s shop. The scent of fresh bread greets him. The store is empty aside from Isla standing behind the counter, flour over her apron.

The morning light filters through the front window. It’s a peaceful sight, the kind of thing that might make a man pause if he had the time for it. Thomas doesn’t.

Isla glances up at him, brushing her forearm across her forehead. “You look like you crawled out of the grave.”

He exhales through his nose, stepping forward. “Two loaves, some cheese, and whatever meat you have. Enough for ten men.”

She doesn’t comment further on his appearance, just wipes her hands on her apron and moves to gather what he asked for.

As she moves about the shop, wrapping the bread in brown paper and slicing off portions of cheese, she speaks, her voice casual. “There’s a nice breeze coming in from the west.”

Thomas stills, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches her. He doesn’t respond right away, just listens.

Isla doesn’t look at him as she continues. “Good for those out on the water. They can really enjoy it, ya know?”

Now she does glance at him, brief but pointed. He knows what she means.

A shipment is coming.

He rolls his shoulders slightly, shifting his stance. “When?”

“A few days,” she says, tying the paper around the cheese with a golden ribbon. “Depending on how steady the wind holds.”

That means he has some time to prepare. They’ll need to move quickly when it arrives—get the cargo off the boat, onto the island, and into the tunnels without anyone catching on. A lot can go wrong in the space of a few hours.

He slides a few notes across the counter as she finishes packing the order. She takes them without counting and tucks them into a tin under the counter.

“Anything else?” she asks.

Thomas shakes his head and takes the packed up food. “No.”

As he turns to leave, Isla speaks again, her tone lighter, but the meaning clear. “We should enjoy the nice breezes when they come. The weather changes so quickly. Not long until those nice breezes will have trouble reaching us.”

He nods once and steps out into the morning light.

Thomas Shelby
Undisclosed Island
1937

Back at the tunnels, the men are already at work. The sound of picks and shovels hitting earth fills the narrow space, sweat and damp earth thick in the air. He sets the parcel down on a makeshift table near the hole dug into the earth, the food to be divided up when they take their break.

Then Thomas descends down into the tunnel. When he turns—the images from the war float to the surface of his vision and it takes a few blinks to right it. To be in the present.

Briggs spots him first, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirt-streaked sleeve. “Everything alright?”

Thomas doesn’t answer right away. He steps forward, eyes scanning the work. The tunnel is coming along well, the supports holding, the gun ports nearly ready. Good. 

But they have more tunnels to dig. The more tunnels, the deeper they get, the more difficult it will be. The more issues they will face. He knows that. He's lived it. 

Finally, he speaks. “We’ve got something coming in.”

Briggs straightens slightly. “When?”

“A few days.”

Briggs exhales, nodding. “You want me to get the men ready?”

Thomas folds his arms, glancing over at a group of men driving a wooden support beam deeper into place. “We'll need to prepare, practice the next two days."

Briggs nods, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching for a cigarette. He hesitates, then asks, “Anything we should be worried about?”

Thomas thinks about it. There’s always something to be worried about. The wrong eyes seeing too much. A leak in information. The islanders catching wind of what’s really happening under their feet. He exhales sharply through his nose. “We do this right, no one knows it happened.”

Briggs takes that for what it is and lights his cigarette, watching as Thomas moves deeper into the tunnel. The air is cooler down here, the light from the lamps flickering against the dirt walls.

Thomas presses his palm against one of the beams, testing its strength. They’re doing good work. The men might be exhausted, but they know this is bigger than them. Bigger than any of them individually. When the war comes—and it will come—they’ll be ready.

He stays there for a long moment, listening. The sound of earth being moved, men breathing hard as they dig, as they build. It’s steady. Reliable. And for now, that’s enough.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn dips a cloth into the bucket, wrings it out, and wipes down the glass pane of the shop window. The water drips down onto the wooden frame, catching in the grooves before sliding off onto the step below. She presses a little harder, working out a stubborn streak of dust, then steps back to examine her work.

Decent enough.

With a shop right on the beach—decent is all she would get. So much sand, so much everything.

She moves to the stairs, crouching down to sweep the damp rag over the wood. Salt air wears at everything. The island wind carries it in, and before long, it settles, clinging to surfaces and dulling them with a fine layer of grime. The shop, her shop, needs to be kept up. 

Evelyn finds pride in it. The upkeep, the stocking, the creating things that people will use with her hands. Her own two hands that she never thought were capable of anything. She wasn't told any different. Always useless.

You'll never amount to anything. Girls like you are wasted space.

She pauses for a moment, leaning back onto her heels. The rag sits damp in her hands as she wipes a loose strand of ginger hair from her face. Then, she lifts her gaze toward the cliff.

The bare bones of a house can be spotted, not yet finished. All what she would guess is scaffolding—wooden beams. It's too far to tell if there's any stone in it. A structure in progress. It hasn’t changed much since she last looked. She’s not sure what compels her to check on it, but she does. Throughout the day she finds herself glancing upwards now, towards it.

A figure stands near the edge.

At first, she thinks it’s one of the workers, surveying the site. But something about the way the figure stands makes her pause. He’s watching.

A small shift in the air moves through her. She tightens her grip on the cloth and forces her focus back to the shop. Whoever it is, it’s none of her business.

But before she turns fully, she realizes something.

She’s seen that posture before. That stillness, the way it doesn’t fidget or shift it's weight. She saw it when Thomas carried the crate to her shop.

Mr Shelby. 

That's what Isla had called him. 

A strange awareness settles in her chest. He had carried the crate like it weighed nothing, cigarette balanced between his fingers, barely looking at her as he walked. 

She had thought about that moment a few times since. Not much—just in passing. A flicker of memory when she locked the shop door at night or when she moved to restock a shelf.

Now, she wonders what he’s doing up there. Watching over the construction? Checking the work? Or just watching the island itself? Or with where he seems to be facing...her shop?

And why does she care?

She drops the cloth into the bucket and stands. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

The house will be finished eventually. That much is certain. It will sit up there, looking down at the rest of them. What it will be when it’s done, she doesn’t know. Grand, likely. Sturdy. Another thing on the island she’ll have to get used to.

But who would live in it. Who would fund such a thing?

She picks up the bucket, turns on her heel, and walks inside without another glance toward the cliff.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The walk to the beach is quiet. The wind rolls in from the water, sharp with salt and cold against his face. Thomas tugs his coat tighter around him. 

The tide is low, leaving long stretches of damp sand, the occasional glint of shell or rock catching what little light remains as the sun sets.

But, he isn’t here for the view.

The shop is still open when he reaches it. Through the window, he sees Evelyn moving about, wiping down a counter, straightening a row of pottery on a wooden shelf. 

It's quiet out here and he can see why she would choose to have her shop along the shore.

He waits a beat before stepping inside. 

Evelyn looks up, eyes widening slightly when she sees him.

“Mr. Shelby, are you lost?” she asks, setting down the cloth in her hand.

Thomas reaches into his coat and pulls out his cigarette case. Taking one from it and wetting his lips before running the filter along them. “No.” He scans the shelves, as if he has any real interest in what’s on them. “Thought I’d pick up a mug.”

She crosses her arms. “A mug.”

“That’s what I said.”

Her expression doesn’t change. She isn’t stupid. She knows he doesn’t seem like the type to drop by for a bit of pottery. But she doesn’t call him on it outright, just watches as he moves further into the shop, trailing a finger along the edge of a shelf, scanning the selection as if he’s actually considering it.

"You’re open late," he says, keeping his tone casual. He tucks his cigarette case back into his coat, pulls out a box of matches, and strikes one. The flame flares as he lights his cigarette. He shakes out the match, slips it into the box, and returns it to his coat.

Evelyn shrugs, turning back to the counter. “Sometimes.”

He picks up a mug, turning it in his hand. The glaze is deep green, smooth under his fingertips. Sturdy. Well-made.

“You work alone?”

Another glance from her, more guarded this time. “Most of the time.”

He nods, setting the mug back down. “Seems quiet.”

“Most nights, it is.”

The air between them settles into something heavier, unspoken words lingering. He studies her in the dim light of the shop—her sleeves are pushed up past her elbows, a smudge of clay on her forearm. She looks like she’s been working all day. There’s a tiredness to her.

“How late?” he asks finally.

"What?"

"How late you are here?"

Evelyn wipes her hands on her apron. “Why do you care?”

“Just making conversation.”

She doesn’t believe him. He can tell. But she doesn’t push, just leans against the counter and studies him like she’s trying to figure something out. He lets her. 

After a long moment, she sighs, walking over to him and reaching for the mug he’d picked up earlier. “This the one you want?”

He glances at it, then back at her. “Yeah.”

She returns to the counter, unties the twine, and removes the small price tag before wrapping it up.

He eyes the price tag, pulls out the money, sets it down, but she doesn’t reach for it immediately.

“So...why a mug?” she asks, voice even.

He exhales through his nose, something close to amusement. “I needed one.”

A pause.

“I’ll be closing soon,” she says, voice quiet, but firm.

He nods once, taking the wrapped mug and tucking it under his arm. “See you around, Evelyn.”

She doesn’t respond, just watches as he turns and steps back out into the night, the door clicking shut behind him.

As he walks back up the path, he glances back once. Through the window, she’s still standing there, unmoving, staring after him like she’s trying to decide what to make of him.

He smirks to himself, tucking his free hand into his coat pocket.

He’d gotten what he came for.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The night air is thick with salt and the distant crash of waves as Thomas Shelby stands at the cliff’s edge, staring down at the darkened beach below. The test run has to be precise. Every movement, every footstep, every breath—measured and controlled. 

Mistakes tonight mean disaster later.

Behind him, the men are waiting. Briggs and Rowe stand slightly apart, their eyes trained on him, waiting for the order. The others—Jenkins, Kipner, Davies, Smith, Hughes, McTavish, Calloway, Fraser—are murmuring among themselves, tugging on some gloves, shifting their weight. They know the plan, but knowing and doing are two different things.

Thomas takes a drag from his cigarette, exhales, and flicks the spent stub into the dirt. “We move quiet,” he says. “No talking. No lights until we are on the beach. The path is shit, so watch where you put your feet.” He glances at Briggs and Rowe. “Lead them down. I’ll follow.”

Briggs nods, then moves first, slipping into the undergrowth that marks the concealed path they’ve chosen. It’s not a common trail—too uneven, too dangerous for the average islander to bother with. That’s why it works for them. It winds down the cliffside, weaving through patches of gorse and jagged rock, treacherous even in daylight. At night, with only the faint glow of the moon breaking through the clouds, it’s worse.

One by one, the men follow, boots sinking into loose earth. Thomas takes up the rear, eyes scanning the horizon. No lights, no movement. The island sleeps, unaware of what’s happening.

The descent is slow. Twice, he hears a misstep—a rock kicked loose, a muffled curse quickly swallowed. But no one falls, and after several minutes, they reach the bottom. The sand is damp and firm beneath their boots.

Kipner and Hughes are already at the shoreline, waiting near the dark outline of the small simple row boat they’d set up earlier. This test run is about efficiency. If they can’t move these crates quickly and quietly, they’ll have to change the plan. 

These crates are full of lumber, wood to help build the supports in the tunnels and the house they are using as a cover. Items they had on hand to test this with.

Thomas steps up beside Briggs. “Time it,” he orders.

Briggs nods, checking his pocket watch. “Go.”

Jenkins and Calloway wade forward first, knee-deep in the freezing surf. The crate is heavy, but they lift it between them and haul it onto the shore. 

“Faster,” Thomas says.

McTavish and Smith are next, followed by Hughes and Fraser. The crates come one after another, each man taking his turn hauling them up the shore. The work is brutal, their breaths heavy, muscles straining under the weight. But they don’t complain.

When the last crate is on shore, Briggs checks his watch. “Eight minutes.”

Too slow.

Thomas doesn’t say it, but they all know. The real shipment will be larger, heavier. Eight minutes is too long to be exposed.

"Again.", he orders. 

They go back and forth for over an hour until the men have unloading the boat down to three minutes. 

"Now time getting up the path and to the cliff.", he says lighting a cigarette and glancing around. They shouldn't be out here like this, practicing like they are. 

Anyone could see or notice, but he will open the crates if need be. Claim they were moving materials. 

He follows them up the path, checking his pocket watch. "Stop"

Thomas pushes past them to where Rowe and Briggs are. "Stop fucking thinking about it." He instructs, pushing Briggs out of the way and taking up his part in handling one of the crates.

A few of the men protest, but Thomas clears his throat in warning. 

He heads up the units, moving with Rowe much faster than Briggs had been. Showing them how it's done. Then they wrap the rope around their crate and lower it down into the tunnel as fast and swift as possible. Thomas climbs down next, down the ladder until his feet reach the top of the crate.

He slips off of it, grabbing the rope and wrapping it around his knuckles until he can dig the heels of his boots into the damp earth and pull with everything he has. Rowe comes down next, pushing the crate to help Thomas. 

The others begin to do the same.

He settles the crate near the far end of the tunnel, his back colliding with the dirt wall and his skin soaked in sweat as he pants, heart hammering in his chest. 

The air down here is thick with the scent of earth, of wooden beams rotting due to the damp. 

Briggs wipes sweat from his brow. “Too slow,” he says, echoing Thomas’ unspoken thought.

Thomas lights a cigarette. The tunnel is too narrow. It makes lowering the crates and ensuring no one sees too difficult. 

“We reinforce the tunnel,” he says finally. “Make it wider. Steadier. Get a wall up for the house. Hide the opening of the tunnels with that.”

Rowe nods. “We’ll need to work day and night for a bit.”

Thomas takes a long pull of his cigarette. “Get it done. We run it again in two nights.”

No one argues.

The men start dispersing, heading for whatever rest they can get before morning. Thomas stays behind a moment longer. Memories spilling to the surface of his mind.

He can’t shake the feeling that even with all their preparation, it won’t be enough.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

The bell above the shop door jingles as Evelyn steps inside, rubbing her hands together against the creeping chill of the evening. The warmth inside is welcome, carrying the scent of dried herbs and fresh bread. She shrugs her coat tighter around her shoulders and moves toward the shelves, already knowing what needs to be done.

Isla is behind the counter, counting coins from the till, her lips pursed in concentration. She glances up at Evelyn and gives a small smile. “You’re here to help?”

Evelyn nods, slipping past the counter toward the rows of glass jars lining the shelves. The shop is small but packed full—jars of pickled onions, jams, honey, and preserved fruit stacked neatly beside sacks of flour, oats, and dried beans. A few baskets of root vegetables sit near the window, though the selection is thinning as the colder months approach.

Richard, Isla's husband, is crouched near the back of the shop, muttering under his breath as he hammers on the wooden shelf that had given way under the weight of too many potato sacks. He grumbles something about cheap materials as he hammers heavily on a nail — the noise making Evelyn feel as if her head might split in two.

“Is it going to hold?” Evelyn asks, setting a jar of blackberry jam back into place.

Richard exhales through his nose, standing up and stretching his back. “For now. Wouldn’t trust it to hold another year, though.” He taps the side of the shelf with the hammer for emphasis. “Might need to replace the whole thing if we keep overloading it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Isla says as she steps around the counter, dusting flour from her apron. “That shelf has been in this shop longer than I have.”

Evelyn hums in response, busying herself with reorganizing the row of dried herbs. Lavender, rosemary, thyme—the scents blend together in the warm air of the shop. Her fingers trace the rough twine tied around a bundle of sage before she catches Isla watching her.

“Something on your mind?” Isla asks, leaning against the counter.

Evelyn pauses, then shakes her head. “Just thinking about the ferry.”

At that, Isla brightens. “Oh! Yes, it’ll be in soon. I’m hoping for a good crowd. If it’s a strong turnout, we’ll make enough to carry through to the new year.”

“Do you think many will come?” Richard asks, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Always do this time of year,” Isla replies. “The last chance for the mainlanders to visit before winter sets in. They’ll be here for two days at least.”

Evelyn turns back to the shelves, adjusting a row of honey jars that have been set slightly askew. Her stomach tightens. The ferry. It shouldn’t mean anything. It should be just another group of strangers passing through, buying what they need before returning to their lives on the mainland. It's happened a couple of times in the past two years she's been here. But none of it happened when she had gotten a letter from her uncle.

She doesn’t speak her worry aloud. No one here knows. No one needs to.

She takes a breath, steadying herself before turning back to Isla. “Do you need me to help in the morning? If there are more people, it might get busy.” She's thinking of being around people, around others. Maybe she won't open her shop. Perhaps she can just... hide out here. Not until she had to head home. Two days is so long.

Isla grins. “That would be lovely.”

Evelyn nods, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the shelf. Perhaps her uncle wouldn't come on that ferry. She tells herself she’s being foolish. 

She forces a small smile and turns back to work, pushing the thought away. For now.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The tide is low when Thomas and his men step onto the beach, boots sinking slightly into the damp sand. The sky is a deep, impenetrable black, the moon barely visible behind thick clouds. A sharp wind rolls in from the water, carrying the scent of the ocean. Thomas pulls his coat tighter against the cold, his eyes scanning the shoreline for any sign of movement beyond his own men.

Briggs and Rowe are ahead of him, their steps careful but steady, leading the rest of the unit to the designated meeting point. Behind them, Jenkins, Kipner, Davies, Smith, Hughes, McTavish, Calloway, and Fraser move in pairs, silent but alert. Each man knows his role. Two of which hold up lanterns to help them see just enough.

A small, dark boat rocks on the waves just past the shallows. Two figures sit inside—waiting.

Thomas signals with a gloved hand, and Briggs moves forward, stepping into the cold water first. The others follow, their coats shifting as they make their way to the boat. The sea laps at their thighs as they begin unloading the cargo—heavy wooden crates, their contents carefully secured. Weapons. Ammunition. The tools they will need for what is coming.

Thomas watches as his men work quickly, efficiently. They form a chain, passing the crates from the boat to the shore. The night is silent except for the hushed noises they seem to be making getting the crates unloaded and settled on the wet sand along the shore. 

Rowe steps up beside Thomas. "We good to go?" 

Thomas nods. "Get them to the tunnel. Now."

Rowe motions, and the men shift their positions. Each crate is carefully lifted and carried toward the cliffs, where a somewhat concealed path leads to the site of the tunnel. They move in practiced silence, keeping their pace quick but steady in the dark of the night.

Thomas lingers behind for a moment, his gaze sweeping the darkness. Something feels off. The waves break against the shore in a rhythmic crash.

An unsteady sensation wriggles down his throat and into the pit of his stomach, his eyes straining in the dark trying to see any sign of movement.

His vision hasn't been the same since his skull had been fractured, and he doesn't have his glasses.

He turns this way and that, scanning the dunes beyond the beach, the jagged rocks near the cliffside. Nothing but shadows. Nothing but the outline of the land meeting the sea.

Still, the feeling remains.

With a final glance toward the sea, catching the boat paddling away, Thomas follows his men, moving swiftly up the path. By the time he reaches the entrance of the tunnel, the first crates are already disappearing inside.

"Keep going," he orders, stepping aside as Fraser and Calloway push past with another load. 

Rowe approaches, wiping the sweat from his brow despite the cold. "That was smooth. Too smooth."

Thomas nods. "Someone was watching."

Rowe stiffens. "You saw them?"

"No. Felt it."

They exchange a look. Rowe doesn’t argue. He knows better.

"Double the watch tonight," Thomas says. "No one gets near this tunnel."

Rowe nods and moves to relay the order. Thomas stands at the entrance for a moment longer, staring down into the hole that leads to the tunnel. 

Perhaps it's just nerves, a feeling brought on by his own paranoia. 

He his drift down as he pulls his cigarette case from the pocket of his coat. His hand is trembling. 

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn sits by the window, the dim glow of her oil lamp flickering against the glass. Outside, the island is quiet, not a soul out this late at night. The sea air drifts in through the slightly cracked window, carrying the scent of salt and damp earth.

She takes to watching the shore at night, how the moon shines on the surface of the water. And tonight, is the same. Only this time — her eyes catch movement along the waterline, and she stiffens. 

Just enough light from two lanterns illuminates the area around them and from the looks of it, there are quite a few people there. They move with purpose, deliberate and quiet, hauling crates from a boat in the shallows to the sand along the beach. Evelyn squints, pressing closer to the window. The waves lap at their boots as they wade back and forth from a boat that rocks gently in the shallows. They’re unloading something heavy, carrying it inland toward the cliffs.

Her stomach tightens.

She doesn’t need to see their faces to know who they are.

Her thoughts flick back to when Mr. Shelby had stepped into her shop. The way he had lingered, asked how late she stayed open. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but now—now, she wonders.

He had been feeling something out.

Planning something.

The men on the beach move quickly. She watches them haul the last of the crates onto shore. Her breath catches as one of them turns his head, just enough for the light of a lantern to illuminate the sharp line of his face.

Mr Shelby..

She exhales slowly, watching as he seems to look around, his posture tense. Eyes searching the dunes, the shore...

Like he knows someone is watching.

Evelyn steps back from the window, her heartbeat steady but strong. She doesn’t know what they’re moving, but she knows it’s something important. Something meant to stay hidden.

Something he didn’t want anyone to see.

She turns from the window — taking her oil lamp with her for fear he would see the light. If they had been moving building materials, they wouldn't have done it under the cover of night. No. They were moving something else. Had to be.

But she isn't sure she wants to know. The last thing she needs right now is to cause trouble.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

You fixin races now? What's got into you?

Thomas' eyes fly open, the timber of Arthurs voice echoing in his ears. Times long gone. Eighteen years ago, now. He runs a dry palm across his face, sleep no longer in his bones instead it's replaced with the shakes.

His family believes him dead. His caravan had gone up in flames, after all. He sighs, deep and regretful, before pushing himself upright, the mattress creaking beneath him.

He had no choice. If they knew he was alive, what then? The old fights, the old wars—they’d never stop. Better they start fresh, better they take the money he left and carve out lives free from the ruin that follows men like them.

And yet, Churchill found him. How? The best asset is one already buried, name scrubbed from ledgers, face forgotten. That was the point. And still, here he is.

Thomas Shelby is alive. But the world doesn’t know it. He is a ghost among the living, moving unseen, breathing in borrowed time. If this could even be called living.

He presses his hands to his thighs, grounding himself, but the weight in his chest doesn’t ease. What he wouldn’t give to go back—to those first hungry years, to the sharp thrill of clawing his way up from nothing, to the taste of ambition when it still felt like possibility instead of inevitability.

But those days are long passed. And there is no going back.

Tommy Shelby, is that regret?

Ada’s voice rings in his head, sharp and relentless. He presses his face into his hands, fingers digging into his temples as his spine curls inward. He rocks, just once, his breath coming in ragged pulls. This is why he drinks.

Because he is no longer with them—no longer able to watch over them, to keep them safe, to keep himself tethered to something other than this empty life he drifts in.

He is alone. Completely and utterly alone.

"Fuck it."

He shoves himself upright, movements stiff and unsteady. He yanks on his trousers, leaves the belt loose, and pulls on his shirt, not bothering to tuck it in. There’s no one to look presentable for. No one to care.

He steps into his boots, laces loose.

His hand finds the first bottle of whiskey, then another. He doesn't hesitate. He moves, pushing through the heavy wooden door of the stone prison he calls home. The night air slaps against his skin, cold and relentless, as he steps outside.

The first bottle opens with a twist, and he lifts it to his lips without pause, letting the burn carve its way down his throat. The second bottle stays tucked beneath his arm—insurance, for when the first inevitably runs dry.

He walks. Boots crunch over gravel and dirt, over jagged rock and patches of wind-flattened grass. The sea calls in the distance, black and endless under the moonlight. 

By the time he reaches the shore, the bottle in his hand is already half empty. The waves roll in, licking at the sand, and he stands at the edge, staring out into the vast nothingness ahead.

He takes another drink. The wind howls. The sea whispers. And for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself listen.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Margate
1935

A year has passed since word of Thomas Shelby's passing spread through the streets of London and Small Heath. A year since Arthur beat two men near to death outside of a pub, a year since Ada vowed never to step foot in Small Heath ever again, a year since Duke took a higher role within the Peaky Blinders, a year since Johnny Dogs vacated the land where Arrow House stood and found greener fields to occupy.

Small Heath continued to grow, Shelby Company Limited and the many other businesses Thomas had linked to his name keeps strumming on with the family — but without him. 

He had put everything in place. Money, business, all of it taken care of so they didn't have to think—or deal with it all. Especially in the aftermath.

He, however, had spent the year after roaming like his blood before him. Just his horse and the clothes on his back. 

Yet, for the past two weeks, Thomas Shelby has woken up to the sound of seagulls and Alfie Solomons running his mouth.

The first is irritating. The second is unbearable.

Even now, as Thomas blinks awake, the room swimming back into focus, he hears Alfie’s voice carrying over the distant cries of the gulls outside. Loud on purpose. Always loud on purpose.

"Do you ever shut up?" Thomas mutters, his voice rough from last night’s drinking. His head throbs, his throat dry.

Alfie doesn’t even look over. He’s seated near the open balcony doors, half-dressed, shirt loose at the collar, his ruined face turned toward the sea. 

"Wouldn’t wake ya if you had fallen asleep in the fuckin’ bed I gave you," Alfie says. "Out of the kindness of my fuckin' heart, mate."

Two dead men. Two ghosts.

A knock at the door interrupts them.

"Would you like breakfast, Mr. Shelby?" Edna asks.

She’s already stepping inside before Thomas can answer, a tray balanced in her hands. What should be a proper meal isn’t one. Whiskey.

Alfie doesn’t hesitate. He grabs his glass and downs it like it’s water, the only reaction a slow exhale through his nose, followed by the clearing of his throat.

Thomas shakes his head at the offer. "No."

He rubs his hands down his face, breathes out, then forces himself upright. His bones protest. His boots are in the floor by the sofa, his coat thrown over the armrest.

Edna doesn’t say much—never does—but she watches for a moment—then—"I'll wash the sheets now," before she slips away, leaving them alone.

With anyone else, there would have been silence.

But with Alfie, there is never silence.

"Ya know, Tommy," Alfie starts, his voice taking on that familiar, thoughtful sort of weight, like he’s been turning something over in his mind for a while now. "I been sittin’ here since close to daybreak, yeah? Thinkin’ about how I ended up like this."

Thomas exhales sharply through his nose. "And?"

He leans back, resting his glass on his knee. "Used to know how the world worked, right? Used to know exactly where I stood in it. My name meant somethin’. People listened when I talked, mate. Didn’t matter if it was business or blood, yeah? Meant somethin’ all the same. But now?" He gestures vaguely. "Now, I wake up every day with half a face and fuck all to show for it."

Thomas doesn’t answer. He has no fucking idea where this is going.

Anyway, what the fuck is there to say?

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, rolling his cigarette between his fingers without lighting it.

Neither of them are dead. Not properly. Not yet.

Alfie doesn’t need Thomas to say anything—he never does. He just keeps talking, filling the space between them.

"But you, mate," Alfie says. "You had it all figured out, didn’t ya?"

Thomas doesn’t look at him. Instead, he strikes a match and lights his cigarette.

Alfie scoffs, stretching out one leg, his boot scraping against the worn floorboards. "Nah, don’t give me that shit, Tommy. You have a fuckin’ plan, yeah? Always got a plan. You don’t end up sittin’ here with me by accident."

Thomas exhales smoke through his nose, shaking his head. "No plan. Just the way it is."

"Just the way it is," Alfie repeats, dry, like he doesn’t buy it for a second. "You ran, didn’t ya?"

Thomas finally looks at him.

Alfie grins. "‘Course you fuckin’ did. Ran like the devil himself was on your heels, yeah?" He leans back again, sighing through his nose. "Faked your death, set your own bloody caravan on fire. Just to be rid of it all, yeah? Quite the dramatics, mate. Even for you."

Thomas doesn’t rise to it. Doesn't tell him he didn't set the caravan on fire. He just takes another drag from his cigarette.

"You know," Alfie continues, "I knew a man once, yeah? Thought he could disappear. Thought he could slip out, leave it all behind, make a new life somewhere they didn’t know his name." He shakes his head, a dry laugh catching in his throat. "Didn’t fuckin’ work, did it? ‘Cause the world don’t work like that."

Thomas takes a slow pull from his cigarette. "No?"

"No," Alfie echoes, shifting in his chair. "Because even if we disappear, the fuckin’ world doesn’t. It just keeps movin’ without us. And people—" he gestures loosely, "—they always got long memories, don’t they? They don’t forget. Not about men like us."

Thomas blinks, it's been a two weeks and he is ready to go back to nothing.

"You think you’re gonna stay dead, Tommy?" Alfie asks then, watching him.

Thomas doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, flicking his cigarette into an empty glass on the table, the ember hissing out.

"I don’t know."

And that’s the truth of it.

Alfie hums, nodding slowly, like he already knew that answer before Thomas said it. "Well," he says, reaching for the bottle again, pouring himself another drink. "When the time comes, mate, and they drag you back into the light—" He tips his glass toward Thomas in a mock toast. "Just don’t fuckin’ forget which side of the dirt you belong on, yeah?"

Thomas doesn’t take the bait. He just reaches for the second glass Edna left on the tray, fills it, and knocks it back without a word.

Alfie grins. "an' who's fuckin' whiskey you're drinkin'."

The rain hasn’t let up, but the streets of Margate are quieter now, the kind of quiet that feels a little too heavy. Thomas drags his feet through the damp streets, not heading anywhere in particular—just moving to pass the time, let the cold air clear his head. His coat is heavy, soaked from the rain, and his boots splash through the puddles that have gathered along the side of the road.

He turns a corner and spots a small bar tucked between two buildings, the sort of place that looks like it’s been there for years, unnoticed by most. The door creaks open with a soft protest, and he steps inside.

The bar is dimly lit, smoke swirling lazily in the air, and the low hum of conversation fills the room. There’s a familiar comfort in the quiet murmur, the clink of glasses, the shuffle of footsteps. 

It reminds him of days long gone, of the Garrison before he made something of himself. Before he had it remodeled. 

He moves toward the bar, ordering himself a glass of Irish whiskey and placing the money down. He then scans the faces but not finding anything that grabs his attention—until she speaks.

"That seat’s taken," she says, her voice sharp and direct, though not unkind.

Thomas looks up. A woman with striking eyes that hold his gaze without hesitation. She’s standing near the bar, her posture casual but confident, as if she’s entirely at home in a place like this.

He stands still for a moment, considering his options. Not that he was particularly interested in sitting there.

"Fine," he mutters, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She watches him for a beat, and then, as if satisfied, she steps aside to let him past. Her eyes linger on him for a moment longer than necessary, but she doesn’t say anything more.

He sits down at a table near the bar, taking off his soaked coat and laying it across the back of the chair—hoping it dries a little. Hoping the rain will let up. 

He lights a cigarette, the ember glowing brightly in the dim light as he inhales deeply. The woman is still standing near the bar, now focused on something at the counter.

After a few moments, she steps over to him, her movements slow—unhurried. She pauses for just a moment, studying him with that same steady gaze before speaking again.

"Not many come in here looking like you," she says, her tone sharp. "You don’t seem like you belong here."

Thomas raises an eyebrow, looking at her over the rim of his glass. "And where would I belong, then?"

She shrugs, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of her lips. "Couldn’t say. But not here."

Thomas takes another drag of his cigarette, watching her closely. "Maybe not."

She nods slightly. "You’re not from around here, are you? Haven't seen you here before"

"No," Thomas replies, his voice even. He's only been here a short time with Alfie, most of it spent away from people. "Just passing through."

"Seems like everyone is just passing through," she says, her gaze flicking to the window for a moment, then back to him. There’s a slight change in her expression, something a little softer but still steady, like she’s been in this place long enough to know the ebb and flow of who comes and goes.

"I’m not looking for anything," Thomas says, his voice neutral. "Just needed a drink."

She studies him for a long moment before speaking again, her tone a little lighter. "You're getting it, from what I can see." She pauses.

Thomas smirks slightly but doesn’t respond. 

She straightens up, her posture shifting back into something a little more casual, and she steps back a few paces toward the bar, not breaking eye contact.

"Well, if you’re just passing through," she says, her voice almost teasing, "there’s no harm in staying for one more drink."

Thomas lets out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I’m not in a hurry," he says, leaning back in his chair and flicking ash into the tray.

She offers him a small, knowing smile before returning her attention to the bar. Ordering up a bottle.

The rain continues to fall outside, but inside, it feels like time has slowed.

The main room at the bar is dimly lit, full of smoke and the smell of sweat. The scent of old wood and stale beer lingers in the air. 

Thomas had tried to ignore Alfie, at first. Had sat there, cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling while Alfie rambled on about something Thomas wasn’t particularly listening to. But Alfie had a way of talking that demanded attention, whether a man wanted to give it or not.

“See, the problem, right, with the whole fuckin’ world, mate, is that people, yeah? They think too much. They get it in their tiny brains that they got all this—this fuckin’ control, yeah? That they got choices.” Alfie waves a hand, nearly knocking over his drink before catching it, narrowing his eyes at the glass as if it had moved on its own. “But it’s all a load of shit, innit? You wake up, you do what you gotta do, and then you die. That’s it. The rest is just decoration. Sprinkles of fuckin', drink, smoke, whatever gets you off here an' there.”

Thomas takes a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the words roll over him without much reaction. He’s long since learned that responding early on only encourages Alfie to keep going.

“And you,” Alfie says, jabbing a finger toward him. “You get it, don’t you? Oh yeah, you get it, ‘cause you, mate, you’re the most miserable bastard I’ve ever met. And I’ve met some right miserable fuckers in my time.”

Thomas exhales smoke through his nose and finally looks over at him. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

Alfie grins, tipping his head back—bringing his glass to his lips—as he downs the rest of his drink. “I’m always goin' somewhere, mate.”

He takes another drink, lets the burn settle in his throat. Alfie gestures for another round, and the barmaid obliges without hesitation.

“You ever think about just fuckin’ off, eh?” Alfie continues, shaking his head as he leans back against the bar. “Just—gone. Disappear. Start up somewhere else. Open a little shop, sell bread, live a simple life. Not that you’d last, mate. You’d be bored stiff in a week. But still, you ever think about it?”

Thomas huffs a quiet laugh, low and humorless. He knows this is more about what Alfie's has fantasized about because Thomas has disappeared. Hell, so has Alfie. “What’s stopping you?”

Alfie gestures vaguely. “Obligations, mate. Responsibilities. People expect things from me, y’know? It’s exhausting, being this brilliant. And handsome. And charitable.”

Thomas doesn’t even bother responding to that. He just flicks the ash from his cigarette into the tray and watches Alfie knock back another drink like the liquid itself fuels his ability to keep talking.

Alfie fills his glass the second he swallows, grabbing the bottle from the barmaid—who had started to scurry over seeing the glass empty again—before she can pour it.

“I had this dog once, yeah?” Alfie starts, completely shifting topics with no true reason as to why. “Mean little bastard. Would bite anyone who looked at him the wrong way. People hated him. Thought he was a menace. But he was loyal, see? Would’ve torn a man’s throat out if I asked him to. And you know what happened to him?”

Thomas doesn’t ask. He knows Alfie’s going to tell him either way.

“Died of old age. Just keeled over one day. Not in a fight, not because some bastard poisoned him—just died. Peaceful-like.” Alfie snorts. “Never would’ve fuckin’ guessed it. People like to think when you’re mean, you gotta go out in a blaze, right? Gotta go down swingin’. But sometimes you just stop. No reason. No fanfare.”

He pauses, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Thomas watches him, waiting for the inevitable point Alfie is trying to make. If it'll even come.

“Maybe that’s what’ll happen to you, eh?” Alfie finally says. “Maybe one day you’ll just stop. No bullets, no war, just... done.”

Thomas meets his gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales smoke—expectations, hope—and murmurs, “Maybe.”

Alfie claps a hand against the table. “Well, fuck that. You’d be a right disappointment if you went out quiet.”

Thomas puts out one cigarette, only to light another.

"Now listen, right, because this is important, Tommy," Alfie says, waving his glass around, spilling a few drops of whiskey onto the table. Getting right back onto something else, as if he cannot take a second of silence in between topics. "People, yeah, they talk about loyalty like it’s a thing you just... possess, right? Like you fuckin' buy it at the shop. ‘Oh, I’ll take two loyalties and a bit of fuckin’ respect, please.’ But it don’t work like that, no."

Thomas exhales a slow breath, picks up his glass which hasn't seen much action tonight, then watches the amber liquid swirl as he moves it around. "Mm."

"Don’t ‘mm’ me." Alfie continues, jabbing a thick finger toward him. "Loyalty, Tommy, is like a dog, yeah? You gotta feed it, train it, give it a bit of fuckin’ attention, otherwise it’ll turn on you and rip your throat out."

Thomas looks up, unimpressed. "That supposed to be a threat?"

Alfie barks out a laugh, shaking his head. "Nah, mate, just an observation. You, though—you treat loyalty like it’s a weapon. Like you can just wield it whenever you need, then chuck it away when you don’t. Dangerous game, that."

Thomas rolls his cigarette between his fingers. He doesn't respond. An ache right in his temples begins to set in.

Alfie leans back in his chair, studying him. "See, this is what I like about you, Tommy. You listen, yeah? Don’t always agree, but you fuckin’ listen. That’s why we get on."

Thomas raises a brow. "We get on?"

Alfie grins. "Well, I ain’t killed you yet, have I?"

Thomas huffs a quiet laugh, taking a sip of his drink. The warmth burns down his throat. The night stretches on, the whiskey keeps flowing, and Alfie—true to form—doesn’t shut up.

By the time they’re both too drunk to stand properly, Alfie has launched into a story about some poor sod who tried to shortchange him in a deal. The details keep shifting but Thomas is too far gone to point it out. He just listens, smokes his cigarette, and lets Alfie fill the silence with whatever madness is currently rolling through his head.

Eventually, Alfie leans back with a satisfied grunt. "Well, Tommy, I do believe we are officially fucked."

Thomas exhales a slow breath. "Mm"

The whiskey is nearly gone, the ashtray overflowing. Thomas isn’t sure when his body finally gives up on him, but at some point, his head hits the table, and everything goes dark.

Thomas has seen this place more often recently, this bar where he's blacked out on more occaisions than he would willingly name.  The clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation—each sound blends into the background as Thomas walks through the door. He finds her, as usual, sitting at the same corner table, a drink in hand. 

She looks up when he enters, her smile genuine but measured.  He takes his usual seat across from her, their unspoken routine falling into place. Over the past few days, they’ve shared more than just the quiet moments of the bar. The conversations have grown longer. She knows his name now—at least the fake one he's given her. And he knows hers.

"Evening," he says, his voice low.

"Evening," she replies, her smile just a little wider now. 

They talk for a while—about the usual things at first, but soon, the conversation drifts toward more personal ground. Sometimes she flirts a little too openly. Then she'll catch herself and stop. Get back to the conversation. She asks him about his life, but there’s no pressure in her voice. No prying. She simply listens, her eyes never leaving his. And for once, he answers her, carefully, leaving out the parts that would break the illusion. He talks about the present, about the world he’s living in now, even if it’s only a fraction of the truth. He doesn't answer her about his past. She doesn’t ask for more.

"I didn’t think I’d be seeing you this much," she says after a while, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass absently. The hint of a smile plays at her lips. She's doing that thing again where she licks her lips and waits for his eyes to drop to them. "Thought you'd be like the others—one drink, then off."

His gaze drop to her lips. “I am that type. Most of the time.”

She laughs, the sound genuine, but there’s something else in her eyes now. "Most of the time?"

"Yeah." He nods, his gaze going back to hers.

"You’ve been a regular," she says, her tone lowering. "And I’ve come to expect you here."

There’s a brief pause between them, a silence that isn’t uncomfortable. He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter than before. “Is that so?”

She meets his gaze, her eyes searching his. “Yes.”

The weight of the moment lingers in the air, and Thomas feels it—how close they’ve become in these weeks, how easy it is to be near her. 

“I’m heading home,” she says, breaking the silence, her words simple, but there’s an unspoken invitation in them. "Walk me home?"

He nods, and they stand together, moving toward the door. They walk through the streets of Margate, the night air cool against their skin. 

When they reach her building, she pauses before the door, turning to face him. The tension between them is palpable now. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, her gaze meeting his. 

“Want to come in?” she says, her voice soft but clear, her eyes never leaving his.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. There’s a moment of stillness, and then he’s closing the space between them, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her toward him. The kiss comes without words, deepening quickly, as if they’ve both been waiting for this moment without knowing it. Her lips are warm.

When they pull apart, neither of them says a word. There’s no need to. She steps inside, and he follows her, closing the door behind him with a soft click. They don’t speak again as they move through the small, quiet apartment. The silence is comfortable, a familiar kind of tension building between them as they move toward the bedroom.

She stops just inside the room, turning to face him, her hand lingering on the doorframe. The air between them is thick now, charged, but neither of them moves for a moment.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks, her voice low, the question hanging between them.

Thomas looks at her, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Are you?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She steps forward, closing the distance, her hands moving to the lapels of his coat, slipping it off of his shoulders. 

When his coat falls to the floor, she moves to his shirt next, and Thomas helps her with his buttons, getting his shirt off of him. He gets the rest of his clothing off in a quiet rush, glancing up now and then to see her shedding her layers as well.

"Been a long time." She says, talking and he wishes she wouldn't. 

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm. Haven't had a man in here for a while." She answers.

Thomas undresses, the scent of the evening lingering in his clothes, all whiskey and smoke. He takes a moment to survey the room. It’s immaculate, nothing out of place. No dust. The space is quiet, neat—a far cry from the disorder of his own life. The walls are bare, save for a couple of simple paintings. The furniture is minimal.

He moves toward a small jewelry box on the table, the gold trim catching the low light. He opens it slowly, glancing inside. A collection of sparkling pieces, a mixture of delicate necklaces, bracelets, and rings. There’s enough here to fill a small fortune, he thinks. Enough to buy her a better life, something more than this.

He wonders why she stays here, in this quiet, simple space, when everything about her—from her clothing to the jewelry she wears—speaks of something grander, something more luxurious. It doesn’t make sense. She could have a house full of comfort, surrounded by wealth, with the kind of life that others envy. But instead, she’s here.

As he traces a finger along the edge of the box, he hears the soft sound of her footsteps approaching. His attention shifts as she walks up beside him. She’s standing close now, just within reach.

"Something catch your attention?" she asks, her voice low and smooth.

The second he looks over, the air seems to catch in his chest. Blood rushes to his face, to his chest, to his groin. She’s standing there, confident and unapologetic, completely naked. Her skin illuminated in the dim light, and the way she holds herself—unfazed, comfortable in her own skin. There’s no hesitation in her movements, no shyness. 

When she opens her mouth to speak, Thomas doesn't give her the chance. He reaches out quickly, gripping the back of her head with a firm hand, and pulls her to him. His lips crash into hers, rough and demanding, cutting off any words she might have said. 

The urgency is instant. His mouth presses against hers with force, and she responds just as fiercely, her body pressing against his own, eager to close the distance. There's no gentleness here, just an intense desire to feel her.

Her breath hitches in the kiss, but she doesn’t back away. If anything, she matches his intensity. 

His kisses grow harder, more insistent, as if he’s trying to pour every bit of his desire, his hunger for her, into that single moment. And she gives back just as much.

His hands grip her waist, fingers digging in as he pushes her back toward the bed. There’s no hesitation, no careful caress—just raw need. She gasps against his mouth, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow.

She pulls him down with her, nails dragging over his skin, urging him on. Their bodies press together, heat meeting heat. Breathless, rough, nothing gentle about it.

They don't take the time to explore each other intimately or reverently. Too busy chasing quick and simple pleasure.

The room fills with the sound of them—ragged breaths, the creak of the mattress, sharp moans, skin against skin. There’s no talking, no soft whispers, just the rush of urgency, of taking exactly what they both want.

The room is warm, the air thick with sweat and lingering scent of sex. Thomas lies on his back, staring at the ceiling as he drags a cigarette to his lips—his fingers running along his chest. The sheets around him are twisted, half kicked onto the floor, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. He exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching as it drifts upward, curling in the dim light of the room.

Beside him, she reaches for her own cigarette, the scratch of the match filling the silence between them. She doesn’t move closer, doesn’t press against him or drape a leg over his. They both know what this is. She props herself up on one elbow, taking a long pull from the cigarette before exhaling, her lips parting slightly as she watches him from the side.

“You don’t talk much after,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse from the past hour.

Thomas doesn’t look at her. “What’s there to say?”

She smirks, taking another pull from her cigarette. “Nothing, I suppose.”

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet exhales from their lips and the distant hum of the city outside.

She glances around. “It’s strange, you know?”

He flicks his eyes toward her. “What is?”

She exhales, the smoke curling toward the ceiling. “How we can do this. Meet in some bar, talk for a few days, then end up here… and it still feels like we don’t know each other.”

Thomas takes another drag, the embers burning orange in the dim light. He exhales through his nose. “We don’t.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Fair enough.” She props herself up on her elbow. “But I know some things about you.”

“Do you?” He doesn’t sound interested, but he glances at her now, studying her face.

She nods, taking another drag before reaching for the ashtray. “I know you don’t drink for the taste. I know you listen more than you talk. I know you look at people like you’re already deciding something about them.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Hmm.”

He takes another drag, lets the silence settle between them again. He doesn’t like when people try to read him.

She watches him for a moment, then shifts, reaching for the sheet and pulling it loosely around her waist. “I don’t have any pictures on the walls.”

Thomas’s brow lifts slightly at the sudden shift. “I noticed.”

She shrugs. “Never saw the point. Pictures make a place feel permanent. And nothing ever really is.”

Thomas considers that. He looks around the room again, at the clean, impersonal space. No signs of a life being built, no roots being put down. Just a place to be. Like the guest room Alfie gave him. At least he has a reason to have nothing. Most of it having burnt in that caravan.

What's her excuse?

He gets up, walking to the small table near the window. Looking out at the street below, ashes from his cigarette falling onto the floor but he doesn't seem to care.

She watches him. “You think you’ll stay in Margate long?”

He exhales smoke, doesn’t turn around. “Don’t know yet.”

She leans back against the pillows, her cigarette burning between her fingers. “I don’t think you’re the type to stay anywhere long.”

He finally looks at her. “No?”

She shakes her head. “You don’t talk about plans. Or the future. Or anything that suggests you have any goals.”

He smirks faintly, but there’s no real amusement in it. “And what about you?”

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “Maybe I stay here. Maybe I don’t. Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches as she flicks ash into the tray, her movements slow and deliberate. There’s something about her—not fragile, not soft, but untethered.

It unsettles him. Re-opens wounds—all regret and paranoia. 

The silence stretches.

She takes one last pull from her cigarette before stubbing it out. “You should get some rest.”

He doesn’t move right away, just watches the streets. Then he nods once, flicking his cigarette into the tray before turning back toward the bed.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside and the sound of their breathing—floorboards creaking. He stands at the foot of the bed, his back to her as he runs his fingers through his hair.

He doesn’t want to read too much into it, doesn’t want to feel like there’s anything more to it. 

His mind drifts. It’s just a night, just a release. Nothing more. He’s done this a hundred times before, with a hundred different faces.

He’s not here for anything more. She’s a distraction, nothing more. He knows it, she knows it. They had their fun talking, flirting—more so on her part—she made herself very obvious, exploring the waters so they could get here.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her voice. “Are you leaving?”

He steps back toward the bed, moving slowly, deliberately.  “I’ll be going in a minute,” he says, his voice rough.

She doesn’t seem surprised by the words. Instead, she picks up her cigarette again, tapping the ash into the tray beside the bed.

She exhales, her gaze still on him. “I didn’t think you’d stay.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He’s never been one for small talk after something like this.

Instead, he pulls on his trousers slowly, his movements deliberate. He’s done with this part. He doesn’t need to stay. There’s no point.

When he finishes buttoning up his shirt, he walks back toward the window, glancing back at her for a brief second. She’s watching him, but she doesn’t look disappointed. She doesn’t look like she expects anything else.

He reaches for his jacket, pulling it on. He doesn’t rush through it, but there’s no lingering either. His mind is set.

He turns back toward the door. He doesn’t look at her again. She’s already moved her cigarette to the ashtray, settling back into the sheets. She doesn’t call after him, doesn’t ask him to stay. She just watches him leave.

“Goodnight,” she says.

He pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. He looks back over his shoulder. "Yeah. Night."

Chapter Text

Thomas
Margate
1935

Thomas steps through the door of Alfie’s place, welcomed by a look of judgement on the other man's face. He barely gets two steps in before Alfie’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife.

"Fucking hell, Tommy. You stink."

Thomas doesn’t bother responding, just pulls off his coat and drapes it over the nearest chair. He’s too tired for this. He should’ve gone straight to his room, but Alfie’s already watching him like a fox eyeing a trapped rabbit.

"Mm-hmm," Alfie hums, squinting at him, head tilted. "You got that look, mate. That very particular look of a man who’s just had himself a good fuck, yeah?" He sniffs, exaggerated as ever. "I can smell it on you."

Thomas exhales through his nose, rubbing at his temple. "Go to bed, Alfie."

"Bed? Bed? Nah, see, now I’m interested, right? Who’s the poor woman then?" Alfie grins, leaning forward. 

Thomas shakes his head, moving toward the liquor cabinet. "Not your business."

"Everything’s my business if you’re walking through my fucking door smelling like you just spent an hour buried in some poor woman's sheets." Alfie gestures wildly, then sits back, crossing his arms. "But that’s alright. I’ll figure it out."

Thomas pours himself a drink, downing it in one go. He needs it. His body still hums with the remnants of what just happened, but his mind is already moving elsewhere—thinking of what comes next, what it means, and how easily he let himself get caught up in something pointless.

Alfie, however, is having the time of his life.

"She good, then?" he asks, smug. "Nah, don’t tell me. Wait, actually, do tell me. I like knowing these things. Was she one of those posh birds, yeah? Expensive taste, all pearls and perfume? Or was she rougher? Bit of a bite to her? That’d be more your speed now, I wager."

Thomas sets his glass down with a bit too much force. "Alfie."

"I’ll shut up." Alfie waves a hand but is grinning. He leans back in his chair, watching Thomas like a cat watches a particularly tired mouse. "But you should be careful, yeah? Don’t need some woman getting ideas in her head ‘bout keeping you."

Thomas exhales, pulling out a cigarette. "No one’s keeping me."

Alfie nods, pleased. "So she was terrible."

Thomas flicks his lighter open, the flame catching the end of his cigarette. "Didn’t say that."

Alfie snorts. "Didn’t have to. If she was any good, you wouldn’t be here sulking, you’d still be in her bed, yeah?" He tilts his head, watching Thomas closely.

Thomas takes a slow pull from his cigarette, eyes half-lidded. "You talk too much."

Alfie grins. "Yeah, well, one of us has to, don’t we? Otherwise, it’s just you standing there like some broody fucker. And honestly, Tommy, it’s fucking pathetic, mate."

Thomas moves to the chair across from Alfie, dropping into it. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers, staring at the embers. "You still going?"

Alfie leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So tell me, Tommy, what exactly about this one has got you coming back here looking like you need another drink just to fucking function?"

Thomas doesn’t answer right away. He’s not sure he even knows.

Alfie clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "See, now that, that’s interesting." He points at him. "You don’t know, do you? That’s what’s got you fucked up."

Thomas exhales, long and slow, and taps his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. "You done?"

Alfie barks a laugh. "Not even close."

Thomas rubs his temple. "I’ll pay you to shut up."

"Yeah? How much?"

"Enough to make you consider it."

Alfie smirks, tilting his glass toward him. "Tempting. But, nah. Can’t put a price on this kind of entertainment." He leans back, the wood creaking under his weight. "Doesn't help that you have no fucking money to begin with. Left it all with your family." 

There's silence then. A thick silence. Thomas' mind almost goes back to those he left behind.

But, Alfie is quick to squash it. "So, tell me, did she at least know what she was doing, or was it one of those awkward, fumbling situations where you had to take the reins and teach her a few things?"

Thomas closes his eyes briefly, inhaling another lungful of smoke. "You’re the worst person I know."

"Yeah, yeah, flattery’ll get you nowhere."

A silence stretches between them, save for the occasional crackle of burning tobacco. Thomas knows Alfie isn’t going to drop it. He never does. 

Alfie downs the rest of his whiskey, then sets the glass aside with a thud. "Alright, Tommy. Now I’ll shut up."

He won’t. They both know that

The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering through thin curtains. The air is thick with heat, bodies tangled together beneath the sheets. Thomas is breathing hard, his pulse steadying after the high of release. His cigarette is in a tray on the nightstand, forgotten for now.

Beside him, she shifts, her body warm against his own, her fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. It’s comfortable, or at least as comfortable as anything’s been in a long while.

He’s let himself get used to this—to her.

For weeks, she’s been a distraction, an escape from the nothingness that’s stretched on since he became a ghost to the world. She asks no questions, expects nothing beyond what he’s willing to give and that suits him just fine.

His fingers run absently through her hair, blonde and soft against his rough hands. She hums in response, shifting closer.

And then—

The door crashes open.

The sharp crack of wood splintering yanks him from his daze, instinct kicking in too late. The room is suddenly flooded with light, boots hitting the floor in a rapid thud-thud-thud.

Thomas sits up in the bed, but there’s nowhere to go.

A gun is already at his temple before he can even reach for anything.

He’s still in bed, still naked, still too fucking slow.

His gaze snaps to the woman who’s already out of bed, slipping into a robe with ease. Her expression is unreadable, but she won’t meet his eyes.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows he’s been played. Knows he’s been fucking played like a fool.

The pressure at his temple doesn’t let up.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, his mind already working, already calculating. He’s caught, exposed, unarmed.

Too comfortable, he thinks. I was too fucking comfortable.

Thomas doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He forces his breathing to stay even, his face blank. There’s a gun at his temple, a room full of armed men, and Churchill standing there like the past few years haven’t happened.

"Thomas Shelby," Churchill says again, stepping further into the room. "Thought you were dead."

Thomas blinks once, slow. "Guess not."

Churchill hums, looking around the dimly lit room, his eyes falling onto the woman standing next to the bed. 

"You always were a difficult man to track down," Churchill continues, taking off his gloves one finger at a time. "Slipped away so neatly, had me almost believing you’d gone and done it. But then…" He glances at the woman, his lips curving just slightly. "Then we had a stroke of luck."

Thomas shifts his jaw, his teeth grinding.

He looks at her again. There’s no guilt in her expression. 

The pressure at his temple eases just slightly as one of the men speaks. "You gonna make this easy, Mr. Shelby?"

Thomas drags his eyes back to Churchill, ignoring the gun, ignoring the fact that his clothes are still on the damn floor. "Depends," he says, his voice level. "What’s this about?"

Churchill doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances at one of the men behind him—a tall, cold-faced bastard who looks like he’s spent his whole life making decisions that get other men killed.

"Sir Henry Lockwood?" Churchill says, almost casual. "Would you like to explain?"

Sir Henry Lockwood.

The name doesn’t ring any bells. 

Thomas doesn’t let his expression change, but inside, everything sharpens. The title alone tells him everything—military, intelligence, someone who doesn’t answer to many people but is damn good at making others fall in line.

And Thomas is supposed to be falling in line.

Thomas keeps his breathing steady, his pulse betraying none of the fury creeping up his spine. The room is still thick with sweat and smoke.

Sir Henry steps forward, buttoning his jacket, taking his time. He doesn’t even glance at the woman. Like she’s just a discarded chess piece in this, no longer needed.

Thomas watches her anyway, looking for a crack, a flicker of hesitation—something that might make this easier to swallow. But there’s nothing. Just that same blank expression, she’s known all along what would happen.

"Well," Sir Henry finally says, his voice clipped, practiced. "You’ve certainly gone through a lot of trouble to avoid us, Mr. Shelby."

Thomas exhales through his nose. "Wasn't hiding from you." More like he had been hiding away from everything. Too tired to do all of this again.

Churchill makes a sound, something between amusement and irritation. 

Sir Henry doesn’t sit, doesn’t make himself comfortable. This isn’t a discussion. It’s an order, wrapped up in the pretense of a conversation.

Not that being held at gunpoint doesn't already give that away.

"We require your expertise," Sir Henry continues. "For a matter of national security."

Thomas scoffs. "That why you brought a fucking firing squad?"

The man holding the gun at his head doesn’t move, doesn’t react.

"Precaution," Churchill says smoothly. "You have a habit of causing…complications."

Thomas' jaw clenches'. "You have a habit of dragging me into things I want no part of."

Churchill nods once. "And yet, you always prove useful."

They didn’t come here to kill him. If they had, he’d already be dead. And if they’ve come to him, it means whatever it is, they’re desperate enough to look for a man who’s supposed to be in the fucking ground.

"Spit it out, then."

Sir Henry doesn’t hesitate. "There’s an operation underway. Covert. Classified. We need a man with your skills." His eyes narrow slightly. "You’ve led men before. You’ll lead them again."

Thomas laughs, low and humorless. "And if I say no?"

Churchill doesn’t blink. "You won’t."

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

Thomas shifts, rolling his shoulders back. The gun at his temple presses closer, but he doesn’t flinch. "You think I’ll just come along quietly? After all this?" He gestures vaguely to the woman, to the men standing in the room, to the sheer audacity of this whole situation.

Sir Henry tilts his head. Then, with an air of complete indifference, he asks, "Do you know how many men we have stationed outside?"

Thomas doesn’t answer.

"Twenty-four," Sir Henry says simply. "And that’s just the immediate perimeter. Another twenty within a mile. A further forty stationed on standby should you prove…difficult."

Thomas exhales slowly, his expression blank. They brought all of this for him? For a man who everyone—including his own flesh and blood—thinks him dead. Do they think he has a secret army stashed away somewhere? 

He doesn't. For once Thomas Shelby had been almost alone, save for Alfie. 

"This isn’t a request," Churchill adds.

And there it is.

He was never going to leave this room on his own terms.

Thomas shifts his gaze back to the woman. She’s watching him, silent, unreadable. But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t flinch.

Bile rises in his throat. He clenches his jaw against it. He did it again. He fell for it...again. Only this time he never loved this woman.

"Get dressed," Churchill says. "We have a long way to go."

Thomas stands, his movements slow and deliberate as the gun moves away from his temple.

He knows this feeling. He’s been in situations like this before, cornered with no way out.

Thomas pulls on his trousers. Then his shirt. He makes quick work of it. 

By the time he is shrugging on his coat—it hits him.

How would they know where to find him? How would they know where to put a woman for him to go for? 

He pauses mid-motion.

“Alfie,” he mutters under his breath.

Churchill steps forward. “The little traitor’s been running his mouth for weeks now.”

“You bastard,” Thomas mutters.

Churchill exhales sharply through his nose, as if mildly amused. Then, without a word, he turns his head slightly, giving Sir Henry a pointed look. It’s a silent cue—one that Lockwood understands immediately.

Sir Henry steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His voice is calm, almost conversational.

“You will help us, Thomas,” he says, “Because if you don’t, well…” A pause. A deliberate moment of silence meant to twist the knife. “You’ve still got a family, don’t you?”

Thomas stiffens. His jaw locks.

Lockwood’s smile is cold. “Your brother. Your sister. Your sons, Charles and Duke.” He clicks his tongue.

Thomas’ hands curl into fists at his sides. The room feels smaller, the air thick. He wants to lunge, wants to tear Sir Henry apart with his bare hands, to act very much like he feels — like an animal backed into a corner. 

Churchill clears his throat, drawing Thomas’ attention back to him. “You’re going to help us,” he says smoothly, “Whether you want to or not.”

Thomas straightens up, his eyes narrowing at Churchill. There’s no choice. He knows that.

For the briefest of moments, Thomas considers reaching for the gun, snapping the bastard’s neck. But that’s not his move. Not here. Not now.

Not with so many armed men inside the room and apparently outside.

Instead, he forces a chuckle, the sound low and bitter. “You think you’ve got me cornered? That you’ve won?”

Churchill smiles. “I don’t think, I know.” He gestures around the room—at the men, the weapons. 

Lockwood tilts his head slightly, watching him. “You’ve always thought yourself untouchable,” he muses. “But you’re alone now. No more brothers at your back, no more empire to fall on. Just you. And us.”

Thomas swallows back the fury burning in his throat. He doesn’t need to ask what the job is—not yet. They’ll get to that. Right now, the only thing that matters is surviving this moment.

And making sure, when the time comes, he’s the one holding the gun.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

A dull ache pounds behind his eyes. Thomas stirs, exhaling sharply through his nose as the weight of last night settles on him. His body feels heavy, his limbs reluctant to move, and the scent of clay lingers in the air. Not salt, not whiskey—something softer. Something unfamiliar.

His fingers curl against rough fabric. A blanket, tucked around him. That alone is enough to tell him he’s not where he should be. The last thing he remembers clearly is the sea stretching endless before him, his voice carried off by the wind with whatever drunken nonsense he’d been muttering at the waves.

Then—Evelyn. He remembers her voice, so quiet. The warmth of the blanket she draped over his shoulders. The way she didn’t press him for answers, just guided him, steady-handed.

His eyes blink open to the morning light filtering in through the windows. He’s in the back of a shop. Wooden shelves line the walls, stacked with unfinished pottery, some covered in damp cloth to keep from drying too soon. 

And then—soft humming.

Thomas turns his head slightly, his gaze settling on the lone figure at the pottery wheel. Evelyn’s back is to him, her hair pinned up, stray pieces escaping at her neck. She’s focused, working the clay between her hands, the steady whir of the wheel filling the quiet space. The sound is rhythmic, almost soothing.

She doesn’t notice he’s awake.

For a moment, he just watches. His head is still heavy, his body sluggish, but he doesn’t move yet. He listens to her soft humming, watches as she seems so relaxed. He's never seen her this relaxed.

He'd always seen her guarded.

Finally, he clears his throat.

Evelyn freezes. Just for a second. The humming stops, her hands faltering against the clay, fingers tightening before she remembers herself. Then, slowly, she presses her foot against the pedal again, keeping the wheel turning.

Thomas watches the slight shift in her shoulders, the way she readjusts—that guard going up. He doesn’t move, just waits.

"You’re awake," she says finally, voice even, but she doesn’t turn around.

Thomas exhales through his nose, sitting up carefully. His head protests, throbbing from the remnants of last night’s drinking. He reaches for his pocket, finds his cigarettes, and lights one without answering.

Evelyn keeps working. The clay spins between her hands, her fingers shaping it slowly.

"You were yelling at the sea," she says after a long pause.

He takes a drag, lets the smoke settle in his lungs before exhaling. "Was I?"

"You don’t remember?"

A muscle in his jaw twitches. He remembers enough. He remembers the cold air biting at his skin, the frustration burning under it. The feeling that everything had pressed too close, too heavy, until he couldn’t keep it in. 

But he doesn’t say any of that.

"Not much worth remembering," he says instead.

Evelyn doesn’t argue. The pottery wheel slows as she lifts her foot, shaping the clay in deliberate motions. She still hasn’t looked at him.

"You kept saying the same thing," she murmurs. "Didn’t make sense to me."

Thomas watches the way her hands move. There’s a tension in them now, though.

"What’d I say?" he asks.

Her fingers still, just for a breath. Then she smooths them over the clay again, reshaping, molding.

"That you’re not dead."

The words sit between them. Thomas doesn’t react, just flicks the ash from his cigarette into a small tin on the table beside him.

"That what I said?"

"You said it like you were trying to convince someone."

He huffs a quiet laugh, low and without humor. "Maybe I was."

Evelyn finally glances at him, over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Thomas meets her gaze.

"You regret bringing me in here yet?" he asks.

She turns back to her work. "Wouldn’t be the first bad decision I’ve made."

The wheel hums again. Neither of them speaks for a while.

Thomas leans back against the cot, rubbing his fingers against his temple. His headache is duller now, but his body still feels heavy. He watches as Evelyn reaches for a thin wire and slices the clay from the wheel, setting it aside carefully.

"You do this every morning?" he asks, nodding toward the half-formed piece.

Evelyn shrugs. "I do."

"Not much else to do on this island, is there?"

"There's plenty."

He should leave.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Evelyn moves around the workspace, rinsing her hands in a basin of water. 

"You got a habit of dragging drunk men into your shop?" he asks finally.

Evelyn dries her hands on a cloth. "No. You were the first."

"Lucky me."

She doesn’t react to that, just folds the cloth neatly and sets it aside. "You would’ve frozen out there. Or walked into the sea."

Thomas smirks. "I can handle my drink."

"You didn’t look like you were handling much of anything."

That makes him pause. His gaze sharpens, but Evelyn isn’t looking at him. 

Thomas snuffs out his cigarette in the tin, then leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You always this snarky in the morning?"

She shrugs. "You always this talkative?"

His smirk widens slightly, despite himself. "Thought I was the one supposed to be asking questions here."

Evelyn turns then, leaning against the worktable, arms crossed. She studies him, her expression still unreadable. "Are you?"

Thomas holds her gaze. There’s something behind her eyes—not quite distrust. Weariness? 

Has he made her afraid of him? Or...maybe she is an agent sent here from Churchill himself to keep tabs on Thomas.

"You’re not from here, are you?" he asks.

Evelyn shifts, glancing toward the doorway. "No."

"But you stayed."

A beat.

"Yes."

There’s something there—something tight in the way she says it. He recognizes it. The way a person talks when there’s reasoning behind their actions.

He knows it because he does the same thing.

He doesn’t push.

Not because he doesn’t want to—he does—but because he shouldn't get close. Not again.

Instead, he just nods, reaching for another cigarette.

"You don’t have to explain it to me," he says, lighting it.

Evelyn watches him for a moment before looking away. "Good."

She pushes off the table, moving toward the shelves where her finished pottery sits. She starts organizing, but it’s clear she’s just keeping her hands busy.

Thomas exhales smoke. He watches her for a long moment, then mutters, almost to himself—

"I wasn’t trying to convince anyone."

Evelyn stills. Just slightly. Then she picks up a small ceramic bowl and turns it in her hands, inspecting it like she hasn’t already looked it over a hundred times.

She doesn’t ask what he means.

And for now, he doesn’t explain.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The sky is darkening by the minute. A storm is coming.

Thomas stands at the tunnel opening, not looking down but instead his head is looking around, watching as the wind tears through the construction site. The frame of the house groans, wooden beams shifting under the pressure. A loose tarp flaps wildly, snapping against the supports. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, unaffected, though the men around him aren’t as composed.

Briggs is barking orders over the wind, trying to keep the site from turning into chaos. “Get that covered—Smith, tie it down properly before it takes someone’s bloody head off! McTavish, that ladder—secure it or move it, don’t just stand there like a lost dog!”

McTavish grumbles something under his breath but does as he’s told. 

Thomas doesn’t move, though. He stays at the tunnel’s mouth, staring into the dark hole beneath the earth. This is where all the risk sits, beneath their feet. The tunnels, the weapons, the real reason they’re here. 

"Did we put the weapons where I told you to?" He turns to Rowe, his gaze unwavering.

"Aye, put them into the safe walled in space" Rowe answers, then heads away from him.

A gust of wind blows into Thomas' face—slightly cold, sharp. He barely reacts. Instead, he lifts his cigarette to his lips and takes another slow drag before turning toward Briggs.

“Jenkins and Hughes,” Thomas says. “Send them into the village.”

Briggs wipes a hand across his face, a thin layer of sweat having formed in the chaos. “To do what?”

“Talk.” Thomas exhales, watching the smoke whip away in the wind. “We keep up the story. House’ll be done in some time. Normal construction. No reason for anyone to start snooping around.”

Briggs gives a short nod, already moving to find them.

Thomas stays behind, listening to the storm creeping closer, the distant rumble of thunder rolling. The first drops of rain hit the earth, soft at first, then heavier, soaking into the ground at his feet.

The rain comes in sheets, hammering against the wooden beams of the unfinished house, turning the dirt into thick, clinging mud. The men scatter for cover, pulling jackets over their heads or ducking into the half-built structure, but Thomas doesn’t move. He watches as the water runs in rivulets down into the mouth of the tunnel, pooling just beyond the entrance. It’ll be a problem if it gets worse, but there’s nothing to do now except wait.

Briggs returns. “Jenkins and Hughes are on their way to the town area,” he says, shaking out his sleeves. “If anyone asks, they’ll talk about shipments being delayed ‘cause of the storm. Keep up the image of normal business.”

Thomas nods. “Good.”

Briggs lingers. He’s got that look about him—the kind that says he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. Thomas doesn’t give him the satisfaction of asking.

Thomas flicks the rain soaked cigarette into the mud, the flame long gone.

Briggs exhales, giving in. “This kind of weather—bad for morale.”

Thomas barely reacts. “They’ll live.”

Briggs scoffs, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Easy for you to say, standing there like a bloody statue.” He jerks his head toward the men huddled under whatever cover they can find. “You might not feel it, but they do. Bad weather slows things down, makes people think too much. It’s when doubts creep in.”

Thomas finally turns his gaze on him, cold and assessing. “Anyone doubting?”

Briggs shrugs, but there’s something careful in the way he does it. “No one’s saying anything. Not yet.”

 “They’re here for the money,” he says. “They’ll do the work.”

Briggs studies him for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah. Suppose they will.”

A gust of wind rattles the wooden beams nearby. Thomas barely flinches, but Briggs swears under his breath.

“Fuck this,” Briggs mutters, pulling his coat tighter. “I’m getting a drink before I freeze my ass off. You coming?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Briggs snorts. “Didn’t think so.” He claps Thomas on the shoulder—a brief, solid gesture—before trudging off toward the temporary shelter where some of the men are already passing around a bottle.

Thomas stays where he is.

The storm howls around him, but his mind is quieter than it’s been in days. He watches the rain seep into the earth, disappearing into the tunnel below, and wonders how much deeper this hole will get before it swallows them all whole.

The rain hasn’t stopped for hours. It comes down steady, pattering against the wooden beams they’ve set up around the site, soaking into the ground above the tunnel entrance. Thomas stands just under the overhang of the half-built house, cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes fixed on the dark opening below.

Jenkins and Hughes are down there now, checking the damage.

Rowe steps up beside Thomas. “If this keeps up, we’ll be wading through the bloody thing by morning.”

He knows Rowe is restless. They all are. The work has been slow, the conditions miserable, and this storm is just another reason for tempers to fray.

Jenkins’ voice echoes up from the tunnel. “Oi, we’ve got a problem!”

Thomas let out a sigh and moves towards the entrance, Rowe close behind. The wooden ladder creaks under his weight as he descends, boots hitting damp earth, sinking into the damp mud that has soaked up the rain.

Jenkins stands near the far end to Thomas' right, lantern in hand, the weak light illuminating the slick walls. The dirt is wetter than it should be, glistening like fresh ink. Water drips in slow, steady trails from the ceiling.

Thomas moves past him, running his fingers along the damp stone. If the rain doesn’t let up, they’ll have a collapse on their hands. 

He turns back, voice steady. “Get sandbags. Divert the water.”

Jenkins nods and moves to climb out. But Rowe stays where he is, watching Thomas carefully.

“We need more men,” Rowe says after a beat. “You know it, I know it.”

Thomas holds his gaze. “We have who we have.”

Rowe exhales sharply, shaking his head. 

Thomas watches him for a moment longer before turning away. “Get the sandbags.”

Rowe mutters something under his breath but does as he’s told. Thomas stays behind, staring at the damp walls, listening to the slow drip of water. The storm above rages on.

The storm doesn’t let up.

By nightfall, the wind howls through the trees, and rain pounds against the unfinished house above the tunnel. Lanterns burn low inside, casting long shadows against the half-built walls. The men are restless, forced into idleness while the storm dictates their next move.

Thomas stands near the tunnel entrance, watching as Jenkins and Hughes haul sandbags into place. Water has already begun pooling near the lowest section, but the reinforcements should hold—for now.

Rowe appears at his side again, rolling his shoulders as he looks at the dark sky. “If this storm keeps up through the night, we’ll be digging the fucking thing out by morning.”

Thomas doesn’t respond. His thoughts are elsewhere.

There’s something about the way the rain hits the earth, the way the wind moves through the trees, that puts him on edge. The kind of edge that isn’t just about the storm or the tunnel. It’s something deeper, something that’s been building for days.

A feeling. A presence.

He glances toward the tree line. Nothing but shifting shadows in the downpour. Still, his fingers itch for a cigarette, something to keep his hands occupied.

Rowe follows his gaze, frowning. “What?”

Thomas shakes his head, lighting a cigarette with steady hands. “Nothing.” Luckily they have a tarp above the tunnel entrance now, held up spread out from wooden beam to wooden beam, but it doesn't shield him completely from the rain pelting his skin that is carried on the wind.

But it is something.

It’s the same feeling he had the night they moved the weapons, the weight of being watched.

The rain doesn’t ease. It hammers against the earth, pooling in the uneven ground, soaking through coats and boots. The wind rips through the trees, bending branches, making shadows shift unnaturally across the landscape.

Thomas stands beneath the temporary shelter they’ve set up near the tunnel entrance, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His mind turns over the same thought again and again—someone is watching them. He can feel it. It’s not paranoia, not just the storm playing tricks on him. He’s been watched before. He knows what it feels like.

But no one’s made a move. Not yet.

Inside the tunnel, the men work in the dim light of lanterns, reinforcing the walls against the rain. The dirt is soft, too soft, and Thomas knows they’re fighting time as much as they are the elements. 

Rowe steps up beside him again, shaking rain from his cap. “Hughes thinks the lower end might flood before morning.”

Thomas finally turns away from the storm, stepping inside the tunnel himself. The air is thick with damp earth and sweat. The lanterns cast a weak glow over the men, their shadows stretching long against the curved walls.

Jenkins mutters something about the rain, about how it’ll make things worse before it gets better. Kipner grumbles in agreement.

Thomas listens, but his mind is still on the outside.

He presses a hand against the tunnel wall, feeling the moisture seeping in. “Another few hours,” he says, voice even. “Then we stop for the night.”

The men don’t argue. They work in silence, aware of the risk, aware that this place is both their greatest advantage and their greatest weakness.

And as Thomas stands there, watching them move.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn stands at the window in her shop, arms loosely folded, her eyes following the storm waging outside. The wind howls as it sweeps the rain sideways, slamming it against the glass with relentless force. It’s not just rain there’s a harshness in it that leaves a white residue across the pane. Salt. She’s certain  the storm is dragging seawater in with it.

Waves rise and fall in the distance, far rougher than they’ve been in weeks. Some strike the rocks and send plumes of white spray high into the air. A small part of her—a part she tries to ignore—worries that the tide might reach her shop. It's happened before.

Still, the beams beneath the building are strong. The steps up from the shore are weather-worn but secure. The shop has withstood worse. It’s not the foundation she doubts..it’s the roof.

She turns from the window and steps into the middle of the room, only to feel the cold shock of water soaking through her sock. She glances down. Another puddle. The fifth one today. Her brow furrows as she lifts her foot and backs away from the spreading patch of rainwater seeping across the floorboards.

She looks up. The ceiling above shows a dark stain creeping outward with every fresh drop. It’s the same spot that leaked last year. That part of roof isn't where her small room is above, but her room isn't much better.

It has many leaks too. 

The roof’s been slowly giving way under storms like this. Too much wind. Too much water. Time’s been chewing at it, and her repairs have only ever been temporary.

She moves to the shelf near her workbench and lifts one of her older vases from it. She carries it to the puddle and places it gently on the floor beneath the drip. A moment later, the water hits it with a soft plink.

She crosses the room slowly, eyes scanning the ceiling for other signs of damage. There are two more spots where the ceiling is  darkened and soft, but no water’s come through yet. She grabs a second vase from the counter just in case and sets it aside, keeping it ready.

A year ago, it had been the same—rain like this, a sky the colour of slate, wind bending trees sideways and driving the sea up over the shore. That time, Richard had come around with nails and rope and a few more items. Said he’d take care of it. Said she shouldn’t worry.

She had worried. Not about the roof. About him.

Even now, the memory causes a twist in her stomach that she tries to ignore. He hadn’t yelled, not exactly—but his voice had been tight, clipped, like he had to fight to keep the edge out. Every question she asked was answered with too much force. Every suggestion met with silence, or a look that said she should know better. It was familiar. Too familiar.

She’d grown up knowing that kind of tension—the sort that made rooms feel smaller, colder. Her uncle had ruled that way. With Richard, it hadn’t reached that same point. But it had come close enough that she didn’t want him back in the shop for repairs ever again. 

Or to be around him without Isla around again. Which luckily, that hadn't ever happened.

She stands in the center of the room. The wind rattles the door in its frame.

A drop falls and lands on her shoulder. She blinks up, annoyed, and steps back. She fetches another vase and sets it in place.

The storm doesn’t let up. The whole place groans now and then.

Her eyes flick toward the window again. The cliffs are barely visible through the downpour. 

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

The rain hasn’t let up. It comes down in sheets, soaking through Evelyn’s clothes, pressing the fabric to her skin. She doesn’t shiver. She doesn’t fold her arms for warmth. She stands still, her boots sinking slightly into the softened earth, her gaze fixed on the man before her.

Thomas Shelby steps out from the shelter of one of the many tarps they have strung up, hands in his coat pockets, eyes dark beneath the shadow of his cap. 

Evelyn doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to be asking him for anything.

But she has no other choice.

“My roof is leaking.” Her voice is steady, though her fingers twitch slightly at her sleeves.

Thomas doesn’t react at first. He just watches her, rain sliding down the hard lines of his face, dripping from the brim of his cap.

Then—finally—he speaks. “From what I understand, Isla's husband, Richard, is the man you're looking for.”

The implication is clear.

She could have gone to someone else. Should have gone to someone else.

Evelyn clenches her jaw briefly before responding. “He can’t help.”

Thomas doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t press, doesn’t tip his head in curiosity or narrow his eyes. He just stands there, considering her.

Thomas shifts slightly. “You came all the way up here in this storm. For that?”

She holds his gaze. “Yes.”

His eyes flick over her face, searching. Evelyn forces herself not to react.

“I’ll see to it,” he says finally.

He doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t tell her when or how. 

The tension should break. She should say thank you and turn back down the path. But something keeps her there. 

Thomas doesn’t move either.

The rain continues its relentless assault, dripping from their faces, their clothes.

Then—so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it—he speaks again.

“You don’t trust me.”

It isn’t a question.

Evelyn breathes in slow. “No.”

Thomas doesn’t look surprised. "But you trust me more than him."

His eyes linger on her for a moment longer before he finally steps back under the tarp’s full cover. 

Evelyn waits a few seconds—then she turns.

She doesn’t hurry down the cliffside. Doesn’t run from whatever this was.

But she doesn’t look back, either.

And Thomas, standing under the tarp, watches her until she’s gone.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The ground underfoot is treacherous. Clay-heavy and wet, the path from the bluff to the tunnel entrance is a mess of slippery earth and shallow rivulets. Thomas steps carefully, boots sinking with a wet suction into the path. There is no conversation yet. The men follow quietly  behind him.

The tunnel entrance is a different sight now. The tarp they’d fixed above it had been torn half loose during the storm. What remains of it hangs sodden and limp. 

Briggs arrives at Thomas’s side, squinting against the wind as he peers down at the damage. “Bloody hell.”

Thomas doesn’t speak right away. He takes a step closer to the entrance and crouches down, brushing his hand across the topsoil. The problem is immediate and familiar. Loose clay, especially near the coast, holds until it doesn’t. Once it’s saturated, it flows.

The opening itself remains mostly intact. The vertical shaft where the ladder drops down into the tunnel is still holding, but the soil around it is soft, and the wooden supports that framed the mouth are exposed and bowed. One looks cracked.

“Ladder?” Thomas asks.

Jenkins crouches beside him, gives the wooden rungs a tug. “Some flex in the top bracket. Lower ones feel solid.”

“I’m going down first,” Thomas says.

“You sure?” Briggs asks, glancing at the men gathering behind them.

“If it collapses, better me than all of you.”

Thomas lowers himself onto the ladder, boots finding each rung deliberately. He descends into darkness, the damp close around him. The shaft is about ten feet deep, hand-cut, framed in thick timber, the walls damp but still lined. The moment he steps off the ladder into the tunnel itself, he hears it—the soft squelch of pooled water.

The tunnel, meant to run beneath the bluff with a slight upward incline, has taken in water at its lowest point. It is not flooded—thankfully—but puddles form in every dip, and the central path is sodden. The duckboards laid before the last shipment are swollen and beginning to warp.

Thomas lights the nearest lantern hanging from a hook on the bracing and checks the timber lining the walls. Most of it is intact. The deeper section of the tunnel—protected by its distance from the opening—has held firm. It’s the first ten feet that have shifted. The bracings are tilted inward at a slight angle, enough to signal ground movement. He frowns and makes a note of each one.

Above him, the sounds of boots and conversation begin. Briggs, then Rowe and Kipner come down. Jenkins remains at the top, coordinating with Hughes and Calloway to start clearing the entrance slope and examining other damage.

“Minor collapse in the slope,” Thomas reports. “No internal wall failure, but the surface support’s gone. We’ll need to trench the perimeter and drive in proper drainage. The clay’s not drying anytime soon.”

Briggs runs a hand along one of the bent supports. “Think we can straighten these or do we replace?”

“Replace. Don’t trust what’s warped. And reinforce the base with gravel, not just compact soil. Water’s pooling because we gave it nowhere else to go.”

Outside, the team begins digging a shallow drainage trench in a semicircle around the shaft’s mouth. They clear away the collapsed soil first, then cut a ditch about two feet wide and a foot deep, lining it with stones and broken brick salvaged from an old storage hut. It won’t stop all water, but it will help redirect it around the entrance.

Thomas, Briggs, and Kipner begin removing the damaged timbers. It’s slow work—each support removed must be replaced immediately to prevent further soil shift. McTavish brings down cut planks from the storage site, where lumber had been kept under a tarp and tied down with rope.

They hammer in new supports—thicker, with deeper footings. The soil at this depth is firm once past the outer shell. They wedge gravel and packed fill behind each new brace. The gravel acts as both drainage and stabilizer.

Inside the tunnel, Jenkins and Rowe set up drainage channels—shallow gullies carved along either wall, sloping toward a deeper pit near the entrance. They use narrow planks and sandbags to guide the water, then line the center path with new duckboards raised on bricks.

By late afternoon, they’ve re-secured the first ten feet of tunnel. 

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn wakes to the sound of hammering. Not sharp or frantic, but steady...a rhythm that draws her slowly from sleep. For a few moments, she lies still, the morning light pale through the lace curtain of her window. Dampness clings to the air, seeping into the wooden beams above her bed and the worn quilt pulled up around her shoulders.

She brushes the hair from her face and sits up. The hammering continues—accompanied now by muffled voices. The storm had battered her little shop and the room above it for two days straight. She had half expected to wake to a sagging ceiling or worse. 

Slipping from bed, she wraps herself in her thickest dressing gown and pads toward the window. The floorboards are cool under her feet, slick in places where the rain had found its way in. She pulls the curtain back and peers out of the window towards the front, the area of roof that is over a bit of her shop. 

Her room doesn't take up much space.

There, scattered across the sloped roof, are Thomas’s men. Briggs crouches near the middle, removing many still in tact shingles probably, Evelyn guesses, for replacement with something less easy to damage. Rowe balances with ease near the ridge line, passing down tiles to Hughes, who organizes them in neat stacks below. Smith and McTavish haul timber planks up from the path, boots slipping slightly on the damp incline.

And there, standing apart from the others on the sand, his collar turned up against the sea breeze, is Thomas Shelby. Watching.

She crosses her room and opens the front door, stepping onto the small porch. The wind off the sea tugs at the edges of her dressing gown, cool against her bare skin. She tightens the fabric around her and moves to the top step.

Thomas turns his head toward her. “You’re up.”

“I wasn’t expecting a full crew on the roof this morning.”

“The leak was worse than it looked. Figured it best to get it sorted before the next rain.”

Evelyn leans against the porch post wondering why he thinks that's an excuse considering he hadn't been in the shop while it had been leaking. “I did ask if you could fix it. I wasn’t expecting a whole operation.”

“You asked. I said I’d take care of it.”

“I thought that meant you.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It does. These are my hands.”

She follows his gaze up to the roof. Briggs is replacing a rotted board with precision. The old one had splintered during the worst of the storm, and Evelyn can see now that the underlying supports had started to go soft from years of salt and moisture.

“It’ll hold now?” she asks quietly.

Thomas nods. “By the time they’re finished, yes. The ridge beam’s solid, but some of the cross supports were half gone. McTavish found rot clear through the west slope. We’re replacing the worst of it.”

Evelyn watches as Hughes climbs the ladder. “They all know what they’re doing.”

“They do. Rowe did roofing back in Cardiff. Hughes worked timber yards. Most of them’ve been on enough jobs they know how to handle a beam and hammer.”

She lets her arms fold over her chest. “You didn’t have to bring them here.”

Thomas’s gaze doesn’t leave the roof. “You asked for help.”

She watches him for a long moment. The sun is stronger now, drying the puddles left by the storm. Bits of torn leaf and grit litter the edges of the walkway. Her feet are bare against the wood of the porch.

Having so many men around unnerves her. But she is grateful for Thomas' gaze watching all of them.

“They don’t mind?” Evelyn asks. “Doing this?”

“They prefer it,” Thomas replies. “Better than standing still.”

Her eyes trace the curve of the roofline. A new plank is being fitted along the edge. Where before the structure sagged slightly, it now looks firm, supported.

She looks down at him again. “You’ve kept your promise.” Evelyn isn't used to men keeping promises. Promises to protect, to follow through, to...

He shrugs, pulling her out of her thought process. “I said I’d help. You needed it.”

“I do.”

He meets her gaze, and something unspoken lingers in the moment.

“Go inside,” he says. “You’re freezing.”

“I’ll make tea. There’s still some left.”

“I’ll come in when they’re settled.”

She glances up once more at the roof. Progress is steady. It isn’t just patchwork—they’re rebuilding entire sections, placing bracing struts, replacing weatherboards, sealing the ridge. Even from a distance, she can see they’re doing more than the bare minimum.

By midday, the roof looks halfway reborn. Where rot once spread, there’s now fresh timber. Where wind once howled through gaps, there’s new sealant and shingles.

Evelyn stands in the doorway again, a mug in each hand. Thomas notices and crosses the sand, heading up the steps.

“Thought you could use one,” she says.

He accepts the mug with a quiet thanks.

They stand in silence, watching the men finish a row of shingles. 

“You did a good thing,” Evelyn says, finally.

“It’s just a roof.”

“It’s more than that.”

He glances sideways at her, then back up to the roof.

“Maybe,” he says.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

A shout from one of the men below catches his attention. 

"Thomas!" The shout is urgent. "There's a boat coming in."

Thomas takes a steady strides down the hill toward his men. His gaze sharpens as he sees the outline of the boat on the water. The waves toss it up and down, and it’s difficult to make out much from this distance. He stops and tilts his head slightly.

"How far off?" he asks, voice low but commanding.

“Not very far," one of his men replies, squinting against the wind. "Maybe a mile or two from the shore."

“Smuggler, perhaps?” Thomas murmurs.

“I’d wager it is,” the man suggests, his face scrunched in suspicion. “Could be a routine drop-off. No one else comes by here.”

Thomas doesn’t move immediately. He looks at the boat again, trying to make sense of it. He’s not so sure. 

It couldn't be anyone on the island, they were all accounted for, no one goes out to sea that far out. 

And it couldn't be anyone heading in, they all come on the ferry.

"Let's have a look," Thomas orders. "But keep your distance. We don’t know who it is yet."

The man nods and begins to move, taking his place behind a set of rocks to stay hidden as he watches the boat from the shore.

The boat edges closer. 

Thomas steps back, his boots scraping against the stones. He motions to another of his men, Kipner.

“Stay close,” Thomas murmurs. “Something feels off. Keep your eyes open.”

Kipner gives a sharp nod, his eyes already scanning the coastline as he moves into position. The other men spread out as well, quietly taking cover. It’s a routine they’ve drilled into each other since the first day they arrived, but today, Thomas can feel the tension building in his chest.

As the boat nears the shore, the men stiffen, but Thomas holds them back. He watches carefully, trying to pick up any signs of who’s behind the wheel, what their intentions are. He can make out two figures in the boat, but it’s too far to tell much more.

The boat edges closer to the shore, its hull scraping against the rocks as it slows down, just enough to allow the two men in the boat to jump off and haul it further up the beach.

Thomas inhales sharply, his eyes still locked on the figures now unloading crates from the boat.

"Follow them," he orders. "Stay hidden, but keep track of them. Don’t let them out of your sight. I don’t trust this."

He watches as Kipner nods and slips silently into the brush. Thomas remains behind, tension in his muscles as he contemplates what to do next. If they’ve been spotted, he’ll have to act quickly. If not, he needs more information.

By the time Kipner and a few men return to the the cliff, Thomas is standing by a fire, cigarette perched between his lips.

"They had crates, many of them. Stored them in some warehouse." He says, glancing around at the men.

"Did you open them?" Thomas asks, taking the cigarette from between his lips and exhaling a plume of smoke.

"Couldn't get in. They chained the door."

"So, cut the chains."

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The day is fading, a soft dusk creeping over the small island as Thomas steps into the dimly lit shop.

He finds Isla behind the counter, her brow furrowed in thought as she arranges some items on the shelves. His steps are deliberate as he approaches her, eyes scanning the room—always alert.

"Isla," Thomas says, his voice low but firm. "I need you to do something for me."

Isla glances back at him. "What is it?"

"I need you to find out about a boat," he continues. "There had been one last night. The men were unloading crates. I want to know who they are and where they came from. The boat had no markings, no flags."

She pauses, taking in his words. He can see the gears turning in her mind. Isla has always been good at this, asking questions without raising suspicions. It’s why he trusts her.

"I can do that," she says quietly.

Isla doesn’t waste any time. She steps past him as she heads toward the door of the shop. 

Thomas watches her go, his mind already running through the possibilities. The boat could have been anyone, could mean anything.

He needs to be ready just in case.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The late afternoon light is dimming as Thomas sits by the fire, his fingers tapping absently against the edge of the table.

The door creaks open, and the Sheriff enters with a soft knock, his footsteps hesitant as if he’s unsure whether to disturb Thomas. He’s holding a stack of papers in his arms.

“Evening, Mr. Shelby,” he says, glancing down at the papers before raising his eyes to meet Thomas'.

“Evening, Sheriff,” Thomas replies, his gaze flicking to the stack. “What’s all that?”

He hesitates, looking a bit embarrassed. “Post, sir. I—there was one letter that didn’t have a name on it, so I thought... since you’re not listed as a resident here, I assumed it might be meant for you.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, his fingers instinctively reaching for the letter. There’s no return address, just a simple, blank envelope. Thomas takes it from him with a nod.

The Sheriff seems uncomfortable as he shifts on his feet. “If that’s all, I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll keep an eye out for anything else.”

“Thanks,” Thomas murmurs, though his attention is already on the letter. He flips it over in his hands, looking for some mark or clue, but there’s nothing—just the blank envelope.

The Sheriff exits quickly, closing the door behind him, and Thomas holds the letter for a moment longer.

His fingers tear open the envelope, and inside, he finds a single folded sheet of paper. The writing is neat and precise, the ink dark. His eyes scan the message:

"The tide is rising, but the door remains closed."

His heart skips a beat as the words settle in his mind. He reads them again. It's a coded message but what could it mean?

A low hum of suspicion builds inside him, but he shakes it off. It could be a message intended for someone else. There’s nothing about it that connects directly to him, after all. It could just be coincidence.

But his gut tells him otherwise. Who would send something like this with no clear recipient, no return address? He places the letter on the table and stares at it for a long moment.

He gets up from the table, his eyes still fixed on the letter. He doesn’t know who it was meant for—whoever it is, they’ve gone to great lengths to keep their identity hidden—but he knows one thing... someone has contact with someone outside of the island.

And it’s only a matter of time before he finds out who.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

The clock ticks past midnight, and the house is silent, save for the soft sound of the wind outside. 

The creak of the floorboards beneath her feet snaps her from her thoughts. She hears it then—the soft sound of paper sliding beneath the door. Her gaze flickers toward the entryway, the familiar sense of dread creeping in.

She doesn’t need to see it. She knows what it is.

A letter.

Her pulse quickens, but she doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she stands still for a moment, feeling the weight of her past on her shoulders. 

The fire is low in the wood stove. But she doesn't feel any warmth, not now.

Finally, she crosses the floor to the door and bends down, her fingers brushing the edge of the envelope. It’s as plain and nondescript as the others—only her name on the front, no return address. Her breath catches in her throat, but she straightens, turning away from it.

She doesn’t need to read it. She’s had enough.

She picks up the letter and walks toward the wood stove, opening the lid with the help of a thick cloth she keeps by. 

The flames dance in the grate, casting  wavering shadows along the walls. Without hesitation, she holds the letter to the fire. The paper curls and blackens almost immediately, then she drops it, watching the fire consume it.

She watches until it’s gone. Then, turning on her heel, she walks away.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The air smells of saltwater and damp earth. Thomas Shelby stands at the edge of the shore, staring out at the horizon where the sea meets the sky in a line so distant it might as well be the end of the world. He’s been standing here for a while.

Today feels heavier than most, though he isn’t entirely sure why. 

A flicker of movement catches his eye, and he turns his head. He spots her...a figure on a bench just up the shore. Evelyn.

She sits still, her posture stiff, as if the weight of the world has pressed itself into her. Her gaze is far off, lost in the distance. Thomas watches her for a moment, the urge to walk over strong, though he doesn’t move right away.

Thomas takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him. He considers leaving her be, letting her have this moment. But then again, maybe what she needs is someone close by. Someone who won’t speak, won’t pry..someone who will just be there.

With the slightest of sighs, he moves toward her. He stops a few feet away...close enough for her to notice, not close enough to invade her space.

The wind shifts, tousling the ginger strands of her hair, and she doesn’t move to push them from her face. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, the tension in her fingers obvious even from a distance. Thomas doesn’t say anything.

He stands there, letting the minutes tick by. It’s the first time in a long while he’s allowed himself to simply stand still without watching everyone's movements.

After what feels like an eternity, Evelyn finally shifts. Her gaze flickers over to him, meeting his eyes for a brief second before she looks back out toward the sea.

He doesn’t press her. He wouldn’t. That’s not his way.

“The weather’s clearing up,” he says quietly, exhaling a plume of smoke from his mouth.

She doesn’t respond at first, her attention still on the horizon, her body a little too rigid. Thomas takes another drag from his cigarette, exhales slowly, watches her from the corner of his eye.

A moment passes, and then she speaks, her voice soft but steady. “I’m just… thinking,” she says. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Enough for him to know she’s not ready to share what’s really going on. 

“I’m sure you’ve got a lot to think about,” he says, voice calm. Thomas doesn’t need every answer. He understands silence, maybe better than most. 

Evelyn glances down at her hands, fingers twitching like they want to pull away from the tension in them. She bites her lip, something flickering in her eyes, but she says nothing more. Instead, she folds her arms tightly across her chest, as though trying to protect herself from the air, from the world, or from whatever it is inside her that keeps her so quiet.

Thomas sees it...has seen it...in the way she carries herself. He knows she won’t tell him what it is. Not now. Maybe not ever. And that’s fine. 

He shifts his weight slightly, leans against the nearby stone. He lets his cigarette burn down to the end, then flicks it into the sand, the ember dying as it hits the ground. He doesn’t move away.

The quiet stretches between them, filled only by the noise of the ocean and the wind, but no words. It’s as if they’re both locked in their own worlds, standing next to each other but still miles apart.

Minutes pass. More silence. And just as he’s about to turn and leave her to it, he feels it.

Her hand, small but firm, slides into his. The touch is unexpected...a nice gentle pressure against his palm. He swallows hard, then he glances down, surprised to find her fingers intertwined with his.

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t speak. 

It’s enough.

For the first time, Evelyn lets herself be vulnerable, lets herself ask for something without words. 

Thomas stands still, his breath steady, not sure what to do but not letting go. He feels the warmth of her skin against his, the pulse of her hand in his own. 

The world narrows down to just the two of them. A soft, unspoken understanding passes between them. He doesn’t need to ask her why. He doesn’t need to press for more. All that matters is that he stays, and she doesn’t let go.

And in that quiet, shared space between them, the weight of everything else begins to fade, the sound of the waves the only thing that remains.

He lets himself feel it. Feel something as simple as warmth against his palm.

When was the last time Thomas Shelby held anyone's hand?

He can't remember.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

There’s dirt in his mouth.

It clings to his tongue, packs between his teeth, thick and wet like blood. He can’t spit it out. Can’t breathe.

He claws upward through earth that has no end, and the weight above him is crushing. The timbers snap like bones breaking. Then there’s shouting—muffled, panicked. Men’s voices, just above. His men. He can’t reach them. The space is too tight. The air has been sucked clean out.

He’s trapped.

Trapped again, just like before.

The candle’s gone out. The silence is total. And the ground is shaking.

A scream. A scream that is his own.

He bolts upright.

The room is dark. His throat burns, chest heaving like he’s been running. Sweat slicks his back. It clings to the bedsheets. He fumbles at the collar of his undershirt, rakes a hand through his hair. 

He’s awake.

He’s not France. Not the tunnels. Not the blood-soaked mud beneath no man’s land.

The floorboards creak faintly as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. There’s a draft slipping through the window shutter. Cold air brushes his skin. His hands are still trembling.

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms into them, hard enough to see white. Hard enough to try and scrub out the images.

It doesn’t work.

He still hears it. The rumble of the collapse. The desperate scramble in the dark. The breath of a man dying slowly under dirt. It rises and falls in his ears like the sea.

The fire has gone low in the corner. The coals pulse dimly. He should put another log on.

But his body is frozen. He just sits there. Breathing. The sweat chills on his skin, but it’s the ghost of the dirt in his mouth that won’t leave him.

And the ghost of a hand.

Warmth.

He feels it again now. The shape of her fingers in his. Not just resting. Not trembling. Clinging.

He stares down at his open palm. In the half-light, the lines look deeper. All the kinds of damage a man keeps to himself.

But her hand had covered it like it wasn’t something broken. Like he wasn’t something broken.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and hoarse.

He stands. Pads barefoot across the cold floor, bones aching. The whiskey on the table tempts him, but he doesn’t go for it. Not yet. Not tonight.

Instead, he opens the window, lets the wind rush in and sting his face. The salt in the air reminds him where he is. That this isn’t a trench. Not a tunnel. Not a grave.

The sea murmurs in the distance, steady as breath.

The island sleeps.

No explosions. No screams. No command barked from above. No need to keep digging because the bastards were only twenty feet across the earth with their own tunnels, listening, planning. He’s not there anymore.

But still; he never left.

He leans forward against the sill, his elbows digging into the frame. His knuckles are white. His fingers twitch. Even in the quiet, his ears ring with the pressure of dirt overhead.

Some men had gone mad in those tunnels.

Others had been buried there.

Thomas had made it out. But most days, he doesn’t know how much of him stayed behind.

And tonight... tonight it’s worse.

Because he thinks of something he’s not supposed to have. A softness. A reprieve. A fucking hand.

Evelyn.

She just let her fingers rest in his and didn’t pull away.

That shouldn't mean anything. Not for a man like him.

But it does.

After everything he's lost. After everything he has been through, he knows he can't even lean on the idea of her.

He rakes both hands through his hair again, exhales hard through his nose, and then moves back toward the table. There’s a chair there. A battered old one from the supply run a week ago. He sinks into it. The fire hisses softly as he tosses in another log, watching the flame catch like a fuse lit.

Everything catches, eventually.

The silence thickens again. He reaches into the drawer nearby, pulls out a folded scrap of paper...just a corner of an old survey map he’d marked up. He stares at it blankly. 

Not really seeing it.

It doesn’t matter what he builds, how far the tunnel goes, how hidden the weapons are. Because in the quiet of night, the war always finds him. Not just the French one. The next one. The one coming.

And he knows it’s coming.

He rubs his thumb over the edge of the paper. He’s trying to focus. Trying to be the man Churchill thinks he is. The man who can dig the right holes in the right place at the right time. The man who can outthink the bastards.

But right now, all he can think of is the dirt.

And the hand.

And the way it hadn’t felt wrong to be held.

A fucking hand. Something as simple, as mundane, as a hand.

Thomas Shelby doesn't hold hands. 

Thomas Shelby doesn't let his mind linger on something as simple as holding a woman's hand.

He sighs. Stands again. Stares out the window one more time. The wind has picked up. 

He turns from the window, goes to the washbasin, and splashes his face with cold water. Watches it drip from his jaw to the basin. His reflection is shadowed, strange. Older than he feels.

Then he dries off, pulls on a clean shirt, and sits back down by the fire.

Eventually, he will sleep again.

And maybe this time, he won’t dream of the tunnel caving in.

But he knows he will.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

The days pass in strange blur. 

Inside the shop, Evelyn is trying to find purpose in a half-done task. She moves with less certainty today, dragging her feet across the worn wooden floor. The shop hasn't been open since the ferry visitors left. She never intended to sell anything those days anyway, just helped Isla behind the counter while trying not to think about what it would mean if her uncle had stepped off that ferry.

She reaches for a delicate teacup from a high shelf. It had cracked in the kiln slightly—barely visible, but enough to make it unsellable. She turns it in her hand, absentmindedly tracing the flaw with her thumb. Some days the imperfections are welcome, and other days they make her feel like all she can do is destroy everything around her, lessen their value.

It’s midday, and usually she would have done far more by now. But her limbs feel heavy, her heart heavier still. She tries not to think about the letter she burned last night—the third in just two days. Her uncle doesn't stop. He never did. Each envelope carries with it the same threat, he has the control, she belongs to him.

And yet…

The warmth of Thomas’s hand still lingers on hers like a brand. That unexpected comfort on the bench by the shore—his silence had felt steadier than any words. 

It should have frightened her, the way she let her guard down. She should’ve avoided reaching out, recoiled when trying to keep her hand in his. But she didn’t. For the first time in years, she let someone see the part of her she usually buried deep.

That man—one who seems to use his cold exterior like armor and speaks like every word is a burden—_that_ man had been kind.

And worse than that... she keeps thinking about it. About him. About the way his hand felt strong, yet careful. 

She shakes her head hard, trying to knock the thoughts loose. It’s foolish. 

She’s halfway through rearranging the cups when the door creaks open behind her.

A gust of air slips in first, cool against the back of her neck. Then a shadow falls long across the floorboards.

She doesn’t need to turn to know it’s him.

Her breath catches before she can stop it. The warmth rises into her cheeks like a wave, and a strange sensation blooms low in her stomach.

“Open?” he asks, his voice low, familiar. 

“Yeah,” she says, without looking back. She sets the teacup down gently and busies herself adjusting a row of small clay plates, her fingers fumbling more than she’d like.

She can hear his boots scuffing softly against the floor as he steps further in. There’s a pause as he looks around.

He moves closer to the shelves near the window, standing just behind her now. She focuses on the plates, on keeping her hands steady.

“How, uh…” he clears his throat. “How are you holding up?”

His eyes flick away quickly, as if asking the question stings. A moment later, he brings a cigarette to his lips. 

“Nicely,” she says, voice calm. “You?”

He nods once. “Mm.”

It hangs in the air, unfinished. Not really an answer. Just a placeholder between breaths.

She finally turns to look at him. He’s leaning near the counter now, eyes scanning the space like he’s only half interested. But his fingers tap absently on the wooden surface.

“Not here to buy something, then?” she asks, arms folding gently across her chest, a small smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

He shakes his head once. “No.”

They stay like that for a moment. With him near the counter, her by the shelves.

He glances at her again, more directly this time. “Place looks good.”

She exhales, caught off guard by the compliment. “I haven’t done much.”

“You have,” he says. “It’s clean. Quiet.”

“Bit too quiet, sometimes.”

He gives a single nod. Then his fingers stop tapping. Instead, they flatten briefly against the counter before lifting again—hovering slightly above the surface, like they’re waiting.

She steps closer.

Not a full step. Just enough to bring her within arm’s reach. She places a hand on the counter, fingers resting just shy of his.

Her hand stills. His doesn’t.

He shifts slightly, the edge of his palm brushing the top of her hand. A deliberate motion. Testing the space between them.

When she doesn’t move away, his fingers slide forward, slow and careful. They touch hers. Not gripping. Not even holding. Just contact. Skin to skin.

A slow breath leaves her lungs, quiet and shaky.

He watches their hands for a moment, like he can’t quite believe they’re allowed to be there. Then he looks up at her, his expression unreadable. Not guarded, but not open either. Somewhere in between.

The distance between their bodies is still respectable. Proper. But the contact between their hands feels heavier than a hundred spoken words.

“Shop’ll do well,” he says, voice low, thumb tracing a slow arc near her knuckles.

She doesn’t pull away. “You always this encouraging, or am I just lucky?”

His mouth tugs at the corner, but it’s not quite a smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I didn’t take you for the type to believe in luck.”

“I don’t,” he says. “But I believe in hands like yours.”

That makes her blink. Not because of what he says — but the way he says it, as if the words surprised even him. She laughs, quiet and uncertain.

“They’re just hands,” she murmurs.

“No,” he says, his fingers pressing gently to hers, like he’s proving a point. “They’re not.”

She looks at him, really looks. The lines in his face. The quiet strain behind his eyes. He’s holding her hand like it steadies him. Like it’s the only thing in the room not moving.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says softly, not letting go.

“You're not the only one.”

She lets the silence linger. Then, speaks softly. “The house looks to be coming along.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Seems like a lot of work.”

He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Worth it.”

“Even out here?”

“Especially out here.”

Her thumb shifts slightly, brushing along the edge of his. His hand doesn’t move away.

“You smoke too much,” she says gently.

“You say that like you know me.”

“Maybe I'd like to..know you.”

That makes him glance down again. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. But it’s real.

And then, as if remembering something, he lets go.

Not abruptly. Just slowly withdrawing his hand, fingers brushing hers on the way out. He clears his throat again, steps back.

“I should go,” he says. “Work to check on.”

She nods. “Of course.”

He doesn’t leave right away. Just lingers by the door, looking back once.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

The door shuts gently behind him.

The shop is quiet again. But the silence feels warmer now.

Evelyn stares at her hand where his had been. She doesn’t move it. Doesn’t want the feeling to leave.

Something is shifting. She doesn’t know what yet and hopes that her own fear doesn't try to make him into a monster.

Hoping he isn't a monster to begin with.

Thomas Shelby
Undisclosed Island
1937

The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow across the island’s rugged coastline. 

Thomas Shelby stands at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the water below, where the small boat will soon arrive with the second shipment of weapons. The cold air cuts through him, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s used to the chill by now.

His men are spread out, waiting, their figures outlined in the dark against the backdrop of the sea. They’ve been through this once before. The first shipment was a test, a trial run to see if everything would work smoothly. Now, the weapons are heavier, more vital to the operation, and the timing is crucial.

Jenkins stands nearby, his face half-hidden in the shadows. Kipner, Calloway, and the rest of the men are waiting for the signal to begin.

“The contact should be here soon,” Thomas mutters, his voice low.

Jenkins nods, his eyes scanning the dark horizon.

“There it is,” Thomas says.

The small boat begins to come into view, its sail illuminated by the faint moonlight. The shape of the men aboard is still indistinct, but the heavy crates stacked along the deck are unmistakable.

Without a word, Thomas steps forward, motioning for his men to fall into formation. The boat will dock at the same spot as last time.

As the boat nears the shore, Thomas’s mind races through the details. Everything must go smoothly. The first shipment had been a success, but this time, there’s more at risk. 

The halts once ashore. The figures aboard begin to disembark, and Thomas can make out the broad outlines of the men. 

The crates are large, bulky. There’s no mistaking what’s inside. Rifles, ammunition, possibly explosives. 

“Let’s get them to the tunnel,” Thomas orders, his voice steady.

Kipner takes the lead, followed by Calloway, Jenkins, and the rest of the men. They move in pairs, carrying the crates between them, their footsteps hurried. 

As the men approach the entrance, Thomas stays close, watching as they maneuver the heavy crates down the narrow path toward the tunnel. 

“Careful,” Thomas calls out softly as Calloway, the last man in line, reaches the tunnel opening. 

The crates are slowly lowered down into the tunnel.

As the last crate is lowered into the tunnel, Thomas takes a step back, his breath visible in the cold air. He turns to Briggs, who’s standing near the edge, watching the men as they finish up.

“That’s the last of it,” Thomas says, his voice low but firm. “Make sure everything’s secure.”

Briggs nods and turns to relay the order to the rest of the men. 

Thomas stays at the entrance, watching the tunnel for a moment longer. His mind is already racing ahead and calculating what comes next. The plan is moving forward, but there are too many variables at play. 

“We’re clear,” Kipner calls from below, his voice carrying up the ladder.

Thomas nods and takes one last look at the dark tunnel, images of his nightmares clawing to the surface of his mind. The tension in his chest tightens, but he pushes it aside. For now, the shipment is safe. For now, they’ve done their job.

The men begin to climb back up the ladder, one by one, their movements swift and quiet. As the last man reaches the top, Thomas gives one final glance toward the entrance of the tunnel, ensuring it’s covered and hidden once again.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

Evelyn wipes her hands on her apron, the scent of clay and kiln smoke lingering in the air. The pottery shop is quiet this afternoon, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant crash of waves outside. She moves to the counter, stacking a few freshly fired mugs onto a shelf 

The sound of the door opening catches her attention.

She glances over her shoulder, expecting a familiar face. It is.

Thomas Shelby.

His presence fills the small shop immediately. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t browse. Just steps inside and lets the door shut behind him.

"Mr Shelby," Evelyn greets, wiping a bit of dust from her hands. "Back again to browse and not purchase something?"

He says nothing at first, just looks past her at the shelves, thinking. Then, finally—

"Tea set."

She raises a brow. "A gift?"

"No."

"Well, I’ve got a few," she says, moving from behind the counter. She gestures toward a row of neatly arranged sets that are simple but well-made, glazed in soft blues and earthy browns. "Anything particular you’re after?"

He steps closer, eyes scanning over the ceramics. "Plain. No patterns."

Evelyn nods, selecting one out of the many. She places it on the counter. "That’ll do?"

Thomas gives a slow nod, reaching into his coat for money. 

As she wraps the set carefully in paper, she finally asks, "How's your day?"

His gaze flickers to her, unreadable. "Fine."

"Good." She ties the last bit of twine around the package, sliding it toward him. "Try not to break them."

A pause. Then, just before he picks up the parcel...

"Don’t plan to."

And with that, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Something in Evelyn wishes he had offered his hand like last time. That she had accepted it once again.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

The men are at work, just as they should be. The rhythmic sounds of hammers meeting nails and the occasional murmur of conversation fill the air as Thomas makes his way closer to the construction site. 

The large house, though still in its early stages, is taking shape. But today, his focus is not just on the house. It’s the tunnels that matter most.

What’s being built above ground is important, but what lies below is the real key to survival for the upcoming war and those who will serve in it. A hidden network that stretches deep beneath the island, connecting vital locations. The tunnel system is progressing well, but Thomas knows that anything less than perfection is unacceptable.

As he nears the entrance of the tunnel, he catches sight of Jenkins emerging from the dark mouth of the tunnel. His face is covered in dirt, and his expression is one of satisfaction, a rare sight when working in the tunnels. Perhaps he never served. Jenkins wipes a hand across his forehead before meeting Thomas’s gaze.

“Progress?” Thomas asks.

Jenkins stands up straighter, his posture alert as he quickly assesses Thomas before answering. “It’s going well. The supports have all been reinforced. We’ve got the northern stretch secure and the middle section towards the barber's shop is good. Just a few final adjustments, but we’re on track.”

Thomas nods, his expression unreadable. He takes a step closer to the tunnel entrance, staring down into the darkness where the men are working tirelessly to ensure it remains stable. Men who mostly have never dug in tunnels while listening to shovels on the other side, while knowing the enemy is getting closer just as you are.

His eyes flicker back to Jenkins, narrowing slightly.

“How long before it’s completely secured?” Thomas asks.

“Another few days at most,” Jenkins responds. “The stretch towards the phone booth still needs the last layer of bracing, but the tunnels are holding up strong.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Make sure it holds. No room for mistakes.”

“Of course, Thomas,” Jenkins replies with a nod, his face impassive as he returns to his work.

Thomas stays for a moment longer, watching as Jenkins disappears back into the dank depths of the tunnel. He can hear the muffled sound of voices, the sound of his men discussing their next steps, moving crates, reinforcing beams. 

Each small detail builds toward the larger picture, the one Thomas sees clearly in his mind.

The tunnel system must be flawless. They will use it for more than just holding and hiding weapons. It will be the lifeline of everything, the key to maintaining control over the island. To not give up any land to the germans.

Thomas takes a deep breath, stepping back from the entrance. He surveys the area around him. The partially constructed house, the workers hauling materials, the men drilling into the earth.

He moves away from the tunnel entrance taking in the full scope of the work. The house is nearly up to the second story now, the framework rising steadily, but it’s not the structure itself that interests him...it’s the space within it. The room that will serve as the command center, the planning room, the office where everything will be decided. It needs to be secure, organized, and ready for anything.

The men are unloading more timber as he walks toward the construction of the house’s lower floor. They pass him by, their faces focused, each one immersed in their task. No one looks at him. 

Rowe is standing by the frame of what will be a central wall, inspecting the beams that support the structure. He looks up as Thomas approaches, giving a brief nod of acknowledgment before getting back to his work.

“Everything holding up?” Thomas asks.

“Sturdy enough,” Rowe replies. “It’ll take more than a storm to shake this place.”

Thomas looks at the timber, inspecting the quality. His eyes flicker over the beams, the angles, and the alignment. Everything is precisely where it should be. It’s not just the materials that matter; it’s the craftsmanship, the expertise that has gone into making every piece fit perfectly.

He steps further into the area where the walls are starting to take shape. The outlines of the structure are becoming clearer with each passing day. It’s a space that will be both a refuge and a fortress. The plan is coming together in ways he hadn’t even imagined before arriving here, and yet, he knows it will never be enough. The world doesn’t stop for preparations. There’s always something more to be done.

“I want the roof sealed within the next two days,” Thomas says, his voice low and commanding. “We can’t afford any more delays.”

“Understood,” Rowe says, nodding firmly.

Thomas turns his attention back to the tunnels. There’s more to be done down there, and he knows his men can’t do it alone. They’ll need resources, more time, and perhaps even more men. But right now, everything hinges on getting it right, on securing these underground passages that will provide them with the freedom to move undetected.

He pulls out his cigarette case, slipping one between his lips as he walks towards the work area at the far end of the site. The men are already moving materials up to the second floor of the house. He stops briefly to observe their work. 

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, his gaze distant as he surveys the entire site. Every move, every detail, every decision will determine the success of their operation. The tunnels are only part of it. The house, once completed, will be a place where plans are made.

But there's one small detail flickering through his brain like a flame. A house where tired limbs rest for once, where eyes close and they no longer see war. 

He tries to snuff it out.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1937

The soft light from the fading day filters through the windows, casting long shadows across the shop. The quiet sound of the sea is just outside the door, but inside, Evelyn is alone, carefully placing a set of newly completed teacups on the counter. The pottery feels warn in her hands as she arranges them, the rhythmic motion of her work allowing her to lose herself in the simplicity of the task.

She hums to herself, a quiet, gentle sound as she arranges the final teacup, smoothing a wrinkle in the cloth beneath it.

She’s bent over, focused on her task, when the door opens. The sound of the door being pushed open catches her attention. 

Thomas.

He steps inside, his tall frame blocking the doorway for a moment. He’s not in a hurry, just moving at his usual steady pace, his gaze sweeping the shop with that quiet, contemplative look he always wears. 

Evelyn stands up, brushing her hands against her apron which is currently splattered with dried clay, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she meets his eyes.

"Back again?" she asks, her voice light. "Looking for another teaset to add to your new collection?"

Thomas doesn’t immediately answer, but there’s a shift in his expression. He’s warming up, just as she is. They both are, slowly but surely. 

He had been colder when he picked up that tea set, a small wedge placed into whatever this is.

He steps further into the shop. “Not this time,” he says, his voice steady, but there’s something almost softer about it today, as if the walls he keeps up are just a little lower.

Evelyn raises an eyebrow, curious. She watches him walk toward the counter, his fingers tapping lightly on the smooth wood. She doesn’t move at first, just watching him, quietly.

The air between them feels different. Not in the way that it was before, tense and cautious, but in a way that’s almost comfortable. Like there’s an unspoken understanding that they’re both starting to let down their guards.

As he stands there, Evelyn walks toward him, around the counter, closer to where he's standing. She’s always been cautious, always been the one to keep her distance from any man. The judgement born of immense trauma.

Thomas’ fingers stop tapping, and they rest against the counter, just inches from hers. She can feel the space between them shrinking, a soft electric charge in the air. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flicker down to where his hand rests, just beside hers. There’s an unsaid invitation in the silence, space for something to happen, if only one of them will move first.

Evelyn’s fingers twitch, just slightly, as though she’s on the edge of reaching out. Her gaze lingers on the way his hand rests, the sharp lines of his fingers. 

Thomas watches her closely, his face betraying nothing, but there’s a shift in the air, a quiet tension that hums beneath the surface. He steps closer, and his fingers, still resting on the edge of the counter, make the slightest move, just a soft brush against her knuckles.

Her pulse quickens, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she holds herself steady, as she keeps her gaze locked on his. She could pull away, but something in her doesn’t want to.

It doesn’t take long for Thomas to close the distance completely, his fingers sliding over hers, a brush of warmth against the coolness of her skin. He doesn’t pull her hand into his, doesn’t grip it tightly. That eases her nerves, she doesn't feel trapped or restricted. She could pull away at any second. 

But she doesn't.

For a long moment, neither of them says anything. It’s just the sound of their breaths, the hum of the world outside, and the soft pressure of their hands together, fingers lightly intertwined. There’s no rush, no expectation. 

She’s searching his face for something...answers, perhaps. But he doesn’t offer any.  And for the first time in a long while, she doesn’t feel the need to look away. 

“I didn’t expect you to come by today,” Evelyn says quietly, breaking the silence.

“I didn’t expect to, either,” Thomas responds, the sound of failing to push down coming here evident in his voice. 

He pulls his hand back slowly, his fingertips grazing hers one last time before he lets go completely.

Evelyn’s hand remains for a moment, as if it wants to follow his, but she lets it rest at her side.

“What’s the progress on the house?” she asks, almost absently, to fill the space left by the silence. The change in the tone of her voice is subtle but noticeable as she tries to hold herself back from reaching for him once more.

A war between emotions going on in her head, on one side she wants to push him anyway and ignore the fact she has begun to make herself vulnerable to him. On the other side, she wants to reach for him, to tell him everything and nothing all at once.

Thomas looks toward the door for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “It’s coming along well,” he replies. “Almost to the second floor now."

She nods, her fingers brushing the counter near her. “Good. It’s strange to think how much you’ve managed to do in such a short time.”

“Doesn't feel like a short time,” Thomas replies, his voice returning to its usual controlled tone.

The moment feels different now. Less heavy. They’re both still feeling the effects of what’s just passed between them, but the air has shifted, no longer thick with unspoken tension. 

There’s still a subtle connection there, but they’ve both pulled back to their usual distance.

Evelyn brushes a hand over her apron, looking at the cups she’s just arranged. She can still feel the warmth of his touch on her skin, but it’s fading now.

“I should get back to work,” she says after a beat, offering a small, almost shy smile. “You’ve got your own things to attend to, I’m sure.”

Thomas takes a step back, his hands sliding into his pockets. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He lingers by the door for a moment, his gaze flicking back to her, as though considering something. But then, without another word, he steps out, the door closing softly behind him.

Evelyn stands there for a moment, her hand resting on the counter, her heart still a little quicker than usual. She looks at the space he left behind and exhales slowly, the warmth of his touch still lingering on her skin. 

For the first time, she wonders what comes next and if she’s ready to find out.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1937

Thomas steps through the door frame, his boots tapping quietly on the floor. He’s just come from Isla’s shop, and the news weighs heavy on his chest. 

He’s still turning the news over in his mind—the sighting of a German ship near the island. His instincts, honed over years of survival in places darker than this, tell him to be on high alert.

Thomas runs a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. 

He pauses for a moment. His thoughts are already moving too fast. He knows something’s wrong. There’s no way the ship is just passing through. 

“Briggs,” Thomas calls out.

A moment later, Briggs steps out, his face grim.

“A ship. German. Passing close to the island.” Thomas says. He steps toward what will be a window, peering through the frame at the dark horizon.  “It’s too close”

Briggs steps forward. His gaze shifts toward the partially built walls, the gaps where the windows should be, and the open doors leading out to the cliffside. “What do you want done?” he asks.

Thomas exhales slowly, his mind calculating. “I want a full rotation through the town and here. Night watch. No one’s off duty. No one’s to be left alone or out of sight. I want eyes on everything. If anyone has seen something they shouldn’t, we need to know about it. And fast.”

“I’ll see to it.” Briggs gives a sharp nod, moving toward the door. His figure vanishes into the dark night outside.

Thomas’s gaze lingers on the unfinished walls. His jaw tightens. The house isn’t what it should be. Not yet. They’re exposed, and that ship? It’s a sign they could be compromised.  

He exhales slowly, staring out into the dark.

The ship could still be out there, watching. Waiting.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The town square is quiet.

Thomas walks with steady steps from the red phone booth in the center of town. Cold air snakes around his collar, but he barely registers it. 

Each step away from the square takes him further from the memory of the voice on the phone. They’d mentioned the boat, the one his men had clocked as suspicious. It had offloaded to a warehouse. Furniture, they’d said. Furniture from England, sent ahead. And no one had told him.

He passes the fork in the path, then continues up toward the cliffside, toward the skeletal shell of the house. His boots find the narrow dirt path without effort, muscle memory now.

Last night had marked the start of the new year. He hadn’t spent it with his men. Hadn’t gone drinking in the town square like many had. Hadn’t knocked back a glass for the old times or whispered something sacrilegious about the year behind them. 

He hadn’t gone to Evelyn’s either.

But he’d thought about it.

He’d stared at the wall of his room, the fire low in the grate. He’d thought about how her hand had felt in his. He’d thought about walking over to the shop, about knocking once, maybe twice. About saying nothing. But doing anything she would let him do.

But he hadn’t.

And maybe it’s better that way.

His boots thud onto the boards that make up the decking around the house. His footfalls echo through the empty space, bouncing off new timber and rough plaster. The bones of the house are up now. The walls stand tall and the ceiling stretches above, but there’s no glass in the windows, no color on the walls. Just raw.

The tunnel entrance is quiet.

There's two holes in the ground now, but no dirt to be seen around it.

One of them is a wide hole near what will be the study, stairs now being built into it. The other entrance, further back, still has the ladder. Beneath all of it, the tunnels stretch. More every day. Reaching beneath the town, beneath the streets and buildings and shops. 

One of them, he knows, already snakes beneath the butcher’s. And it’s headed toward the phone booth next.

He crouches near the stair opening and listens. Tools strike stone. Grunts echo upward. The air smells of earth layered with the faint scent of damp timber.

“Briggs,” he calls down.

There’s a pause, then the scuff of boots against packed soil. Briggs appears below, looking up. His face is lined with effort, dirt smeared across his brow, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows.

“Yeah?” Briggs wipes at his forehead, but it only smears the grime.

“The boat,” Thomas says. “The one the men flagged.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Wasn’t anything to worry about.” He exhales, watching the way his breath curls into the air. “Furniture. Sent from England. The one we watched unload.”

Briggs blinks, then wipes his brow again. “That all?”

Thomas nods once. “We’ll bring it up. Put it in the rooms and make it look like someone’s moving in.”

“That the story we’re spinning to the locals?”

He stands slowly, knees aching faintly as he does. “Mhm. Owner’s coming soon, we'll tell them. A few weeks, maybe.”

Briggs takes that in with a grunt. “More men?”

“Same boat,” Thomas confirms. “They’ll come with him.”

He looks around, motioning with one hand to the empty frame of what will be one of the many rooms soon. “Rowe and his lot will keep working to get us covered. From the outside, this’ll be just another expensive summer home.”

“And inside?”

“We dig,” Thomas says. “Quietly. Constantly. No one knows the tunnels are here, and no one will.”

Briggs nods, then disappears back into the tunnel.

Thomas stands alone now.

He moves to one of the window frames and looks out toward the sea. 

He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, slow and even. The house will be finished soon. With furniture in the rooms and curtains in the windows, it will pass. The islanders will believe what they’re told. 

But beneath the walls and plaster, the work goes on.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The sound of the door opening pulls her from her work and Evelyn sets down her sponge, wiping the wet glaze from her fingers onto her apron. She’s been working since sunrise, losing herself in the rhythmic shaping of bowls and cups, doing anything to keep her mind from wandering.

Quiet has returned to the island. But her thoughts aren’t quiet. Not since the last letter. Not since she burned it.

She hadn’t opened that one either.

She hasn’t opened any of them.

Today, though, she doesn’t expect anything unusual. Maybe the glaze samples she ordered weeks ago. Or the restock of hemp cord for packaging. The island post is slow.

Evelyn makes her way into the main room but the door is closed now.

The box is sitting near it. Brown paper tied with rough twine, thick and neatly knotted. No note. No name on the front, at least not on top. She hesitates. But it’s the right size, the right shape. It has to be the supplies.

She bends down and picks it up, then goes about setting it on the counter. She reaches for the twine and unties it.

When the paper falls away, she sees it.

The packaging inside is too meticulous.

The tissue too fine.

And tucked beneath the first flap is his handwriting.

Her throat tightens.

No. No, no, no—

She backs away from it, hands shaking. Her apron presses against the counter as she moves, catching a drying teacup that topples and shatters at her feet. She doesn’t flinch.

The letter lies in wait, elegant, wax-sealed. Heavy paper. He always used heavy paper.

She should burn it.

She should throw it into the fireplace before her eyes can betray her and read a single word.

But her hands move on their own.

She doesn’t open the letter. But she opens the rest of the box.

What’s inside is worse.

Folded linen. A dress. Pale blue. Fine embroidery along the sleeves and she recognizes the seamstress. One her uncle has on retainer.

Underneath the dress, a pair of gloves. White lace.

Then, a ribbon. One she used to wear around her throat when his hands would leave bruises.

She exhales like she’s been punched.

She doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

Not when she climbs the stairs with the package clutched in her arms, not when she sets it on the table in her room, not when she tosses the dress into the fire, hands trembling.

It’s the ribbon that does it.

That soft, stupid ribbon.

She clutches it in her hands, feeling the silk against her skin. And then she sinks down onto the floor, dropping the silk ribbon in her descent.

She does not scream.

She does not speak.

But her body shakes.

The tears come slowly at first, then all at once.

And when she can breathe again, she throws the ribbon too into the fire, watching it catch and burn.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

Thomas stands back, looking at the door that now leads into the tunnel. They've covered the hole with the ladder. Now all that stands is this door.

He opens the door, steps inside, and closes it behind him. The sound of it thudding shut echoes in the hollow structure. Sawdust still clings to the floorboards, and the scent of wet stone and lime plasters the walls. One day, there will be furniture. Curtains. 

Thomas crosses the floor, moves toward the far end where a small alcove holds the new stairwell, all freshly built. It descends straight down into the darkness. No creak to the steps yet, but they will groan over time. Everything groans eventually.

His boots fall with dull, deliberate rhythm as he makes his way down. The deeper he goes, the more the air changes. It’s colder here. The kind of cold that seeps into the bones, and never leaves.

At the bottom, the torchlight flickers from where someone’s mounted a lantern to the wall. The tunnel opens in two directions—one heading toward the cliff face, the other snaking back toward the town. It smells of soil, sweat, and oil. 

He turns right, toward the men.

A few voices echo ahead—low, clipped, workman's chatter. Dirt shovels, picks clink against rock. Someone coughs. As he rounds the bend, they come into view—Hughes nearest, knee-deep in the trench, their sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms dark with grime. Others further in. Fraser, McTavish. Briggs  overseeing from the side, his pencil stuck behind one ear and clipboard in hand. 

Thomas steps up, nods once. “How’s it moving?”

Briggs glances over, shifts the clipboard into one hand. “Steady.”

“Tunnel height?” Thomas asks, crouching down to run his fingers along the earth wall.

“Just under six feet. We can raise it if—”

“No. Keep it low,” he says, brushing soil from his hand. “Quicker. Easier to hide. No one’s walking through here with their head high.”

Briggs nods once. 

Thomas steps closer to the trench, shrugs off his coat and tosses it aside. He rolls his sleeves to the forearms. He doesn’t announce anything. He just takes the shovel from Fraser and drops into the earth with a dull thud. Fraser only blinks, then grabs a pickaxe and moves further along.

The men shift around him. The rhythm falters for a moment, then continues. Thomas plants his boots in the dirt, sets his shoulders, and begins to dig.

Each scoop of soil is heavy. Damp. It clings to the metal. But he finds a rhythm. Dig. Lift. Toss. The sound of it hitting the pile behind him is comforting in its repetition. Familiar.

Minutes pass. Then more.

The air grows tighter the longer he’s down here. He can hear the creak of the braces overhead, wood settling in the weight of the earth above. The clink of picks. The scrape of metal. Someone’s boots shift beside him. Dirt falls from overhead in a thin stream.

And then he’s not on the island anymore.

He’s in France.

It comes without warning—the smell of damp linen and rotting flesh. The taste of copper on his tongue. The deafening silence right before the mine blows. He blinks and sees Davies beside him—but it’s not Davies. It’s someone else. Someone in the past. Eyes wide. Mouth moving, but no sound coming through. Just the rumble. The pressure. 

His shovel strikes against a rock and the jolt brings him back.

He’s still in the tunnel. Still under the island. But his breath’s coming fast and his grip is too tight around the handle. His knuckles ache. His back stings with sweat despite the cold.

Briggs looks over. Doesn’t speak. Just glances once.

Thomas swallows hard, shifts the shovel, and digs around the stone.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when his lungs burn.

Not even when the earth shifts beneath his boots.

Not even when the past keeps clawing at his neck like it wants to pull him under.

The tunnel closes around him, pressing tight. Not in distance, not in walls—but in the way the past creeps into every crack, filling it like water. He can feel it seeping in now. The weight of it behind his ribs, the sharp tug of old memory behind his eyes.

It isn’t just digging anymore.

It’s the smell of chalk dust and wet timber. It's the sting of sweat in his eyes when the ceiling caved in on four good men. The scrape of a boot against gravel and the moment right after. It’s the way everything sounds _wrong_ underground, how you can’t trust your ears. You learn to feel things in your bones instead. Back then, that’s how they survived. When they could.

Thomas keeps his rhythm steady. Slower now. More deliberate. Like he’s fighting something off with every scoop.

A clump of earth gives way suddenly, revealing the rest of rock. He leans in, brushes it clean with the edge of his palm.

“You alright?” Briggs calls out.

Thomas doesn’t look away. “Fine.”

Briggs waits, maybe expecting more. But Thomas doesn't offer it.

He hears Rowe give an order a few feet back, hears men shifting, more shovels scraping into the walls. The tunnel has life now, like a second set of lungs beneath the island. Breathing in and out.

Thomas sets the shovel aside for a moment and drops to one knee, running his fingers along the base of the wall where moisture gathers. The soil here is tighter, more compact. He can feel the pressure, the load bearing down from above. It’s good earth. Strong. It’ll hold.

But it’s still earth. And he knows what earth can do when it decides not to cooperate.

When the tunnel collapsed in the past, it was just like this. No warning. Just a hairline shift in the dirt and then a like a crack of thunder. Screaming. Blood. Wood shattering like bones. He was digging that day too. Only he was the one who made it out.

The candlelight down here flickers. It dances like it did back then. 

He shakes his head. Blinks once. Then twice.

It’s 1938.

It’s not France. It’s an island, and the house above isn’t a ruin—it’s a cover. The men with him now didn’t fight in that war with him. Some are too young to have seen it at all. That’s the thing about time—it moves forward with or without you.

Thomas grabs the shovel again and keeps digging.

Fraser passes by with a bucket full of soil and nods once at him. No one questions why their commanding officer is knee-deep in clay and sweat. No one dares. But he sees the look they pass one another—subtle. Confused. Curious. And maybe, in Briggs' eyes, something like respect. He earned it in France, and again in Birmingham, and again here.

Thomas keeps going until his arms ache and his shirt clings to him like another layer of skin. 

He shifts his stance and calls out without turning his head, “Reinforce here.” He taps the wall twice. “Too much pressure.”

Briggs is already on it, calling for timber braces. Hughes brings over a set. Thomas steps back as they slot the boards into place, pressing them into the mud, hammering the edges into the frame.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“You dig like a man who doesn’t know he outranks the rest of us,” Briggs says, wiping sweat off his forehead with a soiled sleeve.

Thomas gives him a look. Not annoyed. Just… tired.

“I dig like someone who knows what happens when men don’t do the job properly,” he mutters. “Or when they leave it to someone else.”

There’s no pride in it. Just fact.

Thomas looks up toward the new ceiling braces, eyes scanning the wood, the angles, the seams. They hold. For now.

He brushes his hands off, drops the shovel into the growing pile, and climbs out of the trench. His knees ache as he stands. His back tightens. Not from age, not entirely—just from memory. From the years spent doing this not for survival, but for war. Now he does it again—for war to come.

He moves down the tunnel, toward the branch that leads toward the cave. There, another team is working by lamplight. The air shifts here too—cooler, damper. He can hear the subtle roar of the sea somewhere beyond the wall, as if the ocean is breathing just on the other side.

Thomas steps toward the rock face, studies the line where soil meets stone. “You get through to the cave yet?” he asks McTavish.

“Not yet, sir. Maybe two more days.”

“Double shifts. I want it open by the weeks end.”

McTavish doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

Thomas turns back toward the stairs and begins to ascend. Each step feels heavier now—not physically, but in the space behind his ribs. The sound of his boots is dull on the new wood, but the echoes stay with him. The breathing walls. The pressure in the bones. The things he buried.

When he opens the cellar door again and steps into the half-built house, the light nearly blinds him. Morning sun streams through the open frame of a future window, and for a second, he squints against it.

He sets his coat back on his shoulders and walks out into the day.

The wind hits his face, and he tastes the sea.

The war hasn’t come yet.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

She turns the sign on the door to _Closed_ even though the sun hasn’t dipped fully past the hilltops. There’s still light filtering in through the shop windows—soft, honey-colored—but it feels too loud in here. Too exposed. Too much of her in the open.

The kiln is cooling. The shelves are mostly stocked. There’s no real reason to lock up early, no excuse strong enough to give anyone if they asked.

But Evelyn turns the key anyway.

She stands there for a moment in the stillness that follows. Just her, the humming silence, the distant gulls crying out toward the shore. Her hands rest on the wood, cool beneath her palms, and she draws a long breath in through her nose.

It doesn't settle anything.

The package from earlier is gone. Not out of mind, but out of sight. It's all burnt now. But even out of sight, the weight of it lingers. 

This time she had opened the note.

She still sees the wax seal when she closes her eyes. Still hears the way the string snapped as she pulled it free. Still feels the burn in her cheeks when she unfolded the letter inside.

A courtesy, it had said. Just a _courtesy_.

Her uncle’s handwriting is always neat. Precise. Measured down to the angle of the loops. A man incapable of writing without it looking like a signature.

She rubs the heel of her palm into her chest. It doesn’t help.

“Didn’t expect to see it closed this early.”

Evelyn exhales and turns, already knowing who it is.

Ellis stands out on the sands, one shoulder propped casually against the railing, hands tucked in his coat pockets. His beard’s grown scruffier since last week, and his hat is askew like he was in a rush, or maybe the wind tugged it sideways when he left his post at the lighthouse.

She turns to face him—not because she wants to talk, but because she knows not answering will only make him more persistent. You don’t live on an island like this without learning which silences get respected, and which get met with a lantern and a knock ten minutes later.

“You’re closing early,” Ellis says, eyes scanning her face. “Everything alright?”

She shrugs. “Just tired.”

“Looks more like haunted, if I’m being honest.”

Evelyn tries to smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Tired and haunted, then.”

He puts a foot on the bottom step. “Can I help with anything?”

“No.”

He gives her a long, even look. Then glances around the outside of the shop, like he's checking it for something. “Nothing broken. No mess. No decay.”

“Thanks for the inspection,” she mutters, folding her arms.

Ellis softens. “You want me to leave?”

“No.” She hears herself say it and doesn’t quite know why. She’s not sure what she wants—only that the quiet has teeth tonight. 

"Bad news or something?"

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t look away, either. Something in her face must give it away because Ellis just nods.

“I figured. You’ve got that look about you. The kind that comes from old ghosts putting their boots up on your furniture.”

“That’s a very specific image.”

“Well. I live in a lighthouse, Evelyn. I get poetic when the tide’s quiet.”

She almost laughs.

Almost.

“I should go,” Ellis says after a beat. “You need the evening.”

She doesn’t stop him. Just watches as turns to leave.

She goes up to her room and doesn’t look back.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

Thomas Shelby stands near the cliff’s edge, coat collar turned up, the sea below a black, churning mass. No moon. Just the dark and the sound of his own thoughts.

He lights a cigarette, shielding it with a cupped hand. The glow flares briefly, catching the strain in his jaw.

The second shipment was supposed to arrive hours ago. It did—but not all of it.

The crates they managed to move sit now in the lowest part of the tunnel, stacked and covered. But the rest—gone. Intercepted. 

He turns away from the cliff and begins the slow walk up toward the house still being built, its skeletal frame now boasting walls and windows braced with timber. Beyond it, stairs lead down into the tunnels where his men wait.

Briggs meets him at the doorway, arms crossed, expression stiff. “We triple-checked the trail.”

Thomas doesn’t answer right away. He walks past Briggs, down the corridor toward the door that leads to the tunnel room. When he speaks, it’s low. “And?”

Briggs follows. “We would’ve heard something if it was locals. It was clean. Professional.”

Thomas stops at the threshold. “So someone knew the exact time. The exact path. And exactly how long they had to take it.”

Briggs doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

They descend into the tunnel in silence. The men inside slow when they see Thomas, watching for a reaction. A signal. An answer.

“Rowe?” Thomas calls. The man steps forward from the shadows of the far wall, dirt streaked across his face, sleeves rolled to the elbow. “Any word from the beach?”

“Nothing. If they dumped the crates in the water, the tide’s long taken them.”

Thomas exhales through his nose, then gestures for Briggs and Rowe to follow him further in. They move toward the main chamber—narrow walls reinforced with timber, lanterns strung from makeshift hooks casting uneven light.

“I want eyes on every man,” Thomas says. “I want to know if anyone leaves their post, or speaks out of turn. I want to know if someone’s been paid off or scared into silence.”

Rowe raises an eyebrow. “You think it’s one of ours?”

“I think someone’s talking,” Thomas replies, voice like iron. “Whether it’s here or in town or from that last boat.”

He moves to the far wall and runs a hand along the freshly packed earth. Cold. Damp. 

“How many crates were lost?” he asks without turning around.

“Three,” Briggs says. “Three full crates.”

Thomas closes his eyes. Three crates, gone. Weapons they cannot replace.

He presses his palm flat against the earth and lets silence bloom around him.

Someone knew.

Later, after the men disperse to patrol or rest, Thomas sits alone at the small desk they’ve fashioned out of spare boards in the half-finished study above the tunnel room. The room smells like wet wood, and the wind groans through the window frames.

He pours a finger of whisky and doesn’t drink it.

Thomas leans forward, elbows on the desk, fingers threading through his hair. He stares at the whisky until it blurs.

The door creaks open behind him.

“Everything’s in place upstairs,” Briggs says. “Curtains up, furniture arranged. Looks like a house now. Just need to handle everything down here.”

Thomas doesn’t move. “Good.”

Briggs hesitates. “You think they’ll come again? Whoever took them?”

Thomas finally looks up, eyes sharp. “We get more weapons, they'll come again.”

Briggs nods once and leaves him in the quiet.

Thomas takes the glass and stands. Moves to the window and looks out over the cliff, the sea beyond it lost in the dark.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

She almost doesn’t hear it over the wind.

The waves have been loud all evening, battering the rocky shore like something’s trying to get in. Evelyn sits curled in the corner of her room, the hearth burning low, the embers cracking quietly as she tries not to let her thoughts carry her anywhere else. She’s left the shutters open tonight. Just the glow of the fire against the dark panes.

She thought maybe that would keep people away.

But there it is again. The knock. Not urgent. Just… there. Soft, steady. 

She doesn’t move at first.

It’s too late for deliveries. And Isla wouldn’t knock. 

Her stomach tightens—but she gets up anyway. Opens the room door just a crack, fear pooling in her stomach.

Thomas Shelby stands on her step, hands in his coat pockets, cap pulled low.

She doesn’t speak. 

His eyes lift slowly. “Did I wake you?”

Evelyn leans on the doorframe, hand gripping the edge. “You alright?”

He nods, but it’s not really a yes. “Walked from the cliffs.”

She steps back to let him in. With a quiet motion of her hand, and then she closes the door behind him.

The room is still warm from the fire. He doesn’t take off his coat. Just stands there, looking around.

There's not much to show for her living space. A small wood stove, two tables, a bed in the corner, a wash basin, and a few cooking utensils. Her bathroom is the only other room here. Everything else stays in the main living area.

But it looks very well lived in.

She moves toward the hearth, pokes at the logs, then gestures toward the kettle on the iron hook. “If you came for tea, it’s been on too long.”

He doesn’t move. “Didn’t come for tea.”

Her back stiffens slightly, but she doesn’t look at him. “Then why?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Didn’t want to be alone.”

The words hit her soft, but they land deep. Something in his voice, it's quieter than usual. Like he’s been fighting too many hours of silence and gave up just now.

Evelyn straightens slowly, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Not much good at company.”

“Neither am I.”

She looks over at him. He’s still near the door, boots dusted in dirt, the line of his shoulders tense beneath his coat. His eyes never leave her. He looks tired. Not in the way people say when they mean someone’s had a long day. In the way that means someone has had a rough go at life in general.

Evelyn can relate to that.

She lifts her chin slightly. “You want to sit?”

He does, eventually. Pulls the chair from beside the table and sits like the whole weight of the island came down with him. Evelyn returns to her place near the hearth, but not on the cushions this time. On the floor, knees pulled up, arms around her legs.

They sit like that a while. Not speaking.

The fire pops.

He lights a cigarette.

She stares at the red glow of it and tries not to remember the way her uncle’s face looked by candlelight. How calm he could seem just before—

“Don’t usually let people in this late,” she says, voice quieter now.

“I’ll go if you want.”

“I don’t.”

Another beat.

“I didn’t come here for anything,” he says, then corrects himself. “Not to take anything. Just needed to be somewhere else.”

It’s the way he says it that unravels something in her. Because it sounds like he understands. Like he knows what it is to want escape.

She rests her chin on her knees. “You ever not want to talk because you’re afraid if you do, you won’t stop?”

He nods once, a muscle in jaw ticks. “All the time.”

They don’t speak for another stretch. 

She hears him exhale. Not tired. Not resigned. Just… present.

That’s new.

She closes her eyes.

And doesn’t make him leave.

She doesn’t know how long they sit like that. Minutes? Hours? The fire dips lower. Outside, the wind has calmed, or maybe they’ve just stopped hearing it.

Evelyn shifts eventually, just enough to stretch out one leg, the floor cool beneath her ankle. Her back aches from the way she’s sitting, but she doesn’t want to move too much. Doesn’t want to spook this—whatever it is they’ve settled into. It’s not comfort. Not exactly. But it isn’t fear, either.

“I started locking up earlier,” Evelyn says, voice low as she stands and refills the kettle, then sets it on the stove.

Thomas glances over. The firelight catches in his eyes, casting amber into blue. “Why?”

She shrugs. It’s easier than explaining. She hasn’t told him much—not really. “Just felt like the right thing to do.”

Thomas doesn’t press. 

Evelyn leans her hip against the table. “Something arrived today. Something I didn’t expect. From someone I’ve tried to stay far away from.”

His eyes stay on her, steady. No questions, no interruption.

“I thought I’d gone far enough that nothing could reach me here,” she says, quieter now.

He blinks, bringing the cigarette to his lips.

She exhales, slow. “I hate that it still works. That one thing at the door and I’m back to checking locks. Back to hiding. Back to thinking if I breathe too loud, someone might hear it.”

“You locked the door before I came.”

She nods.

“But you still let me in.”

Her gaze lifts.

He’s not smiling. Not trying to charm her. He just says it. 

She’d let him in.

Through all of her shutting down, through her over-thinking, through her worry.

She draws in a breath, shaky at the edges. The room is warm with firelight, but she feels cold under her skin. 

Thomas exhales slowly, cigarette between his fingers, the tip glowing faintly. “I’ve had women in my life,” he says, voice casual but not careless. “Before the war, during it, after.”

She nods once, not surprised.

“They usually came looking for something,” he goes on. “Something to fix. Or something to feel. Didn’t matter either way. It never lasted.”

Her eyes linger on his face.

“I didn’t make it easy,” he adds, flicking the ash into the dish. “Still don’t.”

A beat passes. 

She lifts an eyebrow. “You warning me off?”

Thomas glances at her then, the edge of a smile threatening. “No. If I were, you’d know it.”

“You always this charming?”

He leans back slightly, cigarette lowering. “Only when I’m not trying.”

That draws a small smile from her—brief, but real.

“You think I’m expecting something from you?” she asks.

“I think,” he says, holding her gaze, “you haven’t decided what you want yet. And that’s the only reason this still feels simple.”

There’s a pause. A slow-building pull in the space between them.

Her voice is quiet. “And if I did decide?”

He watches her. 

“Then I’d stop pretending I haven’t already,” he says.

Her chest tightens.

“I’m not good at this,” she says. Her voice is soft, barely audible over the kettle beginning to hum.

Still, he says nothing. Just watches.

So she keeps going.

“I’ve never let someone close like this. Not when it feels like I might come apart if they get too near.”

He stands slowly. Not sudden, not loud. Just moves with intent. Boots quiet against the floor.

She doesn’t step back.

He stops in front of her. Close enough to feel the heat from the fire.

She tilts her face up.

He’s still. Unmoving. Like he’s giving her time, space, a way out.

She reaches first—fingertips brushing his coat, catching lightly on the lapel. Just enough to say that she’s not turning away.

And then she leans in. The shift is small. Barely a breath between them now.

Then he kisses her.

It’s not hurried. Not reckless. It’s slow, deliberate. 

His hand comes to her jaw, calloused fingers gentle against her skin. Her own moves to his chest, anchoring herself there. The warmth between them swells, not firelight, but something else—something deeper.

When they break apart, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe.

Evelyn exhales slowly, eyes still closed.

She opens them to find him watching her.

And he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Neither does she.

The moment sits between them, quiet and full.

She finally steps back—not to leave, just to breathe again. She settles into a wooden chair, limbs looser than they were before, but heart still tight in her chest.

Thomas sits opposite her, elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly like he’s still sorting through whatever passed between them.

She watches him for a long moment. There’s a softness around his mouth she hasn’t seen before. A quiet in his shoulders.

“That the first time in a while?” he asks, voice low.

She nods. “Yes.”

He glances at her. “Why now?”

Her answer comes without hesitation. “Because I didn’t feel like I had to.”

His gaze holds hers. Then, a slow nod.

He doesn’t thank her. Doesn’t say anything that might make it transactional. 

“I didn’t come here for that,” he says.

“I know.”

“I came because I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

She nods again. “That’s why I opened the door. A part of me didn't want to be alone either.”

He sits back a little.

They sit in silence for a while.

The fire crackles low. The kettle hisses. Still, neither of them moves to break the silence that’s wrapped itself around the room.

Eventually, Evelyn stirs. “You should sleep.”

His eyes flick up. “You want me to go?”

“No.” She hesitates. “I meant… you can stay here. If you want.”

He leans forward. “You don’t have to offer that.”

“I’m not,” she says. “I'll sleep on the floor or the chair.”

He doesn’t argue. But he rises, walks slowly to the front door, checks the lock. She hears the deadbolt slide again.

Then he lingers, his hand on the latch. Not to leave.

When he turns back to her, she’s standing again.

“I’ll take the chair,” he says.

“I told you—”

“You want to give up your bed. I’m not taking that.” His tone is firm, but kind.

She watches him. Wants to argue. Finds she doesn’t have it in her.

“Alright,” she murmurs.

She moves to the corner of the room, near the bed. “Thomas?”

He looks over at her.

“Thank you. For coming.”

His nod is slow. 

And for the first time in too long, Evelyn doesn’t feel hunted.

She feels safe.

It might not be lasting, but tonight it's good enough.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

Thomas steps into Isla's shop, expecting the scent of freshly baked bread to hit him first. Expecting the sound of Isla’s voice greeting him from behind the counter.

But today, it’s not Isla who looks up.

It’s Richard.

Thomas stills for the smallest beat.

The other man offers a smile — too quick, too eager. “Morning, Mr. Shelby,” Richard says. His voice is polite. “Isla’s just stepped out for a delivery. Said I could mind the shop while she’s gone.”

Thomas nods once, says nothing.

He steps inside anyway.

“You looking for something specific?” Richard asks after a moment, stepping out from behind the counter like he means to be helpful.

Thomas doesn’t answer straightaway. His eyes move over a display of sponge cakes, jars of jam, a few fresh loaves set out early. None of it what he came for — he didn’t come for anything. Just information. But with Isla out, he won't get that.

Richard waits. Fidgets. “Didn’t peg you for someone who stops by this early,” he says.

Thomas lifts an eyebrow. “No?”

Richard shrugs, flashes teeth. “Just figured you’d send someone if you needed anything.”

Thomas doesn’t rise to it. “Sometimes it’s good to walk into a place yourself.”

There’s a beat of silence. Richard adjusts the collar of his coat. Then he tries again.

“How’s the house going?” he asks, too casually. “The one up on the cliff?”

Thomas looks at him fully now.

Richard doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

Thomas keeps his voice even. “Fine.”

“Must be strange, building that far out. Can’t be easy getting supplies up there.”

Thomas offers nothing.

Richard’s smile twitches, like he realizes he’s pressed too far — but he doesn’t stop.

“I saw a few crates come in,” he says, “Heavy stuff it seemed.”

Thomas’ mouth stays flat. “You keeping tabs on what gets delivered?”

Richard raises his hands, all innocence. “Just noticing. Small island. Not much slips past anyone.”

Thomas steps closer to the man, brushes a finger along the edge of a crate of apples. “You always pay that much attention to crates, Richard?”

Richard chuckles but it sounds forced. “Just curious. Don’t get many new builds around here. Hard not to notice.”

Thomas doesn’t smile. “Curiosity’s fine. Long as it knows where to stop.”

A pause stretches. Richard shifts, hands going into his pockets.

“She ever ask you to fix that leak?” he asks suddenly, and the change in topic is so abrupt Thomas doesn’t answer at first.

Then he remembers.

Evelyn's words about Richard the night of the downpour.

“She did,” Thomas says, finally.

Richard watches him, careful.

Thomas narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Just wondered” Richard says. "I did it for her some time ago, but she didn't ask this time."

Thomas nods slowly. “You surprised by that?”

“Yeah,” Richard says. 

Thomas folds his arms.

There’s something in his tone Thomas doesn’t like.

Not jealousy. Not quite. But something off. 

Thomas lets the silence linger again.

He doesn’t mind silence. He watches the way Richard handles it — the way he can’t stop shifting, can’t let it settle without filling it.

Thomas files it away.

“Isla’ll be back soon,” Richard says finally. “You want me to tell her you came by?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I’ll catch her another time.”

He doesn’t say goodbye.

He just turns and leaves. The bell above the door barely makes a sound.

Outside, the wind meets him hard and fast, colder than he expected. He walks slow at first, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Eyes on the uneven ground.

But his thoughts are quick now. Sharp.

He can still hear Richard’s voice — that careful edge under the surface. A little too interested in the house. In him.

The man’s trying to figure something out. That much is clear.

Thomas doesn’t trust easily. And he trusts less when men start asking questions like that. Questions that seem casual but aren’t.

The path opens up to the square, and Thomas glances toward the ferry dock, the buildings beyond it still quiet this early.

He moves faster now.

He doesn’t like what this morning feels like — the way one conversation can shift everything out of alignment.

He reaches the cliff path and starts to move along it.

He needs to decide whether Richard’s just another nosy islander...

Or something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed island
1938

Thomas stops at the bottom of the steps, the tide whispering behind him as it draws back from the sand. He glances once to either side. Empty beach. No movement. 

From inside his coat, he pulls his cigarette case out and takes one between his fingers. Then he sets it between his lips. He places the case back into his coat pocket, pulls out his lighter and gets the flame going. Cupping his hand he lights the cigarette, takes a few pulls and puts the lighter back.

Once he exhales the first plume of smoke, he reaches into the breast pocket of his coat, takes out a slip of paper then unfolds it. The edges are creased; the writing smudged in places. 

The tide brings in weather from the north. The sheep is at risk, a wolf is in—

The last bit trails off in a mess of ink. Doesn’t matter. The wording, the poor spelling—Thomas knows exactly who it’s from. Only one other man who knows he’s alive.

He exhales, a dry sound that could almost be a laugh. Sloppy as ever. Loyal as ever.

Thomas folds the letter, presses it back into the inside of his coat, and starts up the steps, sand scattering off the heels of his boots. The shop door gives when he tries it—unlocked, as always. The sign says “Open,” though the place is still and silent inside. It usually is.

He steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him. The smell hits him first—clay, wood, a faint sweetness that doesn't belong amidst the earthy notes. Her scent, threaded through the rest. The shelves are full of pieces that no one seems to buy. Cups, jugs, small plates lined up neatly. He doesn’t understand how she keeps going. Maybe she doesn’t either.

From the back, she speaks without turning.

“Did you break your tea set?”

Her tone is quiet. Not surprised. He wonders if she hears every footstep, every creak of the floorboards.

“No,” he answers, voice flat, clipped as usual. He moves further in, eyes on her hands as they adjust a row of new plates.

“Looking for something new?” she asks, still not looking at him.

“Yes.”

That gets her attention. She turns. Her expression shifts, just slightly—something unreadable in her eyes before it smooths away again. She steps toward him a pace, then hesitates, and stays still.

He crosses the last bit of space between them and reaches out, his hand brushing her shoulder. He tries to be gentle, but even then, she flinches—barely, but he feels it. He drops his hand.

Still, after a pause, she comes to him.

He lowers his head slowly, not touching yet. Giving her time. Space to back away, if she wants to. She doesn’t. So he closes the distance and kisses her.

It’s slow at first. Not because he’s hesitant but because he wants to feel this properly. Her lips are soft, and the way she moves against him is cautious. Careful. Like she’s still deciding what this is, what he is..

“Can I come over tonight?” he murmurs, barely lifting his mouth from hers.

“Yes,” she breathes, her fingers coming to rest lightly on his chest.

He kisses her again. Deeper this time.

“If I stay until morning… will it be the chair again?”

“For now, yes.”

He huffs out a laugh, more in his chest than his throat. “Even if I behave?”

“Still the chair,” she says, though her voice has softened.

He lifts his hands, frames her face. Kisses her again, slower, longer. Her hands slide up to rest on his arms. She presses into him a little more now, the tension in her shoulders slipping away bit by bit. He hums against her lips without meaning to. There’s something in this moment that pulls him not just the usual desire he feels when he kisses someone, but the want to stay. To be good. To be gentle.

He isn’t used to that. At least he hasn't been in years.

Her lips part just slightly, her breath mingling with his, and for a moment it feels like they could stay right here. But then she pulls back. Not far, but enough to leave cold where her warmth was.

“Tonight,” he says again, quietly.

She nods. “Tonight.”

Her arms fold around herself. She looks at him, but it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. She’s always like that. Closed off. Guarded. He doesn’t ask questions. Not yet. But he wishes he could see what holds her back. Wishes he knew if it’s him, or something else.

Thomas doesn’t move at first. Just watches her in the quiet.

There’s no clock ticking in the shop. No music, no background noise. Just the wind outside, the dull stretch of silence inside, and her standing with her arms wrapped tight around her frame, like she’s holding herself together in front of him.

He steps forward again, slow enough not to startle. His boots make no sound against the worn wooden floor. She watches him, but doesn’t retreat. He reaches out, but this time he stops before touching her. His hand hovers, just beside her arm.

“You cold?” he asks.

“No.” Her voice is even. Unreadable.

He nods once. His hand drops again.

For a second, they stand there like that. Neither of them speaking, but the moment stretched taut, like wire between them. There’s something about being this close to her that makes the rest of the world drop away. Makes his mind quiet just a bit.

She blinks first. Looks away, toward a row of unfinished mugs drying on a nearby shelf. Something flickers in her face. Regret, maybe. Or doubt. Maybe both.

He takes another step in.

“I’ll keep to the chair tonight,” he says. “Even if you don’t make me.”

Her lips curve—barely. It isn’t a smile, not really. Just a ghost of one.

“I know,” she says softly.

Her arms come down then. She’s not folded in on herself anymore. That, he thinks, is something.

He brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, gentle this time. No flinching. No retreat.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he tells her, voice low. “Not yet.”

“I know,” she repeats, but this time her voice is a little different. A little less guarded.

He lets the silence return between them. It’s not uncomfortable. He steps past her, runs a thumb lightly along the rim of one of the plates she’d been arranging when he came in. Glazed white. 

He turns back to her. She hasn’t moved.

“You could close early,” he says. “Not many people in today.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Trying to get me to shut down my business?”

“Trying to get you to come walk with me.”

“In the cold?”

“In the quiet.”

She stares at him a moment longer, then glances out the glass of a window near the door, at the sun that hasn't went down yet.

Then she moves and walks toward the door, flipping the sign from open to closed. She doesn’t say anything. Just pulls her cardigan from the hook near the door and slips it over her shoulders.

Thomas opens the door before she can reach for the handle. She steps out into the cool air. He follows.

They don’t go far. Just down the narrow path beside the shop along the shore. The sea is pulled back now, the tide low and crawling. He watches the surf move like breath—drawn in, held, released.

Beside him, Evelyn pulls her sleeves over her hands.

“You watch the sea a lot,” she says.

“It tells you things if you listen.”

She hums. “What’s it saying now?”

He glances at her. She’s looking out at the water, not at him. Her profile’s sharp against the sky, pale in the fading light.

“To dive in. Head first.” he answers.

Something shifts in her face. Her eyes drop to the wet sand below.

“That's funny,” she murmurs. “in this cold air?”

He doesn't answer because that's not what he's thinking. Not literal.

Instead, he watches the water with her, watches the wind pull at the edge of her cardigan. And in the stillness between them, in the shared silence that stretches from the sea to their relaxed shoulders, he lets himself believe that maybe he could have some solace here.

Even if that is a lie.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

Evelyn moves quietly through the storeroom, her arms full of items ready to be sat out on the shelves. She's been helping at Isla's shop since the afternoon, after all — her pottery isn't selling much lately and she needs to be able to eat and pay her bills. So she has worked here for that in the past and now. She also likes to help Isla when possible, Evelyn believes they are friends.

The door to the front shop is open a crack. She can hear Isla’s voice before she even steps into view.

“Just saying, he’s been around a lot,” Richard says, his voice lower than usual. “More than most of anyone on the island. He comes here every single day, sometimes more than once and it's always when the two of you can talk.”

Evelyn stops mid-step, still hidden, the edge of a crate that holds the items to be set out pressing against her hip.

Isla’s laugh floats out — light, easy. “Strange how? People need things. He’s got that big place going up. A lot of mouths to feed.”

“I've checked the logs of who buys what and most of the time it's barely anything,” Richard mutters. "Rare times it's enough to feed the workers but not all of the time. There are some logs missing, I can tell."

Evelyn shifts her weight.

“He came in the other day.” Richard goes on. “Looked around. But since you weren't here. He left pretty quickly.”

Isla makes a noncommittal sound. Evelyn can picture her wiping her hands on her apron, busy with something and not really paying him mind.

“And the house,” Richard presses, voice sharper now. “The one out by the cliffs. Don’t you wonder what the hell he’s doing up there? That much material, all that work going on — for what? A holiday home? There's more timber going up there than is needed for the place.”

Isla snorts. “If you’re so curious, why don’t you ask him yourself? And what would you know about how much timber is needed for a house?”

“I've been doing handiwork for years, Isla,” Richard says. There’s a frustrated edge creeping into his voice. “I think I know a thing or two about this. Give me some credit.”

Evelyn’s fingers tighten around the twine binding the parcels. A part of her itches to walk in, to make some excuse, to break up the conversation. But she stays still. Listens.

“He’s got men working up there,” Richard adds, quieter now, like he’s trying to sound casual. “men that do not look like the standard builder.”

Isla clicks her tongue. “Now you're judgin' a book by it's cover with that. You of anyone should know that isn't going to do ya any good.”

Richard laughs — but it’s hollow. “You know more than you're letting on. I know it.”

Evelyn feels a chill settle deep into her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. She can hear Isla moving about, the clink of glass jars, the rustle of paper bags.

Then Isla says, more gently, “You’re overthinking it, Richard. Let it lie.”

Richard doesn’t answer straightaway.

When he finally does, his voice is thin. “If you're helping him, so help me...”

Footsteps move across the shop floor, and Evelyn pulls back, staying out of sight as Richard brushes past. She hears the door swing open, the muted sound of it shutting behind him.

Only then does she exhale.

Slowly, she steps back toward the door and peeks through the gap. Isla stands alone behind the counter, humming to herself as she rearranges a display of biscuits.

Seemingly unbothered by her husbands accusations.

Evelyn leans against the wall for a moment, the crate resting against her side.

It’s not the first time she’s heard that tone in Richard’s voice. But hearing it directed at Isla like that, plain and sharp and threatening, makes her stomach turn.

She glances down at the twine marks left on her fingers, her chest tightening.

Thomas hasn’t told her much. She hasn’t asked. She never does. But now she wonders how much of what’s happening on the cliffs needs to stay hidden — not just from Richard, but from everyone.

She straightens, adjusts the crate in her arms, and steps out into the shop, face carefully composed.

Isla looks up and smiles as if nothing’s wrong.

And Evelyn smiles back — even though, deep down, something uneasy writhes in her stomach.

Something she knows won’t go away.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The wind cuts hard across the rocks, whipping the salt spray into his face. Thomas pulls his collar higher, bracing against it as he steps carefully across the uneven stones. The tide’s coming in slow tonight, grey waves lapping against the shore with a sluggish rhythm. It's cold, but he welcomes it. Better to feel the cold than to feel nothing at all.

Ahead, a figure waits. Someone standing close to the water. Thomas slows, eyes narrowing, hand brushing the grip of the gun tucked inside his coat.  

No chances. Not now.

Then he hears it — a low chuckle. Familiar.

“Christ, Tom. Still walking like you’re expecting a bullet every minute.”

Thomas exhales, tension leaking out of him.  
“Some habits don’t die.”

Johnny Dogs grins as he steps forward, hands loose at his sides. He looks the same. Eyes bright, like he knows a joke you’ll never quite hear the end of. "Says the immortal man of Birmingham"

“You’re well, then,” Thomas says.

Johnny barks a laugh. “Well enough to disappoint many.”

They stand a moment, the sea roaring at their backs, no one else in sight. It’s safer that way. Johnny's the only man left who knows Thomas is still breathing that hasn't betrayed him — and Thomas trusts him.

Johnny’s smile fades as he looks Thomas over. "You look worse than the last time."

Thomas shrugs. "Been a busy and rough many months."

Johnny spits to the side. "You shouldn't even be here, Tom. Not with what’s brewing."

Thomas’ jaw tightens. He steps closer, boots scraping wet stone. "Why did you come?"

Johnny shifts, voice quieter. "Word’s gotten around the wrong circles. Heard it first from a lad up north. Someone caught a whisper of Sir Henry Lockwood running his mouth in a tavern."

Thomas’ expression doesn’t change. 

“Lockwood doesn’t know when to shut up after a few drinks," Johnny continues. "Some woman — a barmaid, pretty thing — told a friend of mine... he was boasting. Saying he had 'plans' to deal with a problem. Said he had someone ‘inside’ to handle it.”

Thomas stares hard at him.  
"Inside what?"

Johnny’s mouth twists. “Inside your team, Tom.”

The rocks are slick underfoot, but Thomas stands firm. “You’re sure?”

Johnny nods grimly. "He didn’t say names. Talked about a thorn he couldn't pull himself. Talked about needing a hand 'removing' it quietly. Said the word ‘gypsy’.”

Thomas says nothing, waiting. But he realizes now that htis is what Johnny had been trying to tell him in his coded letter.

Johnny steps closer. "It wasn’t about your blood, Tom. It was about you."

Thomas lets that settle. Feels the chill of it deep in his bones.

How many men now have tried to take him down. 

“Why?” he asks finally.

Johnny scoffs. “Why d’you think? You’re a risk. Always were.”

Thomas lifts a cigarette to his lips, lights it with a steady hand.

“He made a mistake," Johnny says. "Said too much. Too many ears.”

Thomas inhales, lets the smoke fill his lungs. He watches the tide roll higher, getting closer to their boots.

“And you’re sure it’s someone inside,” Thomas says.

Johnny nods once. “One of yours. One of the men.”

A long silence stretches out.

Thomas’ mind starts running. 

He thinks of Briggs. Rowe. Jenkins. Kipner. Hughes. McTavish. Calloway. Fraser.  
Every name tastes bitter now.

"Could be any of them," Johnny says, like he reads the thought. "Could even be someone you trust most."

Thomas doesn’t flinch. He’s past flinching.

“You're sure it's in my team?” he asks. Evelyn coming to mind immediately.

"Yes. In your team, talked about a man he had on the inside." Johnny repeats.

"Man?" Thomas asks, raising a brow to be clear.

"Yes, what is it, Tom? You got a woman now?" Johnny teases.

Thomas almost smiles. Almost. At least the bastards didn't pull it again with a woman. He had been weak once, he doesn't want to be caught like that again.

He flicks ash off the end of his cigarette, thinking.

“Anything else?” Thomas asks.

Johnny shifts, grimacing. “One thing. He’s moving fast.”

Thomas watches the sea foam at the rocks. "Meaning?"

Johnny lowers his voice. “Meaning whoever’s been given the job — they might act soon.”

Thomas nods slowly.

Johnny claps a hand to his shoulder, quick and rough. “Watch your back, Tom. You’re good, but you're not invincible.”

Thomas tosses the cigarette into the sea, where it hisses out.

“Neither are they.”

Johnny grins wide. "That's the Tom I know."

Thomas turns, coat flaring in the wind, and heads back toward the shadowed path leading to the cliffs. His mind runs ahead of him.

There’s a rat among his men.

And rats only survive if someone lets them.

But he won't.

Lockwood won't get the better of him, neither will Churchill.

Not this time.

Evelyn & Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The light through the little window is grey-blue, the kind of cold, early light that makes everything feel softer, quieter. The room feels even smaller in the early hours. The sofa dips under their combined weight but holds, just big enough for the two of them tangled together under the thin blanket.

She’s still asleep against him, face tucked into the crook of his neck, one hand curled loosely against his chest. He lets his eyes stay half-shut, not ready to move, not ready yet to give up the weight of her against him.

He shifts a little, careful not to wake her. His back is stiff from the way he’s been laying, but he wouldn’t trade the discomfort for the world. 

The sofa’s too narrow for anything comfortable, but her body pressed into his, her warmth. It’s worth every aching muscle.

The blanket has slipped down to her waist. Without thinking, he reaches and pulls it back over her shoulders. She murmurs something in her sleep, soft and unintelligible, and nestles closer.

There's no nightmares this time. He notes that, how every night since the first time he spent in that horrible chair...her nightmares had become less and less. But last night, she hadn't had any.

There's something she's experienced, like he has, that left trauma etched into her soul. Much like his own. And she hides it. Like he does.

He closes his eyes again, breathes her in... all sweetness and sea salt,  something that’s just her.

This little room above the shop, with its slanted ceiling and cracked window frame. It’s become the place he looks for at the end of every day without meaning to. It’s where he sleeps now, more often than his own bed. 

There’s no place safer than this. Not anymore.

He feels her stirring against him so he opens his eyes just as she blinks hers open. She lifts her head slightly, disoriented, her hair a soft tangle falling over her eyes.

She looks up at him, confused for half a second, then a small smile tugs at her lips, quick and unguarded. It feels like the rarest thing in the world, that smile.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning," he murmurs back, voice low.

She shifts, the blanket falling down again, and he catches it, tucking it back around her shoulders. His hand lingers a moment longer than it needs to, stroking her arm absentmindedly, feeling the tremble in her limbs.

She watches him with those wide eyes like she’s not sure yet if she should be shy about where they’ve woken up. All wrapped around each other, no space left between them.

He could say something. Tease her, maybe. But the moment feels too delicate for that. Like anything louder than a whisper would shatter it.

Instead, he lifts a hand to her face, brushing the messy strands of hair back from her eyes. His fingertips graze her forehead, her temple, the curve of her cheekbone.

She doesn’t pull away.

The trust in that is almost enough to bring him to his knees. All those moments she has been so guarded, has put distance between them. All of it now shattering.

"You sleep alright?" he asks, voice still rough from not being used yet.

She nods. "Better than I have in a long time."

She says it so quietly, like she’s almost afraid to admit it.

He tightens his arm around her, just a little. "Good," he says. And he means it. God, he means it.

They stay like that for a long while, neither of them in a hurry to move. Outside, the world stirs. Gulls cry faintly in the distance, the sea crashes against rocks. But up here, it’s still their own small, suspended world.

Eventually, she tilts her head up, looking at him from under her lashes.

"You’re...  careful with me so often," she says. "Why?"

He brushes his thumb along her jaw, slow and steady. "Course I am."

She laughs, a soft, breathy thing, like she doesn’t know what to do with that kind of tenderness. Like no one’s ever been careful with her before.

"You don’t have to be," she says after a beat, her voice almost shy. "I’m not... fragile."

He smiles faintly. "Maybe. But you deserve to be treated like you are."

She looks away, like she’s not sure how to take that. After all, no one has ever been careful with her.

Her mind tries to go back to her past, to her trauma, to what makes her want to push him away. 

But then he does something that pulls her back to the present.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, slow and steady, then another to the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t move. Just closes her eyes and leans into it.

When their mouths meet properly, it’s soft, slow, almost shy. No urgency. Just the slow building of something warm and deep.

She kisses him back, hands fisting lightly in his shirt like she needs something to ground her here to this moment. He shifts slightly, pulling her more fully against him, cradling the back of her head with one large, careful hand. His thumb strokes against her scalp, coaxing her closer.

When they pull apart, she’s breathing a little heavier, her cheeks flushed.

"I..." she starts, then trails off.

"What?" he murmurs, brushing his nose against hers.

She swallows, looking at his mouth like she’s thinking about kissing him again. "I overheard something," she says finally. "From Richard and Isla."

He waits, fingers stroking slow over the back of her neck now.

"They were talking..." She smiles a little, embarrassed. "...Richard had been asking about how often you come into Isla's shop, why you're always there and why sometimes you don't buy a lot. Why you left when it was only him there and not Isla."

He chuckles low in his chest, the sound rumbling against her.

"And?" he prompts.

She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, still smiling that small, sweet, shy smile. "I think... I he seemed upset, angry."

He tilts his head slightly. "Yeah?"

She looks at him — really looks at him, like she’s seeing him for the first time. Her hand rests over his heart, light but steady.

"A bit suspicious? Talking about the amount of timber up there. I don't know. I didn't like his tone with Isla."

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds her closer, lets his hand stroke lazy patterns along her spine. It’s easier, sometimes, to say things without words.

But after a long moment, he presses his mouth to her hair and murmurs, "I'll talk with him. See what he's so curious about."

The blanket slips again, pooling at their waists, but neither of them bothers pulling it up this time. Their bodies are warm enough, tangled together in the tiny space.

Outside, the light grows stronger, turning gold at the edges. Morning is fully here now, but neither of them moves to leave the couch. Not yet.

Evelyn feels like maybe she could stay like this forever. Her walls crumbling down the longer he makes room for her.

The longer he lays there, with her leaning against him, her body not trapped, not backed into a corner. She could get up any time. And she knows he would let her. 

She could be like this, messy, tired, and not be berated for not looking her best.

She could breathe without setting up some hair pin trigger that creates a cascading effect that ends with her bruised and bleeding and unconscious. 

Her thoughts get uncomfortable, her chest tight like something is pressing against it and she needs air, needs space, needs rooml

She shifts against him, rolling her shoulder lightly, and he can feel the weight of her breath against his skin.

"You hungry?" she murmurs, almost shy, like she’s just now realizing she’s forgotten to ask the obvious question.

Thomas hums softly. “Thirsty.”

She laughs softly. “Tea it is then. I’ll have to heat some up on the stove.”

The stove sits just a few feet away from where they’re lying. It’s a simple thing, black iron with a single door, the fire inside small and contained. 

They sit up together, a little reluctantly, the blanket slipping down to their laps as they shift.

Thomas rubs a hand over his face, dragging away the last of sleep. “I’ll make it,” he says, but she’s already shaking her head, her soft smile still lingering at the corners of her mouth.

“No, you stay. I’ve got it,” she insists, but even as she says it, she’s shifting, standing on unsteady legs. The room’s small, and their movements are close, brushing against each other in the tight space.

He stands too, easily slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers as she moves to the stove. She’s light on her feet, as if the cramped space doesn’t make it difficult to navigate, but Thomas still steps aside to give her room, careful not to crowd her as she adjusts the wood inside, getting the fire going again.

He watches her as she works, watching the way she bends to the stove, the way her small movements are quick but graceful, even in this tiny, crowded room. She turns to look at him, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “You don't have to watch me, you know.”

“Oh, but I do,” he replies with a grin, leaning against the wall, watching her set the kettle on the stove.

She rolls her eyes, her smile turning into something softer, more affectionate. “You’re impossible.”

The soft warmth of the stove starts to fill the room, the small flame catching at the kindling, crackling softly as the kettle begins to heat. Evelyn grabs a small tin of loose-leaf tea from the shelf and tips it into two mugs, ones she made.

He steps closer, almost without thinking. The space is small enough that the heat from the stove warms them both. 

She turns her face to him, and for a moment, it’s like everything else fades. The crackling of the fire, the steam rising from the kettle, the narrowness of the room. It’s just them. 

The fire hisses softly, and the kettle starts to whine. She moves to pour the hot water into the mugs.

“Would you like anything in yours?” she asks, turning slightly to look up at him.

He nods. “No.”

Her hands are steady as she pours the water, and when she turns to hand him his cup, their fingers brush, the contact quick but warm.

They stand there for a second, just holding the cups, the steam rising.

She tilts her head, studying him. “You didn’t answer my question earlier.”

He looks at her, lifting the cup to his lips. “Which one?”

“The one about being careful with me,” she says quietly, her gaze a little uncertain now, like she’s not sure how to ask for the answer.

He takes a slow sip of his tea, letting the warmth seep through him. “I meant it,” he says, his voice low. “You deserve it. All of it. That's why.”

She doesn’t speak right away, just holds her cup with both hands, watching him.

There’s a beat of quiet before she finally exhales softly, her shoulders dropping just a little. “You really are impossible,” she mutters, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her lips again.

He smiles back, this time, genuinely.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer, just close enough to brush his lips against the side of her head, his breath warm against her ear.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The night sinks heavy around Thomas as he climbs the narrow path leading back toward the village. The sea roars behind him, fading slowly with each step inland. Darkness clings to the cliffs. He will be late tonight to Evelyn's place.

The cold has gotten into his coat now, but he doesn't notice. His mind is elsewhere, turning over every name, every face, every small detail he'd let slip by him these past weeks. His mind has been mulling it over since he met with Johnny.

Thomas feels the weight of the pistol against his ribs. No rush yet. Timing is everything.

He heads into the house that is now fleshed out in full. Each room is coming along, the furniture looking nice. 

No more construction on the outside yet they need to keep working on the interior. 

"Bloody storm last night," Fraser grumbles, poking at the fire in the hearth with a stick. "a few shingles on the roof came off. The wind here is nothing to joke about."

"And where were you, eh?" Kipner jokes. "Snoring through it all?"

Fraser chuckles. "I'm not daft, eh? I had been in the tunnels, watching for shifting of earth."

Normal banter. Nothing unusual. But Thomas stands and listens anyway, just out of sight. Listening for the notes out of tune.

Briggs is there, sitting apart from the others. Watching them.

Not laughing.

Thomas steps forward finally. The men jolt upright at the sight of him, stiffening.

"At ease," Thomas says, voice even.

The fire pops. A few of the men glance at each other. Hughes moves to fetch him a chair, but Thomas waves him off. He prefers standing tonight.

He lets the silence stretch just long enough to make them nervous.

"Had a word with an old friend tonight," Thomas says finally. "Old friends tend to know things. Things we don't always want to hear."

The men shift. Even Fraser, usually too dense to catch onto anything quickly, senses the change in atmosphere.

"Seems there are whispers going around," Thomas says, pacing slow around the room. "Whispers about men who take orders from other masters."

The fire crackles. 

"I trust the men here," Thomas continues. "I trust them with my life."

He lets the words hang there, heavy and deliberate.

"But trust," he says, "isn't always put into the right place."

He stops behind Briggs, close enough to feel the man tense.

"And sometimes," Thomas says low, "my trust is misplaced."

Briggs keeps his face calm. Trained. But Thomas sees it — the flicker of breath too shallow, the tightening at the corner of the mouth.

Got you.

"Tomorrow," Thomas says, stepping back into the firelight, "there'll be a smaller delivery."

A few murmurs of surprise.

"I'll need two men to come with me," he says, "to unload the boat and carry the crates up here. Briggs. Calloway."

Briggs hesitates. Just half a second.

Then..."Yes, sir."

Thomas nods. "Good."

He lets them relax again, ordering a double watch for the night. Tension eases as the men settle back into their routines.

Later, when the everything has quieted, Thomas slips from the room he had told them he would sleep in and makes his way through the house. He waits until he sees Briggs slip out of the house, heading down toward the middle of town. Towards the red phone box.

Thomas follows.

He hears Briggs speak, voice low, urgent.

"Tomorrow night. He won't see it coming."

Thomas smiles coldly.

Tomorrow night, then.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The moon hangs low tonight. Thomas stands alone, a cigarette between his fingers, the other hand resting in his coat pocket. Cold wind off the sea presses against him, pulling the smoke sideways.

The crates are where they should be, nestled against the shore along the water's line. Ammunition, nothing more. Johnny Dogs had them brought in earlier, just as planned. No boat in sight now. Just the sound of waves and Thomas lets his eyes drift down the beach, to the singular shop that holds something he feels he shouldn't want.

He doesn’t check his watch. He doesn’t need to. They’ll come.

And they do.

Two figures emerge from the path that leads up to the cliff — Briggs, taller, broader in the shoulders, and Calloway behind him, looser in posture, arms swinging like he’s just been woken from sleep and hasn't quite become alert.

Briggs says nothing, just nods once as they reach him.

Thomas jerks his chin toward the crates. “Eight crates. Carry two each at a time.”

Calloway stoops first, no hesitation. Briggs lingers a half-second longer, eyes flicking across Thomas’ face. But he doesn’t speak. Just turns and follows.

Thomas watches them go, outlines shrinking as they climb the small incline where the path winds back to the cliff. He counts the time it takes. Lets them return. Watches them do it again.

Second round. Crates in arms. Calloway is ahead, already climbing again, his strained breaths loud in the night.

Briggs pauses.

Thomas is waiting for that.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ll take the last two together.”

He walks toward the rocks without looking back. The tide is lower now, exposing jagged shapes, dark and wet with seaweed. 

Briggs follows.

Boots crunch close behind. Thomas doesn’t glance over his shoulder. He walks as if this is nothing more than a shift in plan — and maybe that’s the way it looks.

When they’re halfway between the last crate and the outcropping at the cliff base, Thomas stops. Turns.

Briggs slows. “What is it?”

Thomas doesn’t answer yet. He just studies him. Briggs has the face of a man who thinks he’s in control of a situation. He’s calm.

Thomas speaks low. “I know.”

A flicker in the other man's gaze. “What do you mean?”

Thomas lifts his hand slowly, crate under one arm while his free hand goes to grip the pistol holstered just inside his coat. He leaves it there for now.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Thomas says.

Briggs exhales slowly. Doesn't say anything.

“Maybe tonight you thought I’d turn my back, like I usually do. Let you get close. Would’ve been easy.” His voice stays even. 

Briggs stares at him, the weight of his silence thickening.

"Someone I trust told me someone was coming for me.” Thomas continues. “Didn’t say who. But I figured it out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Thomas pulls the pistol free and aims it at the ground first — calm, casual. The weight is familiar. Comforting. “Don’t lie.”

Briggs shifts his stance. “You really think I’d follow through with something like that? Even if—”

“If you’d killed me — quietly — no one would’ve ever spoken your name again. Just a footnote in someone’s red folder. You think they'd have promoted you for it? You’d have gone back to getting on your knees for whoever wanted to control you to take out their next target, Briggs.” His voice has an edge to it now, a sharpness. He's been there. Churchill's puppet.

Briggs’s jaw works. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Thomas raises the gun. Just enough. “And now you’re going to walk toward those rocks.”

Briggs stares at him for another beat. Then takes a slow step backward.

“You’re not going to make it out of this alive,” he says.

“I never planned to.”

Briggs tries to move fast then. The weight shifts in his shoulders. A flicker of motion — he might be going for his own gun. But Thomas is ready. He fires once.

The sound cracks the quiet wide open. Briggs collapses sideways onto the stones, body jerking once, then going still.

Thomas walks to him. He doesn’t check for breath. Doesn’t need to. The shot was clean. Heart or near enough.

He kneels only to check the pockets. No notes, no messages. Just a knife. Just a sidearm.

Nothing to prove who gave the order.

He pulls the body farther into the shadows of the rock face, beneath the overhang slick with salt. It’s cold here. The air sharp with sea rot.

He straightens. Brushes off his coat. And breathes.

There's no satisfaction in his stance or on his face. 

Briggs might’ve hesitated. But it would’ve come eventually. Another night. 

Thomas turns and walks back across the stones. By the time he reaches the final crate, Calloway is reappearing at the top of the path.

“Where’s Briggs?” he calls.

Thomas doesn’t falter. “Told me he was going to piss behind the rocks. Didn’t come back.”

Calloway frowns. “That’s not like him.”

“No,” Thomas says. “It’s not.”

He lifts the last crate under his free arm and starts walking.

The tide would rise tonight.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The front door creaks as she pulls it closed, the sound echoing too loudly in the darkness. Her fingers are stiff from the cold, and she fumbles with the lock. It’s later than usual.

The dark had already engulfed the shore.

The shelves are tidy, the counters wiped down. A few half-unpacked boxes sit near the back, but she leaves them for tomorrow. Her legs are tired, her head worse.

She turns the key, checks it twice, then steps away from the door and stands on the stairs outside of the shop. The silence sits oddly in her ears. 

Then—  

Bang.

It’s distant — somewhere down the beach, toward the cliffs.

She steps back, hits the side of the shop, not realizing.

Her first thought is of him.

Her first fear is for him.

Her body won’t move for a moment, and she grips the railing to steady herself. 

She then begins to climb the narrow stairs up to her room. The steps creak under her weight, the kind of familiar old sound she usually finds comforting. But not tonight.

Every sound makes her feel nervous to be seen.

The room upstairs is dim. Only the small lamp by the bed offers any light. 

The sofa sits near the wall, pressed tight beneath the slanted ceiling. It’s too big for the room. A worn old thing Thomas had brought in days ago — well, had someone bring in for him. Brown, with brass studs along the arms. It’s taken up half the space but she hasn’t asked him to take it back.

It’s where he sleeps. Most nights. More and more lately.

She crosses the room slowly, drags the blanket back into place over the back of the sofa. There’s still the indentation where he last lay. She sits on the edge, palms braced against the fabric. Her heart is still too fast. The echo of that shot won’t leave her ears.

She can’t bring herself to light the fire yet. She doesn’t want the noise.

Instead, she wraps a cardigan around her shoulders and waits.

Waits for the sound of his boots on the stairs.  
Waits for the knock.  
Waits for the worst kind of quiet to break.

She watches the window. 

And wonders if he’s still breathing out there.

She nearly misses it.

The knock is soft — two short taps — like he always does. ]She’s already at the door before he’s finished the pattern.

When she opens it, he’s standing there.

His coat’s open, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his cap. The hair on his forehead is damp from mist or sweat — she doesn’t know. His eyes are shadowed in the low light, unreadable. But it’s him.

And he’s alive.

She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, one that sinks her shoulders from their tense position closer to her ears as she steps aside and lets him in.

Thomas doesn’t say anything at first. Just hangs his cap on the hook near the door, moves slowly like he’s been walking a long time. 

“You’re here,” she says, softer than she means to. 

He glances at her, eyes lingering, then walks over to the sofa and sits. His boots are wet with sand and sea. She watches him peel them off without a word.

She follows, slowly. “I heard something.”

His hands still. The laces fall limp.

“I heard a gun shot,” she adds.

Thomas leans back on the sofa. He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I know,” he says finally.

That’s all.

She folds her arms across her chest, still standing. The air between them stretches.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

He runs a hand down his face, breathes out through his nose. She watches his throat move as he swallows something down.

“Not now,” he says. 

There’s something heavy in his voice, something that brushes against guilt but doesn’t settle into it.

“Maybe later.” he adds.

She’s still. The weight of those words land hard. “You don’t trust me.”

Thomas looks up at her then. “Not yet. At least...not completely.”

She nods, barely. Just once.

She settles beside him,  draping the blanket over them both. 

He leans back, and she leans into him.

And the silence between them changes. Warms.

Minutes pass like this.

He’s the first to move. Just his hand, shifting to brush hers beneath the blanket.

She lets him.

She looks up at him. He’s already looking at her.

He doesn’t kiss her. Not yet. He waits.

And when she leans in, it’s not urgent. It’s soft. Her lips meet his like they’re remembering something from a dream. It lingers.

Only warmth.

Only breath.

Only her hand on his chest now, and his palm cupping her jaw like he’s afraid she’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

She presses closer. His arm winds around her waist slowly, drawing her near until there’s no  space between them at all.

The kiss deepens yet it’s still tender. 

When they part, it’s slow. She stays there, resting her forehead against his.

The blanket has shifted. She tugs it up over both of them again.

He shifts so she’s lying against him, her head on his chest, his arm around her.

And she lets him hold her.

They lie there a while longer, not sleeping, not talking. Just breathing together. Her ear is over his heart and it’s steady now.

But the fire’s burned low, and the room is cooling.

“I should make tea,” she murmurs against him, but doesn’t move.

“Hmm,” Thomas answers, somewhere between awake and resting. His hand rubs a slow line along her back. “I’ll come with you.”

“You’ll bang into everything.”

“Then you’ll have to show me where not to step.”

She lifts her head to look at him. His eyes are open, tired, but present.

“You want to help make tea,” she says flatly.

“I want to be where you are.”

It’s too honest. She’s not ready for that kind of honesty. Yet she eases into it.

Still, she shifts the blanket back. The cold hits immediately as she rises from the sofa.  Thomas follows, slower, bones stiff. He stands and stretches, glancing around the tiny space like he’s forgotten how small it really is up here.

There’s hardly space for a second chair and the stove takes up the far corner. It’s black cast iron, wood-fed.

Thomas steps carefully around the table.

She grins. “Watch the edge of that. I’ve split my shin on it twice this week.”

“I’ll survive.”

She kneels to feed the stove, stirring the embers, coaxing them awake with bits of paper and dry bark. Thomas crouches beside her, holding out a few slivers of wood without her asking.

“I forget you know how to do this,” she says.

The fire catches. She shuts the grate. Stands.

“There’s water in the pitcher by the basin,” she says, turning to find the kettle. Once she finds it, she hands it over to him.

He doesn’t need telling twice. Fills it halfway and brings it over, careful not to spill any on the floor. She sets it on the flat part of the stove where it’ll heat. The kettle’s battered, darkened with soot.

There’s a closeness to this kind of thing.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly, not looking at him.

He frowns. “What?”

“Come here every night. Sleep cramped on that sofa.”

He looks at her for a long moment. Then steps forward and rests a hand on the small of her back.

The kettle begins to hiss.

She looks over, then back to him. “Do you think I’m foolish?”

“For what?”

“Letting you stay. Letting myself… want you here.”

“No,” he says immediately. “You’re not foolish.”

The kettle whistles. A high, clear sound. She moves to it, pours the water over the leaves in the old teapot. The scent of it rises between them, warmth, home.

He finds two mugs which are mismatched, both chipped because she keeps the ones she cannot sell. Then she pours hot tea into each.

They stand in that cramped space, barely able to turn without bumping elbows.

Evelyn exhales slowly, her mug warm in her hands.

“You’re going to tell me one day, aren’t you?” she asks.

“About the gunshots?”

“About all of it.”

Thomas nods once.  “When I can.”

That’s enough for now.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The inside of the house smells like fresh wood and dust. Cold seeps through the stone floor, despite the fire Jenkins lit in the hearth. The windows are in, the roof’s sealed. It's done, mostly. Just the tunnel now.

Thomas stands near the fireplace, watching the flames shift. They dance quietly. The rest of the team settle in slowly—Davies, Smith, Hughes, Calloway, McTavish, Jenkins, Kipner, Rowe. Boots scuff against the floor. Gloves come off. Some lean against walls, arms crossed. Others pull stools toward the center. No one speaks yet.

Briggs isn’t here. And Thomas doesn't offer a reason.

He looks over them, hands behind his back.

Rowe clears his throat.

“Right,” Thomas begins. “Time we move forward.”

They shift—some subtly, some not. Kipner glances toward the door. Jenkins looks at the floor.

“You all know we’re nearly finished above ground,” Thomas goes on. “The house is done. Supplies are where they need to be. What’s left is beneath us.”

They nod. 

“The rest of the tunnel is the last stage. That means long hours. Rotations. One group digging. One on watch.”

No one argues. Thomas expected that.

“Rowe’s taking over both units.”

Rowe glances up.

“You’ll answer to him like you answered to Briggs. If there’s a problem, it goes through him first.”

Davies frowns, but says nothing. Calloway adjusts his boots. McTavish leans forward on his knees.

“And Briggs?” Kipner finally asks.

Thomas looks right into his eyes. “He won’t be back.”

He doesn't give more information than that.

Jenkins’ lips press into a thin line. Hughes looks to Rowe. Rowe says nothing.

“That’s it, then?” Kipner asks, eyes narrowing.

Thomas walks over to him, slowly. Once there, he gets into his space. “You have a problem, Kipner?”

His mouth opens, then closes. “No, sir.”

“Good,” Thomas says. “Shifts start tomorrow morning. Rowe will sort the pairs.”

They begin to rise, slower than usual. Fewer sidelong jokes. Fewer glances. They don’t know what happened, but they do know something did, they just can't ask.

Not right now.

The house empties slow. Boots shuffle. Voices low. They leave in pairs, mostly quiet, each man casting a look back before the door shuts behind him. 

Thomas is alone then. In the silence of the newly built house.

He stays still for a moment. 

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The late afternoon sun is gold and low, beaming down across the front windows of the shop and painting long streaks over the items  on the shelves. Evelyn moves quietly behind the counter, her apron folded over her arm. The door is wide open, but the sign says closed.

From outside, she hears footsteps on the wooden stairs. 

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t call her name. Just waits. She looks through the doorway. He stands there with his hands in his coat pockets. A cigarette glows between his fingers, and the breeze from the sea presses his coat flat against his legs.

When she goes to the door, he doesn’t smile, but he tips his head toward her in that subtle  way of his. “You closing up?”

“I am.”

His eyes flick down the beach. “Sheriff’s coming.”

And then she sees him. Walking slowly, too slowly, a white envelope pinched between his fingers.

Evelyn’s heart turns to ice. Her first instinct is to shut the door and tell Thomas to leave, but she doesn’t. She stands very still, hands on the edge of the doorframe, pulse beating in her throat. Thomas notices it. His gaze snaps back to her. His voice lowers.

“What is it?”

She doesn’t answer. Not right away.

The sheriff steps up and nods to her politely, almost sheepishly. “Sorry, Evelyn. Came by earlier but you were out.”

Evelyn takes the envelope from him. The paper is too clean, the handwriting too neat. The ink’s familiar. Too familiar. Holding only her name. No return. Of course there’s no return.

She doesn't say thank you. Doesn’t say anything. Just nods, and the sheriff, awkward and uncomfortable, scratches the back of his head and turns to leave.

Thomas watches her. He’s not looking at the letter, but at her face. And what he sees there keeps him silent until the sheriff’s footsteps are gone.

Then he speaks. “Do you know who sent it?”

She holds the envelope in both hands, not able to stop the trembling in her fingers.

“Yes,” she says softly.

She turns, goes inside. Thomas tosses his cigarette and follows, closing the door behind them. 

Evelyn walks behind the counter, lays the letter down. Her hands are cold. She presses them flat on the wood.

Thomas breaks the silence first. “You don’t have to open it.”

“I’m not going to.”

He studies her. She knows that look. One that tells her that he’s trying to piece things together without pushing too hard.

She sighs and leans on the counter, arms folded over her stomach. Her voice is low. Evelyn knows she needs to open up, to give a little in whatever this is. “They come now and again. I burn them.”

Thomas shifts his weight. “Do they say anything?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t read them. I don’t need to.”

Something sharp flickers behind his eyes, then disappears. "Who is it from?”

Evelyn flinches.

She doesn’t answer. She walks to the stove in the back of the shop, kneels beside the small iron burner that’s gone cold from disuse all day. She opens the door, strikes a match. The small flame dances, then catches. The kindling crackles. She places the envelope on top of the growing flame without hesitation. It curls immediately.

Thomas hasn’t moved.

She watches it burn until it’s nothing but ash, then closes the stove door and sits back on her heels.

Then she speaks.

“I thought that if I didn’t answer, he’d stop. If I just kept my head down. But men like him, they don’t stop. They like knowing you’re afraid of them, even when they’re far away.”

Her voice shakes slightly, but she breathes through it. She doesn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not for this.

He doesn’t touch her. Just stands beside her, close enough.

“I could find out who’s sending them,” he says after a beat.

“I already know who’s sending them,” she replies gently.

He nods once. Doesn’t push. “I could make it stop.”

She looks up at him. “No. You could make him angry. That’s not the same.”

He doesn’t argue. He just lets out a breath through his nose, and leans back against the counter, silent for a long moment.

Then, softly.. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Evelyn lets her eyes fall shut. That promise  sounds so solid coming from him. But they both know how fragile safety is. How temporary.

She opens her eyes again. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he says.

She studies his face. The way his jaw clenches, how still he holds himself. There’s more in those words than just comfort. 

Evelyn stands and leans her back against the counter beside him, the warmth from the wood stove starting to spread across the small shop. The last sliver of sun has disappeared, and the windows have gone dark. She hasn’t lit the lamps yet, and neither of them seems eager to break the quiet between them.

Thomas shifts beside her. The wood creaks beneath his boots. His arms are crossed, his face tipped slightly toward the stove, but his attention remains on her. 

“I used to dream about him finding me,” she says after a while, voice low. “I’d wake up choking. Couldn’t breathe right for hours.”

Thomas looks at her. “Still happens?”

“Not as often.” She looks down at her hands, clasped lightly in front of her. 

He doesn’t reply right away. When he does, it’s in a murmur. “I still wake up covered in dirt. Clawing at the walls.”

She looks over at him, startled. “From the war?”

Thomas nods once, eyes ahead. “From underneath it.”

Slowly, the two of them are opening up. Revealing parts of their past, their trauma that usually is kept hidden.

Evelyn doesn’t say anything. Just leans a little closer. Not touching, but near. He draws in a breath like he means to speak again but doesn’t. Not yet. The silence between them now is different.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally.

“Don’t be,” he replies.

A few more moments pass before she turns away to light the lamp. The soft yellow glow spreads through the shop, warm and steady. She glances toward him and sees that he hasn’t moved. His eyes follow her.

“Do you want tea?” she asks, her voice gentler than it has been all evening.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The wind has a sharpness to it this morning. Thomas stands near the cliff’s edge. He smokes as he waits.

Footsteps crunch up the path behind him, deliberate and even. No voice calls ahead, no announcement made. Thomas doesn't turn, not right away.

He flicks his cigarette off the cliff.

Then slowly, turns to face the man standing close to him.

He’s dressed like someone with nothing better to do than fret over attire. Wearing a fine wool coat, leather gloves, a hat that’s more London club than an island this far out. He carries no walking stick, but his gait suggests he’d enjoy one. 

“Mr. Shelby,” he says, as if he’s already bored of the formality.

Thomas fights the urge to reach for his firearm. “Sir Henry.”

“You’ve kept the place quiet.” He says.

Thomas exhales through his nose. “That was the idea.”

Lockwood smiles like someone being polite at a dinner party. "You’ve been busy."

"I've been getting the job done," Thomas replies.

Sir Henry gives a glance to the large house that stands above the tunnel's entrance. "That remains to be seen."

"I want a full inspection of the site by noon," Sir Henry says. "I’ll be needing the keys to the storehouse and the files on rotation schedules. And I assume the men can be made available for questioning."

"They're not your men," Thomas says, after all he found their rat and went hunting.

Sir Henry stops mid-stride, turns slowly. "They are on Crown payroll. Which, last I checked, puts them under my jurisdiction. As are you."

Thomas steps forward once, hands in his coat pockets. "I answer to Churchill. No one else."

Sir Henry gives a small, humorless chuckle. "Mr. Shelby. You answer to the chain of command. And today, that’s me."

They stare each other down in the cold. Somewhere behind them, a gull cries, and waves strike the cliff edge below.

"Churchill put me here because he needed this place built quietly, without drawing eyes. Without involving men like you."

"And yet here I am."

Thomas studies him. The cold wind bites between them. "What changed?"

Sir Henry’s face doesn’t move much. "Security concerns."

Thomas’ silence is deliberate. “The tunnels aren’t done.”

“They’re passable enough for inspection. The rest can be done under my watch.”

"So I'm being pushed out."

Sir Henry smirks. "You were always a temporary measure. You'll just work under me now.”

Thomas laughs once, soft. "He sent a snake to clear the rats. Clever."

Sir Henry moves closer now, his face just inches away. "Let’s be clear, Mr. Shelby. I don’t care how many medals you earned in France, or who you’ve killed, or what ghosts keep you up at night. I don’t like you. I don’t like the way you dress, or the way you pretend you’re more than a bottom feeding criminal. I am here because this operation matters. And I’m not about to let it fail because a Romani gangster thinks he’s an officer."

The words land like fists. But Thomas doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He only blinks once, slow and even. The mask stays on.

Sir Henry steps back, satisfied. "My quarters will need furnishing. The men will no longer spend time inside of the home at night, I'll have the soldiers I brought with me to keep watch."

Thomas nods, just once. The sort of nod a man gives when he's fighting murderous intentions. 

Sir Henry walks off toward the house. His servant trails behind him.

Thomas heads for the house as well. Instead of going towards the main living quarters, he goes right for the door leading to the tunnel entrance.

He lights another cigarette and exhales, smoke trailing behind him.

The tunnels are quiet, almost too quiet for the hour. Usually there’s the clatter of spades, the low voices of men moving dirt and stone. But now it’s stilled. Word travels fast. Lockwood’s presence hangs over the place like fog that won’t lift.

Thomas moves through the narrow passage toward the workroom just off the main shaft. His boots scuff the packed earth. The supports overhead are firm, dry. The boys did good work here, even with what little they had. 

When he enters the chamber, Smith and Hughes are hunched over a crate near the oil lamp, sorting supplies. Kipner sits nearby, smoking. McTavish is counting bags of lime in the corner. 

Davies looks up first, eyes narrowed. “He here, then?”

Thomas nods once. “He’s here.”

Kipner scoffs. “We heard.”

“He’s brought his own staff,” Thomas says. “He wants a handover of all schedules, stock records, and key access. No one will watch the house at night, his men will do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Smith straightens. “He’s pushing you out?”

Thomas says nothing.

“Thought this was your operation,” Hughes mutters.

“It was,” Thomas says. “Now it’s his. As far as the Army’s concerned. For chain of command, I'll be the same rank as you lot.”

Kipner snorts. “He doesn’t know his arse from a shovel.”

Thomas moves to the corner, opens the supply ledger, flips through the pages. His voice stays even. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not here to dig.”

McTavish tosses a chunk of loose rock aside. “We still answer to you, don’t we?”

Thomas closes the book. He looks at them one by one. “You answer to the job. That doesn’t change. We finish what we started.”

He can see the doubt on their faces, even if they nod. The lines of loyalty blur when power changes hands. He knows this game too well. Knows how men begin to test winds and wonder which way to lean.

“He wants the house cleared by tonight,” Thomas adds. “Personal quarters. Calloway will shift supplies into the storage barn.”

McTavish mutters under his breath, “Bloody peacock.”

Thomas doesn’t smile. He crosses the room, lays a hand on the beam above the entrance, leans into the cool wood for a breath.

He looks back at his men. “No chatter. No complaints. We work like we always have. Quiet. Quick. Careful. Let the man think he’s in charge if it keeps him out of the tunnels.”

They nod. The job gives them something to hold onto.

Thomas turns back toward the tunnel mouth.

He needs air.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The morning is still dark when Thomas steps out, the air thick with brine and the faint smoke of distant chimneys. Damp earth clings to his boots as he crosses the flattened path toward the smokehouse. The sea is low and quiet beyond the trees, the tide dragging softly along the shore. 

He finds Johnny Dogs outside, crouched near a small fire, coaxing it back to life. Bits of driftwood crackle as he pokes at them, his hat pulled low.

Thomas lights a cigarette and doesn’t speak right away. Just watches the flames take hold. 

Johnny glances up once, a flash of a grin showing in the firelight. “Morning, Tom.”

Thomas nods. “Morning.”

He takes a drag, then shifts his stance, hand in his coat pocket. 

“Did you do it yourself?” Thomas asks, voice low, eyes still on the fire.

Johnny leans back on his heels. “Aye. Didn’t trust anyone else to get it right.”

“Where?” he asks.

Johnny brushes ash from his fingers. “North inlet, past the old pilings. Where the current pulls west and deep.”

He spits off to the side, then continues. “Weighed him down. Rocks in a net, thick rope ‘round the ankles, wrapped him up tight. Deep as I could get it.”

Thomas nods once, slowly. It’s not relief he feels. One more task crossed off. 

“Nothing’ll wash up,” Johnny adds, glancing sideways at him. “Tide’s against it. Crabs’ll see to the rest.”

Thomas exhales smoke through his nose. “Good.”

They go quiet again, just the crackle of fire and the gulls waking along the cliffs. Neither mentions Briggs by name.

Johnny tosses another stick into the flames. 

Thomas flicks the ash from his cigarette.

He turns his face toward the water. The tide’s pulling out now, soft and low, taking whatever’s left with it.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island 
1938

The evening light is pale, filtered through the threadbare lace curtains hanging limp in the window. Evelyn stirs in the quiet. The island is slow to wake, and so is she.

Her feet touch the worn floorboards softly. She doesn’t reach for a shawl, not yet. The room is chilly. This little space above the shop, cramped, has become hers in a way no place has ever been. The wooden stove is cold, and the small pile of wood beside it looks pitiful. Still, she kneels beside it, working the flint with practiced hands until a small orange flame catches, and the room begins to warm again.

There’s no sound but the soft crackle of fire and the faint cries of gulls echoing from the shore.

Today is the Sheriff’s event. She’d nearly forgotten.

She stands in front of the mirror, the one Thomas helped her hang, just above the old dresser. The glass is warped at the edges, but it does the job. She studies herself for a long moment. There's still something guarded in the set of her mouth, in the way her eyes don't hold still for too long. But there's softness there too, something that didn’t exist months ago.

She pulls her brush from the drawer and starts on her hair. It’s stubborn today, curling from the damp, and she lets it. No sense in fighting with it. There’s no rush. She has hours yet before she needs to head down to the square. It’s just a social thing. Just the Sheriff and a handful of well-dressed strangers who seem to have come in recently. The big house on the cliff had belonged to someone, she's curious as to who.

She hums to herself as she works.

Her dress is laid across the bed already. She’d pressed it two nights ago, anticipating the event. It’s not fancy—nothing she owns is—but it’s well-kept, deep green, with sleeves that taper nicely at her wrists and buttons like small stones down the front. She touches the fabric absently, then turns to open the small window near her bed.

The scent of the sea slips in.

She closes her eyes and lets the wind pass over her.

Since Thomas came, mornings have taken on a different shape. He doesn’t stay every night, but when he does, he sleeps on the narrow sofa he had hauled up the stairs with two of his men—swearing the whole time but determined. It’s still strange, seeing him here, in her space, as if he belongs.

Maybe he does.

Last night, he’d come late, smelling faintly of tobacco and sea spray. He hadn’t said much, just looked at her with those blue eyes of his and sat down without a word. She’d made tea, and they’d listened to the stove crackle for a while, and eventually she’d fallen asleep beside him.

And when she woke—his arm was around her.

The memory makes her heart shift in her chest, like something rolling over in sleep.

She dresses slowly, careful with the buttons. The fabric clings slightly from the damp in the air, and she smooths it down over her hips. She doesn’t own stockings without runs, so she picks the least noticeable pair. The boots she chooses are scuffed but polished. She pins her hair loosely at the nape of her neck.

In the mirror, she looks like someone who might belong somewhere.

She’s not sure that’s true. But she allows herself the illusion, just for the night.

Her eyes flick to the table, where another unopened letter still sits.

It arrived late last night.

She hadn’t opened it. She doesn’t have to. There’s no return address, of course. No name on the front. Just her name, neatly written. A familiar hand.

She doesn’t touch it now. She doesn’t want it in her hands before this event. Doesn’t want to carry the weight of it into the town square like something etched into her bones.

Instead, she walks back to the stove, adds another log, and pours hot water into the basin beside the bed. Her soap is sweet vanilla. She washes her face slowly, breathing in the scent, letting it calm her.

She sits at the edge of the bed and begins to fasten the small clasp on her locket. It’s the one thing she brought from the mainland without hesitation. Silver, worn, with no picture inside. Just an empty space she’s never filled.

She wonders, sometimes, if she’ll ever put something in there.

The sun has begun to break through now, painting long strips of light across the floor. Dust dances in it.

She walks to the window again, stares out at the edge of the town square where the bunting is going up. She can see the tops of the tents, the flicker of movement as someone drapes fabric over the Sheriff’s podium. The new arrivals will be there.

She tries not to think of what it will feel like, to be seen by them.

She doesn’t fear being looked at. She fears being known.

She steps back from the window and takes one last glance around her little room. The stove is warm. The shop below is quiet, and Thomas is nowhere to be seen yet.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The streets are quiet, the kind of quiet he likes. The island is dressing itself up today. The sun had just fallen, the moon working it's way up high in the sky.

Thomas walks with his hands in his coat pockets, head slightly bent against the breeze. The air smells faintly of salt and woodsmoke.

The pottery shop comes into view, its windows dark. 

He looks up.

The window above is cracked slightly open, the sheer curtain pushed to one side. Her room. 

He could wait down here. Could light a cigarette and give her time.

But something about this evening, about how still everything is, makes him take the stairs.

The old wood creaks underfoot. He’s careful with the third step—it groans loudly if you put your weight in the wrong place. At the landing, he hesitates. The door to her room is shut, but light seeps beneath it, soft and golden.

He knocks once, gently. 

Inside, a pause. Then her voice, quiet and clear.  “Come in.”

He opens the door slowly.

The warmth hits him first—woodsmoke, and something faintly sweet. Then he sees her.

She’s not quite ready yet.

Her hair is pinned up loosely, strands curling at her neck, catching the light in that soft way it does. She stands by the mirror, fastening a small clasp at her throat. The green dress she wears fits her like something made just for her.

She turns when she sees him.

“You’re early,” she says, smoothing her hands down her sides. Her voice has that evening hush to it.

“I know,” he says.

It’s all he says at first. He closes the door behind him and steps into the room like it’s familiar territory. Because it is. The fire crackles softly, and her shawl is draped over the back of the chair. He looks at her, really looks. There’s color in her cheeks. She’s nervous. But she hides it well.

“I figured I’d walk you down,” he adds.

Evelyn gives him a small smile, one that lingers longer in her eyes than on her mouth. “You figured right.”

He doesn’t move to touch her. Not yet. There’s something delicate about this moment, and he doesn’t want to break it.

“I like the dress,” he says.

She glances down at herself like she doesn’t believe him, then up again. “It’s old.”

“So is everything that lasts,” he replies.

She looks at him a long time then. That look she gives when she’s feeling significant after feeling insignificant.

Then she nods, just once, and turns back to the small dresser to pick up her boots.

He watches her bend, steady herself, lace them up with careful fingers. The room is quiet enough to hear the small sounds—the brush of fabric, the whisper of her breath. He crosses to the stove and pours water from the kettle into the mug she’s left waiting. It’s something he’s done before.

She watches him as she ties the last lace. “You’re getting good at that.”

“You leave things where I can find them.”

“On purpose,” she says.

It’s said so softly he almost misses it.

He sets the mug down. Walks to where she stands.

And this time he does touch her.

He lifts a curl that’s fallen loose from her pinned-up hair and brushes it back behind her ear. His fingers graze her skin, and she stills beneath them.

“You don’t have to go,” he says quietly. “To the event.”

She looks up at him. “I know.”

They stay like that for a moment. Her eyes searching his.

Then she exhales, and the spell breaks.

“I want to,” she says. “I think I do.”

He nods.

“All right, then.”

Evelyn reaches for the shawl on the chair, wraps it around her shoulders without looking in the mirror. Thomas watches her hands, how they move—careful, steady, but there’s a flicker of hesitation just before she smooths the fabric into place.

When she finishes, she straightens and looks at him like she’s ready to go. But she doesn’t move toward the door yet, and neither does he.

Thomas clears his throat. “I thought of bringing flowers.”

Evelyn blinks, caught off guard. “You didn’t.”

“No.”

Her mouth curves into a quiet smile. “Good.”

He raises an eyebrow, just a little. “Would’ve been too much?”

“Would’ve made me more nervous.”

He lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Can’t have that.”

They stand close now. Not quite touching, but the space between them is warm. Familiar.  Thomas glances around the room—the books stacked sideways on the nightstand, the unlit candles by the window, a ceramic bowl with nothing in it. It smells like her here. He thinks he could stand in this room for a long time and not feel the need to speak at all.

“You don’t have to talk to anyone,” he says after a beat. “If you don’t want to.”

She gives him a look—quiet but sharp. “Are you giving me permission?”

“No. Just a choice.”

Evelyn tilts her head, appraising. “You planning to hover near me all night like a bodyguard?”

He meets her gaze. “Something like that.”

A soft laugh escapes her, light but real. She walks past him to the window and lifts the curtain slightly, peeking out. The world below is still quiet.

She lets the curtain fall and turns back to him. “I suppose we should go.”

“Evelyn.”

She looks at him. 

He steps closer. He doesn’t touch her face, doesn’t reach for her hand. Instead, he stands still and speaks low. “You don’t have to talk about what’s in that letter. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her eyes flicker—surprise, and then something more guarded. She glances toward the table in the corner, where the envelope still rests unopened. Pale paper. No name on the front.

“I’m not going to,” she says.

He nods, once. “All right.”

Evelyn moves toward him, stops just short. She adjusts the shawl again, and this time her fingers tremble just slightly.

He notices.

So he offers his arm without ceremony, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it doesn’t matter whether she takes it.

But she does. Quietly. Fingers sliding around the crook of his elbow, as natural as drawing breath.

“You clean up well,” she says, looking at his coat, his pressed shirt beneath it. “Shame it’s just for the newcomers”

He smiles at that, crooked and fleeting. “It’s not.”

She flushes faintly but doesn’t look away.

They walk out together. Down the stairs, her pace matching his. 

He feels the shift in her as soon as they’re on the street—shoulders straighter, chin lifted just a touch more. A kind of quiet armor he recognizes from the war, from long nights in suits, from funerals he didn’t cry at.

They walk down the lane together, side by side.

And Thomas doesn’t say anything else—not yet. He just stays close, matching her stride, letting the silence sit between them.

The town feels quieter than it should for a day like this. Decorations flap lightly in the breeze—paper decorations strung high, small cloth banners faded at the edges. A group of boys runs past ahead of them, chasing each other with wooden swords, and a woman leans out of her window to scold them before ducking back inside.

Thomas watches Evelyn.

She’s not hiding behind him, not slowing her step, but he sees the way she scans every face. Not out of curiosity. Out of caution.

He doesn’t ask. 

They pass the bakery, the window fogged from the warmth inside, and he hears someone call out from further up the street—a laugh, a name not theirs—but they walk on, unnoticed, he prefers it that way.

When they reach the edge of the square, Evelyn hesitates.

She’s looking at the gathering—folding chairs being laid out, a raised platform with bunting along the front, men and women in dark coats mingling near the cider booth. There’s a brass band off to one side warming up, the notes uneven, not quite music yet.

Her hand tightens slightly on his arm.

Thomas leans down, voice quiet. “We don’t have to stand with the rest of them.”

She glances at him. “Where else would we stand?”

“I’ll find us a place.”

That makes her smile.

They move around the edge of the gathering. He steers them toward a patch of stone wall near the old well, out of the main flow of people but close enough to hear the speeches when they begin. The breeze is steady now, enough to lift loose strands of her hair.

“You should’ve worn a hat,” he murmurs.

“I don’t have a hat.”

He reaches up, very gently, and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. His fingers brush warm against her skin.

Evelyn doesn’t pull away.

For a long minute, they stand like that. Not speaking. Just watching the slow unfurling of the event.

A cart of apples arrives, then a wooden crate of wine bottles. Someone unrolls a banner that says _WELCOME TO OUR GUESTS_. And then, slowly, people begin to arrive who weren’t there before.

Strangers.

Suits too expensive for island life. Shoes with city polish. Military men in long coats walk stiffly across the square, their eyes scanning rooftops, corners, people.

Evelyn watches them all.

Thomas watches her.

She turns to him after a while. “I don’t like this.”

He nods once. “It'll be alright.”

But he doesn’t offer to leave. He doesn’t think she’d take the offer. She came here on her own, stepped out of her rooms, out of her safety. That means something.

Evelyn leans slightly against the wall, letting go of him, arms crossed, wind catching her long skirt.

The Sheriff appears finally, moving through the crowd with his usual slow charm. He tips his hat to someone, shakes hands with another. He doesn’t look their way.

Thomas watches him carefully. Watches who he stops to speak to, who he avoids. Evelyn does the same.

A soft wind picks up, carrying the scent of the sea.

“I used to like things like this,” Evelyn says quietly.

Thomas doesn’t answer, but he glances at her, waiting.

“When I was little,” she continues, voice soft. “I used to imagine parties would be like this. People laughing. Music. I thought maybe I’d grow up and belong among loud and happy people.”

“You do,” he says, simple.

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes stay on the crowd.

“Not always.”

He studies her profile. The line of her jaw, the tiredness settling into her eyes.

“I don’t belong among them either,” he says.

She finally turns toward him again. Her expression is unreadable, but her grip on his arm returns.

They stay like that while the first notes of the band take shape. The Sheriff clears his throat into a microphone that hisses with static.

And Thomas, for just a moment, forgets about the event.

He forgets the tunnels.

Forgets the war behind them and the one ahead.

Because Evelyn is beside him. 

He watches the people as they smile and nod, raising glasses to a future none of them can predict.

And he thinks—_I will keep her from all of this. If I can. If I have to burn the whole thing down._

He doesn’t say it.

But he stands a little closer as the Sheriff begins to speak, and her hand stays in the crook of his arm.

The party begins.

But he’s already thinking about how to get her home safe.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

Lanterns glow along the town square, strung from posts and makeshift wires, and the music drifting from the gramophone feels like it belongs to another world entirely. A gentler one.

Evelyn keeps her fingers laced with Thomas’ as they walk through the crowd. 

Thomas is silent, scanning the crowd in that way he does, head slightly tilted, jaw tight. She knows he’s always watching—assessing—but there’s a quiet in him tonight that sits differently. He’s been gentler. Slower. 

They near the long table where the Sheriff stands, half-drunk and loud with laughter. Behind him, nearer the edge of the gathering, men in darker coats speak low. One turns. 

Evelyn’s heart stops cold.

A tall man. Broad shoulders. Dark coat and neatly pressed trousers. He stands with the posture of someone who expects the earth to bow under him. A man she knows too well.

Her lungs seize. She stares.

“Ah,” Thomas mutters beside her, voice low. “That man there. The bastard in the long coat. He's Sir Henry Lockwood. Big money. The man who'll take up residence in the house on the cliff. Total bastard. You’ll hate—.”

She doesn’t hear most of what he’s saying. Her ears ring. Her hands shake. And just as Thomas glances to her, mid-sentence, something shifts in his tone. He notices.

His voice drops. “Evelyn?”

She can’t answer. Her eyes are still locked on the man. Henry’s speaking to another, head turned just enough to show the line of his jaw, the familiar slant of his mouth when he sneers. The way he carries himself hasn’t changed. Nor the weight of her own fear.

“Evelyn,” Thomas repeats, firm but quiet now.

Her ears still ring. Sound muffled as if she's under water. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest echoes in her body. She tears her eyes away, drops her hand, and takes a step back. Then another.

“Hey—”

But she’s already moving. Not running but slipping through bodies, brushing past elbows and shoulders, ignoring the confused looks and friendly chatter. She heads down the alley near the side of the baker’s, past where the lanterns end and the streets darken.

Only once the music fades does she let herself breathe. Her back finds the stone wall. Her hands won’t stop shaking. Her eyes sting.

Henry. He’s here.

The letters weren’t idle threats. He found her. He followed.

She presses a hand to her chest and feels her heart beating like it’s trying to claw its way out. The trembling moves down her arms, into her legs. She slides to the ground, the cold seeping through her dress.

Footsteps follow minutes later. Heavy and measured.

“Evelyn,” Thomas’ voice comes from the darkness.

She doesn’t look up.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “Talked too much. I saw the look on your face.”

Still, she doesn’t speak.

He crouches beside her, resting his forearms on his knees. “That man. Sir Henry....do you know him?”

She nods slowly, eyes fixed on her feet.

He waits. Doesn’t push.

Her voice is a whisper when it comes. “He’s my uncle.”

Thomas doesn’t move. She can’t tell if he’s surprised or not.

“He’s the one who’s been sending the letters,” she adds. “I never opened them.”

She draws in a sharp breath, chest aching, and finally glances at Thomas. His face is still, unreadable in the dark.

“I ran,” she says, voice cracking. “I left London, the house, everything. I thought… if I disappeared, if I stayed quiet, he’d let me go. But he—he’s here.”

She presses her hands to her face. “I should’ve told you. I didn’t know how. I couldn’t even say his name out loud until now.”

Thomas doesn’t speak yet. His hand is warm when it touches her knee, grounding her. She lowers her hands.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want to be a problem.”

Thomas exhales. “You’re not a problem.”

She looks at him, really looks. “You don’t understand what he’s like. What he did to me.”

Thomas nods once, barely. “Then tell me.”

She doesn’t know how to begin.

The words don’t want to come. They sit in her throat like stones, lodged so deep it hurts to swallow. She wraps her arms around herself, shaking still, though Thomas’ presence helps. His stillness. His warmth. But it also terrifies her, the idea of telling him the truth. The shame of it.

Evelyn speaks softly. “He wasn’t just cruel.”

Thomas doesn’t interrupt. 

“He hurt me,” she says. “Not once. Not twice. Over and over.”

The world around them feels far away now. The party, the lights, the music—it might as well be another country.

“He was careful about it,” she continues. “Always left bruises where they wouldn’t show. Told me to smile when guests came. Told me no one would ever believe me. Told me I owed him everything. That he owned me. That I'm worthless.”

Thomas shifts slightly, but not toward her—his jaw tightens, his fists curl where they rest on his knees. She’s afraid to look directly at his face.

“I was just a girl,” she says. “When it started.”

A gust of wind brushes past. She flinches.

“I didn’t run until he… until it got worse. I thought he’d kill me. I waited until he went out drinking and then I took what I could carry and vanished.”

Thomas’ voice is low and dangerous now. “He ever touch you like—”

“No.” She cuts him off. “Not like that.”

She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. “I had a broken rib once. Said it was my fault. Said I shouldn’t have dropped a glass. Another time it was my arm. Dislocated. He popped it back in himself. Smiling.”

Thomas breathes in sharply, and she finally looks at him.

He’s still crouched, still beside her, but his eyes are angry. Not at her. Never at her. But at what he’s hearing. His hand finds hers again. She lets him hold it.

“I was stupid,” she says. “I thought he wouldn’t bother. That I was just an embarrassment he’d  forget. But the letters…”

She glances toward the direction of the square. She can’t see it from here, but she knows he is still there.

“I can’t do this, Thomas.”

“You can.”

“I can’t stay if he’s here.”

He says her name, gently. “Evelyn.”

She meets his eyes again.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She nods slowly. “You’re not angry?”

He breathes out. “I’m not angry at you.”

She leans into him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away. He shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around her, holding her close.

They stay like that for a long time. Just the two of them and the quiet.

Eventually, he speaks again. “He won’t hurt you again.”

She stays pressed against him for a long time. He smells like earth and salt and tobacco. His hand rubs slow circles across her back, and she thinks maybe, just maybe, she can breathe again.

When she finally draws back, the tear tracks on her face are dry. Her fingers tremble, but the shaking has eased.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the night,” she says.

Thomas gives her a look. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“He’s a powerful man,” she says.

“I’ve dealt with men like him before.”

Evelyn folds her arms loosely across her chest. The thought of Henry still lingering somewhere in town makes her feel like she’s made of paper. “He always finds a way. That’s what scares me.”

Thomas studies her carefully, then says, “You are not on your own anymore.”

He stands first, offering his hand. She takes it. 

They walk slowly back toward the path, side by side. Neither of them says much, but it’s a quiet that feels full, not empty.

As they near the edge of the square, Evelyn stops walking.

“I don’t want to go back in there,” she says.

Thomas nods once. “Then we don’t.”

“You came all this way.”

“I didn’t come for them.”

He doesn’t say I came for you—but she hears it in the space between his words. It hits her like warmth spreading through her chest. Something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

They turn instead down the road that leads away from the town center. The lamps along the way buzz faintly, casting gold puddles of light that flicker on the wet cobblestones. The night has quieted. The music from the party is a distant hum now, muffled by trees and stone.

Evelyn finds herself speaking again, low and even. “I was going to tell you. About the everything. I just... couldn’t until now.”

“I knew something was wrong,” Thomas says.

“I was afraid it would change things. That you’d think I was too broken, or too much trouble.”

His steps slow, and then he turns to her. “You think I don’t know what trouble looks like?”

She gives a quiet laugh, small and sharp. “Do you?”

“I do. And I’d rather walk into it with someone who’s already made it out alive.”

She looks up at him then, really looks at him. There’s no judgment in his eyes. 

They walk the rest of the way to the shop in silence. When they reach the door of her room, Evelyn pauses. She hesitates on the step, fingers on the key, not quite ready to go inside.

Thomas stands behind her, just close enough that she can feel his presence at her back.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.

It isn’t a question laced with expectation. It’s simple. Clean. Like he’s offering something without asking anything in return.

She turns toward him, and for a moment they just look at each other.

“Yes,” she says.

He follows her into the warmth of her rooms. She lights one lamp and leaves the others off. The quiet feels different here. Their safe haven.

She steps out of her shoes and sets them neatly beside the door. Thomas shrugs off his coat but doesn’t sit, just stands near the window, looking out.

“I thought I could outrun him,” she says, voice low. “I thought if I worked hard, stayed quiet, started over that he’d forget about me.”

Thomas turns toward her. “He won’t get near you again.”

“He already has,” she whispers.

“Not like that.”

She takes a breath and lets it out slow. “I don’t know what happens next.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not tonight.”

He doesn’t try to touch her. Doesn’t reach for her, doesn’t crowd her. Just stays near.

That’s what undoes her.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

When she stands, she turns toward him like she’s trying to be strong, but her eyes tell the truth. Red-rimmed, wide. He sees it all—every memory clawing its way up her throat. And when she walks to him, it’s not rushed or dramatic. It’s like a surrender.

She presses her forehead to his chest.

He wraps both arms around her and holds her like she’s made of paper.

They stay there a while, in the hush. The fire crackling softly behind them. Her breathing slow to settle. His hand moves up to her hair, fingers combing through the strands like he’s trying to quiet the world, letting it down, then running his fingers through it — one stroke at a time.

Then, softly, she speaks.

“Don’t sleep on the sofa tonight.”

Thomas doesn’t move for a moment. His hand stills against the back of her neck.

She looks up at him, eyes glassy but steady now. “Please.”

There’s nothing in her voice that sounds like fear. Just quiet need. Not for safety—he's already given her that—but for closeness. Something real.

He nods once.

She lets go of him to move around the room, moving slowly, her gestures small and careful. The little room is dim and warm, firelight flickering across the walls, and when she pulls back the blanket on her narrow bed, he hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because there’s a weight to this moment he feels in his chest.

But she turns and looks at him again, waiting.

He goes to her.

The bed creaks as he sits, then lies back beside her. She shifts in close, curling into him like it’s where she belongs. Her head finds the crook of his shoulder. One leg tucks against his. He pulls the blanket over them both and exhales as he feels her body relax.

For the first time that day, she breathes deep.

She doesn’t say anything else. Neither does he. His hand moves gently over her back, slow and steady. Her palm rests against his chest, fingers just above his heart.

They lie like that until her trembling fades.

And when her lips brush against his—light as breath—it doesn’t start with hunger. It starts with gratitude. With something quiet and earned. He kisses her back slowly, his hand cradling her head, and everything else falls away.

Just warmth. Just her. Just now.

She kisses him deeper, and this time there's a kind of need to it. Like she wants to be certain he's real. That he’s here, with her, and not just a kindness her mind’s conjured up to cope.

Thomas doesn’t speak. Her skin is warm. Tense at first, then softer as she leans into him. He kisses her again, slower this time, and when she moves closer, he welcomes it.

The blanket shifts around them. Her body curves against his, tentative but trusting. There’s a shyness in her touch that makes him careful—he doesn't rush. He lets her guide it. When her fingers slide under the buttons of his shirt, he covers her hand with his and meets her eyes.

“You sure?” he says, voice quiet, low.

She nods once. “Yes.”

He watches her for a moment longer, just to be certain. When she leans in again, he kisses her with all the softness he's been holding back, and this time, he deepens it.

They move together slowly. Her breath quickens against his throat, her hands learning the shape of him in cautious lines. He peels off her blouse carefully. She shivers beneath his touch.

She doesn’t look away. Not once.

The bed is narrow, the sheets rumpled. 

Thomas undresses with the same quiet care, every movement deliberate. There’s no rush to this. No hunger at the edges. Only the slow, beautiful ache of wanting something gentle. Of giving it back, exactly as she needs.

When they come together, it’s like a breath they’ve both been holding.

He moves slowly, lets her guide him with her eyes, her touch, the way her breath catches and steadies again. She trembles, yes, but not the way she did before. Now, it’s something else. Something blooming.

Her hands in his hair. His mouth at her throat. The blanket kicked to the floor without either of them noticing. He kisses her shoulder, her collarbone, the corner of her mouth, as if mapping every piece of her he’s been allowed to see.

It ends quietly, but no less heavy. His fingers brush softly along her spine.

The fire's low now. Just embers.

Outside, the wind picks up. A shutter taps gently against the side of the building.

Evelyn shifts, just enough to press a kiss to his shoulder. Then she rests there, tucked into the hollow of his throat like it’s always been her place. He doesn’t move.

For a long while, neither of them do.

Thomas lies on his back one wrapped around Evelyn as she rests against him, her hand still folded gently in his free one resting on his chest.

She’s so still he thinks she might’ve fallen asleep already, but then he feels her shift slightly, her leg brushing over his under the covers. She exhales, soft and slow, and the weight of it sinks into him like an anchor.

He keeps his eyes open, looking toward the ceiling, then toward the shadows flickering across the wall. The fire’s down to embers now, an orange glow casting slow-moving shapes through the room. He watches them quietly, the rhythmic pattern of her breathing guiding his own.

For all the nights he’s spent alone—on the move, in barracks, in small houses, in estates, in strange beds or no bed at all...this feels the furthest from any of it. 

She shifts again bringing herself even closer. He tightens his arm around her in response, instinctive, protective.

Her voice comes, barely a whisper. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it more than anything he’s meant in a long time.

She nods against him, doesn’t say anything more.

The silence they settle into isn’t empty. It holds everything unspoken between them—every scar, every quiet act of survival, every step that brought them here. And Thomas knows it’ll never erase the things she’s lived through. It won’t make Henry disappear, or turn back time to give her safety she should’ve had all along.

But it’s something.

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles where their hands are still joined. Her fingers tighten for a second, then relax again, like she’s falling slowly into sleep and doesn’t want to let go just yet.

Thomas rests his chin gently against the top of her head. Her hair still smells faintly of the salty sea air, something soft and ordinary, like a real life—one he never thought he’d have any part in. One he didn’t even know he wanted until her.

His eyes drift shut.

He listens.

To the faint hiss of the fire.  
To the wind brushing past the windows.  
To the rhythm of Evelyn breathing in his arms.

She’s here.  
He’s here.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

Thomas wakes slowly.

For once, it isn’t from a nightmare or the sound of footsteps outside his door. There’s no alarm in his limbs, no sudden tension in his jaw. Just the steady weight of warmth pressed against his side and the soft, unfamiliar quiet of a room not his own.

Evelyn is still asleep.

She’s curled toward him under the covers, her hair loose across the pillow, her brow smooth in sleep. One hand rests lightly against his chest, fingers curled in a way that tugs something deep in his chest.

He doesn’t move.

There’s sunlight coming in through the sheer curtains—pale and yellow, gentle. It stretches across the wood floor and brushes the edges of the bed. Dust dances through the light, soft and slow.

He watches her breathe.

In the dim hours between waking and full morning, she looks different somehow. Not fragile, he’s never thought of her that way, but unguarded. There are things she carries with her, things he hasn’t asked about and things she’s only just begun to say. But right now, they don’t hang between them.

Right now, there’s nothing but her breathing, the weight of her arm across him.

He raises his hand, brushes a strand of hair gently away from her cheek.

She stirs but not in a startled way, just slowly, like someone drifting toward the surface of sleep but not ready to break it fully. Her eyes don’t open, but her fingers press lightly against his chest, feeling for him in that small, unconscious way.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

Her mouth twitches faintly, the beginning of a smile.

A long breath escapes her. “Good.”

The word is barely audible, more breath than voice, but it stays with him.

She shifts closer, pressing her face into the crook of his neck.

The air in the room is cool, but under the covers, it’s warm. The fire must have burned out during the night, but neither of them stirred to tend it. He can still feel the faint chill in the air on his skin, but he doesn’t care. She’s warm. She’s right here.

He could stay like this.  
Could let the morning pass.  
Could let the rest of the world wait.

Chapter Text

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The wind has picked up since she left. Not storm-wind, just enough to rattle the shop sign, arms full of wrapped clay and glaze samples in crinkling brown paper. Her fingers sting faintly from the cold. The clouds haven’t lifted all day, and the afternoon weather is relentless.

Her boots make soft, even sounds on steps. Familiar. Ordinary.

She exhales slowly, breath clouding before her.

The trip to Isla’s had been uneventful—just how she likes it. She’d spoken little, listened more.

But when she gets closer to her shop, the comfort of routine stops cold.

There’s a man on her doorstep.

At first she stiffens—heart beating faster, hands tightening around the parcel.

“Afternoon, Miss Evelyn,” he calls, glancing over his shoulder as he screws something metal into her doorframe. His hands are stained with oil and dust, and there’s a new deadbolt glinting just below the old lock. Another one waits in his toolkit on the step.

She blinks. “You’re... replacing the locks?”

He tips his head in a nod. “That I am.”

There’s no apology in it. No explanation right away, either. He just tightens the bolt, straightens, and reaches for the next tool with ease—like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“On whose orders?” she asks, voice even.

Johnny doesn’t look at her when he answers. “Tommy’s.”

She closes the distance slowly, boots crunching on the stone. “Thomas? Without telling me?”

He shrugs, expression still mild. “Told me you’d be out. Figured it’d be better this way.”

Evelyn shifts the parcels in her arms, watching him work. The screws bite cleanly into the wood. The lock is heavy, reinforced, not like the flimsy one that’s stuck twice in the past week.

A breath passes through her. She says nothing, just nudges the door open a bit more so she can step inside and set the packages on the table.

Johnny doesn’t follow her in. He just finishes the last deadbolt, stands back, and nods to himself in satisfaction. When she returns to the doorway, he’s brushing dust from his palms.

“There. Good as you’ll get.”

She crosses her arms, watching him. “He sent you to do this?”

“Didn’t trust the lads not to bugger it up.” A half-smile. “And he figured you’d give me less hell than him.”

She snorts, a reluctant sound. “Debatable.”

He laughs, just once. Then his face shifts, quiets.

“He wants you safe.”

Her chest tightens, just a little.

She looks down at the lock.

“Did he say anything else?”

Johnny hesitates, just a flicker, before he shakes his head. “Just that. To get it done before you got back.”

She nods. Swallows.

“Thank you.”

He tips his hat. “Any time, Miss Evelyn. Upstairs has a new one too.”

And then he’s off, toolbox clinking at his side, long strides disappearing down the way.

She watches him until he is gone.

Then she closes the door.

Locks it.

Both bolts.

Evelyn stands with her hand resting on the new lock. The brass is smooth. 

She exhales through her nose and turns toward the shop.

It smells of clay and old wood. The wrapped bundles she carried in now sit on the counter where she left them. She unfastens her coat.

She moves without thinking, walking out and climbing the stairs to her rooms above. The narrow steps creak underfoot, familiar but never truly comfortable. 

She tosses her coat across the end of the bed and heads toward the basin, washing the dirt from her hands. The water stings a little—her fingers always chap when the weather turns. She dries them with a cloth.

She kneels in front of the stove and stirs the coals back to life. Heat curls out slowly, warming her knees and her fingers. She leans into it, grateful for the quiet.

And yet… her thoughts won’t settle.

The new locks.

Thomas.

He hadn’t told her he was doing this. Hadn’t asked if she wanted it. He just acted. She should be angry—she thinks she is, a little—but something beneath the irritation is softer.

He wants her safe.

She closes her eyes for a moment and lets her mind drift to last night.

The warmth of his arms around her. The solid presence of him beside her. The way his voice had softened.

She presses her hand to her collarbone, grounding herself.

There is a part of her that doesn’t know how to live in safety. A part that’s always braced for the crash, the slap, the door swinging open. But Thomas—he’s trying to build something around her. A wall, maybe. A room she can breathe in.

It frightens her. And it moves her, too.

She opens her eyes. The stove crackles gently. Outside, the light has begun to fade further into grey.

She rises, crosses to the window.

She places her hand against the glass.

Not every man who touches your door means to hurt you.

Not every lock is a prison.

She lets that truth settle in her chest.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The sea is quieter than usual. It puts him on edge.

Thomas stands near the edge of the dock, collar turned up against the wind, the cigarette in his hand burning down unnoticed. The moon is thin, just enough to catch the glint of water beyond the boats moored in. Nothing stirs on the beach but the low pull of the tide and the groan of wood against stone.

They’re late.

He flicks the cigarette into the sea and rolls his shoulders back.

It comes slow around the curve of the rocks, a small silhouette against the dark sea, too small for comfort. The moment it slides up to the dock, he knows.

Something’s wrong.

One man climbs out. Alone.

Not the usual crew. Not even two. Just one, limping slightly, his coat soaked through and too thin for the weather.

Thomas doesn’t move until the man gets close.

“You’re late.”

The man—young, jittery, face bruised—nods once, eyes wide.

“There were two boats,” he says, voice thin from salt and cold. 

Thomas doesn’t speak. Just stares.

The man swallows.

“The other boat didn’t make it.”

Silence flattens everything.

Thomas steps closer. “What happened?”

“Don’t know for sure. We saw lights on the water, not from us. Too many. No signal. Then a flare went up from their side—red. Not ours. Then gunfire. We didn’t stop.”

Thomas doesn’t blink. “How many men?”

“Four. Maybe five.”

“And the cargo?”

“Gone. All of it.”

Thomas turns slightly, jaw clenched.

A small portion the shipment made it. That means most didn’t. And someone knew enough to intercept it.

“Did you get followed?”

“No. We changed direction twice. Came in slower. I don’t think they saw us.”

Thomas studies him. “You don't think,” he repeats.

The man nods, too quickly.

Thomas doesn’t trust certainty in men that young.

Thomas lights another cigarette, inhales deep, and lets the silence sit. Then.. “Unload what you’ve got. Quickly. I want this boat gone in ten minutes.”

He turns without waiting for acknowledgment. Heads back toward the trees where the others are waiting. The air tastes sharper now, bitter at the back of his throat.

Half a shipment missing.

An ambush.

Someone out there knows too much.

And that means someone is talking.

The trees muffle the sound of footsteps, but his men hear him coming anyway. A few of them straighten from where they crouch low, watching the shore. Rowe steps out from the dark first, rifle across his chest.

“Boat?” he asks.

Thomas shakes his head. “One boat. Not two.”

The others gather closer now—Kipner, Hughes, Calloway, Fraser—faces drawn, waiting.

“Half the shipment,” Thomas says, voice even, deliberate. “Other half intercepted.”

No one speaks.

“They were hit,” he continues.

Rowe’s jaw tenses. He’s been around long enough to know what that means.

“How many gone?” Jenkins asks from behind, voice quieter.

Thomas exhales. “All on the second boat.”

More silence.

Hughes mutters, “Fucking hell.”

“No panic,” Thomas says sharply, turning to look at each of them. “We have half the cargo. That’s better than none.”

“Still lost a lot of guns,” Fraser says.

Thomas eyes him, doesn’t blink. “And men.”

They all go quiet again.

“We unload the boat now,” Thomas continues. “Move the crates to the tunnel. Rowe, take charge of inventory. I want to know exactly what we have. Don’t assume anything. Count.”

Rowe nods once. Says nothing.

“What about the kid?” Kipner asks. “The one who came in.”

Thomas flicks ash from his cigarette. “He’s shaken. Let him off the island come morning.”

“This wasn’t chance,” he says. “Somebody knew the route. The cargo. The timing.”

He lets that hang.

Eyes flicker around the circle, everyone hearing what he’s not saying.

Thomas nods toward the ridge. “Keep your eyes open. That’s all for now.”

They move with purpose—no arguments, no noise—splitting off into small, precise tasks. Rowe walks ahead without speaking, already calculating logistics. Kipner hesitates for half a second, then follows. Jenkins stays a moment longer, eyes on Thomas.

“You think someone sold us out?”

Thomas doesn’t answer. Just looks at him.

That’s answer enough.

Jenkins nods grimly and leaves.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The door opening gives its usual groan, a familiar sound that doesn’t startle Evelyn, even though her hands are buried in a crate of glaze jars she’s unpacking on the back table. She doesn’t look up right away—she assumes it’s Thomas who's come to check the door, or an islander come in late for something half-forgotten. But she hears the footsteps, the confident rhythm of them, and she knows it isn’t a customer.

“Smells like you’ve been burning something,” Isla says lightly from the front.

Evelyn straightens. She smooths her skirt and steps out from the back room, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Kiln’s been going since morning.”

Isla stands near the display shelf of vases, fingers brushing the rim of a shallow bowl glazed in muted blue. She’s dressed too nicely for the weather, or maybe just too nicely for here—fitted wool coat, matching hat, not a single hair out of place. There’s a look in her eyes Evelyn can’t quite read, not suspicion, not warmth either.

“Busy then,” Isla says. Her smile is a polite one. “I thought I’d stop in. I’ve been meaning to check whether that batch of slip I ordered came in.”

Evelyn nods once, gestures toward the crate near the window. “Somehow got delivered here. Nothing ever gets delivered here.”

Isla walks over, crouches with elegance that seems practiced, and runs a finger along the lip of the sealed bag. “Appreciate it.”

Evelyn watches her for a moment. The shop is quiet except for the small creaks of floorboards adjusting to the cooling day. She tucks her arms around herself, not out of cold, but habit. 

Isla straightens and dusts her hands together. “Thomas’ been around here a lot lately.”

Evelyn says nothing to that.

Isla offers another one of those smiles. “Not prying. Just making conversation.”

Evelyn shifts her weight. “Right.”

There’s a silence then—not heavy, but precise. It settles in the room.

“I suppose he’s told you some things,” Isla says, tone still mild.

“He tells me enough.”

“Enough,” Isla repeats. 

Evelyn’s jaw ticks. She doesn’t respond.

Isla walks a little, looking at the shelves, her back to Evelyn now. “People talk. Especially on an island. The sort of things you might overhear when you’re not supposed to.”

“I don’t go looking for things,” Evelyn says, voice low. “I mind my shop.”

Isla turns, head tilted. “Of course. Still, I imagine it’s hard not to notice certain things.”

Evelyn keeps her arms folded. “If you’re asking if I’ve gone running to Thomas with every word I’ve ever heard you say—no. I haven’t.” She doesn't mention Richard.

Isla studies her then. Really studies her, eyes flicking between hers, expression unreadable.

“I wasn’t accusing,” she says, gently. “Just wondering.”

Evelyn lets the silence stretch again. 

“I don’t trust easy,” Evelyn says at last. “Not anymore. And if I did have something to say to Thomas, I’d say it.”

Isla nods slowly. “That’s fair.”

And then she leaves. Evelyn stands behind the counter a while longer, staring at the door after it closes, her hands braced against the wood. She’s still.

She breathes in deep.

Evelyn doesn’t move for a long moment after Isla leaves. She remains still behind the counter, the heel of one palm pressed lightly to the wood as though grounding herself. The light is changing outside, turning from dull grey to something warmer as late afternoon creeps toward early evening. The kiln hums in the back, a low comforting sound, but even that doesn’t settle her.

She replays the conversation in her head—Isla’s tone, her phrasing. There’d been a weight in the room, subtle but unmistakable.

Evelyn turns away from the counter and picks up the crate she was sorting earlier, as if working through it might help. She tries to focus, to return to the motion of her hands, the familiar shapes and textures of materials she knows intimately. The act of sorting helps, but only a little. Her mind keeps drifting. Isla’s words linger in her skull like fog.

Then, as if needing to prove to herself that nothing has changed, she goes back to the crate and begins to line up the glaze jars on the back shelf. Her hands move methodically, one after the next, warm tones grouped beside the cooler ones, just as she always does. The labels are neatly written in her own ink, her own script. This, at least, is hers. The clay, the color, the fire. The shelves, the shop, the small upstairs room that holds her each night.

It is hers.

No one else comes in. Still, she keeps expecting the door to open. 

But it doesn’t come.

When the last jar is set in place, Evelyn steps back and lets her gaze settle across the shop. It looks calm. Lived in. 

She walks to the back, washes her hands of clay and dust and the faint grit of plaster, then dries them on a towel by the basin. She looks at her reflection in the small mirror mounted on the wall. It’s a practical mirror, not one meant for vanity, but she studies herself anyway. The softness around her eyes today. The slight pinch between her brows. The curl of her hair still holding from where she pinned it back earlier. 

She moves to the stairs and climbs them slowly, pressing her hand to the railing in the soft golden light coming through the windows. The air upstairs is warmer. Familiar. Smells like lavender and clay dust and the faintest scent of the candles she sometimes lights to help herself sleep.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

Somewhere above, the last of the day’s light dies behind the cliffs, but down here, under rock and earth, there’s only the hum of lanterns and the scuff of boots against packed soil. Thomas stands at the center of it all, coat open, hands at his sides, watching the two men on their knees in front of him.

Richard is quiet. The German beside him is breathing too fast, sweat cutting tracks through the grime on his face. His wrists are bound. So are Richard’s. Rowe and Calloway dragged them down here not twenty minutes ago—one of the lookouts caught Richard passing a note at the docks. They tailed him, waited, caught the German as he stepped off the small skiff meant to bring him back out to sea.

“You’ve got anything to say,” Thomas says, voice steady, “now’s the time.”

He isn’t shouting. Doesn’t need to. The others—Rowe, Jenkins, Kipner—are standing close, watching. Not moving. No one asks questions. No one’s spoken since the men were brought in.

Richard lifts his head. “Thom—”

“No,” Thomas cuts him off. “No first names. Not now.”

He steps forward slowly, gloved hands in the pockets of his coat. His boots leave clear impressions in the dirt as he moves.

The German mutters something—rapid, anxious. Not English.

Thomas looks to Rowe. “Translate.”

“He’s saying he didn’t know,” Rowe answers. “That he thought this was a simple drop. Letters only.”

Thomas looks back to the German, then to Richard. “You passed information?”

Richard’s face twists. “It wasn’t—Thomas, it wasn’t anything vital.”

“You passed information,” Thomas says again, like stating a fact.

Richard breathes out sharply through his nose. “They threatened Isla.”

Kipner shifts uneasily behind him, but says nothing.

“You sold us out,” Thomas says, calm and cold. “You brought a fucking German spy onto this island.”

“He’s not a spy,” Richard says quickly. “He’s just a runner—he’s just—”

“He’s a man who’s going to die here,” Thomas says. “And so are you.”

The air stills. The flicker of lantern light throws their shadows against the tunnel walls.

“Thomas—”

Thomas steps closer.

The German shifts.

“Get them on their feet,” Thomas says.

Rowe and Jenkins move without hesitation. They haul both men up—Richard still trying to meet Thomas’ eyes.

Thomas pulls his pistol from his coat.

Kipner turns his head, jaw tight.

Richard begins shaking. “Don’t do this. Don’t—”

He turns first to the German. Doesn’t hesitate. A single shot to the head. The man drops like a stone.

Richard screams something—half a cry, half a plea.

Thomas levels the gun again.

“Please—”

But Thomas doesn’t flinch. The second shot echoes down the tunnel.

The silence that follows feels heavier than the soil pressing in from all sides. Richard’s body slumps, lifeless, beside the German. Blood pools on the ground where they fell.

Thomas doesn’t look at them now. He lowers the gun slowly, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The quiet is deafening. No one speaks, not even Rowe or Jenkins, who remain still at his back.

Thomas’ breath is slow, steady, as if he’s already moved on to the next part of this. The next step. He flicks the gun’s safety on with a practiced hand, then tucks it back into his coat. 

"Get rid of the bodies," he says, the words coming out like a command he’s spoken a hundred times. “Burn them if you have to. Don’t leave a trace.”

The men nod.

Rowe takes the German’s body first, lifting it by the shoulders, motioning to Jenkins. They drag them both, bodies heavy with the weight of their betrayal, out of the tunnel and into the night.

Thomas watches them go, then turns his attention to the dirt beneath his boots. The faint flicker of the lantern is the only thing breaking the thick darkness.

It’s done.

He exhales slowly, eyes scanning the empty tunnel. He doesn’t feel relief. Not like he should.

“Anything else?” Thomas asks, his voice low and steady.

He runs his fingers through his hair, tired, but never enough to show it. The operation must continue. It always has. It always will.

“Tell Rowe,” Thomas adds, his tone cutting through the silence. “Both teams will rotate tomorrow. One on watch, one in the tunnels. We need to be ready for anything. We leave at night, Henry's men are set on handling it during those hours.”

“Aye,” Kipner says quickly. 

Thomas stands alone in the quiet tunnel now. He can feel the presence of his men disappearing as they carry out their orders, as they move to do the hard work he’s given them. They’ll burn the bodies. And everything will carry on, like it always does.

But even in the stillness, a knot sits heavy in his gut.

Thomas turns and walks deeper into the shadows of the tunnel. He doesn’t need to say more. The others will follow through, as they always do. They’ll make sure this is cleaned up, just like everything else.

But the taste of it is sour. And that, Thomas knows, will stay with him long after this is over.

Thomas steps out of the tunnel, the cold air biting at his face as he walks into the night. There's a new entry way. The only one his men are allowed to use. They can no longer go in through the house. 

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The shop smells of wet clay and dust, the familiar, grounding scent that always calms Evelyn’s nerves when she’s working. The pottery wheel hums quietly beneath her hands as she molds a new piece, the soft rhythm of the motion allowing her thoughts to wander. She finds solace in the quiet, the peaceful solitude of her space, where her hands are the only thing moving, the only thing that matters. It's her sanctuary—a space she’s carved out in defiance of everything her past tried to take from her.

The clay is stubborn today, refusing to yield as it should, but Evelyn keeps working, smoothing the surface, her hands dancing over the pottery, coaxing it into shape with a practiced touch. Her mind, however, is elsewhere. 

And then the door creaks open.

She doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. It's too late to pretend she hasn’t noticed, too late to continue with her work and ignore the presence that has just entered the room. The atmosphere shifts immediately, the lightness of the shop darkening like a cloud passing overhead.

Evelyn’s hands freeze on the wheel. Her heart skips a beat.

Henry.

Her father’s brother. Her uncle. The man who has always loomed in the shadows of her life like a threat she could never escape. He’s the one who caused the bruises on her heart, the scars she can’t erase. When she was a child, his touch was suffocating. Now, as an adult, the memories of his cruelty remain like a persistent ache she can never fully ignore.

“Thought you could hide away here, did you?” Henry’s voice cuts through the silence, bitter and taunting.

Evelyn doesn't respond. She doesn’t have the energy to argue with him. She doesn’t have the strength to pretend she can handle the venom he spits with every word. Instead, she holds herself still, her hands gripping the edge of the pottery wheel, her breath slow and steady as she tries to calm the rush of panic that’s already starting to claw at her insides.

Henry’s presence is like an oppressive weight, suffocating every inch of the space. It’s the way his eyes scan the room...as if everything in it belongs to him. As if everything Evelyn has done, every piece of pottery she’s crafted, every moment of her life that she’s spent trying to carve out a semblance of happiness, is beneath him. He has never been able to hide his contempt for her, nor does he try. His disdain for the life she’s made for herself is evident in every word that drips from his lips.

"Is this what you’ve reduced yourself to, Evelyn?" He steps forward, his boots clicking against the stone floor. "A tiny little shop full of worthless trinkets? I should have known better than to expect anything more from you."

Evelyn doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her react. But inside, she’s already trembling, the fear rising in her chest like an old, familiar friend. She tries to force it back, bury it under the weight of her calm exterior, but it’s impossible. His words cut deep, deep enough to bring all the old pain bubbling back to the surface.

“I’ve built something here,” she finally says, her voice quiet, but firm. “It’s mine. You can’t take it from me.”

Henry laughs, the sound like gravel scraping against metal. “Built something? This? This pathetic little shop? You think you’ve actually built something of value? It’s laughable.”

His words hit harder than they should. She shouldn’t care what he thinks. She should be above it, above him. But the truth is, she’s never been able to escape the hold he has on her. He is a ghost from her past, a reminder of everything that has been wrong in her life.

“I’ve worked hard for this,” she says, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You have no right to come here and talk to me like that.”

Henry steps closer, his shadow falling across her as he looms over her. His breath smells faintly of cigars and bourbon, a combination she’s known since she was a child. It’s the smell of her nightmares.

“You’re weak,” he spits, his voice low and full of venom. “Always have been. Always will be.”

Evelyn’s chest tightens as she swallows the knot of fear rising in her throat. She refuses to let him see her break. She refuses to let him see how badly his words still affect her, even after all these years. But it’s hard. So hard. He knows exactly how to wound her, how to bring her back to the place she’s worked so hard to escape. He knows exactly how to make her feel small, like nothing.

“You can’t hide here forever,” Henry continues, his words cruel and mocking. “You think this little shop, this pathetic life you’ve built, is going to protect you from me? You’re nothing, Evelyn. You always were.”

A surge of anger flares in her chest, hot and sharp. She clenches her fists, but doesn’t say anything. She won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry. Instead, she keeps her voice low and controlled.

“I won’t let you hurt me anymore."she says, her eyes meeting his.

Henry sneers, taking a step closer. “You really think you’ve changed? You think this pathetic little life of yours means something? You haven’t changed, Evelyn. You’re still the same worthless, broken thing you’ve always been. And you’ll never be anything else.”

Evelyn’s heart hammers in her chest as the familiar rush of panic floods through her. The words, the tone—it all feels like the past coming back to life. The walls of the shop seem to close in around her as the memories of what Henry did to her surface. She tries to push them away, tries to hold on to the sense of self she’s fought so hard to build, but it’s hard when he’s standing there, looking at her like she’s nothing.

She stands and takes a step back, her breath shallow, the cold creeping in.

Henry steps forward again, this time his hand reaching out as if to grab her, to take control once more.

And then—

The door slams open with a force that shakes the walls of the shop. The sound reverberates through the space, and for a moment, it feels as though time has stopped. Henry freezes, his hand still outstretched, hovering inches from Evelyn's arm. She can feel the icy grip of his presence, the fear tightening around her chest like a vice, but before she can react, a voice, sharp and commanding, fills the space.

"Get your fucking hands away from her."

Evelyn’s heart skips a beat. A wave of relief floods over her, and it feels as though she can finally breathe again. She turns her head toward the doorway, her body instinctively shifting to face the new arrival, her muscles trembling with the sudden rush of adrenaline. Thomas stands there, tall and imposing, the weight of his presence undeniable. 

Henry’s expression darkens, a flicker of disdain flashing across his face. But his posture shifts. The moment Thomas steps into the room, Henry’s bravado wavers. He looks less like the man who had been trying to break her down just moments before and more like someone caught in the midst of something he didn’t expect. He steps back, hands falling to his sides, and for the first time, there’s a noticeable crack in his confidence.

"You're making a mistake, Shelby," Henry says, his voice venomous, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Thomas doesn't flinch. "I'm not here for a debate," he replies, his tone low, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. "You won't lay a finger on her. Not now, not ever."

Evelyn watches, her heart still racing, her body too tense to fully relax.

Henry scoffs, the venom in his voice returning. "And what are you going to do about it, huh? Threaten me? You think you can just walk in here and—"

"I’ll kill you," Thomas interrupts, his voice steady and calm, but there’s a weight behind the words, a finality that makes Evelyn's blood run cold.

For a moment, everything stands still. Henry seems to weigh the meaning of Thomas’ words, his jaw tightening, eyes narrowing. He’s not used to being threatened, especially not by someone like Thomas, but something in Thomas' gaze makes him hesitate. Thomas isn’t bluffing.

Evelyn can feel the shift in the air, the temperature dropping between them, the tension thickening like a storm cloud. Henry knows it too. 

Henry takes one last look at Evelyn, his eyes filled with a mixture of disdain and something darker. “You won’t win this,” he sneers. “You’re just another pawn, Shelby. Mark my words.”

Thomas doesn’t respond. 

Henry finally turns, walking toward the door with a scowl plastered on his face. As he passes Thomas, he gives him one last glare, but Thomas doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't even acknowledge him.

The door slams shut behind him, and for a long moment, Evelyn stands still, her body frozen in place. She’s trembling, but she’s not sure if it’s from the fear that still lingers in her bones or the overwhelming sense of relief that floods over her now that Henry is gone.

The room feels emptier now, quieter, but there’s a heaviness to it that wasn’t there before. The world outside still exists—the shop, the island, everything—and yet, for Evelyn, the only thing that matters right now is the man standing in front of her.

Thomas.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but she can feel the weight of his presence as he stands there, watching her, his eyes softening as he takes her in. 

“You alright?” His voice is quieter now, the roughness gone, replaced by something gentler.

Evelyn nods, but she doesn’t speak. She can’t find the words to describe what she’s feeling. Fear, relief, exhaustion—everything collides inside her, making it hard to process. But Thomas doesn’t push. He doesn’t demand answers. He steps closer, slowly, as though he’s afraid she might break if he moves too quickly. He reaches out, gently cupping her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing across her skin in slow, soothing circles.

The touch is grounding.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. They don’t need to. There’s a quiet understanding between them, an unspoken connection that fills the space. Evelyn leans into his touch, allowing herself to find comfort in the warmth of him.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” Thomas says softly, his words a promise. “I’m here.”

Evelyn’s knees give out. She sinks to the floor, arms wrapped around herself, breath hitching in her throat. Her entire body feels like it’s unraveling, every thread pulled loose, every nerve raw. The shop around her — her quiet sanctuary — now feels like a room filled with echoes of the past. Every shelf, every bit of clay dust in the air feels infected by the moment he was in it.

Thomas drops to a crouch beside her without hesitation, one hand gently brushing her hair back from her face.

“You’re alright,” he says softly, but there’s a question behind the words.

She nods, though she knows she’s not.

His hand stays at the side of her head, warm and steady, his touch grounding. The silence that follows isn’t empty — it’s thick with everything she doesn’t know how to say. Evelyn doesn’t cry. The tears won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere too deep, too buried to reach. Instead, her breaths come in shallow gasps, and her chest tightens with the effort of keeping it together.

“He came into my home,” she whispers. Her voice feels too thin for the room. “He walked in like he had every right to.”

Thomas doesn’t respond right away. He lowers himself to sit fully beside her, back against the counter, shoulder to shoulder. He looks forward, not at her — like he’s giving her space without leaving her alone.

“I’ll make sure he never does again.”

She swallows hard. The words should feel comforting. But they don’t erase the smell of Henry’s cologne still lingering in the air, the old panic threatening to rise from the pit of her stomach.

“I know what people see when they look at him,” she says. “Power. Control. Respect. He walks into a room and it bends to him. That’s how it’s always been. Everyone listened. Everyone followed. And I—”

She stops. Her hands tremble in her lap. She squeezes them into fists.

“He used to wait until the staff left,” she says. “That’s when he’d come find me. I’d hear his shoes on the floorboards first. That sound haunted me. I used to count them.”

Thomas still doesn’t speak, but she can feel the shift in him — the way his body tenses beside her. The fury that coils in his silence. It’s steady and coiled and deadly. But not directed at her. Never at her.

“I never told anyone,” she says. “Not really. I think a few people suspected. An aunt once gave me a look like she knew. But no one ever said a word. Not to him. Not to me. They looked the other way because he was Henry Lockwood. Because he was powerful. And I was just a girl in his house.”

Thomas shifts beside her, turns to face her. His hand finds hers and doesn’t ask permission — just takes it, envelops it. His grip is warm. 

“They should’ve protected you.” he says. 

Evelyn looks down at their joined hands, and the words finally reach her in a way nothing else has. The shame she’s carried for so long, wavers.

“I hated myself for freezing,” she says. “I thought I should’ve screamed, should’ve fought harder. But I just… shut down.”

She pauses, her voice hitching.

Evelyn leans into him without realizing it, her body moving of its own accord, pulled to the warmth, to the safety.

“I thought if I ignored the letters, he’d stop. I told myself he didn’t really care, that it was just noise. But I think he was waiting for the right time to remind me what I already knew — that he still sees me as his to control.”

His arm goes around her then — slowly, gently — and she rests her head on his shoulder. The tension still lives inside her bones, but it eases as his presence starts to fill the spaces that fear once occupied.

“I never thought I’d tell anyone,” she admits quietly. “I didn’t want to be someone’s broken thing.”

Thomas’s breath catches, but his voice is steady. “You’re not broken, Evelyn.”

The way he says her name makes her eyes sting.

“I want to believe that,” she whispers.

“You will,” he replies.

They sit in silence again. This time it’s a different kind. Not heavy. Not hollow. Just stillness, shared.

Eventually, he shifts. “Come upstairs.”

She tenses.

“I don’t want to leave you here,” he says. “Not after this.”

She nods.

When they stand, she’s shaky. He steadies her with a hand at her lower back, gentle, and walks her up the narrow staircase to the rooms above the shop. Everything is quiet.

She walks in first and stops, unsure. He lingers near the door.

“You can sit,” she says, motioning toward the armchair.

He shakes his head once. “Not the sofa.”

Something in his voice softens, and so does she.

She watches him, the quiet between them thick with something tender.

“I’m tired,” she says softly.

“Let’s rest then.”

They remove their coats. Their shoes. Her cardigan. He waits for her to pull back the covers on the bed before he joins her. There’s no rush, no fire in their movements — just a shared understanding that something important has changed.

When they lie down, she curls into him. His arms go around her instinctively, as though they were made to. His chin rests at the top of her head. She breathes him in.

She turns her face upward. Their eyes meet. The kiss is soft, unhurried.

They stay that way until the sun has long dipped behind the trees and the only sound left in the room is the quiet rhythm of breath shared between two people trying to make sense of what it means to feel safe — together.

When Evelyn wakes, it’s still early. Pale light spills in through the curtains, catching on the edges of the pottery dust that always clings to the air. The room smells like warmth — like home — and like him. Thomas is still there, still beside her, his chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of sleep.

For a few long moments, she simply lies still. Her head rests against his shoulder, her arm draped across his torso, and she listens to the steady beat of his heart.

She hadn’t expected to sleep at all.

She hadn’t felt safe in years. And now, she still doesn’t know what to call this thing between them. But safety, at least, is a part of it.

Thomas stirs slightly beside her. She glances up to find his eyes open, pale blue and still heavy with sleep, but alert the moment he sees her watching.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

She nods, voice still quiet from sleep. “Yeah. I think so.”

He watches her for a long moment, like he doesn’t quite believe her, but doesn’t want to press. Eventually, he simply lifts one hand to gently brush his knuckles along her cheek.

“You didn’t wake,” he says. “Not once.”

“No dreams,” she murmurs.

Thomas nods, once. “Good.”

They stay like that for a while, neither speaking. 

Eventually, Evelyn shifts upright and pulls the blanket around her shoulders. The room is cold beyond the bed. She doesn’t make a move to get dressed, not yet. But something has shifted in her. She needs to move.

“Tea?” she offers.

Thomas nods again. “I’ll do it.”

She watches him move around her space, quiet, careful. He doesn’t open the wrong cabinets or ask where things are. Somehow, he already knows. By the time the kettle whistles, she’s wrapped in a blanket and sitting at the small table by the window. He brings over two mugs and sets one in front of her without a word.

For a moment, they just sip. The world outside is misty — the window glass fogged slightly from the warmth inside.

“Thank you,” she says eventually.

Thomas doesn’t look up. “Don’t thank me for doing what anyone decent would’ve done.”

“But not everyone would’ve done it,” she says.

He meets her gaze.

“I should’ve known he’d come sooner or later,” Thomas says. “I should’ve done more.”

“You’ve done plenty.”

She says it plainly, and she means it.

Thomas looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes another sip of tea, and the silence grows companionable again.

Evelyn leans her chin into her palm. Her fingers tremble slightly against her cheek, but she doesn’t hide it.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The tunnel is musty, the air cool and dry. Lamps line the walls—naked bulbs strung on fraying wire, their light flickering with every draft. Somewhere deeper, metal scrapes against stone. Voices echo. The low murmur of men working.

Thomas walks.

He moves past Section A, where Kipner and Hughes are patching in new bracing, the wood smelling sharp, freshly cut. They glance up but say nothing. 

Thomas keeps walking.

He turns into Section B, the air tighter, the ground uneven. Smith and McTavish are there, kneeling near the far support beam, shifting dirt into buckets. Fraser is a few paces ahead, setting new boards across the top frame. They’re working well, quiet, focused.

Rowe sees him and rises. “We're clearing toward the right side. Trying to open a bit more space before reinforcing.”

Thomas steps past him. Eyes track the ceiling—timber, still dry. He moves toward the beam, places his hand on the brace.

It hums.

Not loud, not enough for a man to notice. But Thomas does. He leans closer. Presses his palm flat against the grain. Listens.

There. A crack. Not from wood, but from deeper, hidden behind the sound of shovels and breath. A kind of hollow moan.

He steps back.

“Stop digging,” he says.

They all pause. Even the shovels freeze in air. McTavish looks up, confused. “Sir?”

“Drop the tools.”

Fraser lowers his hammer. Rowe furrows his brow. “What is it?”

Thomas doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The ground does it for him.

It shakes.

A soft, sudden jolt. Like the breath of something ancient and buried shifting in its sleep. Dust lifts from the floor. Pebbles dance along the ledge. The flickering flame above Thomas’ head fizzles and gets snuffed out.

“Out!” he barks. “Everyone out, now!”

They move, fast. Smith grabs McTavish’s arm and pulls. Fraser’s already sprinting toward the mouth of the tunnel, boots pounding mud.

Thomas turns to follow—but the sound comes again, louder. A crack like a gunshot. Then another. And then the groan of weight giving way.

The ceiling overhead splits in two.

Earth and timber come down like a wave. Thomas shouts, sees Rowe vanish in dust. Hears Kipner scream somewhere behind him. The lights fizzle out, the tunnel heaves—and then everything is noise, collapse, crashing down.

He’s thrown off his feet, face hitting the floor, his mouth filling with dirt. He coughs, spits blood, pushes up just in time to see the rear support give way entirely.

Silence follows. Then the creaking of the earth settling.

Thomas stumbles to his feet, hand against the wall. Dust stings his eyes. The tunnel behind him is gone. Only a pile of what it used to be remains.

He staggers toward it.

“Rowe!” he calls. “Smith! Answer me!”

Nothing.

He starts digging with his hands. His fingers are raw in seconds. He claws at the rubble, pulls aside half a beam. The tunnel groans again, threatening more, but he doesn’t stop.

Behind him, a light appears—someone returning.

It’s Fraser, his face pale, shirt soaked in sweat.

“Get help,” Thomas says. His voice doesn’t shake. “Get everyone.”

Fraser hesitates, then runs.

Thomas keeps digging.

The others return within minutes—Davies, Hughes, Kipner, Calloway. They form a line. Buckets pass hand to hand. Boards are hauled out. The men don’t speak, they just work.

Hours pass.

They don’t find Smith. Not at first. Just his hand, crushed beneath timber, the fingers still curled like they’re trying to grasp something not there.

Kipner throws up against the wall.

McTavish works in silence, face blank.

Rowe is the last they hear—a voice faint behind the rubble. “I’m here!” he shouts. “My leg’s stuck!”

They work faster.

Thomas never leaves the front. His hands are bleeding, his coat torn. His breath is ragged, but his voice is calm.

They dig until the wood stops groaning. 

Until Rowe is free.

His leg is mangled. Blood covers his trousers. But he’s alive. Alive, and breathing, and clutching Thomas’ arm as they pull him out.

Smith isn’t. His chest caved in beneath a slab of earth. Hughes is the one who covers the body with a tarp.

No one says anything.

Thomas stands, filthy, broken-knuckled, staring down the corridor of what was once a tunnel and is now just a grave.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island 
1938

The knock on the door doesn’t startle her. 

Evelyn sets her book aside. She’d been pretending to read for hours, barely absorbing the words, barely seeing the page. She crosses the room, opens the door.

Thomas is there.

She knows before he says anything that it’s worse than she imagined. His shoulders are heavy. His coat is wet at the hem. His eyes are red-rimmed from either the wind or something else, and his mouth is a thin, tense line.

He says nothing. Just looks at her.

She steps back without a word, and he comes in.

He takes off his coat slowly, like he can barely lift his arms. She closes the door behind him and locks it. The room is warm from the stove she lit earlier. 

She turns to face him. “Thomas,” she says, but he lifts a hand. Not to stop her, exactly. Just to pause whatever she was going to say. He leans against the table like he needs it to hold him up.

“It was Rowe and Smith,” he says quietly. “There was a collapse.”

She doesn't know what he's talking about.

“Rowe was still breathing when we found him,” Thomas says. 

Evelyn takes a step forward, but he won’t look at her.

“We got him out. Henry wouldn’t send the ferry. Said we couldn’t risk the operation.”

She whispers, “So what happened?”

He finally looks at her. “He was going to die. I could see it. But not quick. Not clean. Henry said he wouldn’t waste the boat.”

“Thomas,” she says again, and this time there’s no stopping the grief in her voice.

“I did it,” he says flatly. “I put him down. Like a fucking animal.”

Evelyn presses a hand over her mouth. The pain in his voice is worse than anything else. She can hear the guilt bleeding out with every word.

He goes on, quieter now. “He looked at me like he knew. And he didn’t fight it. He just closed his eyes.”

Evelyn moves to him. She lays her hand on his chest, right over his heart, and he closes his eyes like that alone is too much. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t shake. But he sinks.

“You didn’t have a choice,” she says. “You did what no one else would have had the strength to do.”

His breath is shallow. She knows he’s still in that tunnel, still hearing the dirt shift, still seeing Rowe’s face. She curls her hand around his.

“Come sit,” she whispers.

They sit side by side on the bed. The stove crackles softly in the background. Her hand never leaves his.

“I need to tell you something,” he says.

She waits.

“About the tunnels. About what this is.”

She says nothing, lets him speak. Because she knows he needs to.

“Churchill sent me here,” Thomas says. “Months ago. To build tunnels underground. Hidden gun ports. Emergency fallback if the war turns to our shores. It was meant to be quiet. Strategic.”

He pauses, watching her face.

She just nods. Encouraging him to go on.

“They brought in Rowe. Briggs. All the rest. Some military. Some not. But all of them loyal, or supposed to be. We’ve been building in secret. Underneath everyone’s feet.”

He gives a bitter smile. “And now Rowe’s dead. Because Henry didn’t think the life of a man mattered more than the mission.”

Evelyn shifts closer. Her hand moves to his cheek.

“I’m not a good man,” Thomas says. “I’ve done things. Terrible things. Not just today. Not just the war. Before. After. I’ve killed men. Lied to people. Destroyed lives. I’ve followed orders. I’ve given them.”

He looks down. “I don’t even know what good looks like anymore.”

She leans forward and kisses his forehead. “You know what it doesn’t look like. That matters more.”

He meets her eyes then. For the first time since walking in, he really looks at her. And something eases. Just slightly.

She takes his hand again and leads him to lie back with her. Neither of them speak for a long time. The room is warm. Quiet. Safe.

They take off their shoes, their coats. He undresses slowly, like every movement aches. She does too, folding her clothes in the chair like always. When they finally slide beneath the covers, she curls into him without hesitation.

His arms come around her like he’s afraid she might vanish. She doesn’t. She stays. He kisses her slowly, and she returns it with everything she has.

The room is quiet, the sort of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. It holds breath, heartbeats, and all the things that can’t be said out loud. 

A bit later, Evelyn stands by the window, fingers lightly touching the glass, as if grounding herself in something solid. Thinking of the things whispered to her after they got in bed. What she has survived. What Thomas has just confessed.

Behind her, Thomas sits on the edge of the bed. His coat is off, hands resting on his thighs. He hasn’t lit a cigarette in nearly an hour, which speaks volumes in itself. He watches her without speaking, as if she might vanish if he blinks.

When she turns, it’s slow. .

He rises as she approaches, as though pulled to his feet by something unspoken. He doesn’t reach for her. He waits.

Her hands move to his shirt, fingers undoing buttons.

He watches her with eyes that have seen too much. Eyes that now, somehow, look softer.

She slips the shirt from his shoulders and it falls quietly to the floor. When her fingers trace a line down his chest, he closes his eyes briefly. As if memorizing the feeling.

He touches her then. Carefully. His hands move to the back of her neck, then down her arms, as if to be certain she’s still there. Still real. 

She leans in and they kiss. Soft, searching, unhurried. They stay like that for some time, standing in the middle of the room with nothing else in the world mattering.

When she pulls back, she guides him back to the bed. The quiet deepens, intimate and whole. 

She lies down and he follows. Their bodies meet gently. Slowly.

It is not about escape. It is not about forgetting.

It is about this moment, this tethering of two people who have been unmoored too long.

His hand cups the back of her neck as he kisses her again, lips brushing her cheek, her temple. Her hands are in his hair, her breath against his throat. He moves with care, with reverence. She responds with the same.

There are no harsh breaths or frantic movements. Just the steady rhythm of skin against skin. They are learning each other in silence.

She wraps her arms around him. He whispers her name.

It lasts as long as it needs to. A lifetime in minutes. A conversation in touch and warmth.

When it ends, they don’t separate. He shifts only to pull her closer, and she tucks her face into the crook of his neck. They lie like that for a long time, the weight of the past finally allowed to rest.

He pulls the blanket over them both, one arm under her shoulders, the other draped over her waist.

Their legs tangle together. The silence returns, but it no longer feels like something heavy. It feels like peace.

Eventually, her breathing evens. He stays awake a little longer, watching the ceiling, his fingers lightly tracing circles on her back.

Then, slowly, finally, he lets go of the night and sleeps.

She is still in his arms when morning finds them.

The warmth between them lingers long after they’ve gone quiet.

Evelyn lies still in the crook of Thomas’ arm, her cheek pressed to his chest, lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing. She doesn’t speak. Neither does he.

His fingers trace idle patterns along her shoulder. There’s a steadiness to his touch that grounds her. Her own hand rests against his ribs. She can feel his heart still beating beneath her palm, not fast, not slow. Just steady. 

“You warm enough?” he asks, voice quiet.

She nods, pressing a little closer. “You?”

“Fine,” he says. “It’s a good bed.”

That makes her smile faintly. It is a good bed. She bought it secondhand three years ago, had it hauled up piece by piece and reassembled it herself. It creaks when she shifts, and one of the legs isn’t perfectly straight, but it’s hers. And his.

They lie like that a while longer. He strokes her hair with one hand. She thinks he might be drifting to sleep.

Chapter Text

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The moon is high, but the night is black. Clouds drift like ink across the sky, blotting out what little light the stars might offer. Thomas stands in the tall grass beyond the edge of the cliff path, coat drawn tight, collar up against the sharp bite of salt-heavy wind. Around him, the men stay low, quiet, just as he told them.

They saw the boat come in. Not the usual drop, not the right time, not the right place

He raises two fingers. Calloway shifts beside him, rifle steady in his arms. McTavish is further down, watching the back of the dunes. Jenkins is up on the ridge, eyes on the inlet.

Then, movement.

A few figures. Walking fast, but not hurried. Confident, like men who think they’re not being watched. Boots crunch faintly against sand and gravel, and one of them laughs.

Thomas’ eyes narrow.

He nods once. Hughes peels off,  tasked with tracking the rest of the crew if they split. But Thomas doesn’t take his eyes off the three heading down the beach.

Toward Evelyn’s shop.

His pulse ticks faster. No reason to panic yet. Could be nothing. But Evelyn’s face flashes in his mind anyway.

He grips the butt of the gun at his side. Not drawn, not yet. But close.

The men don’t knock.

They go inside.

He moves quickly, going up the stairs, careful to avoid the ones that creak. Then he glances through one of the windows. 

Watching.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The front door opens. Evelyn looks up from the worktable, sponge in one hand, damp clay drying under the other. The shop is quiet, just the scent of kiln-fired glaze. She expects a villager. A woman come to pick up the teapot she ordered. Or someone wanting to browse.

Instead, three men in long coats step inside.

She freezes.

There’s a silence that lands in the space with them. Heavy boots scuff the floorboards. The man in the middle is older than the others, mid-forties maybe, with a thin frame and sharp cheekbones that give his face a fox-like edge. His dark coat is buttoned too tight, black leather gloves still on his hands despite the warmth in the shop.

The two younger men flank him, both silent. Both watching her.

Evelyn straightens slowly, moving toward the counter in the shop. “Can I help you?”

The middle man steps forward. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t take off his gloves. His eyes move to the shelves, the racks of glaze and brushes, the kiln door at the back. He looks like he’s taking inventory.

“We are new to the island,” he says. His accent is faint, but it’s there—German, clipped and precise. He gestures without looking. “Your shop. It is pottery?”

She nods once. “That’s right.”

One of the others picks up a bowl. Turns it over in his hand. Puts it down.

The officer—he’s not dressed like one, but Evelyn doesn’t need a uniform to know the kind of man standing in front of her—walks slowly toward the center display. His eyes skim everything. When he gets to the table in the middle of the room, he stops at a tall vase with a subtle blue glaze that catches light when you walk past it.

He touches it.

Just the tips of his gloved fingers brushing the rim.

“You make all of these yourself?”

“Yes.” Her voice is steady. She keeps her hands in front of her, one still streaked faintly with clay. “I do.”

He glances at her again. A flick of the eyes. Not the kind of glance a man gives a stranger in polite company but the kind Evelyn knows too well. 

“You live here as well?”

“I do.”

He nods once, thoughtful. Then says to the man beside him, in German, **“She’s alone.”**

Evelyn’s stomach turns, not able to understand what the man said. 

She doesn’t ask what they’re doing here, why they’ve come. Instead, she says calmly, “I’m afraid if you’re looking for lodging, this isn’t the right place.”

The officer smiles, faintly. “No. We are not tourists.”

He walks back toward the counter. She can smell something faint on him..aftershave, or maybe machine oil. He pauses there, looking down at her hands.

“You have talent,” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

Behind him, one of the men lifts a small figure she carved last winter. A simple thing—curved lines, a bird in flight—and examines it under the light. Evelyn doesn’t tell him to put it down.

The officer’s eyes narrow slightly, and when he speaks again, he does it softly. “You have been on this island long?”

"Not too long.”

He studies her, lips pressed together like he’s parsing the tone, the evasiveness. Then, finally, he gives a small nod and steps back.

Evelyn doesn’t move as the three of them file slowly toward the door. The one closest to her lingers a half-second too long, then opens the door for the officer, and they all step out into the night.

She doesn’t move.

Not until they’ve walked off.

Then, finally, Evelyn presses her palms flat to the worktable.

The clay has dried.

And her throat is too tight to swallow.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

Thomas watches the figures slink away. Three of them. Long coats, deliberate steps.

Thomas stays hidden until they’re gone.

Then he goes in.

The sound of the door shutting is too loud in the silence. Evelyn doesn’t look up right away, not until she hears the thud of his boots coming toward her. When she does, her eyes are wide.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer. Just nods once.

“They asked a few questions..,” she says before he can speak. 

His silence is louder than any response.

“They spoke English,” she adds, calmer than she feels. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“They weren’t anyone,” he says, voice low.

She straightens up, brushing her hands off on her apron. “They didn’t know who I was. Didn’t even ask my name.”

“They didn’t have to ask,” he bites out.

Her arms cross, defensive. “So what was I meant to do, then? Scream and run? Call for help?”

“No,” he snaps. “But don’t fucking stand there pretending it was nothing.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” he says, stepping closer. “You think just because they didn’t drag you out into the night, it means you’re safe?”

“I’m trying to stay calm, Thomas.” Her voice is tight. “I’m trying not to fall apart every time a man walks through that door.”

“That calm,” he says, voice rising, “is what’ll get you killed.”

She flinches, just slightly, and he sees it. Regrets it instantly. 

“You’re not listening,” he goes on. “They’re not just watching. They’re mapping out everything. Taking notes. ”

Her jaw sets. “You think I don’t know that?”

“No, I don’t. Because you’re still standing there acting like it didn’t mean anything—like it didn’t matter that one of them stood there and stared at you like you were fucking property to claim.”

Her eyes go sharp. “And what would you have done? Shot him in my shop?”

“If I had to.”

She’s trembling now.

"You don't fucking get it, do you?" His voice rises, fingers clenching around the delicate vase she made—the same one that bastard had dared to look at. With a violent shove, he hurls it against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

The shards scatter across the floor as he jabs a finger in her direction. "They’ll come back, and when they do—" His words falter, breaking off abruptly when he sees it in her eyes.

She is shutting down, her lips tremble and her eyes that were once calm turn into a sea of emotions in that same way he knows all too well. 

There’s no way in hell he’s going to become that monster to her.

Not now. Not ever.

In an instant, the distance between them is gone. His hands cradle her face, thumbs gently brushing the softness of her skin as his forehead presses to hers. She’s like a frightened animal—caged, vulnerable. He’s felt that terror before.

"No no." His voice is quiet, blue eyes shifting from anger to pleading. "I'm not him. That's not what—" He pulls her head to his chest, cradling her against him as he feels her tremble. "It's not what this is. I'm not him. I'm not going to hurt you. You know that, eh? You know that. When have I—"

It's no use, he did it, he let his anger take control in front of her once again. If she never speaks to him again, she would have the right.

But he can't have that. Not now. Not after everything.

Yet she pushes at him, fights against him now as if snapping back to herself, afraid he will what? Smother her against his chest?

He gets it, so of course he relents. Letting her go, letting her distance herself from him as she tries to calm herself down, as she makes herself feel some semblance safe again.

"They're the reason I'm here. They are the reason I'm on this fucking island in the middle of the ocean. Away from home, yeah?" He's careful, so very careful with his tone.

She nods but doesn't look his way. He's a monster in her eyes right now and he won't make her look at him. 

"A war is coming...and the crown wants to have leverage. To be ready. And that. That is what this is." His hand lifts to wipe at his dry lips, his tongue coming out to wet them but it's no use. His mouth is dry. "It's what this is so when I tell you to go upstairs, to lock the doors, to not come down no matter what you hear..."

“…you do it,” he finishes, voice hollow now. “Because next time, it might not be questions. Might not be just looking. And I'll be in here. I'll be in here so fast, I'll tell you to go upstairs. I'll tell you to lock the door.”

He doesn’t expect her to respond. He knows she’s still reeling, her back to him, arms crossed tightly across her chest as if holding herself together. The tension in the room is suffocating.

“I shouldn’t have shouted,” he mutters, quieter now. “Shouldn’t have touched that vase."

Still, she says nothing. Just stands there, eyes fixed on a spot in the corner. 

He exhales hard and leans back against the table, running both hands through his hair. “I saw them go in. Three of them. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Couldn’t go in without tipping our hand.”

She shifts slightly, but doesn’t face him.

“That feeling…” he swallows. “It’s worse than France. Worse than the tunnels. Watching someone walk toward something so easy to snuff out.”

Silence again. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t speak. 

“I think about what they’d do if they knew,” he says, more to himself now. “If they knew what’s down there, if they figured it out. They’re not scouting just the land, Evelyn. They’re scouting _us_. Our routines. Our faces. You being kind to them, you smiling—God, that’s not weakness. It’s not your fault. But they’ll remember that. They always do.”

Her voice finally breaks the quiet. “What are you saying, Thomas?”

“That if you don’t listen, if I lose you—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Can’t.

She turns then. Finally. Her eyes are damp, her chin trembling. “Then what? You’ll smash every vase in the shop?”

“No,” he says instantly, stepping forward. “Christ, Evelyn, no.”

She flinches when he’s too close, just slightly. Just enough.

So he stops. Hands at his sides. Lets her look at him so she can see whatever’s in his face. Not rage. Not control. Just the wreckage of a man too worn out to hide what this place is doing to him.

“I’ve seen what they leave behind,” he says. “What men like that are capable of. And if I can keep them away from you—even for one more night—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Evelyn wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Then don’t become them. Don’t throw things and shout like one of them.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

Evelyn takes a step toward him, tentative. “Just don’t do that again. Don’t lose control like that. It scares me.”

He nods. “I won’t. Not again.”

Another beat passes. She doesn’t back away this time when he lifts a hand—careful, slow—fingertips brushing the hair behind her ear. Her eyes flutter closed. She leans into his palm like it’s the first warmth she’s felt all day.

And when she opens her eyes again, they’re no longer filled with fear.

“Will they come back?”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls her gently into his arms.

Not long after, Evelyn stands near the foot of the bed in the upstairs room, arms folded over her chest, her breath shallow and uneven, though she's trying to mask it. 

Thomas is standing near the window, his shoulders tight, back half-turned to her. She watches him for a long time, not sure which one of them is supposed to move first.

Then he turns. Slowly.

His eyes are soft now. All of the anger has burned itself out, and what remains is something like regret.

"I shouldn’t have done that," he says. "The vase. The shouting. I just—I saw him. In your shop. Looking at you. Like you were something he could take."

Evelyn swallows but doesn't speak.

Thomas steps forward. Then another step. "He’s not coming back, Evelyn. And I’m not going to hurt you. I know I scared you, but that isn’t who I am. Not with you."

She watches him warily. Her chest rises and falls, rapid and shallow, until her voice finally comes. "Then who are you?"

He breathes in, then exhales slowly. "Someone who doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Someone who wants to protect you."

She doesn't move. Not away, not toward. So he does.

He closes the space between them carefully, his hand reaching up to gently touch her arm. When she doesn't flinch, he lets his fingers trail up to her shoulder, then her cheek.

"I will never raise my voice to you like that again. I will never put fear in your eyes. Not because of me."

She looks up at him, hesitant but no longer frozen. Her lips part, the edges trembling. He brings his other hand to her waist and draws her in, just enough that their foreheads touch.

"I swear to you, Evelyn. I’ll only ever touch you like this. Gently. Carefully. Like you’re made of something I don’t deserve to hold."

Her breath catches. She feels his warmth, the steady thrum of his heartbeat where their bodies nearly meet. Her hands lift to rest on his chest.

"Why do you want to protect me?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

His hand cups the side of her face. "Because you're precious to me. Because I see you, Evelyn. All of you. And I want to be the one you feel safe with."

The words melt something in her chest. Her fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. "I want to protect you, too." When he leans in this time, she doesn't stop him.

Their kiss is slow. Tender. There is no rush to it, no urgency, only a quiet promise held between parted lips and shared breath. His hands move carefully over her back, over her waist, never lingering too long, always watching her eyes for any sign of hesitation.

When she starts to unbutton his shirt, her fingers tremble, but not from fear. He stills her hands gently, brushing his lips against her temple.

"Only if you want to," he murmurs.

"I do," she breathes.

There are no more words for a while. Only the whisper of clothes falling away, the softness of skin against skin, the reverence in the way he touches her. 

When he lays her down on the bed, he kisses her again, slower this time. Her hands slide up to his shoulders, anchoring herself there. She has never known gentleness like this. Not from a man. Not from anyone.

His touch is steady, patient. His voice low and reverent. "You're safe with me. Always. Nothing will ever touch you again, not while I'm breathing."

The tears come silently. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming feeling of being known. Of being held. Of finally, finally feeling safe.

She wraps her arms around him, pulls him closer.

"I believe you," she whispers.

And when they come together, it isn't rushed or frantic. It's quiet. Intimate. A moment that feels suspended in time.

Afterward, he holds her close, their legs tangled beneath the blankets. His lips rest at her temple. Her hand is on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart.

"Sleep," he murmurs.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The room is quiet now. 

Evelyn lies on her back, the sheets soft against her skin, the warmth of his body still lingering beside her. Thomas is asleep, turned slightly onto his side, one arm loosely draped across her waist, his fingers curled.

She doesn’t move. Not because she can’t, but because she doesn’t want to.

The ceiling is just a shadow above her, a smudge of gray in the darkness. She stares at it, blinking slowly, her mind too full to rest. Her body aches in a way that’s unfamiliar—not unpleasant, just new. A kind of fullness, a kind of softness she never thought she’d know. It’s not the act itself that lingers, but the way he looked at her when it began. The way he touched her. The words he whispered against her skin.

She lets her eyes fall shut, but only for a moment. Sleep doesn’t come. Instead, she sees flashes—his face above hers, the way his jaw clenched when he was trying not to go too fast. The way he kissed her like it meant something. Like she meant something. That should scare her. It should make her want to run.

But it doesn’t.

Her fingers twitch against the blanket. She can still feel him. His weight in the bed. His quietness. The way he watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking. The way he’s angry at the world but soft with her. Even when he breaks—especially when he breaks.

She turns her head slowly, letting her eyes settle on him.

In sleep, he looks different. Less haunted. His features slack, lips parted slightly, lashes dark against pale skin.

She wonders what he dreams about. If the war finds him even now. If the tunnels he built still collapse in his mind. If he hears screaming when he’s alone in the dark.

She doesn’t cry. Not really. But her eyes sting a little.

Because she could fall in love with this man. Maybe she already has. Maybe she did a long time ago when she felt the touch of his hand for the first time. When he treated her like she mattered even when she didn’t want to believe it.

She never thought she’d have this.

Not with a man like him. Not with anyone.

And yet here he is. In her bed. In her world.

She swallows, careful not to make a sound. The emotion that rises in her throat is too big, too sudden. It steals her breath for a moment, and she turns her face to the pillow to steady herself.

I’ll protect you. I’ll never let anything happen to you.

He said that. As if he could control the world.

As if she wasn’t already broken in places no one could fix.

She turns onto her side, facing him, one arm sliding under her head. Her toes brush against his, and he shifts slightly in his sleep, his body gravitating closer without waking. She watches the rise and fall of his chest.

It makes her feel something she can’t name.

It’s the idea that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t have to end in heartbreak. That maybe it could be real. That maybe she’s allowed this. After everything.

Her hand moves without thinking, fingertips lightly brushing his shoulder. He doesn’t stir. 

She wants to be brave. Brave enough to believe in something again. 

She closes her eyes, not to sleep, but just to feel.

The weight of the room. The warmth of the man beside her. The quiet.

She will remember this. No matter what happens. No matter what comes next. She will remember this night. The feeling of him. The way he touched her like she was precious. The way he whispered that he’d do anything for her.

She doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring.

But for tonight, she lets herself have this.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

Time is running out.

Thomas knows it as surely as he knows how to hold a gun or drive a spade into earth. The weight is familiar. Expected. It presses down on his shoulders now as he walks the narrow corridor of the tunnel—boots scraping through grit, the stale air clinging to his skin.

The lantern he carries swings with each step, casting long shadows that jitter across the shored-up walls. Wood groans above him, straining against the weight of the earth. A low sound, almost like breathing.

He doesn’t flinch. Just walks.

There are no other men down here tonight. None of Churchill’s, none of Henry’s. Good. He didn’t want them. Didn’t trust them. Not now. Not after Rowe. Not after the betrayal.

Another German ship is making landfall. That’s the word. Came in less than an hour ago from Johnny.

But Thomas knows what this is.

And so, he’s done what he always does when the fire starts creeping close.

He’s prepared.

He stops at the end of the tunnel. Just before the mouth that opens to the hidden gun port, masked by the stonework of the cliff wall. He crouches, reaching behind a stack of crates to uncover the long metal box he placed there nearly a month ago. Opens it. Checks the contents.

He runs a hand through his hair. Fingers rake through damp strands, stopping to press at the back of his neck, slow and steady.

This was always going to end in blood. 

Thomas stands.

He moves to the concealed exit and unbolts it. Cold sea air hits him in the face like a slap. The tide is high. He can hear the waves slapping against the rocks just beyond the bluff. Somewhere out there, in the dark, the ship is moving closer. 

His jaw tightens.

He closes the door again. Locks it. Checks the seam for light. None escapes. Good.

He returns to the table and rolls out the map. Circles scrawled in charcoal, red ink bleeding into the edges. Arrows. Names. Timing. There are pieces moving even now. Johnny is with the fishermen in the north bay. Calloway is watching the fields. Kipner, despite his nerves, is on lookout near the bluff.

They don’t know everything. He hasn’t told them. Couldn’t.

So he moves through the tunnel again, past the wooden beams, past the hollow where Rowe died with blood in his lungs and dignity stolen.

He moves until he reaches the central support. The heart of it all.

And here, he stops.

Here, he rests his hand against the cool, damp wall and listens. To the stillness. To the quiet before the storm. And then he exhales.

He knows what he needs to do.

It won’t be clean. It won’t be quiet. But it will be done.

Because Thomas Shelby does not serve men like Henry Lockwood. And he sure as fuck doesn’t let them win.

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

The first German steps into the square at 3:41 a.m.

Moonlight slices between the clouds overhead, silvering the rooftops and throwing the square into pale relief. The town is silent save for the faint tap of boots against wet stone. Seven men, not in uniform but moving like soldiers, fan out as they emerge from the narrow alley across from the butcher’s.

Thomas Shelby is already there. Waiting.

Behind him, the remnants of his team—Calloway, Hughes, McTavish, Kipner—are positioned like chess pieces in the darkness, weapons at the ready. Davies waits near the fountain. Fraser crouches inside the old bakery, the upstairs window cracked just wide enough for a rifle barrel.

They’ve rehearsed this a dozen times. They knew the second boat would come. And Henry’s men...they’re nowhere to be seen.

It’s up to them now.

Thomas watches the men who’ve arrived, their shapes wrong against the island. They move with calculation. They don’t speak. One lifts a hand and gestures toward Evelyn’s pottery shop. Another breaks off, heading toward the church.

Thomas raises his own hand.

A single signal.

Two German soldiers drop before they hear the shots. Fraser’s rifle barely echoes—quick, clean. Another tries to run and Calloway takes him in the spine, the crack of his pistol sharp against the silence. McTavish fires once, twice, finishing the body on the steps of the bakery.

Chaos ignites in seconds.

The Germans who remain reach for weapons. A knife is thrown, missing Kipner by inches. Someone screams in German but there’s nowhere to retreat to. The square is a kill box.

Thomas moves.

He’s on the fourth man before the others realize he’s left cover. The Luger in the enemy’s hand rises, but not fast enough. Thomas knocks it away, drives his knife up beneath the ribs, twists. The man shudders, eyes wide, mouth full of blood as he collapses to the cobbles.

One turns, tries to grab someone from the shadows—he thinks he can take a hostage. But it’s Hughes, waiting, baiting. The German’s teeth clench just before Hughes buries a blade into his neck and lets him fall at his feet.

Thomas scans.

One left.

Running, limping, trying to climb. Maybe hoping to scramble to the roof, to get eyes on the street beyond.

Calloway shoots him in the thigh. Kipner walks forward and fires into his chest, cold and methodical. The body jerks once and slumps into the basin, red bleeding into the stone water.

And then—it’s over.

No one speaks.

Breath comes hard and fast. Thomas lowers his pistol and straightens, eyes sweeping the square.

Thomas steps forward, his boots crunching over shell casings and glass. One of the Germans is still twitching—just barely.

He kneels beside the man. Watches the blood bubble from his mouth.

The man whispers something and Thomas almost tells him no. That there’s no mercy left tonight.

But instead, he lifts his pistol and puts a final bullet between his eyes.

Silence again.

Standing in the square, surrounded by blood and silence and nothing else. The night is cool now, a wind rising off the sea.

He lights a fresh cigarette and stares down at the carnage.

The soldiers’ minute, he thinks. 

He doesn't look away.

Not yet.

He doesn’t hear the boots at first.

Thomas stands still, cigarette burning between his fingers, eyes locked on the fountain. A body lies slumped across the stone edge—face down, arm trailing, the water now dark with the stain of it.

He’s thinking about Evelyn.

About getting back to her. Telling her it’s done. That she’s safe again.

Then—

A click.

Sharp. Too close.

He turns.

And finds half a dozen rifles pointed straight at his chest.

Not Germans. Not civilians.

Churchill’s men.

Behind them: Kipner. Hughes. Fraser. Even McTavish—blood still on his sleeves, one of the German rifles slung over his back.

His own men.

His fucking men.

None of them will look him in the eye.

“What the fuck is this?” His voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts clean through the quiet.

Fraser shifts, uncomfortable. Hughes looks down at his boots.

Only Kipner speaks.

“You always knew this wouldn’t end with you standing, Tommy.”

Thomas breathes in slow. The cigarette trembles once in his fingers. “Put the fucking guns down.”

But the sound that follows is not obedience.

It’s applause.

Slow. Cold. Echoing off the ruined stone and shuttered windows.

Henry Lockwood steps into the square.

He walks like he owns it. As if he hasn’t just emerged from the dark like the very devil himself.

And beside him—

Evelyn.

Thomas doesn’t move.

Not because he’s afraid of the rifles, but because of her. Because of how pale she is, how tightly her arms are gripped behind her back, one soldier at each side. She’s not hurt. Not visibly. But her face is drawn tight in fear, her eyes wide and locked on him.

“Let her go,” Thomas says.

Henry stops just shy of the blood pooling across the stones. He looks down at it, then at the bodies, the shattered faces of the men who had come to scout and destroy.

“Well done,” Henry says, smiling thinly. “You made it easy for us.”

Thomas’ teeth grind. “You used them.”

“I sent them,” Henry corrects. “As bait. To see if you’d do what I suspected you would. You’re a blunt instrument, Mr. Shelby. Very effective. But in the end... always destined to be discarded. They were supposed to kill you. But now I guess I'll need to have it done myself.”

Thomas turns his head, eyes locking briefly with McTavish.

McTavish looks away.

Cowards. Every one of them.

“You brought Germans to this island,” Thomas spits. 

Henry raises a brow. “This operation was never about the islanders. Or you. It’s about control. Power. The ones who understand that survive. The ones who don’t—”

He shrugs.

“You want to kill me?” Thomas says, stepping forward slowly. “Do it now. But let her go.”

Evelyn tries to speak, but one of the soldiers jerks her arm back hard. She gasps, stumbling, and that—that—makes Thomas snap.

He lunges.

But the rifle butts hit him before he gets more than three steps.

One slams into his ribs. Another clips his shoulder. Then the back of his skull, hard enough to send him down.

The cobblestones rise up fast.

He tastes blood.

Boots close in. He hears her, Evelyn’s voice—

Faint. Calling his name.

Then Henry crouches.

Face close. Too close.

“You’re a relic, Mr. Shelby. A killer who still believes in things like love and loyalty. How quaint.”

Thomas’ vision swims.

He tries to reach for his coat—his gun—

Henry grabs his chin and forces him to look.

“You should’ve ran. Left the girl. Left the island."

He stands.

“Instead,” Henry says, “you get to die in the dirt. Watched by the only person who ever gave a damn about you.”

Thomas tries to push up. Fails. One of the soldiers drives a boot down hard on his shoulder.

“Make sure he sees her face,” Henry orders. “When she begs you to stop.”

The boot cracks against his ribs again. Something gives way inside his chest. A flash of pain tears through him, followed by the rush of blood in his ears.

Thomas spits onto the stones. It’s red. All red.

He lifts his head just enough to see her.

Evelyn.

Kicking, screaming, pulled back by two men in uniform, her wrists twisted in their grip. She thrashes, her voice hoarse and frantic.

“Let go of me! Don’t—don’t touch him! Stop! _Stop it!_”

Her eyes are wild with terror. Her hair is tangled, one shoe gone, blood at the corner of her mouth. And then—

A fist crashes into the side of Thomas’s face, turning his vision black for a second.

He’s pulled halfway upright by the collar, another blow cocked back—

Crack.

A shot splits the air.

The man above him jerks. Goes still. Then slumps down dead across Thomas’ legs.

Another shot.

Then another.

And suddenly it’s not just chaos—it’s war.

From the alley behind the bakery, Arthur emerges with his shotgun raised. “Come on, then!” he bellows, and fires once. The blast knocks a man off his feet.

Behind him, Johnny Dogs appears, crouched and furious, barking orders in Romani to more of the Lees behind him. Curly stumbles out behind a stack of crates with a lit bundle in hand, throws it—it explodes like thunder, showering sparks and dirt.

Then Charlie Strong, Duke, Ada, Alfie Solomons—they come from every corner of the square. From behind the grocer’s, the tailor’s....

They’ve come through the tunnels.

Thomas can’t move. He watches from the ground as his family descends like wolves.

Men fall.

Henry’s soldiers scatter or die. Those who hesitate are gunned down with cold precision.

Ada stands calm behind a pillar, firing one clean shot after another, unfazed by the blood.

Arthur’s laughing. Mad with it. Like the old days.

Duke moves like smoke—quiet, deadly.

The square is soaked in blood. Bodies everywhere. The stench of smoke and iron hangs thick in the air.

Thomas lays flat on the stones, face turned toward the space where she’d just been. His limbs won’t work. His head is pounding. He can still feel her screaming in his ears.

Arthur kneels beside him. “We got you, Tommy,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be alright.”

But Thomas isn’t listening.

His voice is barely audible. Just three words, rasped through shattered ribs.

“…he’s got her.”

It takes some time before he's sitting upright. 

They’ve cleared the square.

What’s left behind is nothing but broken glass, scattered weapons, and the bodies of men who chose the wrong side. Smoke still rises from Curly’s thrown firebomb. It curls through the beams of early morning light, casting long shadows over the bloodstained stones.

Thomas sits upright now, propped against a crate someone dragged over from the bakery. His shirt is torn open, blood dried black across his ribs. One eye is nearly swollen shut. There’s a split along his cheekbone, and his right hand is trembling, not from fear—but rage held in check.

A cigarette sits forgotten between his fingers.

His voice cuts through the morning haze.

“Start from the square. Move outwards. Street by street. Alley by alley.”

Arthur stands just behind him, shotgun over his shoulder, jaw clenched. Ada’s near the fountain, reloading with hands steady as stone. Johnny Dogs crouches by a fallen man, checking for signs of life. There aren’t any.

“Check every fucking house,” Thomas says. “Barns. Shops. Basements. Any tunnel shaft. If it’s got a door or an opening or four walls around it—you look.”

Duke nods once. “And if we find Henry?”

Thomas looks up slowly.

His good eye is cold.

“You bring Evelyn back.”

“And?”

“Kill anyone else that isn't an Islander.” He spits blood out onto the cobblestones.

Johnny Dogs straightens up. “If he’s still on the island, we’ll find him. I’ll take the eastern ridge with Curly and a few of the Lees.”

“I want someone at the docks.” Thomas’s voice is sharper now. The pain makes it jagged. “If they try to leave by boat, I want eyes there. And someone with a rifle.”

“I’ll go,” Ada says. But Arthur goes to stand by her, making it known he'll be going with her.

Thomas doesn’t argue.

“She was wearing blue,” he says suddenly. “Dress—light blue. No shoes. Hair down.”

He has to stop. Swallow. Press the heel of his hand to the side of his face.

“Someone’s gonna find her,” Duke says, steady. “You know we will.”

But Thomas shakes his head, not in disagreement—just to hold the thoughts in place.

“She’s scared. She’ll be scared.”

He looks around, at the remnants of his army.

His voice drops.

“Don’t stop. Not until she’s safe. Not until she’s back.”

And then he finally takes the cigarette to his lips. The lighter trembles in his hand. He flicks it once. Twice. On the third time, the flame catches.

Smoke curls from his mouth.

“Go.”

And like that—his people move. Fast. Focused. Splitting off into pairs.

Thomas stays sitting, for now. He knows the moment he stands, he’ll fall again. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the only thing that matters now is finding her.

Bringing her home.

And making Henry Lockwood wish he’d never drawn breath.

Evelyn
Undisclosed Island
1938

The door to the shop slams shut. The lock turns.

She flinches at the sound.

Henry doesn't say anything at first. He just stands there. Evelyn stays still, shoulders drawn tight, feet planted on the cold floor. Her legs are shaking, but she keeps her chin up.

He steps forward, slow. Measured. Like a man walking through his own estate.

“This shop. This pathetic little life you built. Do you honestly think it matters?” He looks around like the shelves and pottery offend him. “A room full of useless things. Just like you.”

Her breath catches. She hates that it does.

He notices.

He always notices.

“You think you’ve escaped what you are,” he says, circling her now. “Some island tramp, warmed by a murderer’s bed. You think you’ve been chosen? That what you feel is love?” He spits the word like it tastes foul.

Still, she says nothing. Won’t let him see the crack forming inside her.

Henry stops behind her. She can feel his breath on her neck. “Men like him don’t love women like you. They use you. And when they’ve had their fill, they leave. You think he’d take you home to his family? You think you’ll be a wife?” He laughs. It’s quiet. Cruel. “No. You’re something easy. That’s all you’ve ever been. Easy.”

Her nails dig into her palms.

“You weren’t raised to think for yourself. That was my mistake, letting you believe you had choices. Letting you pretend. But we both know what you are.”

She stiffens when his hand brushes her hair back from her face. The gentleness of it makes her stomach turn.

“You think he loves you?” he murmurs.

Silence.

The slap lands hard across her face. Her head jerks to the side. The sting is instant and searing. Her lip splits open on her teeth.

“You answer me when I speak.”

She doesn’t cry out. She won’t. But her legs buckle just slightly under the shock.

“I’ve tried to be patient,” he mutters. “God knows I’ve tried. I gave you room. Let you play pretend. And this is how you repay me?”

Another blow—his fist this time, sharp and fast to the ribs. She gasps, crumpling forward, pain flooding through.

“You stupid, stupid girl.”

He grabs her arm and throws her toward the counter. She hits it with her hip, knocking over a bowl of brushes that scatter across the floor. Her breath is gone again. Her vision blurs.

“You’re not special. You’re not loved. You’re not anything.”

He shoves her again. Her back hits the shelves. Pottery wobbles on the wood behind her. Something crashes to the ground, splintering.

“And now,” he snarls, coming closer, “now you’re going to listen.”

Her hands are trembling, her chest tight, her heart pounding in her ears.

Henry’s eyes burn with fury. He steps forward again, so close now she can feel his heat on her skin, feel the weight of every word he spits at her. The world seems to narrow, just the two of them in the cramped space of the pottery shop, surrounded by the delicate objects she has carefully made, objects that are meaningless to him.

“Do you think you can just run away from this?” His voice is venomous. “From me?”

Her back is against the shelf, her breath shallow, but she doesn’t dare move. She doesn’t dare give him any satisfaction. But she can’t look him in the eye anymore. Her gaze flickers down, anything to avoid his.

“I gave you everything. I raised you, I made sure you had everything you needed, and this is how you repay me? You run off with some fool—some man who’ll use you and toss you aside when he’s done.”

His fingers tighten around her wrists, tugging her closer, and she feels the pressure dig into her skin, making her breath hitch in her throat. “You’re mine. You always have been. And when I’m finished with you, you’ll remember that.”

She tries to pull her wrist free, but he doesn’t let go. He’s relentless, dragging her toward the center of the shop. She stumbles, her legs barely able to hold her, but her body stays rigid. There’s a coldness deep in her stomach now, a kind of numbness that settles over her, making everything feel far away.

“Don’t you dare make a sound,” he warns, his voice low, dangerously soft. “Don’t scream. Don’t make a single sound, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Her throat is dry, her body aching, but she nods. She’s scared. Too scared to do anything but stay silent. Every part of her wants to scream, wants to beg for it to stop, but she knows that won’t help. It never does. She swallows the bile rising in her throat and keeps her mouth shut.

“I see the way you look at him,” he sneers, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Like he’s some kind of knight in shining armor. Like he’s going to save you. But he won’t. He never will.” His eyes narrow, and he shakes her roughly. “And when he leaves you, when he’s done with you, where will you be then, huh?”

Her stomach turns, but she doesn’t say anything. She won’t give him that.

He finally releases her wrist, but she stumbles forward, gasping as the sudden freedom shocks her. She takes a step back, heart thudding against her ribcage, but there’s no escape. The shop is too small, too confined. She’s trapped.

“Get on your knees,” Henry demands suddenly, his voice sharp as a whip.

She freezes. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, but she can’t move. Not in this moment. Not when the fear is suffocating her.

“I said, get on your knees,” he repeats, his voice colder this time.

Her mind screams, her body stiffens, but her legs won’t move. She’s rooted to the spot, too terrified to obey, too terrified to do anything but breathe.

A harsh slap lands across her face, knocking her head to the side. The force of it makes her vision blur. A ringing fills her ears, and she stumbles, her knees almost giving way under her. Her fingers scrape against the counter as she catches herself.

“You think you’re better than me?” he spits. “You’re nothing, Evelyn. You’re nothing without me.”

He steps closer again, this time dragging her by the hair, his grip like iron as he forces her head back to meet his eyes. Her throat burns as she gasps for breath, but she can’t move. Can’t break free.

“You’re not better than me, not better than anything I’ve made you. You’ll learn that,” he growls, shoving her toward the counter once more.

Her body crashes against the edge of the wooden surface, her ribs protesting with a sharp ache, but she doesn’t make a sound. She’s scared to. Scared of what will happen if she does.

“You’ll learn to stay where I put you,” he mutters as he pushes her down, his hands forcing her shoulders to the counter. The cold wood presses into her skin, sharp and unforgiving, like the situation itself.

Her breathing is ragged.

Her palms press flat against the counter, cold wood slick with sweat. Her shoulder aches, her lip is split, and blood tastes sharp on her tongue. The room spins with the thudding pace of her heart, and the edges of her vision blur—but she stays upright.

Henry is behind her. Still pacing, still muttering, still full of the same poison he's always used to reduce her into something small.

“You think he’ll come for you?” he sneers. “You think that Gyspy garbage loves you? You’re just another warm body to him, Evelyn. He’ll fuck you and leave you. That’s all men like him do.”

She swallows a sob, refuses to let it rise. She’s given him enough already. Too much.

He grabs her hair again, yanking her upright from where she’s leaning over the counter. Her back arches with the force of it, her cry stifled in her throat.

“I built you,” he snarls. “And if I have to break you to remind you of that—then I _will_.”

He slaps her again, open-handed and brutal. She stumbles, her legs unsteady beneath her. Her body is screaming for her to stay down, to wait it out. But something else claws its way to the surface.

She catches herself on the shelf. Fingers curl around the edge, white-knuckled, but her eyes are open now. Staring.

And then they fall—not on him—but on a teapot. Thick. Hard.

He’s turning back to her now. 

She doesn’t say anything.

She moves.

Her hand wraps around the teapot before he’s finished his breath. He doesn’t see it coming.

The first hit is instinct.

It connects with a sickening crack against the side of his head, just above the ear. His voice cuts off in an instant—staggered silence as his body reels from the blow.

It slips from her grasp and crashes to the floor, shattering.

Her chest is heaving, hands trembling, tears blurring her vision. But he’s stunned, crouched low, gripping the side of his head.

She doesn’t run.

She grabs the next thing she can reach—a heavy metal bowl on the table that she picked up at Isla's shop. A bowl to hold her tiny clay figurines in. Her vision tunnels as she swings it down, rage and terror pouring out of her like floodwater.

She hits him again.

And again.

And again.

The sound of metal hitting bone. Of her own screaming. Of his groaning, snarling, trying to catch her wrists, but she’s too fast now, too far gone. Her sobs mix with the sound of her breathing.

“Don’t—” she gasps. “Don’t you ever—touch me—again—”

Thomas
Undisclosed Island
1938

His ribs are cracked, he knows that too. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts.

But he’s standing. He’s walking. 

He reaches the pottery shop, staggering toward it like the whole building might vanish if he doesn’t get there fast enough. The lights are still on. 

Then—he hears it.

A sound no one should ever hear. A dull, sickening crack. The unmistakable crunch of something heavy striking bone. Again. And again.

And then a woman’s voice—guttural, raw, broken from the inside.

Evelyn.

“Fuck—” he whispers, and then he’s moving again, boot crashing against the door as he pushes inside, gun raised, breath shallow, heart battering against his ribs.

He sees her.

She’s in the middle of the floor, covered in blood, gasping like she can’t get air into her lungs. Her hands are red to the wrists. A metal bowl is in her hands. And her uncle—

What’s left of him is twitching on the ground.

Thomas doesn’t look at the body. He drops the gun and moves to her.

“Evelyn,” he breathes, crouching down, wincing as his ribs scream at him. His hands come to her face, to her arms, to her bloody fingers. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. It’s me. I’m here.”

Her eyes are wide, unfocused, like she’s halfway between shock and blackout.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, already scanning her, his hand brushing over her shoulders, her neck, down her sides. He can see bruises forming on her face beneath the blood spatter. “Did he—? Evelyn, are you hurt?”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a breath. Just a sob.

He pulls her to him anyway. Doesn’t care about the blood, or the way his knees nearly buckle under him. He gathers her into his arms, cradling the back of her head, kissing her temple over and over.

“You’re safe now,” he whispers, his voice raw. “I’ve got you. It’s done. You did what you had to do. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

She trembles in his arms, finally clutching at him, finally breathing.

He doesn’t move.

He just holds her.

And watches the door, gun within reach.

Because if anyone so much as looks at her the wrong way, he’ll kill them.

Thomas
United States of America
1941

The sun is high and golden, the kind of warm that doesn’t exist in England. Not even in summer. Not really.

Here, the air feels different. It smells like cut grass and lemons and clean earth, and Thomas breathes it in slow, steady.

The war is still raging across the sea. Another war. But not here. Not in this quiet part of New York, where the house is white with green shutters, and the lawn stretches out wide and safe. Where there are birds in the trees.

He steps out onto the back porch, phone call still echoing in his ears—Ada’s voice, hopeful and tired all at once.

“She’s nearly ready,” he murmurs aloud, more to himself than anything. “Just a bit more paperwork.”

Soon. Soon she’ll bring her children and come to join them, and she won’t be the only one. Arthur, too. Curly. Johnny Dogs already in New Jersey somewhere, working odd jobs and waiting for instructions. Even Alfie. The whole bloody lot drifting to safety.

He doesn’t want to think about why.

Instead, his eyes drift to the lawn.

Evelyn lays on a blanket, one hand behind her head, the other reaching out gently to pass something small and green to the little girl next to her. A tulip. Their daughter clutches it tight in her tiny fist and toddles forward, offering it back like a treasure.

Thomas feels something catch in his throat.

Three years. Just three years.

And it’s like he’s lived an entire second life.

Evelyn looks up then, sensing him before he speaks, her eyes meeting his across the grass. There’s a softness in them that never fades, not even when she’s tired, not even when the girl cries at night and no one sleeps. That softness is what saved him. And the little creature beside her—barefoot, ginger curls springing out in all directions, cheeks pink with sun—that’s what gives him peace.

He comes down the steps slowly, the lawn soft beneath his bare feet. The child squeals and runs toward him, tulip still in hand, and he bends with effort—his bones always a little stiff in the morning—and scoops her up.

“You’re going to flatten the flowers,” he murmurs against her temple, kissing her there.

She babbles nonsense and points at her mother.

“Yes,” he says. “I see her.”

He walks them both to the blanket and lowers himself beside Evelyn, careful with the girl between them. Evelyn shifts, her hand finding his, her fingers threading with his like they were always meant to fit.

“Ada’s coming,” he says after a pause. “She’s nearly done with everything.”

Evelyn nods, eyes flickering down to the child as she plays between them. “She’ll be safe here.”

“We all will.”

She looks at him again. “Do you believe that?”

He watches their daughter tug the petals from the tulip, counting wrong but happy. Evelyn’s hand is still in his.

“I do now.”

The little girl drifts between them, content to pluck at grass and flowers. Her lips are moving, half-talking to herself, half-singing something Evelyn must’ve taught her even if the words are nonsense and wrong. Her hair’s sticking up in a dozen directions and her dress has a smudge of some food down the front, but she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. A perfect collision of the two of them.

He lies back on the blanket, one arm behind his head, the other still linked with Evelyn’s. The sky above is wide and cloudless.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” he says quietly.

Evelyn doesn’t move, but he knows she’s listening.

“I thought maybe I’d be underground somewhere by now. Or in a cell. Or a shallow ditch on the edge of the island.” His eyes close for a moment. “I never saw this part.”

“You deserved this part.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes still closed. “Don’t lie to me, Evelyn.”

“I’m not.” Her voice is soft, firm. “I know what you’ve done. All of it. But I know what you’ve carried, too. And you carried everyone, didn’t you? Your men. Your family. The whole bloody world, it felt like, on your back.”

Thomas opens his eyes again. The sky seems softer now. Or maybe it’s her voice.

“I never asked for any of that.”

“I know.” She shifts closer, rests her head on his shoulder. “But you did it anyway.”

Their daughter climbs between them, curls tumbling over her face as she curls up on his chest, a small tulip, or what once was one, clutched in one hand. Thomas reaches to cover her back with his palm, steady and warm.

“I used to wonder if I’d ever stop running,” he murmurs, looking down at the child’s head. “Running toward the next job. The next war. The next enemy. I wasn’t really alive, I don’t think. Just moving forward. Out of habit.”

Evelyn doesn't interrupt. She lets him speak, her fingers gently brushing the side of his arm.

“I thought love would be... painful. Like everything else. I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He breathes in, slow. “Safe.”

She hums quietly, her lips brushing his shirt. “I didn't either. But we're safe now.”

He nods once. His eyes sting, but he blinks the feeling away.

“This little thing,” he says, patting their daughter’s back. “She won’t know any of those troubles.”

“No.” Evelyn smiles into his shoulder. “She’ll grow up with a garden. With sun. With peace.”

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

A breeze lifts the edges of the blanket. The trees sway just slightly. The world goes on.

“Tommy?” Evelyn’s voice is smaller now.

“Mm?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

His fingers tighten around hers.

“There’s nowhere else,” he says. “No one else. This is it, eh? This is everything.”

She lifts her head just enough to kiss the side of his face, then settles again. Their daughter stirs, sighs, the tulip still in her hand.

And for the first time in his life, Thomas Shelby feels the weight on his shoulders lift.

The sun goes on shining. The war is far away. His daughter falls asleep on his chest. The woman beside him stays.

And finally... he rests.