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𝑵𝒐 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒅

The Marías

1:40 ──♡───── 3:57

"'𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗, 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎"

The streets of Small Heath were never truly silent. Even in the quiet hours before dawn, the murmur of the factories and the clatter of horse-drawn carts on cobblestones whispered of the hard lives lived within its borders. The air was heavy with the smell of coal smoke, metal, and damp, a reminder of how the city shaped and hardened its people.

Maeve Harding had known no other world. At sixteen, she was a product of Small Heath's grit and survival. Her green eyes, sharp and perceptive, seemed to see straight through the bravado of others, and her auburn curls were always a little wild, as if she were constantly caught in a breeze that no one else could feel. Life hadn't been kind to her, but Maeve didn't ask for kindness. She asked only for the strength to keep going.

Her family, the Hardings, lived in a modest two-room house not far from the Shelbys. Her father, Ewan Harding, had been a blacksmith all his life, his broad shoulders and rough hands a testament to years of hard labor. But after Maeve's mother, Bridget, had died six years earlier, Ewan had crumbled. Grief drove him to the bottle, and while he still kept the forge running, the fire in him had gone out. Maeve had been forced to grow up quickly, taking on the role of caretaker for her younger sister Rosie, and her older brother Jamie, who was now working odd jobs to keep food on the table.

Bridget Harding had been the heart of their family. She was a woman with a soft laugh and firm hands, her love felt in the meals she cooked and the careful stitching of their clothes. Maeve had idolized her mother, and Bridget's death had left a hole that nothing could fill. Maeve still carried the lessons her mother had taught her, though—strength, resilience, and the importance of standing up for herself.

Her father, Ewan, was a different story. Maeve loved him, but their relationship was strained. She hated the way he retreated into his grief, leaving her to shoulder the burden of keeping their family afloat. Still, there were moments when she saw glimpses of the man he used to be—like when he showed Rosie how to work the bellows in the forge or when he mumbled a soft "thank you" after Maeve placed a cup of tea in front of him. Those moments kept her from giving up on him entirely.

Jamie, her older brother, was the one who had taken up the mantle of responsibility alongside Maeve. He worked long hours, his once-carefree nature tempered by the weight of their circumstances. Jamie was protective of Maeve and Rosie, though he often teased Maeve for her sharp tongue and stubborn nature. He was the one who kept the peace in their household, his steady presence a balm in the chaos.

Rosie, on the other hand, was a dreamer. At four, she had a sweetness that hadn't yet been eroded by the harshness of their world. She wanted to be a singer, her soft, lilting voice a stark contrast to the noise of Small Heath. Maeve was fiercely protective of Rosie, though she often found herself frustrated by her sister's naivety. Maeve wanted Rosie to dream, but she also wanted her to understand how dangerous the world could be.

The Hardings' lives were entwined with the Shelbys in ways both small and significant. Ewan had worked with Arthur Shelby Sr. before the elder Shelby disappeared, and Jamie often joined the Shelbys in their odd jobs to make ends meet. Maeve had grown up surrounded by the chaos of the Shelby family, their voices and laughter as much a part of her childhood as her own.

Polly Gray, the matriarch of the family, had always had a soft spot for Maeve. Polly saw something of herself in the girl—the same sharp mind and quick wit. She often scolded Maeve for taking on too much but always slipped her a few coins or a loaf of bread when things were tight at home.

Tommy Shelby was the same age as Maeve and had always been quiet, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing. Maeve admired Tommy's cleverness, though she often found him unnerving. John Shelby, on the other hand, was full of charm and mischief, his easy laughter a balm in the heaviness of Small Heath. John teased Maeve mercilessly, though she gave as good as she got.

And then there was Arthur.

Arthur Shelby had always been a force of nature—loud, brash, and unrelenting. At nineteen, he was already a man by Small Heath's standards, his broad shoulders and rough hands a testament to years of work and scrapping in the streets. He was reckless, with a temper that burned hot and quick, but there was a vulnerability to him that few ever saw. Maeve saw it, though, even before she understood what it meant.

They had known each other forever, but things changed one summer evening. Maeve was sixteen, walking back from the market with a basket of bread and potatoes, when she saw Arthur leaning against the wall outside The Garrison. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He looked up when she passed, his eyes lighting up in recognition.

"Oi, Harding," he called, smirking. "Carrying the whole bloody market, are you?"

Maeve rolled her eyes, adjusting the basket on her hip. "And you're standing there doing fuck-all as usual."

Arthur chuckled, falling into step beside her. "Don't you ever get tired of being a smartarse?"

"No," she shot back, though there was a smile tugging at her lips.

That night, Arthur found excuses to see Maeve more often after that, showing up at The Garrison when she was helping Polly or walking her home from the market. Maeve tried to ignore the way her heart quickened when he was near, but Arthur wasn't subtle. He wanted her, and he made no effort to hide it.

Arthur pursued Maeve with the same relentless determination he brought to everything. He charmed her with his rough humor and moments of unexpected gentleness, and Maeve found herself drawn to him in ways she couldn't explain. Their connection deepened over stolen moments at the canal or quiet corners of The Garrison, where they talked about everything and nothing.

The first time Arthur kissed her, it was at the canal. He had brought a bottle of whiskey, and they sat on the edge of the water, passing it back and forth. Arthur had been uncharacteristically quiet that evening, his usual bravado replaced with something softer.

"You ever think about leaving this place?" Maeve asked, her voice low.

Arthur glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Where would I go?"

"Anywhere," she said. "Somewhere better."

Arthur shook his head. "The world's the same, darlin'. Just dressed up different."

Maeve stared at him. Before she could think better of it, she leaned in and kissed him. Arthur froze for a moment before kissing her back, his hand tangling in her hair. It was the start of something neither of them could stop.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Months later Maeve stood with her back to the wall, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. The room was suffocating, the air heavy with the scent of spilled whiskey and anger. Her hand stung from the force of throwing a glass, its shattered remains now scattered across the floor. Arthur stood across from her, his fists clenched at his sides, the tension in his broad shoulders coiled so tightly it seemed like he might snap.

This was how it always went. They were good—too good, sometimes. Laughing together at The Garrison, sneaking kisses in the shadowy corners of alleyways, making each other feel like the rest of the world didn't matter. And then something would shift. A word spoken too sharply. A night out that lasted too long. A promise broken, deliberately or otherwise. And everything would unravel.

Arthur had come home late, reeking of whiskey and cigarette smoke, his shirt untucked, his steps uneven. Maeve had been waiting in his room for hours, her patience dissolving with every tick of the clock. When he finally stumbled through the door, he didn't even look at her.

"You smell like a fucking pub," she'd muttered, unable to hold back the bitterness.

"Nice to see you too," Arthur had replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

And just like that, the match had been struck.

Now, they glared at each other, the silence between them as loud as a scream. Arthur turned away first, pacing to the window and running a hand through his disheveled hair. Maeve's sharp gaze followed him, her blood still boiling.

"Don't fucking walk away," she snapped, though her voice cracked at the edges.

Arthur exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Christ, Maeve, you don't let up, do you?"

It was the dismissiveness that broke her. The way he acted as if her anger, her hurt, was nothing more than an inconvenience. She grabbed the closest object—a bottle on the nightstand—and hurled it at him. It hit the wall near his shoulder, the glass shattering in an explosion of noise.

Arthur turned back to her, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, he didn't move, his expression caught between anger and disbelief. Then he crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping just short of her.

"You done now?" he said, his voice low and steady, though his jaw was tight.

Maeve's breathing was ragged, her hands trembling at her sides. "You're such a fucking bastard, Arthur," she spat, her voice barely above a whisper. "You disappear, you drink, you fuck everything up, and then you come back like nothing's happened."

Arthur's eyes flashed, but he didn't respond. Instead, he turned and grabbed the chair by the bedside, sending it skidding across the room with a violent shove. The crash reverberated through the walls, and Maeve flinched despite herself.

"Don't you fucking start with me," he growled, pointing a finger at her. "You don't have a fucking clue."

"Because you won't tell me!" she shot back, her voice rising. "You shut me out, Arthur, every fucking time. You don't even try."

Arthur laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. "Maybe I don't fucking want to try. Ever think of that?"

The words cut deeper than Maeve cared to admit, but she didn't let it show. She never let it show. Instead, she shoved past him, her shoulder brushing against his as she moved toward the door. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop her.

"You're not walking out," he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

Maeve turned to him, her green eyes blazing. "Then what, Arthur? What do you want me to do? Sit here and wait for you to fucking care?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Arthur's grip on her wrist loosened, and his hand fell to his side. He looked at her, his expression softening just enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath his anger. Maeve hated that look—the one that made her want to forgive him, to stay even when she knew she shouldn't.

She pushed past him anyway, slamming the door behind her as she left.

Maeve walked down the narrow streets of Small Heath, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The cold night air bit at her skin, but it did nothing to numb the swirling emotions inside her. She didn't know where she was going—she never did after these fights. Usually, she just walked until the anger stopped burning so brightly, until her chest stopped feeling like it was about to collapse under the weight of it all.

Arthur's words still echoed in her head, harsh and biting. He always knew how to cut her where it hurt most, throwing her care for him back in her face like it was something she should be ashamed of. And yet, Maeve knew her own words had landed just as hard. She wasn't innocent in their fights. She knew how to push Arthur's buttons, how to make him lash out in ways that only left them both more broken than before.

But still, no matter how much they hurt each other, she couldn't shake the part of her that longed for him to pull her back, to say the things she needed to hear.

—————————————————————————————————————————

It was nearly an hour before Maeve returned to her father's house. She stepped inside quietly, the wooden floorboards creaking under her boots. The living room was empty—Jamie was probably still out working late, and Rosie was fast asleep upstairs. Maeve exhaled, leaning against the door for a moment as she let the quiet wash over her.

But it didn't last. The sound of the door opening behind her made her stiffen. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Maeve," Arthur said, his voice rough, hesitant.

She didn't answer at first. Instead, she turned slowly, her arms still crossed. Arthur stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim light outside. His face was tense, his blue eyes searching hers for something—an opening, forgiveness, she wasn't sure.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice low but steady. She was tired, more tired than she wanted to admit.

He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. "You know what I want."

Maeve raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Do I?"

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair again. He looked down at the floor for a moment before meeting her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, the words gruff but sincere. "For being a bastard. For... all of it."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to let those words be enough, but they weren't—not yet. "You always say that," she murmured, her voice tinged with both sadness and frustration. "You say you're sorry, and then we do this all over again."

Arthur stepped closer, his movements slow, cautious. He didn't reach for her yet, didn't dare, but his eyes softened. "I mean it," he said, and this time his voice cracked slightly, enough to make Maeve's chest tighten. "I don't know how to do this right, Maeve, but I know I don't want to lose you."

That was the thing about Arthur—when he let his walls down, even just a little, it was impossible to look away. Maeve sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly as the fight in her drained away. She didn't say anything, but Arthur took the shift as an invitation to close the distance between them.

He cupped her face gently, his calloused hands warm against her skin. "I'm sorry," he repeated, quieter now, his forehead resting against hers.

Maeve closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite herself. "You're a pain in the arse, Arthur Shelby," she muttered, though her voice lacked the sharpness it usually carried.

Arthur chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I know."

He tilted her face up and kissed her, slow and deliberate, as if he were trying to tell her everything he couldn't put into words. Maeve kissed him back, her hands gripping the front of his shirt as if to anchor herself. The tension between them melted, replaced by something softer, something fragile.

When they pulled apart, Arthur rested his forehead against hers again, his breath warm against her skin. "Let me make it up to you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Maeve sighed, her fingers tightening in his shirt. "You always do. Until the next time."

Arthur didn't deny it. He couldn't. But he kissed her again, as if that might be enough to bridge the gap between them, even if only for a little while.

And Maeve, for better or worse, let him. Because for all the hurt and all the fights, there was still something between them that neither of them could let go of.