𝑴𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆

Adele

0:20 ─♡────── 6:29

"𝙼𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢."

The morning was brisk, a faint mist clinging to the streets of Small Heath as Maeve helped Rosie pack the last of her belongings into the worn leather suitcase. Rosie stood by the window, fidgeting with the hem of her school uniform, her face a mixture of excitement and apprehension. At fourteen, she was tall for her age, with the same auburn curls as Maeve, though her green eyes still held the innocence that Maeve had long since lost.

"Do I really have to say goodbye to Dad?" Rosie asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Maeve's hands stilled on the suitcase. She straightened, her expression softening. "He might not show it, but he'll want to see you off."

Rosie sighed, picking up her satchel and slinging it over her shoulder. "Fine. But if he starts coughing up a lung again, I'm leaving."

Maeve smirked despite herself, ruffling Rosie's hair. "Fair enough. Come on."

The hospital was quiet when they arrived, the pale morning light filtering through the cracked windows. Maeve led Rosie down the narrow hallways, the smell of disinfectant sharp in the air. Ewan Harding was propped up in bed, his face gaunt and pale, a thin blanket draped over his frail frame. A cigarette hung loosely from his fingers, the ash precariously close to falling onto the sheets.

"Maeve," he rasped, looking up as they entered. His eyes flicked to Rosie, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "And the star of the show."

Rosie crossed her arms, standing at the foot of the bed. "You're not supposed to smoke in here, you know."

Ewan chuckled weakly, stubbing out the cigarette in the tin ashtray on the bedside table. "What are they gonna do, throw me out?"

"Maybe they should," Rosie muttered, though there was no malice in her voice. She stepped closer, her gaze softening. "I'm leaving today."

"I know," Ewan said quietly. He shifted, wincing as he propped himself up further. "You're gonna do well there, Rosie. Better than any of us ever could."

Rosie hesitated, then leaned over to hug him gently. "I'll write," she whispered. "Promise."

Ewan's hand rested lightly on her back, his voice cracking as he replied, "You'd better."

Maeve stood back, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. When Rosie pulled away, Ewan looked at Maeve, his eyes tired but sharp. "Take care of her."

Maeve nodded curtly. "I always do."

The Harding sisters stopped by the Shelby house next. Rosie was unusually subdued, her earlier nerves replaced with a thoughtful silence. When Maeve knocked on the door, it swung open to reveal Ada, her face brightening at the sight of them.

"Come in, come in," Ada said, stepping aside. " Aunt Polly's just finishing her tea."

The house felt emptier without the boys. Polly sat by the hearth, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, her sharp eyes softening when she saw Rosie. "Look at you," Polly said, standing to greet them. "Off to conquer the world, eh?"

Rosie smiled shyly. "Just London."

"London's enough for now," Polly replied, pulling Rosie into a hug. "You're gonna be brilliant, love. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Ada appeared with a small parcel, pressing it into Rosie's hands. "For luck," she said with a grin. "You'll open it later, won't you?"

"Thank you," Rosie murmured.

As the conversation turned to practicalities, Maeve stood by the door, her eyes wandering to the empty chair near the corner. She thought of Arthur, of the way he used to fill the space with his loud laughter and quick temper. The ache in her chest was sharp, but she swallowed it down.

Polly stepped over to her, her expression knowing. "You alright, Maeve?"

Maeve nodded. "Fine."

Polly didn't press further. Instead, she rested a hand on Maeve's arm. "You've done right by her, you know. She'll remember that."

The train ride to London was quieter than Maeve expected. Rosie sat by the window, her forehead pressed against the glass as she watched the countryside roll by. Maeve sat across from her, her hands folded in her lap.

"Do you think Dad will be alright?" Rosie asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Maeve looked up, her expression softening. "He'll manage. He's tougher than he looks."

Rosie nodded but didn't reply. After a moment, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the parcel from Ada. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a small, hand-stitched handkerchief with her initials embroidered in the corner.

"It's beautiful," Rosie said, running her fingers over the stitching.

Maeve smiled faintly. "Polly probably made it. She's good at that sort of thing."

The countryside blurred into the city as the train pulled into the station, the bustle of London spilling onto the platform. Maeve helped Rosie with her luggage, her heart heavy as they stepped onto the platform.

The school loomed ahead of them, its grand facade imposing and elegant. Maeve kept a firm hand on Rosie's shoulder as they approached, her own nerves hidden behind a calm exterior. They were greeted by Mrs. Whitmore, the headmistress, whose crisp demeanor softened slightly when she saw Rosie.

"Miss Harding," Mrs. Whitmore said, nodding. "Welcome to St. Paul's."

Rosie managed a small smile, her fingers gripping Maeve's arm tightly. They followed Mrs. Whitmore through the grand halls, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet. The dormitory was small but comfortable, with two neat beds and a desk by the window.

"This will be your room," Mrs. Whitmore said, gesturing inside. "Your roommate is Clara Hughes. She should be along shortly."

As if on cue, a girl with dark braids appeared in the doorway, her smile bright and welcoming. "Hi, I'm Clara," she said, holding out a hand. "You must be Rosie."

Rosie hesitated, then shook her hand. "Yeah. Nice to meet you."

Maeve stood back, watching as Clara chatted easily with Rosie, pointing out the best places to sit in the dining hall and where the teachers were less likely to catch them talking. For the first time, Rosie's nervousness seemed to melt away.

At the dormitory door, Maeve turned to Rosie, her chest tight. "Well," she said, her voice steady, "I guess this is it."

Rosie looked at her, her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're not coming in?"

Maeve shook her head, her lips pressed into a faint smile. "This is your space now. You'don't need me hovering over you."

Rosie hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged Maeve tightly. "I'll miss you," she whispered.

Maeve held her close, her hand stroking Rosie's hair. "I'll miss you more."

Rosie pulled back, wiping her eyes quickly as Clara called her inside. Maeve watched as her sister disappeared into the room, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the air.

Maeve stood by the door for a long moment, her hand resting on the frame. Then, with a deep breath, she turned and walked away, the echo of Rosie's smile lingering in her mind as she made her way back to the train station.

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It had been nearly two years since they left Small Heath, but the trenches in France made it feel like a lifetime. Time blurred out here-days were marked by the sun's reluctant rise and fall, nights by the endless cacophony of gunfire and screams. The Shelby brothers had adapted to the rhythm of war: long stretches of waiting punctuated by brief, brutal chaos. They were alive, but barely.

Arthur Shelby sat against the wall of the trench, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his helmet pushed low over his face. The cold mud soaked through his uniform, but he barely noticed anymore. Comfort was a thing of the past. His hands were calloused from the rifle that was never far from his grip, his blue eyes dull and bloodshot. He had changed. They all had.

"Pass the flask," John Shelby muttered, nudging Arthur with his elbow. John's boyish charm was still there, somewhere beneath the grime and exhaustion, but it was sharper now, edged with something bitter. He had stopped trying to hide the way the war was eating away at him. His grin was still quick, but it didn't reach his eyes anymore.

Arthur handed him the flask wordlessly. He didn't drink as much these days, though the need was always there, gnawing at him. He couldn't afford to let go. Not now. Not when the ghosts of the people he'd lost-Jamie, the boys they'd fought alongside-were already too close. He couldn't add Maeve's disappointment to the weight he carried.

Tommy Shelby crouched a few feet away, a map spread out on the damp ground. His sharp features were illuminated by the faint glow of a lantern, his blue eyes scanning the lines and symbols with mechanical precision. Tommy had always been calculating, but war had made him colder, harder. His voice, once commanding with a touch of warmth, was now devoid of emotion. He gave orders that sent men to their deaths without flinching. He had no choice.

John lit a cigarette, the glow momentarily lighting up his face. "Do you reckon it's still standing? The Garrison?" he asked, exhaling smoke into the cold night air.

"It's still standing," Tommy said without looking up. "Pol wouldn't let it go under."

John smirked. "Think they've saved us a seat at the bar?"

Arthur glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "You think about home a lot, aye"

John shrugged. "Keeps me from thinking about this." He gestured at the trench around them, his grin faltering. "All the mud and blood. The rats. The fucking Germans."

Arthur nodded but didn't respond. He thought about home constantly. About the quiet moments with Maeve before the war, the way her green eyes softened when she smiled. He hadn't written to her in months. He didn't know what to say. What could he tell her? That he was drowning in guilt over Jamie's death? That he didn't know if he'd ever make it back, or if he deserved to?

The trenches were quieter than usual tonight, the uneasy stillness broken only by the occasional crack of distant gunfire. It wasn't peace-it was the kind of silence that came before an ambush, and Tommy knew it. He folded the map and stood, brushing the mud from his hands.

"We need to stay sharp," he said, his voice low. "They're planning something."

"They're always planning something," John muttered, stubbing out his cigarette. "What's the point of worrying about it?"

Tommy's gaze flicked to him, sharp and piercing. "The point is staying alive."

John waved him off, but Arthur could see the tension in his shoulders. None of them liked to admit it, but they were all scared. Fear was constant here, a shadow that never left, no matter how much whiskey or women they used to drown it.

John was the worst about it. He slept with every woman he could find-nurses, civilians, anyone who crossed his path. It was his way of clinging to life, to something that felt normal. Tommy wasn't much better, though his encounters were transactional. Arthur had lost count of the number of times he'd come back to their shared tent to find Tommy buttoning his shirt, his expression unreadable as some nameless woman slipped out into the night.

Arthur, for his part, stayed away. He wasn't sure if it was loyalty to Maeve or the guilt that came with even thinking about someone else. Either way, he couldn't bring himself to follow his brothers down that path. Instead, he sat alone most nights, nursing his thoughts and the occasional flask of whiskey, staring at the photograph he kept tucked in his coat.

"Do you think they'll remember us when we're gone?" John asked suddenly, breaking the silence. He leaned back against the trench wall, his eyes fixed on the dark sky. "Back home, I mean. Do you think they'll care?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately. He stared down at his hands, the scars and grime etched into his skin. "I don't know," he said finally. "But I don't think it matters. We're not the same men they remember."

John snorted, though it lacked humor. "Speak for yourself. I'm still the handsomest bastard in Small Heath."

Tommy glanced at him, his expression flat. "You've got mud in your teeth, John."

John laughed, and for a moment, it sounded almost real. "Better than blood."

Arthur didn't laugh. He couldn't. The image of Jamie lying in the mud, his blood soaking into the earth, was too fresh in his mind.

"Get some rest," Tommy said after a while, his voice quieter now. "We've got work to do in the morning."

Arthur leaned his head back against the trench wall, his eyes closing. Sleep rarely came easily, but he didn't argue. He let himself think of Maeve one last time before the war dragged him back into its relentless grip.

He wondered if she thought of him too, or if she'd already moved on. Part of him hoped she had. She deserved better than the man he'd become.