𝑹𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚

Aurora

2:31 ─────♡── 4:09

"𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕"

The quiet hum of life in Small Heath buzzed faintly outside the window, muffled by the heavy curtains Maeve Harding kept half-drawn in her small but tidy home. She sat at the kitchen table, her long legs crossed, her fingers deftly rolling a cigarette with a calm precision that seemed almost rehearsed. The air carried the faint smell of tobacco and Jack, her scruffy terrier, who sprawled lazily by her feet.

At twenty-eight, Maeve was the picture of unapproachable beauty. Her sharp green eyes seemed to pierce through anyone who dared to meet them, her high cheekbones and auburn hair giving her an air of effortless elegance. Men admired her from afar, their courage wilting under her icy indifference. She wasn't cruel, but she had a way of making her disinterest known with nothing more than a glance.

The knock on the door came just as she struck a match, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag. She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl in the still air before rising to answer.

When she opened the door, Polly Gray stood there, her dark eyes narrowing immediately at the sight of the cigarette in Maeve's hand.

"You're smoking now?" Polly said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I'll never get used to that."

Maeve let the door click shut behind her. "Why is it such a shock?" she replied, her tone flat. "You smoke."

Polly raised an eyebrow, slipping off her coat. "I'm not a Harding girl," she said simply, as if that explained everything.

Maeve smirked faintly and gestured for Polly to sit. "What brings you here, Pol?"

"The Garrison," Polly said, settling into one of the chairs. "The repairs are nearly done, but I need your help smoothing things over with the regulars. You've got a way of keeping them in line."

Maeve shrugged, tapping ash from her cigarette into a small dish. "Fine."

Polly watched her carefully, her head tilting slightly. "You've been quiet lately."

"I'm always quiet."

"Don't be clever," Polly said sharply, though there was no malice in her voice. Maeve didn't answer. She picked at the edge of the table, her eyes fixed on a small scratch in the wood. Polly sighed, leaning back in her chair.

"I suppose I came for more than the Garrison," Polly admitted after a moment. "I got a letter this morning."

Maeve glanced up, her expression unchanged. "From who?"

Polly's eyes softened, though her tone stayed matter-of-fact. "The boys. They're coming back. A week from today."

Maeve's response was nonchalant, almost indifferent. She took another drag from her cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Alright."

Polly blinked, clearly waiting for something more. When it didn't come, she shook her head in disbelief. "You're really something, Maeve," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Maeve didn't reply. Her gaze had drifted across the room to the mantle, where a small photograph sat in its tarnished frame. It was a picture of her as a child, sitting on her father's knee. She was smiling, her auburn hair in messy braids, while Ewan Harding stared at the camera with his rare smile. The sight of it sent a pang through her chest, and before she could stop herself, the memory came flooding back.

It had been late, the dim light of the hospital room casting shadows across the walls. Ewan lay in the bed, his breathing labored, his face pale and sunken. Maeve sat beside him, her hands trembling as she unfolded the letter she had written months ago but never sent.

"I wrote this a while ago," she had said, her voice barely audible. "I didn't know if I'd ever read it to you."

Ewan didn't respond, but his eyes opened slowly, fixing on her. It was the first time in years that he had looked at her with anything close to tenderness, and it broke something inside her.

She began to read.

"I resent you for the childhood I had. I resent you for your impatience, for your silence, for the way you made me feel so fucking worthless. I resent you for the nights I was scared, for the times I needed you, and you weren't there. I resent you for being ashamed of me, for making me feel like I wasn't enough. I resent you for the youth I gave up, for the years I spent fixing what you broke."

Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face as the words poured out. She paused, gripping the paper tightly, before continuing.

"But despite all of it... I still love you. And I hate myself for that. I hate that I want you to look at me like you're proud of me, like I matter to you. I hate that even now, I'm sitting here, hoping you'll say you're sorry."

By the time she finished, she was sobbing openly, her head bowed as she clutched the letter to her chest. Ewan's hand moved weakly, reaching for hers. When their fingers touched, she looked up, her vision blurred with tears.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, his voice barely audible. It was the first time he had ever said it, and it was the last thing he ever said to her.

Maeve blinked back to the present, her gaze still fixed on the photograph. Her chest tightened, and she stood abruptly, crossing the room to turn the picture face down. She didn't want to see it. She didn't want anyone else to see it.

"Maeve?" Polly's voice broke through her thoughts. Maeve turned to see Polly watching her, her brow furrowed. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Maeve said quickly, her tone colder than she intended. She took another drag from her cigarette and sat back down. "So, the boys are coming back."

Polly studied her for a moment before nodding. "A week from today. They're expecting you to be at the station."

Maeve shrugged. "I'll be there."

"That's it?" Polly asked, her voice sharp. "After all this time, that's all you've got to say?"

"What do you want me to say, Polly?" Maeve asked, her voice even. "I'm excited? I've been counting down the days? I haven't. I've been too busy trying to keep this house from falling apart, trying to keep Rosie in school."

Polly sighed, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"I know," Maeve said quietly.

After Polly left, Maeve sat alone in the silence, the weight of the news pressing down on her. Arthur was coming back-her Arthur-the one she loved more than anyone in the world ...was coming back. Tommy and John too. But she couldn't let herself feel anything-not hope, not joy, not fear.

She stubbed out her cigarette and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. The war might be over, but the battle within her was far from won.

-----------------------------------------

The announcement of the armistice had reached the trenches with a roar of celebration, men shouting and laughing in disbelief. Bottles were passed around, cigarettes lit with trembling hands, and for the first time in years, there was something in the air other than death. The war was over. They were going home.

Arthur Shelby stood among the crowd, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, his head thrown back in a loud, guttural laugh. He was drunk, but not sloppy-just enough to feel the burn of relief in his chest. The war had chewed him up and spit him out, leaving behind a man who didn't know what to do with himself now that there was no enemy to fight.

"Fucking hell!" he shouted, raising the bottle high. "We're still standing, eh? Still fucking breathing!"

John Shelby was beside him, grinning like a madman as he took the bottle from Arthur and downed a long swig. "Barely," John said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I thought they'd drag us out of here in pieces."

"They nearly did," Arthur said, his voice rough, the laughter already fading. He grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, the flame catching briefly on his shaking hands. He didn't care if anyone saw.

John noticed but didn't say anything. Instead, he slapped Arthur on the back, his grin still wide. "Fuck it. We're alive, yeah? That's what matters."

Tommy Shelby sat a few feet away, his back against the trench wall, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he watched his brothers with his usual unreadable expression. He wasn't one for celebrations, even now. The war was over, but Tommy knew better than to think it was really behind them.

"You going to sit there brooding all night, Tom?" John called, his voice carrying over the noise. "Come on, have a drink. You're alive, aren't ya?"

"Just barely," Tommy said, but he stood, brushing the dirt off his trousers. He took the bottle from John, tipping it back without ceremony. "You two look like you're ready to start a fucking bar fight."

"Maybe we are," Arthur said with a crooked grin, his blue eyes wild in the firelight. "Nothing like a scrap to keep the blood pumping."

"You're out of practice," Tommy said, deadpan, though his lip twitched as if he might smile. "You'd get your arse handed to you."

Arthur barked a laugh, shoving Tommy lightly on the shoulder. "Fuck off, eh? I'd still drop you on your arse if I had half a mind to."

John leaned in, grinning as he took the bottle back. "You're all talk, Arthur. You couldn't even handle the bloke with the fucking lazy eye in Calais."

Arthur pointed a finger at him, his grin widening. "That wasn't a fight-that was me giving him a free lesson, yeah? Didn't want to waste all my energy on the useless fucker."

"Sure you didn't," John said, his laughter joining Arthur's as they passed the bottle around again.

The night grew darker, but the mood in the trench only grew louder. Men sang drunken songs, their voices slurred and broken but defiant. The Shelby brothers stayed close together, their usual banter a thin veil over the weight they all carried.

Arthur was louder than he'd been in years, his voice cutting through the noise as he told exaggerated stories about fights in the trenches and scraps back home. But there was an edge to him now, something sharp and volatile beneath the surface. His laugh came too quickly, his jokes landing just a little too hard. The war hadn't broken him, but it had twisted something inside him, and he wore that change like a badge.

Tommy watched him carefully, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing. "You going to keep this up when we get home?" he asked, his tone casual but cutting.

Arthur snorted, taking another drag from his cigarette. "What, drinking and telling stories? Sounds like a fucking dream to me."

"No," Tommy said, his voice low. "Acting like you're invincible."

Arthur's grin faltered for a split second before returning in full force. "Maybe I fucking am," he said, his tone mocking. "What's it to you?"

"Just don't get yourself killed before we make it back," Tommy said, his gaze steady. "Maeve won't forgive you for that."

Arthur stiffened at the mention of her name, the cigarette in his hand burning down to the filter. He crushed it under his boot, reaching for the bottle again. "Don't bring her into this," he muttered, his tone darker now.

"Why not?" John chimed in, clearly enjoying the shift in tone. "She's going to be waiting for you, isn't she? Or did you fuck that up too?"

Arthur glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. "I didn't fuck anything up," he said, though the words felt hollow. "She's better off without me."

"Christ, here we go," John said, rolling his eyes. "Don't start with the fucking martyr shit, Arthur. You've been banging on about her for years. You think we haven't noticed?"

Arthur stood suddenly, his movements sharp. "I'm going for a piss," he muttered, walking away before either of his brothers could say anything else.

Arthur leaned against the edge of the trench, staring out into the darkness. The laughter and shouting faded into the background as he lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face. He didn't want to think about Maeve, didn't want to imagine her waiting for him-or worse, not waiting. He didn't know what he'd find when he got back, but the thought of her green eyes and that sharp, unforgiving tone of hers kept him grounded, even now.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, his jaw tightening. The war might be over, but Arthur knew the fight wasn't done. Not by a long shot. And when he got back to Small Heath, he'd face it like he always did-with his fists up and a bottle in his hand.