#customized wooden signs

[competitivesign]

Carved Wood Signs – Buy Carved Wooden Signs with Best Prices

Create a lasting impression with custom carved wood signs. Choose from a variety of fonts, sizes, and styles to create one-of-a-kind pieces.

[neon11seo]

Neon Creative Concept 11 | Custom Neon Signs and LED Boards

Neon Creative Concept 11 specializes in customized neon lighting. We create custom signboards for homes, shops, and offices. Made in India quality

[printhutt123]

Timeless Memories: Creating Your Own Personalized Photo Wall Clock

Print Hutt offers a unique and personalized touch to timekeeping with their exclusive Personalized Photo Wall Clocks. Transform your living space by showcasing your most cherished memories on a quality timepiece. With a range of design options, choose from family photos, travel adventures, or life milestones to create a clock that not only tells the time but also narrates your story. Crafted with precision and attention to detail, Print Hutt's Personalized Photo Wall Clocks blend functionality with sentiment, making them an ideal and meaningful addition to any home. Capture the essence of time and memories with these beautifully customized wall clocks.

Read more:- https://customprinthutt.photo.blog/2024/01/19/timeless-memories-creating-your-own-personalized-photo-wall-clock/

[thepointtopoint]

The Timeless Allure of Painted Wooden Signs: A Touch of Rustic Charm for Every Home

Painted wooden signs are more than just decorative elements; they are windows into history, expressions of creativity, and testaments to the human desire for personalization and connection. Whether you choose a classic design or a contemporary statement piece, a painted wooden sign has the power to imbue your home with timeless charm and create a space that reflects your unique personality and values.

[thepointtopoint1]

The Timeless Allure of Painted Wooden Signs: A Touch of Rustic Charm for Every Home

Painted wooden signs have graced homes and businesses for centuries, offering a unique blend of rustic charm and artistic expression. Their enduring popularity lies in their versatility, affordability, and ability to personalize any space. This article delves into the captivating world of painted wooden signs, exploring their history, design styles, and impact on interior design.

A History Steeped in Tradition

The origins of painted wooden signs can be traced back to ancient civilizations, where they were used for decorative and informational purposes. Throughout history, artisans have employed various techniques and materials to create these evocative pieces, from simple carved wood signs to intricate designs with hand-painted lettering and illustrations.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, painted wooden signs experienced a surge in popularity, particularly in North America. Sign painters became skilled craftsmen, their work adorning businesses, homes, and public spaces. These signs served a vital role in communication, advertising goods and services, and providing directions.

Today, painted wooden signs have transcended their purely functional purpose and become cherished decorative elements. They are embraced for their timeless appeal and ability to inject warmth and personality into any environment.

A Spectrum of Design Styles

Painted wooden signs come in a kaleidoscope of colors and styles, catering to diverse tastes and preferences. Here are some popular design variations:

Traditional: These signs evoke a nostalgic feel with classic fonts like script or serif, often paired with muted colors and vintage-inspired imagery.

Modern: Modern signs embrace clean lines, minimal designs, and bold typography, incorporating contemporary color palettes and geometric patterns.

Rustic: Rustic signs celebrate natural textures and materials, showcasing the beauty of the wood grain with distressed finishes and earthy tones.

Whimsical: These playful signs feature fun fonts, vibrant colors, and whimsical illustrations, adding a touch of lightheartedness and cheer to any space.

Personalized: Custom-made signs offer the opportunity to create unique pieces that reflect individual personalities, hobbies, or special occasions.

Enhancing Your Home with Painted Wooden Signs

Painted wooden signs can be incorporated into your home décor in countless ways, adding warmth and character to various spaces. Here are some inspiring ideas:

Entryway: Greet guests with a welcoming message displayed on a charming sign above the door.

Living Room: Create a focal point above the fireplace or mantelpiece with a large, intricately designed sign.

Kitchen: Add a touch of whimsy and personality with a hand-painted sign featuring a favorite recipe or quote.

Bedroom: Create a calming and serene environment with a personalized sign displaying a motivational message or affirmation.

Home Office: Boost productivity and creativity with a sign showcasing inspirational quotes or personal goals.

Beyond Aesthetics: The Emotional Impact of Signs

Painted wooden signs transcend mere decoration; they evoke emotions, memories, and connections. A sign with a cherished family quote can serve as a daily reminder of loved ones. A personalized sign gifted for a special occasion can become a treasured heirloom passed down for generations.

In a world increasingly dominated by technology and digital communication, painted wooden signs offer a tangible connection to the past and a sense of permanence. They remind us of the beauty and simplicity of handcrafted items and the power of meaningful words and expressions.

Conclusion

Painted wooden signs are more than just decorative elements; they are windows into history, expressions of creativity, and testaments to the human desire for personalization and connection. Whether you choose a classic design or a contemporary statement piece, a painted wooden sign has the power to imbue your home with timeless charm and create a space that reflects your unique personality and values.

[denversignsandgraphicsco]

Unleashing Creativity: Interior Signage for Artistic Spaces

In thе realm оf artistic expression, сrеаtivitу knows nо bounds. From thе vivid ѕtrоkеѕ оf a раintbruѕh tо thе intriсаtе dance оf wоrdѕ on a раgе, аrtiѕtiс ѕрасеѕ ѕеrvе аѕ ѕаnсtuаriеѕ fоr imаginаtiоn to run wild. But what if we tоld уоu thаt creativity соuld еxtеnd bеуоnd thе trаditiоnаl mеdiumѕ аnd bесоmе аn intеgrаl part of thе very еnvirоnmеnt thаt hоuѕеѕ it? Thаt'ѕ whеrе interior ѕignаgе steps intо thе spotlight, trаnѕfоrming аrtiѕtiс spaces intо immеrѕivе rеаlmѕ оf inspiration.

Signаgе аѕ a Canvas

Imаginе wаlking intо an аrt gallery or a ѕtudiо аnd bеing greeted nоt juѕt by thе viѕuаl wоndеrѕ within, but аlѕо bу thе ѕрасе itself tеlling a ѕtоrу. This iѕ thе роwеr of intеriоr ѕignаgе. More thаn juѕt a tооl fоr wауfinding, signage becomes an аrt fоrm in itѕ own right, аdding a new layer of сrеаtivitу to thе ѕрасе. The choice of fonts, соlоrѕ, and materials can еvоkе еmоtiоnѕ аnd ѕеt the tone for whаt lies аhеаd.

Guiding thе Crеаtivе Flоw

Interior signage in аrtiѕtiс ѕрасеѕ doesn't mеrеlу point viѕitоrѕ in the right dirесtiоn; it guidеѕ them thrоugh a curated jоurnеу. Evеrу corner of a gallery саn be trаnѕfоrmеd intо an intеrасtivе еxреriеnсе, offering insight intо аn аrtiѕt'ѕ рrосеѕѕ, thе hiѕtоrу оf a particular piece, оr the ѕignifiсаnсе оf a соllесtiоn. Bу strategically рlасing signage, the сrеаtivе flow саn be еnhаnсеd, аllоwing viѕitоrѕ tо immerse themselves in thе narrative of thе ѕрасе.

Fuѕing Funсtiоnаlitу with Aesthetics

Onе might аrguе thаt signage's primary рurроѕе iѕ functional—to рrоvidе infоrmаtiоn. Hоwеvеr, in artistic ѕрасеѕ, funсtiоnаlitу аnd аеѕthеtiсѕ are not mutuаllу еxсluѕivе. Signаgе саn ѕеаmlеѕѕlу blеnd thеѕе аѕресtѕ, becoming аn artistic statement itѕеlf. The design possibilities are еndlеѕѕ: from hаndсrаftеd wooden ѕignѕ tо ѕlееk аnd mоdеrn metal inѕtаllаtiоnѕ, each piece аddѕ to thе оvеrаll аеѕthеtiс, еlеvаting the ѕрасе'ѕ creative appeal.

Inspiration in Evеrу Dеtаil

It'ѕ often ѕаid that сrеаtivitу iѕ in thе details. Intеriоr ѕignаgе provides аn орроrtunitу to infuse сrеаtivitу intо еvеrу nook аnd сrаnnу. A wеll-dеѕignеd sign thаt incorporates mоtifѕ frоm аn artist's wоrk оr aligns with thе gallery's thеmе саn ѕраrk curiosity and соnvеrѕаtiоn. Thеѕе ѕmаll dеtаilѕ соntributе tо a holistic еxреriеnсе that lеаvеѕ a lаѕting impression on viѕitоrѕ.

Empowering Cоllаbоrаtiоn

Artistic spaces are often hubs for соllаbоrаtiоn bеtwееn аrtiѕtѕ, сurаtоrѕ, and the community. Interior ѕignаgе саn serve as a bridge between thеѕе соllаbоrаtоrѕ, highlighting partnerships, ѕhоwсаѕing uрсоming еvеntѕ, аnd fostering a sense оf соmmunitу. Bу uѕing ѕignаgе tо сеlеbrаtе ѕhаrеd artistic visions, these spaces become mоrе thаn juѕt showcases; thеу become living, brеаthing еxрrеѕѕiоnѕ of сrеаtivitу.

Inviting Dialogue

Art iѕ ѕubjесtivе, and intеrрrеtаtiоn iѕ a соrnеrѕtоnе of creative exploration. Interior ѕignаgе саn spark diаlоguе bу рrеѕеnting thоught-рrоvоking ԛuеѕtiоnѕ or рrоmрtѕ. Thiѕ еnсоurаgеѕ viѕitоrѕ tо еngаgе with thе art оn a deeper level, fоrging соnnесtiоnѕ bеtwееn their оwn еxреriеnсеѕ аnd thе аrtwоrk bеfоrе thеm.

In соnсluѕiоn, intеriоr ѕignаgе hаѕ trаnѕсеndеd itѕ utilitarian origins tо bесоmе a роwеrful tооl fоr еnhаnсing creativity in artistic spaces. Bу ѕеаmlеѕѕlу integrating dеѕign, functionality, and ѕtоrуtеlling, ѕignаgе саn trаnѕfоrm an оrdinаrу visit into an extraordinary jоurnеу оf imаginаtiоn. Whеthеr guiding visitors thrоugh a gаllеrу оr igniting соnvеrѕаtiоnѕ аmоng аrtiѕtѕ, intеriоr ѕignаgе iѕ аn еѕѕеntiаl соmроnеnt in unlеаѕhing thе full роtеntiаl оf сrеаtivitу within these spaces. Sо, thе next timе уоu ѕtер intо an artful ѕаnсtuаrу, tаkе a moment tо аррrесiаtе hоw еvеn thе signage iѕ a brushstroke in thе masterpiece of аrtiѕtiс еxрrеѕѕiоn.

[megatownac]

I kind of wanted to set up a custom wooden field sign, since I actually just got the recipe to make them the day prior to this, but I couldn't think of anything clever that would stay clever if it were repeated three times across a single sign.

That's not clever anymore! It's just annoying! And I try to use "annoying" sparingly! I don't avoid it completely! I'm just careful about when to use it!

[zaneandnoora]

Enhance your space with elegant wooden name signs, adding a personalized touch that reflects your style and individuality.

And for buying these products you can visit here:- https://zaneandnoora.com/products/custom-arabic-name-signs

[zr21designs]

Personalizable Family Name Elegant Calligraphy Wooden Box Sign This item is trending! . Link 👉 bit.ly/ZR21FNEC . 15% Off with code SPRINGPARTYZ . *Created by ZR21Designs * Sold & Shipped by Zazzle . . For more Designs & Products, Check out Our Shop in bio 👍 @zr21designs . . . . . #zazzle #trending #family #name #box #sign #elegant #typography #script #gifts #Calligraphy #wooden #gift #custom #personalization #stylish #family #zr21designs #Original #handwritten #art #personalized #giftforhim #martins #woodenbox #decor #woodart #homedecor #decorideas #giftideas https://www.instagram.com/p/CqJUh49KfXC/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[willeycedar]

Cedar Sense offers burnt wood flags with an ultra-unique look. Every flag is unique. You'll never have the same flag as someone else. Visit us to learn more!

[bunnycvnts]

need you to write me some perv rafe 😌

pairing: perv!rafe x unaware!reader

summary: rafe has a small obsession with you and finds himself with the perfect opportunity to get closer to you.

warnings: pervy rafe, sexual themes, sorta??dark content, male masturbation, panty stealing (is this a warning LMFAO?)

rafe knew you. well. he knew of you. from glances in the hallway when you passed his room, headed towards sarah’s, small conversations when you joined family dinners, and the occasional interaction during parties when you wanted to score some coke on the low.

he knew you from the image he formed in his head. the one that told him your short passing glances were longing, filled with desire. that your hand brushing his at the dinner table was a sign to spread you open on the wooden table and fuck you. that you buying coke from him when there were many dealers in figure eight was because you needed an excuse to talk to him, not just because he was sarah’s older brother and would give you it a little cheaper than most.

you took up far more space in his brain than any of his little sisters friends should. more than any normal girl should. he’d never been so hell-bent on creating and imagining interactions, forcing them to happen, and putting himself in the right places at the right time if it meant he’d see you. countless nights he’d stay awake, hearing your giggles from across the hall while his hand was wrapped around his cock, jerking it to the sound of your voice that would slip between the cracks in the doorframe. rafe couldn’t be by the pool when you’d swim, his length creating an obvious print in the wet swim shorts that clung to his skin at the sight of your body in a small bikini, soaking wet with water dripping down your soft skin. he couldn’t look at you for too long at parties, his focus being solely on you rather than paying customers, even if you were halfway across the room in your own world.

it was safe to say he was obsessed, but it was okay, right? because you totally wanted him too. at least, that’s what he told himself.

for you, he’d always been sarah’s scary older brother that would sometimes stand a little too close, but offered you free coke at parties and would drive you home late at night, even though you only lived a block away and could definitely walk home.

rafe saw the perfect opportunity to get a little closer to you one afternoon after he’d been spending the day by the pool with you and sarah. you’d wrapped your towel around you, saying you were gonna go shower before dinner. sarah waved you off, determined to soak up every bit of sun she could. rafe watched you walk inside, water droplets leaking off of you with each step and the fat of your ass bouncing lightly, visible even through the towel.

he’d quickly sat up, throwing out an excuse of a phone call to his sister before following you inside. his steps were faster than yours, catching up to you quickly.

“hey, yo-you can use my shower if you want? that way, you don’t have to worry about wheezie or sarah trying to walk in.” he tried to sound casual, despite stumbling over his first words. you thought about it for a second before agreeing, having grown tired of trying to split sarah’s bathroom after pool days. rafe guided you upstairs, relishing in the fact that you were now standing in his room in only a small bikini and were about to be showering in his shower. you’d smell like him afterwards; his body wash would linger on your skin, and your sweet vanilla scent would linger in his bathroom. just the way he thought it should.

playing a nice host, he grabbed you a bath towel and turned the shower on for you before closing the door with a small smirk on his lips. you were quick in the shower, only washing your body and vaguely browsing through his products. when you hopped out, you realized you didn’t have your actual clothes. with a towel wrapped around your naked body and a frown on your face, you peeked through the cracked door and asked rafe to grab you your pink beach bag from sarah’s room as it held your clothes.

his eyes widened at the sight of you, but he nodded and left the room, pushing into sarah’s where he spotted your baby pink bag, your name clearly embroidered on the side. he checked over his shoulder quickly, ensuring he was alone, and opened the bag. he shuffled through it before coming across a little white thong that had a small bow on the front. rafe groaned as he shoved it in his pocket, grabbed the bag, and headed back to his room. he watched as you closed the bathroom door again and came out moments later in a sundress that showed off your tanlines from the bikini top, saying a small thank you and leaving the room entirely.

rafe took a moment to breathe, listening to your footsteps pad down the stairs. when he was sure you were gone, he rushed into the bathroom and stripped, your panties clenched in his fist. once he was under the warm shower water, your sweet scent filled the room, making him groan. his cock was throbbing, and his balls were aching for release. the fist clutching your white thong soon wrapped around his aching cock, now soaked and sudsy with his body wash. his grip was tight as he got himself off, your name spilling from his lips with every thrust of his hand. seeing something that once was worn by you wrapped around his length, your panties nonetheless, was surely enough to push him right to the edge. all he could think of was your sweet cunt dripping wetness into the soft cotton, him spreading your folds open and exploring every inch with his tongue, his cock lined with your tight entrance before pushing inside you and experiencing your warm wet cunt for the first time. what really sent him soaring over the edge, hot spurts of cum shooting from his thick cock and onto the shower wall, was your voice on the other side of the door, accompanied by a light knock. “rafe, are you sure you grabbed all the clothes that were in the bag? some things are missing.”

taglist: @sunkissedrafe @cxsmiclore @mousie101

[kombuuuu]

hii i really enjoyed ur miles 42 fic, was wondering if u could write something about reader and miles meeting for the first time? who was interested first🤭?

For the Soul (and the Heart)

Miles!42 x Fem!Reader

“I’ll be here. So pretty fun, i’d say”. “Guess you’re right, Chiquita.”

AHHH meet cute x simpy miles we LOVE

Miles getting comfy w reader and reader getting progressively more combative the more time they spend together bc they luvvvvvvv each other? perfection

please don’t read if you get uncomfy with suggestive content, nothing too bad but still suggestive!

The morning was still. An odd occurrence for a Saturday. The winter chill had settled the night prior and seeped into ever cracked windowsill.

Streets coating in a thin layer of snow and trees dusted with the same. And acknowledging this freezing weather, obviously you decided to go for a walk. Snow crunched under your feet as you followed street signs, the only thing telling you where you were going was which street looked prettier.

Eventually you stopped, hugging your scarf closer to your nose and looking for a stall or shop that caught your eye.

Eventually it did, a quaint cafe stationed between two clothing stores, relatively small and pretty empty. The outside was decorated with white Lilly-of-the-Valley flowers, flower beds filled with the pretty things. Contrasting to the deep Mahogany of the wooden shop. Which looking into the wide window, seemed relatively the same. Deep furniture with white accents and a soft yellow light dancing along shiny hardwood floors.

Swirling cursive words cut into the wooden headboard swinging from a chain outside the door. “Morales Coffee.”

There looked to be seven or eight people in there currently, for how inconspicuous it tried to look, the amount of patrons at such an odd time (10:42 AM, not morning but not afternoon either.), You’d assume that coffee has to be amazing.

The door bell chimed sweetly at your entry, Barista turning to greet you.

The sweet woman gleamed over at you for a moment, turning back to her current customer while he pulled out his wallet. You lined up, looking at the pastries lining the glass displays. The ones catching your eye a Raspberry Danish and a cute baby blue Lunch-Box cake.

The man had moved away, leaving it your turn to order. The woman smiled at you and for once, approaching someone in costumer service didn’t feel as scary as it should’ve.

“Hi, What can I get for you today?” The curly haired woman had a twang of an accent curving her words. And a motherly vibe about her.

“Hey,” You smiled back at her “,Could I get a regular Mocha—.” You paused to let her punch it in. “.—A raspberry Danish and your blue cake.”

You pointed vaguely towards where the blue cake would be to her side of the display. “Yes, of course! That’ll be $18.40, thank you.”

Whilst you pulled out your purse to pay and she began to retrieve the items. She spoke up again. “Someone’s birthday?”

You laughed, not expecting her to speak so suddenly.

“Oh, no!” A chuckle left your lungs “Just want some cake recently. Saw your shop and its cakes. Thought may as well get it while i’m here.”

She laughed along with you, snorting a little as she boxed the small cake in the cardboard lunchbox. “Seems reasonable.”

“Thank you.”

She grabbed your danish and placed it on the counter, putting the cake in a bag and handing it to you.

“Thank you, again.”

“No worries, your mocha will be out shortly!” The bouncy lady turned around, going close to the back of the counter and opened a door you hadn’t realised was there, talking into it.

“Bebé, hay una chica linda ahí afuera que quiere un Mocha. Ve a hacerlo para ella. Y no la riegues.”

"Baby, there's a cute girl out there who wants a Mocha. Go do it for her. And don't mess it up."

Miles glanced up in confusion.

“¿Pero porqué me dices a mi?”

“Why me?”

“Pues es linda, y parece de tu edad.”

“She’s pretty, and around your age.”

“Ma, porfavor.”

“Ma, please.”

“Go.”

“Fine, fine.” He raised his hands in defeat and Rio kissed his cheek on the way out.

You found a seat with a cute view of the street outside and waited patiently for your coffee, people watching to pass time.

There was always a fear of crime in your neighbourhood. The lack of supposed ‘good guys’ coupled with the city being run down by anyone who wanted to escape trouble. Once news broke out of the first robbery in Brooklyn, where no one was caught. It was immediately put on the radar for any criminal looking to live somewhere safe.

The Prowler had been changing that. Little by little the Panther-esc.. Anti-Villain was scraping through the streets of Brooklyn and letting his blood stained claws drag over those in his way.

People feared him, the violence he brought with him.

You thought he was the closest thing to a hero you were getting, so who’s got room to complain?

If he’s not going to do the dirty work, who will?

The chatter of other people in the cafe had gotten slightly louder, four more people walking in while you sat.

“Miles, la chica linda de ahí.”

“Miles, That sweet girl over there.”

“Sí mamá, ya sé.”

“Yeah mama, I know.”

The smooth baritones accent of a boy around your age caught your attention. The way his letters curled giving you a rush of something down your spine. You looked up when you heard feet approaching, seeing probably the most ridiculously handsome man you have ever met bring you your coffee.

The way his jawline sharpened at a point, braids lying on his shoulders just below it. His lips that seemed awfully soft for someone who probably doesn’t even know what chapstick is. Lashes fluttering prettily over his high genes cheekbones, accenting his golden eyes. Jesus christ he’s pretty. His lips curled into a smirk at your face, your doe’d eyes gleaming up at him. He had some sharp canines.

“‘S one’s yours, Miss.” He placed the steaming mug on your table and you smiled. “Thank you!”

“No worries, Hermosa.” He looked at you a moment longer before the sweet lady called him back to make another order.

“Coming, Momma.” He called back to her, turning back to you for a second time and adding.

“I’m Miles, by the way.”

“Miles.. that’s a cute name.”

His lips upturned again at the compliment.

You gave him your name, which he hummed at, repeating it and rolling it around his tongue. His accent was gorgeous.

“Hope to see you ‘round, [Name].”

You choked out a pathetic affirmation, “Mhmma.— Yeah, yep.”

He laughed lightly and dragged his fingers along the table as he left.

Like claws.

—

Two days later you were back. It was some of the best coffee you’d ever had. And the desserts were the same, most of the cake still sitting boxed in the fridge.

Also there was an added bonus, being the coffee house owner, and her son.

The boy was interesting enough to keep your attention, sweet to you but held a sort of curiosity about him. Like he was hiding something but felt no shame in doing it, that it was righteously excused.

And to be real, you were dying to hear his voice again. Two days and all that had been playing in your head was the way he’d said your name, let the word travel down to his lungs and breathed life into it. A longing into it.

Miles was about the same, probably worse.

You saying his name was cute was probably his new lifeline. The way you had said it so innocently, sweetly to the likes of him. A twisted, wretched man. You had him swooning faster than he deemed safe, his body was going into overdrive. He had watched you while in their cafe, having never met someone so.. untainted by the world. Someone so sweet who carried nothing but a childlike innocence in their curios nature. Nothing done out of bad faith or in vain. You were nothing like him, he adored that.

So when you came wandering back into his Mommas cafe, he hoped to every universe it would be something you didn’t stop doing.

“Ah! Miss, You’re back!” His Ma greeted her, watching as the girl told Rio her name, and his Mom in return.

You guys chatted idly for a moment, your expressions clear as day. He could read you like a grown man could read a picture book, so easy it would be insulting to present him with it, if the content wasn’t you. The brightness and easy nature of you was something refreshing, he would say his Momma was easy-going, but times had been hard lately and his family needed a cheering up. You seemed like the perfect candidate.

Sweet, bubbly and looking at him right now- Oh. He waved at you, shivering at the eye contact and watching as you smiled at him and waved back, hands shaking. He likes how nervous he makes you.

You sniffled a little from the cold, dripping your hand as his Mom room your attention again. She handed you a cinnamon scroll and you paid quickly, dropping twenty bucks in the tip jar and quickly finding your way back to your seat.

“Miles! Un Mocha regular porfavor.”“Miles, regular Mocha please.”

He nodded to his mom, like he hadn’t remembered from last time. Like he hasn’t watched as you enjoyed something he made you.

—

“Bienvenida de nuevo, Chiquita.”“Welcome back, Chiquita.”

Sitting in the same spot as last time, staring at the idling passer-by’s, the light of a Winter morning danced off the snowy ground and highlighted your face, leaving a soft glow in your eyes.

You turned to him, paying him your whole mind.

“Thank you, Miles.” He placed your coffee in front of you, slightly leaning over you. He raised his eyebrows and hummed. You inhaled quickly, breath caught in your throat. Now realising the proximity between the two of you. Not only that, but there was a sweet smell that followed him around, coffee and cinnamon. How fitting.

His voice had gone deeper, smoother.

“I’m glad to see you back here—,” He leaned back again, hand dragging the same way it had two days prior. Your slow blink and parted lips made a deep rooted part of him begin to blossom once more.

He wanted to protect you the way he knew no one else could, wanted to lay his Soul down for you. Let you trace the veins imbedded in his skin with your teeth and take as much from him as you could. Run him dry, let him owe you his life so he can die protecting yours.

The speed his infatuation was growing probably wasn’t healthy.

“Really?” Your sweet, breathless inquiry silenced that though.

“Of course, Mami.”

“I—,” You paused, picking at you fingernails for a moment “,—I like it here, a lot.”

You leaned a little forward in your seat. Pressing your forearms against the wooden tabletop and leaning on them. He watched your back drop into a small arch, and for his own health, decided to ignore it. “‘S very cozy.” You glanced towards the window again. Watching another lad and her dog pass. He watched you.

“Mm, it is.”

“And you’re here.”

He sucked in a breath, fingers twitching.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your gaze flickered to him once more and he held it.

He let his hand drift to your shoulder, rubbing it slowly while he peeled himself away from the table.

“I gotta go, Mami, but enjoy your time.”

“You too, Miles.”

“I’ll be working,” He smiled at you, a small thing.

“I’ll be here. So pretty fun, I’d say.”

He hummed.

“Guess you’re right, Chiquita.”

—

It had been around four Months since Miles had met you. And he was in over his damn head, not that he wasn’t at your first meeting. But progressively, over time, he’d fallen deeper and deeper for you.

Everything you did had him in a chokehold. The way you were so sweet with his Mom, or how even uncle Aaron liked you when he’d stopped by the cafe.

How you offered to help around with no pay, generosity basically leaking from your heart. When you would come over just to see him because you “missed his voice”.

Or would sit in his room and wait for him. If he ever came home late, injured from things you had no business knowing, you wouldn’t ask a thing. You stayed quiet, and patched him up. Let him rest his head on your collarbone while you softly rubbed his shoulders. Trying to lighten the weight of the world off of them.

Every little thing.

He was done pretending like it didn’t affect him. He could barely go a single day without you on his mind constantly, as if.

He knew you felt the same.

Still just as readable as your first meeting. He knew the frequent outings between the two of you were more than just friendly meet-ups to you. To him.

And when your gazes would catch one another, he’d try and tell you. Express without so much as a word how you were the only person he could do this with. The only one he felt comfortable to walk down the street with, and let you chat his ear off about any new movies you’d seen, books you’d have read.

He would let you sleep in his bed, bring little things into his room and give the bland walls life.

You had made a home in him. Cracked chips in his walls on by one until you’d found a single loose stone and happily let everything he’d built up fall just for you.

—

Miles had texted you around mid-day that he’d wanted to see you, in which you’d giggled at your phone dreamily.

Laying on your bed with your stomach down, kicking your legs like a girl gone stupid.

It hadn’t even been much to fret over, just a simple:

Can you come over later?

He had phrased it rather questioningly, but for no good reason. He’d known full well the moment he even insinuated you being with him, you’d jump at the chance.

And you did, swiftly replying;

okayyyy !!

I’ll pick you up at 7.

six…?

7, [Name].

>:(

Don’t be childish.

i’m nvr childish, see u at 6 C:

You got up, threw your phone somewhere on the bed and checked your, admittedly already-packed, overnight bag. Making sure nothing was missing before putting it at your door.

Your phone pinged again.

See you at six.

You smiled.

You spent the rest of that afternoon anxiously waiting for him to pick you up.

—

He showed up at your door five minutes late, greeting you at the door with a soft apology about the tardiness.

“Sorry, Mami. Took a wrong turn.”

“Don’t apologise, Miles.”

You smiled at him, stars in your eyes. He looked away for a second, a bit guilty for lying to you, but he feels it’s worth it.

“Grab your bag, ma. Let’s go.”

You hummed an affirmation, rushing to your room to grab the pink duffel bag.

You grabbed your phone off your night stand and did a double check for everything.

You walked out again, closing the door behind you. Miles was leant up against your doorframe. Forearm pressed on the wood and his torso stretched. A small sliver of his skin had peeked from under the fabric, you thanked the warming weather. Quickly averting your gaze, you noticed him watching your stare in intent, a curious smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“You good, Chiquita?”

“Uhuh—, yep. Fine.”

“Mmhm.”

You huffed out, pouting and pressing your palm to his chest, his very toned chest, and pushed back lightly.

“Get outta my way, lame-o, I gotta lock the door.”

He resisted for a moment longer, gazing down at you in humour. He trailed his hand up your arm slyly and pried your hand off his chest by sliding his thumb up from under your wrist onto your palm. Slowly pulling you off him.

“Maybe ask politely.”

You gave him an unimpressed stare and flipped him off.

“Miles.”

“[Name].”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s just a ‘please’.”

“..-Please, get the fuck outta my way.”

“Of course, Hermosa.” He snorted as he did.

You turned around, Miles still close to you in the cramped hallway, and locked your door.

You turned around, noticing his eyes glance up from where they were before and shot him a questioning look. He turned around and led you through you hallway, dismissing the look.

—

He opened the steel door to the cafe. The scenery of a rooftop garden with the same Lilly-of-the-Valley flowers up here as there were out front of the store.

Shrubbery lined the rooftop edge and the string lights hung from the veranda created an atmosphere that seemed almost cinematic.

“Jesus, Miles. This is beautiful.”

“Mm, thought you’d like it.”

“I do, so much.”

You stated in awe at the mural painted on a buildings wall behind the door. A man who stroke a resemblance to Miles painted surrounded by colours of any.

The moonlight basked against the neon colours, accenting the man’s features.

“My dad.”

Your gaze snapped up to him beside you, brows furrowing in a frown.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘S cool. Nothin’ you coulda known, Ma.”

He sighed at the image of his father, wishing him well rest.

Turning to you, he wasn’t surprised to see the greif in your eyes. He was, though, surprised at the lack of pity.

He was so used to having his far family whisper behind his back at how his soul had died with his fathers. How the light in his eyes had gone missing the day his hand had been forced, unable to get to his dad in time.

There was no escaping his death.

So to feel the understanding coming from you—. The confidence in your sorry but knowledge that pity would do no one any good, it was refreshing. Everything about you was.

He turned away from your watchful eyes, the intensity being unusual for him.

“Come sit, vida mía.”

You followed him dutifully, loyally. Like you had since the last Winter. Like you would continue for the next to come.

A set of pillows had been placed in the middle of the veranda. White wood covered in lively vines and the aforementioned string lights.

There was a layout of his pastries (which you had learned he was the baker of) laid out on a cotton blanket.

You sat on one of the pillows, legs crossed. Miles following short after.

“Oooh,” You begun to tease him “,This a romantic dinner date?” The tone of your voice was in jest, but when he had failed to answer— Your heart rate sped up and your face went hot to the touch.

“Miles? Y’know I— I was just jokin’—“ “If you want it to be.”

You stood stupidly for a moment, not quite reeling in his words like any other person would.

“Wh—.”

It was his turn for unsurity now, eyes dancing nervously between you and the skyline.

“No pressure, though. Just think it’d be nice.”

“It would.”

He refocused on you again, finding you already watching him owlishly. “Yeah?”

“Mm, we could—,”

He anxiously started picking at the blanket. Who knew someone usually so calm could be this nervous asking out the most harmless girl he knew.

“Try. We could try that, together.” You mumbled a bit, seemingly playing it off. “If you want, or something..”

“I do.” He gained some leg to stand on, finding it easier and easier as you spoke, your nerves somehow calming his own.

“I’ve wanted that for a while.”

“Oh good, cause—“ You placed your hand in your lap, cracking your knuckles. “—Me too, so. That’s good.”

He grinned at your awkwardness, knowing your lack of experience in the relationship aspect of life, this mutual agreement, instead of one asking the other out, probably hasn’t been an experience of yours yet. He liked he was the first.

“Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You puffed at him, punching his arm lightly.

“I’m never shy, that’s for dumb stupid lame people. And I am none of those.” “Oh, sure.”

“Wh— Sure?! Which one are you ‘sure’-ing? Dumb, stupid or lame?!”

“Uhuh.”

“Miles!”

“Keep saying my name like that, mami.”

“Oh my goodness!”

—

And when you both finally got into his bed, you’d slept tangled together like you had dozens of times before. But this time, Miles would grab your waist and pull you closer. Settle his face in your neck and trace his nose down the length of your shoulder, peppering a kiss on every inch of skin he could find, and you’d both finally felt sure.

Maybe people were right, maybe Miles’s soul had died with his father.

But meeting you, something new, something rejuvenating—.

It left him with a light he could search for, a new soul. A whisp of a being you’d taken from your own heart and placed in his. It left him breathless with life.

—

YIPEEE!!!!! another one 🗣️‼️

thank you to my translation helpers (bbgs) @kissmxcheek and @millyswife

(oh, wrong Miles! oops! 🤗⬇️)

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[awritesthings1]

Gone with the Leaves

Pairing: Tommy Shelby / Wife Reader

Summary: Despite your happy marriage to Tommy, you feel an undeniable jealousy towards Lizzie. Perhaps a day in the forest will do you some good.

ao3 link

A/N: I'm starting a tag list, comment if you want to be added :)

-

“You write like you’re running out of time,” mused Lizzie Stark, former prostitute, now Tommy’s secretary. “They have typewriters for those types of things, y’know?”

You saw the volley of cannonballs that launched and subsequently landed on Tommy’s desk as the words left her mouth. It wasn’t that you expected more of poor old plain Lizzie, but you thought that the time she had spent lying on her back staring past the shoulder of a customer at the ceiling would have taught her to read a room. Nevertheless, she stood there, quite amused with herself, smiling stupidly at your husband.

Tommy, who had been sitting at his desk all afternoon attending to letters, the ledger, and god knows what else, peered up from the paper. “What did you say?”

This time, it was your turn to be amused. He pointed accusingly at Lizzie, who by then had realised her impetuous mistake. Her wide eyes fluttered to you desperately, like a bee that had indulged itself in so much pollen that it became stuck in its own honey. No, that was putting it lightly. She looked to you like a frightened child who knew exactly what kind of trouble they were in.

You made sure you looked the other way.

“It was only a silly joke,” came her spluttering apology.

Tommy squinted, and his mouth curled into a frown. Smoke chased the deep exhale from the cigarette hanging between his lips. Your husband carried this terrifying look to him that many feared. Without the peaky cap to cover his striking blue eyes, you saw his glare cut away the cords in Lizzie’s throat with just one look. How could poor Lizzie defend herself from eyes that had witnessed nightmarish things?

“I’m not clear. Is it funny that I sign my letters by hand, or are you above using ink now that you have graduated from the bed to the desk?”

Lizzie’s mouth wormed into a thin line, yet she still looked to you for help. Of what help she thought you would possibly spare, you weren’t sure. For once, Lizzie used initiative and showed herself out.

Your heels clacked across the wooden threshold of your husband’s office. Now that no one was there to disturb you both, you sat down on Tommy’s lap. By then, he was leaning back on his chair, work abandoned for the time being until he could wash the sour sight of Lizzie Stark from his eyes.

“You know I don’t like her,” you said plainly.

There was no need for fake smiles or lies with Tommy. You knew him, and he knew you.

Tommy exhaled loudly, stubbing out the last of his cigarette on his ashtray and taking a swig of whiskey before his calloused hand found your waist.

He clears his throat. “It’s only business with her.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I like her any less.”

Tommy loved you, not Lizzie Stark, yet you couldn’t stomach the undeniable jealousy that arose with her presence. Perhaps it was a natural inclination women had toward their lovers. Lizzie had never done anything outwardly wrong to you. So, what was it then that turned your plain teeth into hissing fangs?

Everyone knew that Tommy was one of her paying customers before you met him, but so were all of Small Heath. You never felt insecure in your relationship with Tommy; there was no need to feel threatened by a prostitute. Yet that wouldn’t stop the catty feline that emerged from its slumber when Lizzie’s wandering eyes battered at your husband.

No. Lizzie Stark would never know what it felt like to be loved by a man like Tommy. What you held in your hands each night was a transcendental, unconditional type of love—one that surpassed the heart and soul, which drew two beings together in the most unconventional yet fitting way. The way that covers kept you warm at night, Tommy watched over your hearth and kept the fire burning, even if he were on the other side of the country.

You closed your eyes, leaning into the valley between Tommy’s neck and shoulder as you listened for the bah-dum-bah-dum of his heart. They sat together in silence, cherishing each other’s presence, while Tommy rested his cheek on your head. Outside, the world waited, barking at their front door and scratching at the delicately carved wood. Even the rain lashed at the windowpanes, playing together like one elemental orchestra.

The hand not resting on your waist rose to gently stroke up and down your arm. You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“I think you have some work to attend to in the bedroom,” you mumbled into his neck.

Your nose searched for the spot where he applied his aftershave.

“Eh?” Came his gruff response.

Your hand wandered down his suit in answer.

-

The sheets were bundled around Tommy’s naked waist when you sauntered back over to the bed with his case of cigarettes in hand. Gratefully, he took the case from your hand, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you into the warmth of his chest. Then he began the usual routine. He fished out a cigarette to offer, but you shook your head no, so he slid it once, then twice, across his bottom lip. On the bedside table, he grabbed the half-empty matchbox to light the cigarette.

Tommy was the resident chain smoker in your house. With an appetite for tobacco and whiskey, you often wondered just how he sustained himself throughout the day. Of course, there were the home-cooked meals at Arrow House waiting for his return, although that didn’t stop you from worrying any less. It was pathetic, really, sitting all alone in his study, twiddling your fingers, and sitting beneath his portrait like you were praying to him. Tommy was no god, no matter how much he tried to convince everyone else. Yet whenever headlights passed the window and lit up the office momentarily, you would stand up and peer out, hoping to spot your husband exiting the car.

He cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the present. You loved watching the way the cigarette shifted between his lips when he spoke, even more when his hooded eyes looked over at you. Tommy was a man of few words, simply because he didn’t need language to communicate. His body spoke for him in tongues for all his enemies to understand. And more importantly, in a way your body understood.

Your hand abandoned his tattoo to stroke a thumb across his full bottom lip. Lust swelled there, eager to chase the rest of the night away into a haze of pleasure until the sun rose. As tempting as it was, you sighed at the thought. You would rather spend this time taking in your husband, remembering the fine details across his face and body, from the scar in the hollow of his cheek to the rough texture beneath his shoulder blade where a bullet was once lodged. You wanted to trace the sockets of his eyes the way a blind person would, treasuring each valley, mountain, and cut of skin as if it were to disappear the second you stopped touching him.

“You’re beautiful,” you decided, bathed in candlelight, tangled up between the sheets and Tommy’s arms.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, and the cigarette hung dangerously loose from where his lips curled into a frown. He grunted, clearly dissatisfied with your words. Tommy wasn’t beautiful. He was hard, ambitious, and unmovable force.

Beautiful was a conventional word savored for the finest women. To you? It meant so much more. Crafted in a way that would cause people to stare, sure, but there was also a poetic sense to the word. The type of beauty you would use to describe a well-written novel or heart-wrenching poem. Thomas Shelby stood for something, and that was beautiful.

“Then what are you, eh?”

A lazy smile floated onto your face, so much so that you had to bite your lip to refrain from looking devastatingly pleased at his answer.

A woman, a dreamer, a friend, a reader, an achiever. “A wife.”

He huffed, raising his eyebrows playfully.

Why was it that most women felt like they could only fit the frame of one? With Tommy, you were never limited to the endless possibilities. You treasured being a wife the same way you treasured your other roles. Marriage wasn’t the end all be all. Perhaps that’s another lie men spun—that perfectly capable women stopped existing as soon as a diamond ring slid onto their finger. How sad, you thought, to waste away all that potential when men were still free to pursue stupid ideas like war and dog fights.

Tommy was unbothered by traditional ideas like that. Change powered his ambition; he had no time for parallel lines. You could be his wife, a writer, a singer, or a mother—whatever you wanted—and he wouldn’t think of you any less.

You hummed, chasing that cigarette from his lips and stubbing it out in the ash tray by his bedside table. Tommy didn’t seem too heartbroken about it. In fact, there was some mirth in his gaze. His hands traced up your naked spine, pulling your body further into his until you could smell the smoke in his breath.

“Yes,” he breathed in loudly through his nose, “my wife.”

-

The following day, you were invited to the Basnett's hunting party. You would’ve been more enthusiastic to write about your excitement to attend if the whole ordeal hadn’t been so troublesome. Because a few days prior, when you were visiting your husband’s office, you had caught sight of the letter on Lizzie’s desk, a letter that was supposed to reach you days earlier.

“What’s this?” You asked.

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Lizzie had said, too occupied with filing her nails while on the clock.

You kept your composure for the sake of keeping the peace. You didn’t wish to disturb Tommy if he were to walk by.

“This is a letter addressed to me,” you pressed.

“Oh.” She stopped for a moment, then leaned over to read the letter you had pulled from the messy pile. “No, it’s addressed to Tommy.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Shelby,” you hissed quietly, with emphasis on the missus.

“Hm, I didn’t notice.”

“You are paid to notice.” You fought the urge to comment that she was paid for other things not long ago. “How long has this been sitting here?”

Lizzie tapped her cigarette ash into the tray. “The post boy dropped that lot off yesterday.”

Even if it was only two days late to reach your hand, by society’s standards, that may have well been taken as you snubbing the invitation. Frustratingly, you had to cancel your plans that day and personally deliver your letter to the Basnett’s door, citing some excuse of it having been lost in the post.

“That woman is up to no good.” You said glumly that night into Tommy’s chest.

“I’ll speak to her,” he promised in that stoic tone of his.

Whether he had been true to his words, you weren’t sure because Lizzie made an effort to avoid you when possible.

“Oh! Mrs. Shelby! How wonderful for you to join us! Come in, come in. The men are readying their rifles for the hunt outside. How exciting!” Gushed Lady Basnett, shooing you into the atrium of her lavish mansion.

Your riding boots clacked across the floor before being muffled by an intricately woven rug. You stared up at the chandelier, childishly wondering if it would hit you if it were to fall at that moment.

“Right this way, Mrs. Shelby!” Lady Basnett ushered excitably.

You debated if all her energy was for show—to please her husband and be the good wife he expected of her. After she showed you through to the veranda and down to the circle of wives who had gathered under the trees while their husbands readied for the hunt, you decided that no, she must truly enjoy planning social occasions like this, as evidenced by the way she kissed Sarah’s cheek in greeting with a wide grin.

It pleased you to know that Lady Basnett found joy in something. Ever since her eldest died in the war, she has been known to be a bit of a recluse.

“Oh, what a beautiful ring! May we see it?” Doe-eyed Catherine asked.

She was one of the younger wives, like yourself. Catherine married an older man, twice her senior. Many of the wives here faulted her for it behind her back, but not you. You saw more of yourself in her than you did in any of the other women. Because, despite the age gap, the girl seemed to be utterly head-over-heels in love with a man society deemed old-fashioned for her. And how could you blame her when you swore an oath to a gangster of all people?

You obliged and let the wives twist and turn your hand to better inspect the diamonds on your ring finger.

“It’s perfect!”

“How many carats?”

“My Mary would be so jealous!”

After dutifully showing your wedding ring, you noticed the men beginning to mount their horses.

Catherine hooked her arm around yours. “Come on, we are going to be left behind!”

She jovially pulled you along the stone tiles at a speed that made you grateful for wearing riding boots. The backyard was grand in the sense that the acres they owned stretched vastly into the nearby forest. Although there were impressive features, like the hedge they had grown into a maze and the trees that were shaped into birds.

“Lady Basnett owned an aviary of budgies. Dear little things they were, she was devastated when they all escaped one night after the groundskeeper forgot to close the door,” Catherine commented, having noticed the way your head was turned.

You laughed, because you could precisely picture Lady Basnett as the type to fawn over little budgies.

Catherine led you to the horses, where some of the wives were already perched, waiting for the party to leave. None of them carried rifles, but rather wicker baskets strapped to the saddle for the picnic they planned to have at the top of the hill while they waited for their husbands to finish hunting.

Together, you set off, having mounted the back of Catherine’s mare. Deeper into the forest you went, the black mare trotting over loose dirt and rocks. Both of you remained at the end of the pack, preferring to keep to yourselves in light conversation.

Then it all happened so suddenly. One of the rifles went off up ahead, and a flock of birds rushed at you from the break in the foliage, startling your mare. You gasped in shock and reached for Catherine’s jacket to hold on, but only skimmed her. She went face first into the dirt while you were swept into the air like a leaf and fell with the grace of a rock. The ground thundered as the mare galloped into the distance.

“Fuck!” Catherine spat.

(On her fall she had taken a mouthful of soil and leaves.)

“They’ll come back,” you tried to reassure her.

-

Hours later, the two of you still had not been found.

“I was a prostitute before George found me, y’know.”

No, you didn’t know.

“That’s why I’m so young and he so old,” she smiled fondly, laughing as if it were the most normal thing.

You couldn’t find it in your heart to dislike her because of her circumstances. She was your friend, and a true one at that.

What was it that Tommy said? The past is the past.

-

The sun began to set when one of the men from the hunting party found you both huddled together under a tree. Kindly, he let the two of you ride the rest of the way back despite your hesitance to mount another horse.

When you returned to Lady Basnett’s, with Catherine in arm, the sun had been set for at least two hours. You hadn’t realized what trouble you had gotten yourself into until you noticed Tommy’s Bentley parked in the crowded driveway of the mansion. Men stood at the gate, armed and waiting. Catherine opened her mouth to remark how ridiculous it was, but you kept your lips sealed after recognizing the guards to be Peaky Blinders.

Tommy had to be beside himself.

A young boy who was playing between the cars popped his head out when the gates squealed open. His ears perked up, and he ran inside, clutching his peaky cap, to probably inform the adults inside of your arrival. People pooled out onto the front steps, the women covering their hearts and sighing with relief, and the men holding their hats to their chests. But when your husband, Tommy, came storming out, they parted like the red sea.

He stalked across the gravel like a predator, his eyes trained on you with an unblinking stare.

“Are you hurt?” He ignored Catherine, cupping your face and frantically looking between both your eyes as if you would disappear.

Upon further inspection, his eyes were bloodshot, and the white sleeves of his blouse were bundled into the golden garters. Your hands itched to muse his disheveled hair into place, but with all the curious onlookers, you thought better of it.

“No.”

George, Catherine’s husband, was quick to whisk her away inside. You heard Lady Basnett’s voice trailing after them: “Oh my, what a terrible thing. Come now, let me pour you some tea.”

Unfortunately, tea wouldn’t make up for any lost ground with Tommy.

“We’re going.”

You knew better to open your mouth to disagree. This was Tommy being afraid and carrying on. He retreated into himself. It didn’t look pretty or like he cared, but he cared; you knew he cared. It was only that no one else was allowed to know that the great Thomas Shelby felt any emotion.

At Arrow House, he swallowed two glasses of whiskey before saying a word. You were pulling at the hem of the overcoat that Tommy had shook off his shoulders to give you for the ride home. Your fingers just couldn’t stand the anxious silence that rang throughout the room.

“What the fuck happened?”

He stood in front of you, stoic as a soldier but cracking around the exterior thanks to his hand, which itched for the cigarette case inside his pocket. (A nervous tick of his.) You grab his hand between your own before he can fish out the case.

“The horse got spooked. It bucked Catherine and me off, but we’re fine.”

His thumb rubs across your knuckles as he looks past your shoulder out the window.

“Do you know where I was when I got the call? Eh? I was handling some business when Lizzie came in and told me some posh old woman was on the line, saying you were missing.”

He exhaled sharply, dropping his gaze to you, where you noticed his eyes soften.

“I thought…” He broke off.

His chin dropped, and he went to itch his nose with his other hand.

“What did you think happened? Is there something I should know about?” Concern leaked into your voice.

“No,” he huffed, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home, and you’re safe.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from saying anything that might push him over the edge. He was fragile in a state like this in the sense that he pushed the stronger, more vivid feelings to the side because you were his wife, not a Peaky Blinder. No, you would never be, even though you married one.

Often, you would wish you could turn into the leaves that swept off the pavement and into the air. Imagine then how much easier life would be for you both—to forget the animosity of life and rise above it all, breathe in that crystal air, and then finally exclaim the truth because up there no one could hear them or cared enough to try anyway.

Cautiously, you let go of his hand and traced your fingertips up to knead away the tension in his jaw.

“Thomas… Do you remember what you asked of me? To help you with the whole fucking thing—”

“From now on—”

“Thomas—”

“From now on, let me know where you are going. I will organize a guard to watch over you.”

‘You write like you’re running out of time,’ Lizzie’s poorly placed joke from the start of the week reverberated in your skull.

Was he?

“I need you,” he breathed, the smell of whiskey fanning over your senses.

You nodded, pressing up on your toes to kiss him. A soft breath escaped him when you pulled away.

“You have me.”