𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝒙𝒗𝒊. 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚'𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥. They felt too real, too suffocating like her mind was dragging her back to a place she never wanted to revisit.

In her dream, she was back in that cold, claustrophobic prison cell, the one where she'd been trapped for what felt like an eternity. The darkness pressed against her, thick and oppressive, and she could feel the weight of the walls closing in. The concrete scraped against her skin as the space shrank around her, and no matter how much she struggled, there was no escape. Her breath hitched in her throat, her chest tightening painfully. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The walls crushed her, inch by inch, stealing the air from her lungs. The sheer panic of helplessness overtook her, leaving her weak, trapped in her own mind.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and she was no longer in that cell. She was back in her loft, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. Her hand instinctively clutched the blanket beside her, fingers trembling.

Beside her, Thomas stirred. His arm, warm and solid, draped over her waist, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. His presence was an anchor, pulling her out of the nightmare and into the reality of the moment.

"What's wrong, love?" Thomas mumbled, his voice thick with sleep as he shifted, pulling her closer. His hand moved to her hair, fingers gently brushing through the strands as he tried to comfort her, his body instinctively responding to her distress.

Valentina didn't answer right away. She didn't know how to describe the dream or the emotions that still clung to her like a suffocating fog. She only let out a shaky breath and buried her face against his chest, letting the steady beat of his heart calm her.

"I'm fine," she whispered after a long pause, her voice betraying her. "Just a nightmare."

Thomas didn't push her for details, but she could feel his concern in the way he held her, tighter, more protective. His thumb brushed along her temple, tracing lazy circles as if trying to soothe away the lingering fear that clung to her. "It's been two weeks," he said softly, his voice edged with guilt. "Since I got you out. Since all of that happened... and still..." He trailed off, his jaw tensing.

Valentina pulled back slightly to look at him, her eyes meeting his. There was something unspoken between them, something neither of them knew how to put into words. He hadn't been able to protect her from Campbell, hadn't been able to shield her from the horror of that cell. And it ate at him, that much was clear.

"I should've protected you," he muttered, his voice low and laced with regret. "I'm sorry, Valentina. You shouldn't have had to go through any of that."

Thomas Shelby was not a man who apologized. But here he was, laying his heart bare before her, the weight of his guilt pressing on him like the walls had pressed on her in her dream. She could see it in his eyes—the regret, the unspoken pain, the self-blame. It was as if he believed everything that had happened was his fault.

"The wine has already spilled, Thomas," she said softly, her fingers gliding across his cheek like a whisper. "The glass may have shattered, and the stain's already soaked deep into the fabric. You can't unspill it... but you can choose to clean what's left."

Her words were simple, yet beneath them lay a profound truth. She didn't blame him—she never did. But Thomas, always the one to bear the weight of broken glass and ruined linens, carried the burden as though it were his alone to fix. To him, every drop that spilled felt like a piece of the world lost.