Florence couldn't remember a time she'd ever felt so feminine as she stood on the stool at the dressmakers, wrapped in red silk. She didn't think she'd ever wear a dress like this. To be honest, she didn't think she'd ever spend an afternoon trying on dresses but there she was, alone because Ada had run off with Freddie and Grace was covering her shift in the pub. The silk draped over her frame, the sash cinching in her waist, hem reaching just past her knee, Florence had never seen herself like this before. And yet it was her face on the body she looked at in the mirror, a small smile on her face as she looked over her own figure.

Turning to the dressmaker, she did a little curtsey. "What do you think?" She asked.

The dressmaker smiled at her knowingly, reaching out a hand to adjust the neckline. "You look beautiful, Miss Fenton."

"Miss Fenton?" She let out a giggle, before turning to glance at herself in the mirror again. "Florence is just fine. How much is this?"

"Oh, don't worry about it, dear. Mr Shelby told me to send the bill to him once you chose one."

Florence's jaw dropped slightly. "And would that be a certain Thomas Shelby?"

The dressmaker nodded. Tommy's constant presence both infuriated and comforted Florence at the same time. In a matter of weeks, she'd gone from never being able to find him to him being everywhere, in one way or another. Florence rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Alright. I'll take this one."

As Florence left the shop, back in her own simple cotton dress, a paper bag full of silk in hand, something crossed her mind. Billy Kimber would see her in this beautiful dress. The thought of a man like Kimber seeing her bare all made her sick to her stomach. The words Tommy had spoken to her rang out in her head; I won't let anything happen to you. It would be all be fine. Even with that man's eyes on her, nothing bad would happen to her.

"Oi, Flo!" Disturbed from her thoughts, Florence turned to find a red-faced, breathless John Shelby on her tail.

He stopped just short of her. "Jesus Christ, you can walk fast. Couldn't you hear me calling you? I've been chasing you miles."

Florence let out a laugh. "Sorry, I was caught in my own world. Are you alright?" She asked. John took a seat on the curb as he caught his breath.

"I need someone to watch the kids for me this afternoon."

She shook her head, about to open her mouth to protest before he interjected. "Please, Flo?"

Florence frowned at him, but she could sense his desperation. "Fine. But don't be back too late, alright? I've got things to do."
John's face lit up at her words as he stood from the curb. "You're amazing, Flo," he exclaimed, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before sauntering off as quickly as he came.

Florence turned around, heading in the direction of John's house. Of all the trouble she'd had with the Shelby's, the situation with John was seriously confusing her. Though she'd deny it to anyone who asked, she remembered every word she'd said to him on that night, and she was troubled as to why he hadn't confronted her about it yet. She thought she knew John well; he was hot-headed, emotional. He would've brought it up to her the first chance he got. Unless he simply didn't care, but John not caring about something that consumed Florence so frequently upset her more deeply than she'd care to confess.

The children were pleasant, as usual. Florence didn't understand the complaints the other Shelby's made about them. She knew most of the time Polly refused to take them, claiming they were too much trouble. Maybe they took to Florence so kindly because she knew what it was like to be a child without a mother in a place like Birmingham. John's promise to be home early wasn't fulfilled, with the clock turning midnight before Florence heard the door handle rattling. Once the other children were in bed, she'd spent the evening trying to lull a restless, stuffy-nosed Maggie to sleep, but the second she would try and put her to bed the toddler would wake again. So she sat on John's sofa, the baby wrapped up peacefully in her arms, reading the only book she could find in the house. She dropped the book down beside her as he entered the room, his eyes wide at the sight of her, a toothpick rolling between his lips.

"Thought you'd have left already," he grumbled, clearly not in the best of moods. John took no notice of his sleeping child in Florence's arms, instead moving to rummage around in a drawer, retrieving an unopened bottle of whiskey.

"Seriously, John? And leave your kids here alone?" She whispered, careful not to wake her.

John disappeared, but reappeared a moment later with two glasses. "They'd have been alright. Drink?" He asked. Florence nodded.

"Better take this one to bed first, eh?" John huffed at her suggestion, but complied nonetheless, prising his sleeping daughter from Florence's arms. She began to stir as he approached the stairs, but John quieted her with a quick stroke of her hair and kiss to her head.

Florence made haste to pour the whiskey, downing her drink and pouring another before John could make it back downstairs. She was annoyed at him for being back so late and knew she would need something to take the edge off the conversation they were about to have. From his demeanour she could tell he was looking for an argument, and she didn't have the energy for it after a day of chasing after his kids. John entered the room again wordlessly, shrugging off his jacket before taking a seat next to Florence. After a few seconds of silence, she was the one to speak first.

"What's got you so riled up, then? Tough night drinking your worries away?" She questioned, watching him cautiously as he reached for his drink.

"Doesn't matter," he murmured. Florence sighed, shrugging at him before reaching into her bag for a cigarette, rummaging around for a light.

"You got a match?" She asked, cigarette hanging from her fingers.

John's face suddenly twisted in irritation. "Since when did you start carrying a gun?" He turned to her, eyes burning.

"What?" Florence rose from her seat, rummaging in the same drawer that John had found the whiskey in. "What's it got to do with you?"

John followed her with his eyes, nursing his drink slowly as he watched her retrieve a box of matches from the drawer and light her cigarette. "Did Tommy give it to you?"

Taking a drag of her cigarette, Florence leaned against the drawers. "No… I got it myself. You think I'd forget what it's like to live here? Don't you think I need to protect myself, when I'm a single woman and most of the slimy bastards around here know where I live?"

"If you need protection-" She stopped him with a shake of her head.

"-No, John, I don't want Blinders following me around everywhere, thanks. I can look after myself."

John let out a long sigh before pouring himself another drink. He knew there was no arguing with her on the matter - Florence had always been too headstrong for her own good.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he looked up at her before asking the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for the last few days. "What were you trying to tell me last week?" He asked, his words piercing the quiet moment.

He had wanted to ask her long before that moment, but his hesitation was down to the fact that he wanted the timing to be right. In the months since she'd returned, Florence had been uncharacteristically secretive. Whereas years before she was an open book, now she held pain in her eyes that nobody seemed to know anything about. Something bad had happened to her, something more than just the war. And John wanted to help her, but it was like taming a wild animal.

She flinched. It was like the words made her ears sting. Florence feigned innocence and couldn't bring herself to look at him. In that moment, she realised John's game. He had only just brought it up because he was worried about her, not because he didn't care, but that only made her feel worse about lying to him. "When do you mean?" She moved to sit on the sofa next to him, it being easier to avoid his gaze than if she was standing directly in front of him.

"You know when."

"I don't really remember."

John abruptly slammed his glass down on the table, disconcerted by her blatant lies. "Well, I bloody do. What did you mean, Flo? When you said things could have been different?" His anger wasn't unwarranted. He leaned in towards her, forcing her eyes to meet his, a hand on the back of her neck. "You better fucking answer me, Florence."

She reeled away from his grasp. "I said I can't remember, alright? Give it a rest, John, I'm not in the mood to argue with you."

"But-"

"But shut up. You fucked up my day today. I had shit to do." With a swift change in subject, the conversation was over. John had finally found the balls to bring it up and had royally fucked it. He cursed himself as the two sat in an awkward silence, sipping on their whiskey, as Florence's cigarette burned out in the ashtray.

Trying to lighten the mood, John turned to her slowly. "What was so important about today then?"

Florence gave him a curious look. "If you must know, I wanted some opinions." She rose from her seat to retrieve the paper bag that was sitting by the front door. "And since you're the only person I've spoken to today thanks to your lateness, I guess you'll have to do."

Confusion washed over his face. "Opinions on what?" He questioned.

"This." From the bag, Florence pulled her bundle of red silk, holding the dress up to her frame.

John nodded towards her, sitting back in his seat. "Well, put it on then," he leered, a smirk forming on his lips.

Putting the dress down and moving to unfasten her buttons, Florence gave him a hard glare. "Close your eyes. If you dare look at me, I promise you'll lose them."

"Nothing I haven't seen before, love," he taunted, his tone alluring. She took a peek over her shoulder to check his eyes were closed before pulling her dress over her head. The last place she had expected to be that day was standing in John's living room in her underwear.

"You won't see anything again if you're not careful," she added for effect. Honestly, she couldn't care less if John saw her in her skivvies or not. He was right, he had seen it all before, but some instinct in her was telling her to protect her modesty that night. She smoothed out the red dress over her frame before summoning him. "Alright, John, you can look now."

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. "Fucking hell, Flo," he uttered, his eyes like saucers.

She did a little twirl, swaying her hips playfully. "It's alright, isn't it?"

"It's more than alright. You're fucking stunning, you are." John sat back, his hands steepled behind his head, admiring the view before him. Florence had always been pretty in her own way, but he'd never seen her like this before.

"Thank you, John," she said under her breath, a small smile playing on her lips. Never did she imagine John Shelby giving her fashion advice, but here they were. Maybe this was the start of the friendship she'd imagined them having for so long.

He gave her a final once over before standing, and picking up the two glasses. "But when did your tits get so big?" Before Florence could react, he was already cackling.

"John!" She smacked him hard on the shoulder, but she couldn't stop herself from laughing too.

"Get changed and I'll walk you home," he called back to her as he headed into the kitchen. Florence just smiled to herself.

Florence was absolutely exhausted after her babysitting stint and it showed. She'd forgotten how much four kids could tire you out, and with only a handful of hours of sleep, she was tired. The bags under her eyes and her abrupt temperament that day were telling of that. Her focus was waning and for the first time in a while she was glad to have Grace working at the pub as an extra pair of hands. As she listed off the jobs that needed doing that day, she noticed Grace's attention was elsewhere as she absentmindedly dried the glasses. Her eyes were focused in on the snug window. Whoever was in there, she was listening.

"Grace," Florence clapped her hands to get her attention. "Are you listening to me?"

The blonde jumped as her head snapped around to Florence. "Oh-um-yes. Sorry, what was it you were saying?"

Before she had a chance to respond, two men exited the snug room, followed by a cold-faced Tommy. With a tilt of her chin, she gestured for him to come over. "I'll just be a moment, Grace," Florence muttered as she moved to the other end of the bar in an attempt to avoid Grace's earwigging.

It only took Tommy a few long strides to be face to face with her. "What's all that about then?" She asked, referring to the two suspicious looking men that had just left the pub. Retrieving a glass, she poured him a whiskey and pushed it towards him, knowing he'd probably ask for one sooner or later.

Eyebrows raised, Tommy took a seat on a barstool and leaned across the bar towards her. "It's not about you, if that's what you're wondering. Good job staying out of the way this time, eh?" He said quietly so only she could hear, a smirk playing on his face.

Florence let out a sarcastic laugh before rolling her eyes at him. "That wasn't what I was wondering, Tom," she muttered, turning her back on him to start counting the cash from that afternoon.

A long silence suggested he had left her to it. "I need you to do something for me."

"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine…" she whispered aloud, before looking over her shoulder at him. "Who? Me?"

"Yes, you. Who else would I be asking?" Florence shrugged and began counting again, hoping he would just leave her alone if she gave him the cold shoulder. She was already annoyed at Tommy because he promised her to Billy Kimber and now he thought it was alright to make jokes about it? Since when did Tommy joke about anything?

"Flo." She could hear him tapping his hand on the bar, impatiently waiting for her to respond.

Florence huffed, before turning her body to face him. "What do you want? I'm not doing anything illegal for you if that's what you're asking."

He tugged off his hat and placed it on the bar in front of him, before settling his eyes on her. "I need you to talk to Ada. Rumour has it she's a married woman now."

"You leave her alone, Tommy. She deserves some peace," Florence exclaimed, jutting her chin out at him in defiance. With Tommy sitting down, Florence was a good couple of inches taller than him and she took pleasure in looking down on him for once.

"I just need to know that she's being taken care of properly."

Florence let out a huff, raising an accusing hand at him. "Yeah, right. You want to know where Freddie Thorne is so you can shoot him." Tommy had forgotten how well Florence knew him sometimes. "I'll try and find her, but you'll be the last person to know of her whereabouts, understand? And if you have any men follow me, I swear to God, Tom, I'll have their balls and yours." He had to suppress a smirk as he listened to Florence's outburst. He knew she'd never do him any harm. To him, she was about as threatening as eleven-year-old Finn. But he was treading on thin ice with her and he knew it. Tommy needed Florence to trust him and teasing her wasn't the way to go about it, even if he was starting to find her presence more endearing than before.

Florence's attentions were distracted by her dad, who had just entered the pub as if he wasn't the person who owned it. Solemn-faced, Harry looked the worse she'd seen him in her life.

"Dad!" She raised a hand in an effort to wave him over, but he didn't even look in her direction, heading straight to the Shelby's snug room.

"Right, I've got a meeting," Tommy said as he rose from his seat, retrieving his hat from the bar.

"What's the meeting about?" Florence asked, trying to meet his gaze but Tommy ignored her question.

"Let me know when you you've spoken to Ada. By the way, you look terrible. Make sure you're getting enough sleep, yeah? I need you looking lovely by the weekend." The weekend. The races. He nodded to her before following Harry through the door, leaving Florence gobsmacked.

It didn't take long for Florence to find where Ada was staying after asking around. No one knew of her involvement with Tommy and the Blinders; instead thinking she was a concerned friend of Ada's, one of Ada's communist confidante's gave her an address. Their conversation was cordial, though Ada wasn't too happy to see her.

"How did you find me?" She said, opening the door a little wider so Florence could step inside. Florence was baffled at the size of her, it had only been six weeks and Ada was already huge.

"I just asked around. You need to be careful who you trust," she muttered, her eyes trained on Ada's baby bump. "Congratulations are in order, I heard you're married now."

Ada wasn't particularly responsive to Florence in spite of the two women being friends. Florence could tell she was terrified of what might happen if the wrong person found out where she was staying so she promised to keep it secret.

"Everyone just wants to know that you're okay. I'll come back again next week, if that's alright. I'll bring you some food from the market." Ada had reluctantly agreed.

Satisfied with her good deed, Florence was in good spirits as she made her way back to the pub, ready for a hot bath before the evening shift started. Only when she arrived, she found Harry waiting for her. Seated awkwardly on her bed, he looked even worse than he did the previous day. In that moment, she understood what had happened and cursed herself for not realising earlier.

"When?" The word fell from her mouth. She couldn't bear to ask the whole question. When did she die?

"Last week. You're the first to know other than me and Eddie."

Florence's hand flew to her mouth as she sucked in a breath. "Last week? Why didn't you tell me before?" It was as though she had no control over her words.

Harry brought his hands across his face, unable to look at her. "I wanted to, Flo. But I needed someone to keep the pub running smoothly while the deal was finished."

"What do you mean? What deal?" Florence was fixed to the spot, but she wanted nothing more than to run. Her dad's behaviour scared her, and she knew this was about more than just her stepmother.

"I can't keep doing this. I already let you down once when this happened before, I can't let history repeat itself with your brother."

"What are you trying to say, Dad?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I'm saying that I've sold the pub. I'm selling the house, too. Me and Eddie are going away somewhere, somewhere I can give him a better life." His words echoed in her head, words she never thought she would hear.

"But… I came back here to help. We knew this was going to happen. I was going to help you look after Eddie. We were ready." Florence had been under the impression that despite her stepmother's imminent passing, things were going to be alright. Part of the reason why she returned to Birmingham was because she knew her family would need her. But instead, like before, her dad wanted to leave her behind. It confused her, but at the same time it made sense. Harry had been through this once before, raising a child on his own after his wife was gone, and he didn't do the best job. This time he had Florence, but he didn't want her. It was just like years before. He wanted to do better for Eddie so he wouldn't have to send this child away as well.

Harry's voice broke her from her thoughts. "Look, you're welcome to come with us, if you'd like. I'm sorry, Florence," he said, but she knew that wasn't what he wanted.

Stony-faced, she looked up at him. "Yeah. Me too," she muttered, before turning on her heel and storming down the stairs. She stormed past Tommy and Arthur in the pub and onto the street, and then she ran. Making it to Watery Lane in minutes, she opened the door to find John in the kitchen.

"Is Polly here?" She asked. There was no time for polite greetings. Her thoughts were racing through her head faster than she could comprehend them.

"She's in the office. What's the matter?" Florence didn't take the time to answer John's question, instead opting to find Polly. Her hair was flowing freely over her shoulders; she didn't realise that her up-do had come loose on her race to get there.

Taking a seat in Polly's office, she waited for Polly to look up at her before speaking. Polly quickly grew concerned at the state of her. Eyes wild, hair a mess, she knew something had happened before she even started speaking.

"I saw Ada today," Florence blurted out, continuing before Polly could ask any questions. "She's bloody huge. I think she's lonely, but she's alright. Promised her I wouldn't tell anyone where she is, so I can't give you her address. But I'm going to see her again next week, to bring her food and stuff."

Polly watched Florence in awe. Never had she seen the girl so frantic. Her knee bounced uncontrollably as she wrung her hands, eyes trained on the floor. Polly stood up and made her way around the desk, taking the seat next to her.

"Florence… what's wrong?" She grabbed her hand in an attempt to stop her fidgeting.

She took a deep breath. "Helen died," she said slowly.

"What?"

"Last week. She died. My dad just told me."

"I'm sorry, Flo." Polly pulled her into a hug, stroking her hair. She'd always had a soft spot for her, she remembered embracing her the same way years earlier when Florence's own mother had died.

"Don't be." Florence pulled away from Polly abruptly. "My dad's leaving with Eddie. Probably moving out to the country somewhere. So he can give him a better life, he said. So history won't repeat itself." Florence could feel herself getting more irate as she spoke her dad's words to herself.

"Oh, God, Flo-," Polly tried to interject, wanting to talk some sense into her before she worked herself up too much.

"And that's not even the best part." Florence stood and began pacing the room, unable to sit still. "He sold the pub. He fucking sold The Garrison!" She brought her hands to her eyes, trying to stave off the tears that she refused to let fall.

"Jesus," Polly grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look her in the eye. "It's alright, sweetheart. You'll sort this out." She wasn't sure how Florence would sort it out, but she knew that the Blinders would take care of her. If Harry wasn't a grieving widower for the second time, Polly would have given him a piece of her mind by now.

"I know, it's just-I can't believe it." Florence dropped her hands from her face and allowed Polly to hold her once again, her calming energy being Florence's only comfort in her moment of heartache.

"You will be okay," Polly said to her. "Remember you've got your mother's strength." Florence knew she was right. Finding peace in Polly's wisdom, she settled back in her chair and took a deep breath.

"Polly! Where are you?" Arthur's voice boomed through the house into the office, followed by the slam of the front door.

Polly opened the office door a crack to a grinning Arthur, leaving Florence's chair obscured from his view. "Now's really not the time, Arthur."

"Come for a drink, Pol! Tommy's bought me The fucking Garrison!" Arthur's words made Florence's blood run cold.

She rose from her seat slowly, before pushing open the door to reveal herself. "He what?" Arthur's face dropped at the sight of an obviously devastated Florence. "Where is he?" She pushed past the two of them and wandered into the house, finding just the man she was looking for standing alone in the kitchen. She didn't know what she was going to do to him, but it wasn't going to be good.

Making her way across the room towards him, Tommy was quick to grab her wrists before she could strike him. "What the fuck, Thomas?" Florence seethed. She tried to fight him but he was much stronger than she was. So instead, she opted to shove him away from her as hard as she could. He stumbled back, bracing himself against the table.

"Flo," Tommy tried to approach her, seemingly calm aside from his heavy breathing, but Florence just shook her head at him.

"Don't," was the only word she could utter, but her darkening eyes said more. Before he could stop her, she was out of the door.

"Fucking hell…" Tommy whispered, as he pulled out his cigarette case and took a seat at the table.