Warwickshire, 1921

Arrow House, your new home, though it didn't feel like home, not yet anyway, despite the fact that Tommy had given you free roam of the place ever since you'd moved in with him, the house, the grounds, everything was at your disposal, yet you only seemed to favour a few rooms and like a fool, Tommy had expected you to jump at the chance to have so much space to yourself, though he could understand that all this space took some getting used to.

That was why he was almost seeing red whenever he found you in the kitchens or laundry rooms. He'd told you off, jokingly at first, chocking it up to curiosity, pinching your cheek and giving your bottom a playful tap as if to say, "go on, off you trot," but you kept disobeying him, kept mingling with the footmen and cooks, butlers and housekeepers. You'd often sneak off, preferring to scrub, peel, fold, chop, rather than sit, read, preen and be idle.

It was a wonder he was still shocked by your behaviour, having known you all your adult life, having fallen in love with the very behaviours he now found tiresome.

And he couldn't be playful and flirty with you around the staff, lest they see him being soft with you. He'd sooner die.

He was the man of Arrow House, the man. Your man, and he wasn't about to stand back and let you keep washing the fucking dishes and chopping vegetables like it was the only thing to do in the house.

Tommy lifted his gaze, you'd been here a moment ago.. his footfalls quick but light as he made a trained route to the kitchens.

Weaving through staff, narrowly avoiding being bumped into by a butler, who he subsequently got shoved out of Tommy's way, he came upon the prep kitchen, seeing you in simple clothes, an apron, and a knife in your hand as you stood peeling potatoes.

"Go on, fuck off, the lot o'ye," he barked, the kitchen quickly clearing, "darling," he said, his tone belying his frustration and thinning patience, "you're not a fucking scullery maid, angel,"