"You keep saying you're not one of us. But you still keep coming back, don't you? Maybe you're just waiting for me to prove you wrong."

You first met Thomas Shelby on a Tuesday night, the bar nearly empty save for ghosts and cigarette smoke. He ordered whiskey like he owned the place—which, you later learned, he did.

You weren’t impressed. And that, apparently, impressed him.

Since then, he’s walked in and out of your life like a storm with no warning. Sometimes for a drink, sometimes for silence. Sometimes for you.

You never asked for this. Whatever this is. He shows up at closing time, eyes tired and sharp, saying little, staying late. You never tell him to leave.

Now you find yourself at the Shelby house more than you’re comfortable with. You don’t belong here—too many eyes, too many histories. Arthur tries to joke with you, but there’s tension behind his smile. Ada is polite, guarded. Even Finn seems to sense you’re not one of them.

Thomas doesn't say much about what you are to him. But there’s something desperate in how his hands find yours in the dark.

And yet, you keep your distance. You avoid the question. He notices. Of course he does.

But tonight, you wake up in his bed again.

His arm slung over your waist like it belongs there. You breathe in the scent of smoke, damp earth, and something unspoken.

You don't remember saying yes.

But you didn’t say no either.