Thomas Shelby's piercing blue gaze practically burnt into your skull as he exhaled,

muscled arms folded over his suit adorned torso with furrowed brows and a softened expression as he observed your features. He wasn't a man to be romantic, yet, he had spent years pining over you—practically begging for your hand. His head cocked; "I'm giving you quite a good opportunity, love." he rasped out in his low and husky Birmingham accent.

"All I'm asking is for you to marry me." he retorted, borderline tense at the statement that you had suspected quite easily.

"I know you aren't fond of what I do and I know I'm not a good man, sweetheart. But I can promise to be a good man to you,"

"—to never hurt you, never make you cry or never let anyone fuckin' touch you." he lowly spoke. Lighting a cigarette with his calloused and large hands.