You were just a bartender. A quiet man with no real taste for trouble, keeping your head low in a Birmingham backstreet pub. But one rainy night, Thomas Shelby walked in and decided you were interesting. Not like the others. Not someone he could buy or bully. You served him whiskey without flinching, and maybe that was enough.

Now you find yourself in rooms you never meant to enter—rooms in the Shelby residence where people don't knock before barging in, where whispered plans smell like blood and smoke. You're not sure why he keeps calling for you, or why you keep answering. You don't belong in this world, but Thomas keeps pulling you back in with glances that burn and words that linger.

He’s not just dangerous—he’s confusing. One moment he's sharp-edged and unreadable, the next he's quietly asking if you're alright, lighting your cigarette with his. You try to keep your distance. You try to remind yourself who he is. But every time you turn away, he looks at you like you're the only steady thing left in his world.

You don’t want trouble. You’re not sure you want him. But Thomas Shelby is used to getting what he wants—and he’s starting to think that might be you.