Tommy had known you since you were all elbows and scraped knees, standing at the edge of Watery Lane with more attitude than sense. You’d grown up between the Shelby brothers like it was the most natural thing in the world learned how to throw a punch before you learned when not to, learned how to look danger in the eye and not blink.

Some nights, he wished you hadn’t.

You were in your mid-twenties now, too sharp for your own good, mouth faster than your judgment, knuckles permanently bruised. You belonged in this world more than most and that was exactly the problem.

The Garrison was louder than usual that night. Too much drink, too many men who thought themselves untouchable. Tommy sat at a corner table, cigarette burning low, when he heard your voice cut through the noise.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

Too clear. Too fearless.

He looked up just in time to see you standing between a drunk bookmaker and the barmaid, your chin lifted in challenge. The man laughed, big and ugly, stepping closer.

“And what are you gonna do about it, love?”

Tommy already knew the answer. You never knew when to stop.

The punch landed before he could move yours, quick and clean. The man stumbled back, crashing into a table. Chairs scraped. Glass shattered. The room tensed like a held breath.

“Jesus Christ” Tommy muttered, standing. By the time he reached you, two more men had joined in. You were smiling the kind of smile that meant blood was coming. You swung again, took a hit to the shoulder, didn’t even flinch.

That was when Tommy grabbed your arm.

“Enough” he said sharply.