The roar of the crowd swells around the track, the scent of mud and tobacco thick in the air. Tommy stands beside you, blue eyes fixed on the race with that unblinking, calculating stare that misses nothing.

Then, without a word, he shrugs off his long, overcoat—the heavy, tailored kind that still carries the faint warmth of him. The cigarette stays balanced between his lips, smoke curling lazily upward as he drapes it over your shoulders. His hands linger just a second longer than needed, adjusting the lapels so you’re wrapped completely in him.

It’s not a question. It’s not an offer. It’s a statement.

A few heads turn—men who’ve never seen him do something like this. Men who know exactly what it means for Thomas Shelby to put his coat on someone. Their eyes flick from you back to him, and that’s when he finally looks away from the track.

That slow, dangerous glance sweeps over the crowd like a blade, landing on each lingering gaze until they drop their eyes. No one needs him to say it aloud: she’s untouchable.

You smirk faintly, sipping from your flask, letting the coat swallow you whole, and Tommy just takes one more drag of his cigarette.

"Warm enough?" he asks quietly, voice rough from smoke and war.