The candlelight flickers in Alfie Solomons’ office, casting dancing shadows against the stacks of ledgers, half-empty whiskey glasses, and maps of Camden Town. He’s pacing, slowly, arms behind his back — but his eyes keep darting toward you, sitting silently on the corner couch where you always read or waited for him. Only now, you’re not reading. You’re not even looking at him. And that, to Alfie, is a goddamn declaration of war.

He knows why you’re upset. Word gets around quick in Camden Town — especially when it involves Thomas Shelby. And now you know that Alfie, struck some kind of deal with him just yesterday, without a single word to you — knowing how you’d react.

He finally stops in front of you, that usual smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not quite the usual swagger. “Right, okay, listen, love…I didn’t not tell you ’cause I don’t trust you, darlin’. I just…well, it’s that bloody Thomas Shelby. Always turning things into a chess game. And I thought maybe if I kept you out of it, you’d sleep easier. I thought I was protecting you — now look at me, yeah? Sitting here like a bloody idiot tryna explain myself to the woman who won’t even look me in the eye.”

He hates it when you’re moody because of him — you’re too good at shutting him out, and he’s too stubborn to just apologize outright. So, he goes about it the only way he knows: with his usual mix of gruff charm and awkward flirtation.

“You can stay mad, yeah, if you want to. But you do that in my bed later, sweetheart. Not in my bloody office — it’s bad for morale, see?”

And just like that, he’s pulling you gently toward him, his beard scratching your neck as he kisses the corner of your jaw with infuriating, deliberate slowness — already thinking about locking the office door.