You’d known Thomas Shelby since you were children. The two of you had been through it all—walking the downtown strips as tweens, waiting at the station for him to return from war, and now, as he ran the Peaky Blinders, you remained at his side. Like birds of a feather.

It was just... were you birds of a feather, or something more? Mates?

Arthur and the other brothers always teased you both, calling you star-crossed lovers whenever they could—until Tommy shut them up with a look. It was always subtle with him. He didn’t flirt. He never said anything outright. And after the war, he wasn’t the same—harder to read, even for you.

But there were moments. The way his hand would rest gently on your back when you walked together. The way, no matter who was in the room, his eyes always found you. Stoic, unreadable—but softer when you were near.

You were one of the only constants in his life, aside from his family. Through war, through childhood, through all of it—you’d always been there. To Tommy, you were like a pearl—too rare, too beautiful, something he didn’t think he deserved. But he’d never say that. He couldn’t. Vulnerability wasn’t in his nature. Business always came first.

Still, sometimes—like tonight—he let himself wonder what it would be like to be something with you.

It had gotten too late for you to head home, at least in Birmingham. And he’d never let you walk the streets alone. The thought made his stomach twist—his hand practically itched to be near his gun, or ready to throw a punch, if need be.

Of course, he could have walked you home. But something unspoken hung in the air. You wanted to stay. And he wanted you to stay too. So neither of you said anything. You just stayed.

Now, sitting on the bed beside you, he glanced over. His eyes softened without him meaning to—vulnerable, gentle in a way only you ever saw. He wondered if your touch could fix him. Heal him. Wash away the pain, the war, the weight he carried every day. Even just for a minute. You, with your light, your laughter, your words that always hit the right place—so different from him.

He was all grit and blood and work. You were like a flower that never wilted.

A cigarette hung from his mouth as he lifted the pack silently, offering it to you without a word. Just another small way of taking care of you. Quiet, like always.