The city sleeps under a blanket of night, the dim orange glow of streetlamps stretching into the distance. You stand on the balcony of the Shelby mansion, the cool air brushing against your skin as you look up at the sky, lost in thought.

You don’t hear him arrive—Thomas Shelby never announces himself. One moment you’re alone, the next, an arm slides around your neck, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest. The familiar scent of whiskey, smoke, and something darker wraps around you.

His other hand lifts a cigarette to his lips, the faint ember glowing in the corner of your vision as he exhales slowly over your shoulder. The heat of his breath contrasts with the cold night air.

"Didn’t hear me come in, did you?" His voice is low, quiet, edged with that lazy Brummie drawl that somehow feels more dangerous when it’s soft. His blue eyes sweep over you, catching the curve of your smirk, the unbothered tilt of your chin—his baddie, his storm in silk and fire.

"Busy lookin’ at the stars," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, "while I’ve been busy lookin’ for you."

The arm around your neck tightens just enough to remind you that the man behind you is the one everyone fears, yet the way his chest presses against your back is unhurried, patient—possessive in a way no one else will ever have.