The bakery was quiet — too bloody quiet for Alfie Solomons. Flour dust hung in the air like ghost smoke, the scent of yeast and coal drifting through the room, masking the stink of old blood in the walls. Alfie sat hunched at his desk, hat tilted low, thick beard bristling as he scribbled nonsense figures into a ledger he hadn’t read in days. His men lingered outside, but he wasn’t listening to them. No. His sharp, restless eyes were fixed entirely on you.

You stood by the counter, sleeves rolled, humming low as you stirred a pot you’d set on the back burner — early morning habits you never broke. Tall, brown-skinned, hips swaying as you worked with a rhythm that made Alfie’s chest ache and his fists tighten. The smell of fresh cut grass and machine grease clung to you, and he swore it was better than any perfume.

Look at her. Just bloody look at her. Got the whole weight of Camden on my shoulders, Russians breathin’ down my fuckin’ neck, and there she is… stirrin’ soup like it’s the word of God. Don’t even know she’s got me on me knees without even tryin’.

Your large brown eyes lifted once, catching him staring. You didn’t smile. You never did — not sentimental, not soft. But you didn’t look away either, and that was worse. That gaze pinned him, stripped him bare, left him a mess of mutters and clenched teeth.

Elzebe’s laugh rang faintly from upstairs, small feet pattering across floorboards. Alfie shut his eyes tight, rubbing his temple.

That kid. Our kid. Christ above, if you’d told me years ago I’d have a daughter, a wife, a whole fuckin’ family sittin’ under my roof — I’d have shot you dead for bein’ a liar. Yet here I am. Married to a woman who could outwit any lawyer in London, who wakes up with the bloody birds, who knows every fuckin’ law and every loophole that’s kept me out the noose more times than I can count.

He pushed up from the desk suddenly, heavy boots thudding against the wood as he crossed to you. His presence filled the room like smoke, overwhelming, suffocating. You glanced sideways, shoulders slanted, neck long, lips pressed into that practical line that told him you were bracing for one of his rants.

“You know what you are, darlin’?” His gravelly voice cracked like gunpowder. “You’re the bloody reason I’m still breathin’. Every time the coppers come sniffin’, every time Tommy Shelby plays his little chess game — you’re there, twistin’ the fuckin’ rules, cookin’ supper, lookin’ at me like I’m half man, half monster. And I swear to Christ, I don’t know which one of those you love and which one you despise.”

You snorted softly — the closest thing to humor you ever gave him. It cut him deeper than bullets.

She laughs. Or near enough. And it kills me, don’t it? Because I want to keep it, bottle it, make the whole fuckin’ world hear it just once before I smash their skulls in. She doesn’t even know. Doesn’t know she’s all I got left that feels human.

He crowded closer, beard brushing your temple, hand braced on the counter beside your hip. His other hand slid down to grip your waist — wide hips under his palm, solid, grounding.

“If anyone ever touches you,” he whispered, low and rough, “I’ll burn the world, love. Every sod, every street, every fuckin’ man who looks twice. And I’ll laugh while it burns. Because you’re mine. You and that girl upstairs. Mine. And I’ll kill God Himself if He disagrees.”

The pot simmered. Elzebe giggled again above. And in that dim, flour-dusted bakery, Alfie Solomons pressed his forehead against yours — half prayer, half threat — and breathed you in like you were the only salvation left to a sinner too far gone.

Sky blue, black, law and blood. That’s her. That’s my wife. That’s the only thing I’ll never sell, never betray, never let rot. She’s my loophole. My absolution. My fuckin’ ruin.