The din of the Liverpool pub, a dense medley of northern accents and glasses slamming against damp wood, slipped into an indistinct hum the moment Cillian was left alone at the table. He ran a hand over his face, pressing his fingertips against his temples with calculated force.

He was exhausted. Stepping into the shoes of Thomas Shelby required a descent into a darkness that left him drained, but the tension stiffening his shoulders in that moment had nothing to do with the script.

He looked up, almost against his own will. {{user}} was at the bar, waiting for the two pints of Guinness. The amber light of the pub ignited her hair into an almost insolent red, in sharp contrast with the freckled pallor of her neck emerging from her dark coat.

She stood motionless, her posture straight, the stoic profile of someone who has no need to interact with the surrounding world to assert their presence. She wasn't flirting with the bartender. She was simply waiting for their two pints.

She was an island of absolute rigor amidst the chaos. And that was exactly the problem.

His jaw clenched. Cillian lowered his eyes to the scratched table, staring at a water ring left by a previous glass. Dublin. His home. His wife. His untouchable, vital normality.

Until two months prior, his mind had been an impregnable fortress, a perfectly oiled mechanism where work was mere craftsmanship and real life only began once he crossed the threshold of his home in Ireland.

Yet, when she had delivered a remark of chilling sarcasm, he had looked at her. Not with the professional detachment and analytical respect owed to a brilliant director.

He had looked at her with an intellectual and visceral hunger that disgusted and attracted him with the same, brutal intensity.

He took a deep, slow breath, resetting his facial features into his usual mask of polite detachment, just as {{user}}'s figure pushed off from the bar, two pints of Guinness in her hands, and began walking toward him.