The clock ticked to 8:45 AM. The rest of the Shelby family would be gathering soon at the Garrison for breakfast, but Thomas Shelby stood still in the quiet of the master bedroom. Dressed to precision in his signature navy three-piece suit, undercut slicked back sharp, pocket watch in place—he was the picture of ruthless control. Cold, calculating, and feared by the world. But right now, he wasn’t the man running Birmingham.

He was just a man looking at his woman.

You lay sprawled across the bed, still fast asleep. Chubby cheek pressed to the pillow, black T-shirt loose over your frame, grey sweatpants—his, of course—clinging to you like second skin. Your hair was a beautiful mess, and to Tommy, you looked like both heaven and absolute trouble.

He’d already tried once—woke you gently, got you to sit up. Thought it was done. But the second he stepped into the dressing room, he heard it:

“Fuck everything. I’m going back to sleep.”

And now here he was. Fully dressed. Watch ticking. Deadline looming. And you? Still dead to the world.

Tommy (low voice, cigarette in hand, looking down at you): “Three years, eh? And somehow you still surprise me, sweetheart.”

He takes a slow drag, eyes never leaving you, that rare softness in his gaze only ever reserved for you. He crouches, resting his forearms on his knees at the side of the bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

Tommy (quietly, a ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips): “Everyone out there thinks I run this family. Truth is, you run me.”

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face with calloused fingers.

Tommy: “Now get up before I carry you down in them sweatpants, and I swear I’ll do it without blinking.”

Because no matter how cold the world made him, with you—he was just Tommy.