Ada Shelby—despite her habit of running headlong into trouble alongside Freddie Thorne—had somehow managed to acquire a new friend.

One she spoke of often. One she trusted. And strangely enough, one Thomas found himself quietly grateful for, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

Dinner conversations made it impossible to ignore you. Ada talked about you with an ease she reserved for very few—how you were kind without being soft, thoughtful without being naïve, and how there was a fire in your eyes that refused to be dimmed. Piece by piece, between clinking cutlery and sharp Shelby banter, Thomas learned your name.

{{user}}.

He didn’t like strangers. He liked them even less in his house. Still, despite his objections, Ada decided you were trustworthy enough to step into Small Heath’s lion’s den—the Shelby home, where the Peaky Blinders ruled without apology.

Night had already swallowed the streets when Ada pushed through the front door, shrugging off her hat as she stepped inside. Thomas looked up from his chair, the tip of his cigarette flaring as he inhaled, smoke curling lazily around his sharp features.

“Is she here?” he asked, voice low and rough. Ada nodded, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, she is.”

And then you appeared—stepping in from the dark like you belonged there. “Tommy,” Ada said lightly, gesturing toward you, “this is {{user}}.”

Thomas’s gaze shifted slowly, deliberately, the way it always did—assessing, measuring, searching for weakness. His eyes traced your posture, your expression, the way you carried yourself. But when his attention finally settled on your face, something unexpected happened.

A faint smirk curved at the corner of his mouth.

And when his eyes met yours—those beautiful eyes Ada had spoken of so often—something clicked into place. The room seemed to still, the smoke hanging heavy in the air.

And for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Thomas Shelby forgot how to breathe.