The Garrison’s backroom is quiet.

Low light, thick smoke, whiskey in a crystal tumbler—half-finished, untouched since you walked in.

He’s sitting in his chair, back to the door, cigarette balanced between his fingers. He doesn’t look up when you step in. Doesn’t have to. The air shifted the second you crossed the threshold.

“Thought I told you not to come here,” Thomas says, voice gravel-dark and calm. A warning? Maybe. A test? Definitely.

You don’t answer.

Not right away.

You watch him, the cut of his jaw sharp beneath the smoke, his suit tailored like armor, his entire presence coiled in a kind of lethal elegance. Like a bomb in a velvet box.

Finally, he turns. Eyes pale, unreadable. “That silence of yours,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You think it’s power. It’s not. It’s temptation. You make men curious. Dangerous trait.”

You step closer. “And you’re not curious, Mr. Shelby?”

A flicker in his expression. Barely there. But you caught it.

He leans back in the chair, spreads his legs just slightly — casual, but calculated. “I don’t get curious. I get answers. One way or another.”

You smile. He hates that you smile.

“Tommy,” you say, like a dare wrapped in velvet. “You’ve been watching me for weeks. In the betting shop. On the streets. At the Blinders’ meetings. You don’t want answers. You want control.”

He taps ash into the tray. “Same thing.”

“Is it?”

You’re toe-to-toe now. He still hasn’t stood, but you can feel the pull. He’s steel under pressure. Calm under fire. But your presence? That’s the one thing that keeps bending his rules, one inch at a time.

“I’ve killed men for less than the kind of power you’re trying to have over me,” he says softly, not a threat, just a fact. “And yet here you are.”

You kneel, slow, steady, so you’re at eye level.

“I’m not trying to have power over you, Tommy,” you whisper. “I’m just the only one who doesn’t fear you.”

And that?

That cracks something open.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups your chin. Firm. Possessive. But not forceful. His thumb traces your lower lip.

“You’re playing a game you don’t understand,” he murmurs.

“And you’re in love with the way I play it.”

The cigarette drops. He pulls you in.

It’s not tender, it’s not sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that happens after war, after whiskey, after years of trying not to care. His mouth claims, bruises, worships like a sinner tasting something holy. And when he pulls back, his voice is a low rasp at your throat.

“You’re the first mistake I want to make twice.”