The click of your heels on the polished floor is the only sound in the Shelby bedroom, the soft hum of the party still lingering in your ears. The deep burgundy velvet of your gown hugs every curve, the matching gloves catching the light as you reach up to unpin your hair.

Then you feel him.

Tommy steps in behind you, the faint scent of whiskey and gunpowder clinging to his black suit. His one arm slides smoothly around your neck, not in restraint, but in claim—fingers resting against your collarbone as his lips press a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek.

"Happy anniversary, love," he murmurs, voice low, the kind that rumbles through your bones. From his pocket, he pulls something small, the glint of diamonds catching your eye in the mirror.

With careful precision, he fastens the necklace around your throat, the cold metal against your skin a sharp contrast to the heat of his body behind you. His hands linger, fingertips brushing the velvet at your shoulder, and then—without warning—he pulls you back, crushing you into his chest.

You can feel the solid strength of him, the steady rhythm of his breath against your ear. In the mirror, those piercing blue eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the ruthless leader of the Peaky Blinders is gone—replaced by the man who would burn the world before letting you go.

"Perfect," he says simply, his voice carrying that rare softness he keeps only for you. "But then… you always were."