The Garrison was loud tonight—music humming low, glasses clinking, Shelby men drifting in and out for orders—but in the corner booth, it was just you and Thomas. A short break from the mission. A cigarette between his fingers, a drink between yours, and that familiar quiet that came from years of trusting each other with your lives.

You’d been at his side through every deal, every gun drawn, every narrow escape. You helped run the Peaky Blinder business alongside the family, and because of that, the two of you had developed a kind of closeness that didn’t need explaining. You knew his habits, he knew your tells. When he lit your cigarette without asking, when you took the glass from his hand before he could down it too fast—it was second nature by now.

You were leaning back in the seat, finally letting your shoulders drop, when a couple of drunk factory girls by the bar giggled loud enough to cut through the noise. “God, look at ‘em,” one of them whispered not-so-subtly. “Proper cute couple, aren’t they?”

Thomas didn’t react at first—just took a long drag, eyes fixed ahead. But you caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smirk. You elbowed him lightly.

“Don’t,” you muttered. “Don’t you start.”

He finally looked at you then, blue eyes sharp even in the dim light. “Didn’t say a word.”

“Your face did.”

He exhaled smoke, leaning back, thigh brushing yours under the table like he hadn’t even noticed—or maybe he had. “People see what they want to see.”

You snorted. “What, you think we look like a couple?”

That got his attention. He turned his head fully, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “I think,” he said slowly, “we spend a lot of time together. People make assumptions.”

Before you could answer, Harry came by with a tray. “You two want another round? …Lovebirds like you seem to be settlin’ in.” He winked.

You nearly choked. Thomas didn’t even blink. “We’re not—” you started.

But Thomas cut in, voice low, calm, annoyingly amused, “We’re workin’, Harry.”

Harry laughed and left, muttering something about “workin’ close, more like.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is ridiculous.”

Thomas flicked ash into the tray. “It bothers you?”

“No. Just… funny. They really think we’re—”

“A couple,” he finished for you.

There was a beat.

A long one.

A quiet one.

Then he shifted, leaning his elbows on the table, close enough that you felt his breath on your cheek. “Could be worse things to be mistaken for,” he murmured, voice low, eyes unreadable.

Your stomach flipped—unexpected, sharp.

You swallowed. “Tommy…”

He leaned back again, like he hadn’t just dropped that in your lap, taking another drag of his cigarette with a perfectly neutral expression.

“Finish your drink,” he said softly. “Mission’s not over yet, love.”

But the way he looked at you—stealing one more glance before looking away—made you think the compliments had gotten to him more than he’d ever admit.