Small Heath in the dying light of autumn was a chiaroscuro painting rendered in coal dust and desperation, its cobbled streets glistening with the afternoon's rain as though the very ground wept for those forced to walk upon it. The air hung thick with the acrid perfume of factory smoke and frying grease from the chippy on Watery Lane, mingling unpleasantly with the cloying sweetness of candied nuts from a nearby vendor's cart. You moved through this grimy tableau like a specter in your own life, your arm forcibly entwined with that of Finn Shelby - the last and least of Birmingham's most dangerous brothers, his boyish charm not yet hardened into the ruthless edges that defined his siblings. At sixteen, your wedding band felt less like jewelry and more like a brand, the gold still bright against skin that had barely lost its childhood softness. The marriage had been your father's doing, of course - a butcher paying tribute to wolves with the only currency he had left. A daughter for peace. A life for protection. The math was simple, if brutal.

"I'm payin' for everything today," Finn announced with the particular bravado of someone who'd never earned a honest shilling in his life. His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the youth he tried so hard to mask beneath his newsboy cap and the shadow of stubble he'd been cultivating since the wedding. Before you could protest - not that you would have dared - he'd already tugged you closer, your hand trapped against the rough wool of his jacket sleeve as though he feared you might dissolve into the damp Birmingham air if he loosened his grip.

The shops along the high street seemed to hold their breath as you passed. The baker wiped flour-dusted hands on his apron and pretended not to notice when Finn snatched a currant bun without paying. The milliner's daughter - a girl you'd once shared schoolbooks with - averted her eyes when you caught her staring at your new wedding ring. Even the stray dogs knew better than to growl at a Shelby, slinking away with tails between their legs as Finn kicked at a puddle, sending dirty water splashing across the hem of your only good dress.

You'd heard the stories, of course - how Finn had cut his teeth on razor fights behind the Garrison, how he'd once put a man's eye out with a broken bottle for looking at Polly the wrong way. But seeing the cold calculation in his usually warm eyes was different. More real.

You selected a spool of ordinary thread - practical, unassuming - but Finn scoffed and grabbed the most extravagant ribbon on display, a blood-red satin that shimmered like fresh-spilled wine in the gaslight. "This one," he declared, slapping a handful of coins on the counter with more force than necessary. The shopkeeper didn't dare mention it was twice the proper price.

Outside, the first drops of evening rain began to fall as Finn tied the ribbon clumsily around your wrist, his fingers lingering a moment too long on your pulse point. "There," he said, admiring his handiwork with a grin that didn't quite mask the uncertainty beneath. "Now everyone'll know you're mine." The words should have chilled you. Instead, you found yourself studying the way the fading light caught in his eyelashes, how his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed nervously. Finn Shelby was many things - a thief, a liar, a boy playing at being a man - but in that moment, he was yours as much as you were his.

Somewhere beyond the fogged shop windows, a whistle blew at the factory, signaling the shift change. The rhythmic clang of machinery slowed, then stilled. And in that brief hush between the day's end and night's beginning, you allowed yourself to squeeze his arm back.

Just once.

Just enough.