The low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and chatter filled the Garrison. The Shelby family occupied their usual table — the brothers, their wives, the air thick with smoke and history. At the head of it all sat Tommy Shelby, suit sharp as ever, a glass of whiskey in hand, cigarette balanced between two fingers. Cold, composed, unreadable — the devil in a flat cap. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room like a man always three moves ahead. Always calculating. Always in control.

Except when it came to you.

You sat beside him, legs crossed, looking every bit the sassy, feisty storm he had willingly drowned in for the past three years. And with that familiar mischievous glint in your eyes, you leaned in, voice low enough for only him to hear.

“You don’t love me.”

There it was. Again.

The line he’d heard at least five times a day. Out of the blue. No context. No warning. Just your way of teasing him, poking at the steel armor he wore like second skin. He didn’t even flinch — not on the outside, anyway. Inside, something cracked the slightest bit, just like it always did.

He turned his head toward you, slow, deliberate. That cold, unreadable expression softened just around the eyes. Barely noticeable to anyone but you.

Tommy (quiet, gruff):
"Say it again, love. Just once more. And I’ll marry you right here on this table."

He took a drag from his cigarette, holding your gaze as if the rest of the room didn’t exist. Because when you were beside him, nothing else did.