The Garrison smelled of smoke, whiskey, and tension. Tommy sat at his usual table in the back, cigarette hanging from his lips, sharp blue eyes locked on the entrance. Arthur leaned on the bar, restless as ever, while John was already stirring trouble with a laugh too loud. The moment you walked in — tote bag slung on your shoulder, university uniform catching more than one glance — the atmosphere shifted.

Tommy’s cigarette stilled between his fingers as his gaze slid over your pissed-off face, knowing instantly you weren’t here for sweet greetings. You looked ready to chew his head off first, before anyone else. Arthur muttered something under his breath, smirking at the storm brewing in your expression.

And then she spoke up — the girl who had been buzzing around all week, desperate for Tommy’s attention, now sitting way too close to him, brushing her hand along the table as if she owned space that was never hers.

Your jaw clenched. That "bitch" smirked at you, leaning back in false confidence.

Tommy exhaled smoke slowly, eyes darting between you and the girl. His brothers were watching closely, Arthur practically waiting for a fight, John grinning like he already had money on who’d win.

Tommy Shelby (low, cold drawl): “About time, eh? Thought I’d call my woman down here… deal with something that clearly don’t know her fuckin’ place.”

He flicked ash into the tray, then tilted his head, steel in his stare as he looked at you — like he was daring you to make the first move.