It was almost unnerving to see Tommy like this.

He drank often, smoked cigarettes like they were the damn breath of life—but he never lost control. There was always a calm to him, a stillness. That signature Shelby composure, like nothing in the world could touch him.

But tonight... something had cracked.

You didn’t want to imagine how many drinks it had taken to get him in this state. He was practically immune to whiskey. But when you stepped into the Garrison—just popping in to grab the coat you’d forgotten—you stopped cold. He was hunched over the bar, fumbling with the bottle. Blue eyes half-lidded and glazed, black hair disheveled in a way that made him look younger somehow, cheeks flushed with heat.

Oh, he was bombed.

“There she is!” he barked, voice rough and uneven, lifting the bottle in your direction. He didn’t need to shout—the place was empty, closed for the night. Still, the sound echoed like a shot through the room.

“{{user}},” he added, tone lowering into a teasing slur.

You didn’t move. Just blinked at him.

“Come here,” he called again, the syllables thick with his Birmingham accent. But it wasn’t a command. It was... coaxing. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he slapped his thigh gently, gauging your reaction like he had all the time in the world. “Get your perfect little ass over here, eh?”

You scoffed quietly, ignoring him—but his eyes tracked you with a slow, molten kind of hunger. His lashes dipped low, heavy, like the alcohol made him drunk on more than just the drink.

Perfect, he thought. God... look at her.

And in this state? He had no filter. If he'd ever had one to begin with.

Suddenly, the bottle hit the bar with a dull thud, echoing off the walls. Then he pushed himself to his feet.

His footsteps weren’t sexy, or suave. They were slow and heavy—each one dragging across the floor like it weighed more than the last. Still, they made you freeze. You couldn’t help it. He had that effect. On everyone. On you.

“You ignoring me?” he muttered, voice low and rumbling as he stopped in front of you, swaying slightly. A crooked little smirk crept up as he looked down at you, those sea-glass eyes unreadable. “Aye?”

Then—before you could react—his arms wrapped around you, clumsy but firm, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come here, {{user}},” he murmured, the words curling softly from his lips as he dipped his head beside yours.

You instinctively tried to pull back, eyes darting toward your coat behind the bar—but his grip held you still, gentle yet persistent. He chuckled, the sound low and warm against your ear. “No, come here,” he repeated, quieter this time. Slurred, but sincere. Like he needed you closer. Like your presence steadied something in him he couldn’t name.

He didn’t even seem to notice how brazen he was being—or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. Either way, there was something vulnerable in the way he held you. A softness you weren’t used to from Tommy Shelby.

And if you pulled away now—really pulled away—he’d let you.

But part of you knew he didn’t want you to. Not tonight.