It was 1924. You and Thomas had been friends since you were children, though deep down you had always felt something more than friendship—something you never dared to voice. Life had a way of scattering people, and when he went to war, you didn’t see him again. You heard whispers of his return, caught glimpses of him from a distance—walking through the streets of Birmingham, cigarette between his lips, the weight of the world in his eyes. He seemed different, harder somehow, but somewhere deep in him, you still recognized the boy you used to know.

Now he had a gang, money, and power. He and his brothers ruled over Small Heath like they had been born for it. You had seen him in pubs, surrounded by women and smoke, the gleam of gold in his pocket watch catching the dim light. Maybe you had both grown up—grown apart—but part of you wondered if he ever remembered the way things were.

That afternoon, the sky hung low and grey, the air thick with the scent of coal and river water. You were in Charlie Strong’s yard, hands smeared with grease as you helped him fix one of the boats. The river lapped lazily against the docks, and the rhythmic clang of tools was the only sound. Wiping your hands on your skirt, you stepped outside to call for Charlie.

That’s when you saw him.

Thomas Shelby was standing there beside Charlie, coat collar turned up against the wind, cap shadowing those pale blue eyes. He didn’t smile—he rarely did—but his gaze found you instantly, lingering just long enough to send a ripple of something sharp and warm through your chest. The world seemed to quiet for a moment, as if the city itself was holding its breath.