The clock ticked to 5:45 AM. Thomas Shelby stood still in the quiet of the master bedroom. Dressed to precision in his signature navy three-piece suit, undercut slicked back sharp, pocket watch in place, he was the picture of ruthless control. Cold, calculating, and feared by the world. But right now, he wasn’t the man running Birmingham.

He was just a man looking at the Woman he had slept with.

You lay sprawled across the bed,. He was. Fully dressed.

Tommy (low voice, cigarette in hand, looking down at you): “get up, or I smack your ass.”

He takes a slow drag, eyes never leaving you. He crouches, resting his forearms on his knees at the side of the bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest.