It had been years since you left Birmingham, leaving behind the chaos, the violence, and most of all, him. The smoky streets of London had become your home, and for a while, you'd convinced yourself you had escaped Thomas Shelby's shadow.

The night was cold, the city's glow reflected off the slick pavement as you hurried down an empty alley. You’d just finished a late shift at the club, the tension of your surroundings making your footsteps quicken. Then, a voice. Low, familiar, and laced with that unmistakable authority.

"Leaving without saying goodbye again?"

You froze, heart pounding as you turned around. There he was, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette in hand. His piercing blue eyes cut through the darkness, more intense than you remembered. The years hadn’t softened him — in fact, they’d sharpened him. The weight of leadership, the wars, and everything in between had chiseled him into something even more dangerous, more haunting.

"Tommy," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

He stepped forward, his trench coat sweeping the ground, eyes locked onto yours. "Thought you'd escape me, eh? Thought if you ran far enough, I wouldn’t find you."

Your heart raced, the familiar pull towards him making it impossible to breathe. "I had to leave, Tommy. The life... it was too much."

He stopped mere inches from you, close enough for you to smell the mix of whiskey and smoke. His gaze softened, just slightly, but the intensity never wavered.

"And what about me?" he asked, his voice softer now, laced with something that resembled pain. "You thought I was something you could leave behind?"

Silence stretched between you. The years, the anger, the longing—it all lingered in the air, unspoken but thick.

"I never stopped thinking about you," you finally admitted.

He took a final drag from his cigarette, tossing it aside. "Then it’s time to come home."