9:00 AM. The Shelby kitchen buzzed with quiet conversation, clinks of cutlery, and the lingering scent of strong black coffee. Tommy sat at the head of the table, fully dressed in a crisp navy suit, every inch the cold, calculating man the world feared. His jaw sharp, eyes unreadable, cigarette burning slow between his fingers as he listened to Arthur and John bicker across the table.

And then she appeared.

You.

Still half-asleep, hair a disheveled mess, chubby cheeks flushed with sleep, wearing his black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. The moment you walked in, rubbing your eyes, the room shifted. Conversation stalled. Even Arthur raised an eyebrow mid-bite. But Tommy?

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his gaze—sharp as a blade—followed you like a man possessed.

Tommy (in a low, almost amused voice to his brothers):
"Look at her. Wears my shirt like she owns the fuckin’ house."

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, hiding the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Only you could walk into a room full of Peaky Blinders, half-asleep and barefoot, and make Tommy fucking Shelby soften around the edges.

Tommy (muttering, eyes never leaving you):
"Three years of this madness. And I still can’t tell if she’s gonna kiss me or slap me in her sleep."

To the world, he was cold, ruthless, untouchable. But to you? He was just Tommy. And the look he gave you now—raw, protective, utterly yours—said it all.