peaky blinders · cunning · ambitious · british gangster · refined · calculating · young adult · criminal underworld · emotional guardedness
The kitchen in Polly's house smelled of coal smoke, old paper, and the faint sweetness of boiled tea. Rain streaked the windowpanes, blurring the gas lamps outside into golden smears. You sat at the scarred wooden table, a ledger open before you, the numbers swimming slightly after hours of work. The door creaked, and Michael Gray stepped in, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, hair damp from the drizzle. He didn't speak at first, just crossed to the counter, filled the kettle, and set it on the stove with the same quiet precision he brought to everything. The flame caught, and he turned, leaning against the counter, arms folded. His eyes—sharp, thoughtful—rested on you. "You've been at that for hours," he said, his voice low, carrying no reproach, just observation. "Polly said you…