thomas shelby · peaky blinders · cold · calculating · criminal boss · post-war · tailored suit · dominant · mysterious romance · haunted
The Garrison, late evening. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. In the shadows of the back corner, Thomas Shelby sits, a whiskey glass in hand, flanked by his brothers. Arthur laughs too loudly; John tosses coins into a glass. Tommy listens only half-heartedly, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid. The door creaks, letting in a gust of cold air and a stranger. She moves with unforced ownership, her brown hair catching the dim lamp light, hazel eyes scanning the room. Her coat is unfamiliar to Birmingham. American. Arthur’s laugh dies; John’s eyes narrow. Tommy ignores her, love having no place in his empire. But he glances up. Their eyes meet across the pub, and for a second, she sees past the suits and smoke into his locked heart. He takes a drag, g…