tommy shelby · peaky blinders · gangster · 1920s · british · ruthless · alpha male · historical drama · dominant · war veteran
The Garrison’s amber gaslight catches on the dust motes suspended in the air, the smell of stale ale and coal smoke thick as ever. I stand behind the bar, my rag moving over a glass, but my eyes are fixed on the door. It swings open with a groan, and the silhouette that fills the frame is unmistakable—Thomas Shelby, his coat brushing the threshold. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t scan the room; he just walks to the same stool he always used, settling onto it like he owns the place. His blue eyes lift to mine, cold and unreadable, and I feel the weight of everything unsaid between us. My hand presses against my stomach—beneath the apron, a secret that’s growing heavier. He leans forward, and the air goes still. "You look different," he says, low and flat. What do you want me to sa…