Smoke from Shelby's mouth filled the dark, gray office, puff after puff. He seemed to go nonstop, cigarette after cigar after cigarette. All day. More and more smoke, like a steam engine alerting the sky of its presence.

Rosie didn't care about that. What she cared was that he was ignoring her.

"Thomas Shelby," she said, eyeing him from across the room. How long would he go before looking up?

He was wearing a sporting vest, no tie. He looked ready for a Sunday afternoon of golf or croquette. Did the Shelbys care for that sort of thing? Who knew. They were an unpredictable lot. Who could have predicted they'd control most of Birmingham? Certainly not most.

"Miss Rosie Walls. Thank you for comin'," he finally replied as he briskly stood from his desk and rubbed the stub of his cigarette in the ash tray. He marched over in three steps, shook her hand politely—almost gentlemanly—and offered a cigarette from his metal container. She took one and sat in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

"I imagine you're here about my real estate in Heath. Or is it my automobiles?" She cocked her head to the side as he lit her cigarette. She took a quick drag and leaned back casually. Shelbys were sharks. She would not give him a chance to smell weakness.

He gave her a look before sitting on the chair across from her, lighting his own cigarette.

"Actually," he said after a long drag, "it's neither." He wasn't making eye contact.

"Oh?" She said, eyebrow raised. He was an intimidating man; everything from the cut of his hair to his slack posture oozed authority, command. But I am no little flower, ready to wilt under pressure, she reminded herself.

"I need a personal favor," he said, suddenly turning to look at her.

"The Great and Indomitable Thomas Shelby needs a favor from me," Rosie laughed, a bit more sarcastically than she meant. In truth, she was nervous. Nervous about what he was going to ask and even more nervous that he could tell she was out of her element.

"I know about the ammunition," he said casually. "I know you smuggle them in your lingerie business." He took another huff on his cigarette. "And yes, I know about your lingerie line as well."

Rosie blinked. "My lingerie line is hardly a secret," she scoffed and took another drag. "How do you think I'd sell unmentionables without bored mistresses knowing about it?"

"You keep your name unattached."

"Well, yes, but half of Birmingham knows by now. I imagine if you do, then the other half must have caught on as well," Rosie sighed. It shouldn't be a surprise that he knew—it wasn't that hard to figure out she owned the new designer shops popping up in Birmingham. Keeping a degree of separation was simply…a half step of privacy, a little convenience meant to keep undesirable reputations cornered off. But the city knowing where high-end prostitutes and lonely housewives were getting their new brassieres wasn't a devastation. She would only need to readjust.

Thomas looked at her with a bland expression, probably reading every emotion on her face. She wasn't a great liar. And an even worse poker player.

"So about the guns—"

"Now how do you know about that?" She said, suddenly adjusting. She decided there was no use hiding it, or in stalling that detail off any further.

"We've got a man tendin' to your books. Noticed a few weight changes in shipments after they'd already been packed. Combine that with some insider info about your new connections with the Roys, it wasn't that damn hard to figure out." Thomas put out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Alright. You've discovered my brother's ill-advised secret. So what then? Wanting a slice of the cut as part of some ransom?" Rosie accused, furrowing her brow. He held out the ashtray and she put out her cigarette.

"No," he said, with a sudden chuckle. She frowned. "No, I don't want your money. What I want is to put your smuggling skills to better use." He stood, pacing the floor. He wasn't a particularly tall man, but he was obviously fit. His dress shirt's sleeves were taut around his arms as he put his hands in his pocket. Rosie shifted suddenly, acutely aware of his figure.

Thomas stopped pacing and leaned against his desk, his hands still in his pockets. How is he able to look both so casual and so stern? She thought.

"I'm expanding. Boston," he said, looking intently at her. She refused to break eye contact. His eyes were icey blue, an invitation, a dare. "You already have experience smuggling ammunition. Can't imagine it would be too hard to add alcohol and narcotics to it."

She stayed quiet for a half beat, then asked, "America?"

"Prohibition. The market is prime, it's expanded. Now is the time for Shelby Company Limited to make its move. We've got ports and men set up in Boston. All I need is your approval and we get it done ourselves. You'll get thirty five of the cut."

"Thirty five? My, my, how generous," Rosie said sarcastically, her mind pacing. She hadn't been particularly enthused about her brother's smuggling operation—he wasn't a careful man. And if the Peaky fucking Blinders could sniff it out so quick, she wondered who else was on her tails. But she knew the Blinders's reputation. Moving alcohol would be child's play for them. And if they could ensure the ammunition was also handled discreetly…

As if reading her mind, he added, "And we'll handle your ammunition ourselves. No charge. Your brother's men aren't fit for this business, Miss Walls. Mine can get it done," he said, gesturing with his cigarette in hand, "and make sure no fuck-up on any side happens."

"Thirty five. And you're movin' it in my name?" Rosie gave a unamused laugh. "A little shipment from 'ere to London is nothing. But to America? This whole operation gets cracked and I'm the one takin' the fall."

"Aye. And yet you'll be making more than enough to feel rightly protected in the event of any potential fuck-up. And I assure you, that won't happen."

"Protected? The money you're offering isn't enough to forgo fear of the law," Rosie retorted. She looked him up and down. "You comin' to me means I'm either your best option or your last. Either way, you don't want to lose me," She jutted her chin up in a show of defiance. "I want fifty, flat and fair."

He looked at her and pursed his lips. "Forty."

"Fifty." She would not relent.

Shelby raised his eyebrows in a mix of…surprise? Amusement? She couldn't tell. After a moment, he sighed.

"Alright," he said, putting his hands up in a show of concession. "Fifty, then."

She stood and grasped his hand lightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby. A pleasure, really." Rosie smiled and tipped her hat slightly.

As she turned to leave, Thomas added suddenly, "And a dance."

Rosie turned back to face him, suddenly thrown off whatever seat of confidence she had. His mouth was a hard line, but his blue eyes somehow captured a mix of emotions, like he was being torn in different directions. She looked at him, not even trying to hide her surprise.

"Are you certain you're in a place to demand things, Mr. Shelby?" she asked.

"I'm giving you fifty."

"Is this part of the deal?"

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes carving into her. "No. It's an offer."

Rosie realized she was holding herself awkwardly and fixed her posture, holding her head high. "Alright. A dance."

He looked down, nodded stiffly and marched to the door to walk her out. She quickly regained control of her feet and walked out, gracefully as she manage, into the Shelby offices. The entire ride home, Rosie could only think of how differently she'd expected this meeting to go.

The Peaky Blinders were known for owning many pubs, clubs, even whorehouses (though the latter were generally owned only by money, not by name—so the rumors went). By dancing, Rosie couldn't be quite sure where or when he meant. Would they be going to his pubs for a dance? Somehow Rosie didn't find the idea as ridiculous as she might've hoped.

Part of her was beside herself for saying yes without thinking. It had slipped from her mouth like a fool. She should have said no, declined his offer, put him in his place. She had a business to keep, a dignity to maintain. She can't be romancing clients—no matter how discreet their partnership may be.

More than that, she knew Thomas Shelby's reputation. A hard man, decorated with medals from the war. And probably broken by it too—Lord knows most the boys sent off were, her older brother included. His list of sins was, by rumor, longer than most's, but none could say he wasn't a keen businessman. He'd brought up the Shelby family from nothing to something. Rosie had to admire that. She admired anything with ambitions that could rival her own.

The other part of her, the part which fought her business sense and existed deep inside, was still intrigued. No, not intrigued—hopeful. Or anxious. She couldn't tell. She wanted to pretend that side didn't exist.

By the third day, Rosie grew both simultaneously more anxious, and less convinced that Shelby was serious. She was scribbling into the company's ledger when the phone finally rang.

"Miss Rosaline, there's a call for you," her housemaid Martha said, handing her the phone.

"Thank you, Martha," she smiled and waved her away.

"Shelby Residence at 8 o'clock tonight. You know where I live, yes?" Shelby's gravelly voice asked.

"Yes. 6 Watery Lane?"

"That's the one,"

"Alright. I'll see you, then."

The line clicked.

Rosie arrived at the residence on Watery Lane, clad in a gold and black dress, her dark curls pinned up by a brooch. As she was about to knock, it was opened suddenly by a boy with the Thomas Shelby's same haircut and same cheekbones.

"Rosie Walls?" He asked, giving her a quick up-and-down appraisal.

She gave a nod, and the flash of a quick smile.

"Right, come on in then," he said, opening the door to usher her in. She quietly stepped inside. The interior of the Shelby home was ill-lit, its wallpaper yellowed and peeling. But it felt lived-in—even cosy. She had grown up in a home not unlike this one.

"TOMMY," the boy cried. "She's here!"

With a sniff, the boy turned back to her and said, "He'll be down in just a moment. I'm Finn."

Rosie politely offered her hand and he gave a gentle shake. "Pleasure," she replied.

A moment later, loud footsteps came clapping down the staircase and Thomas Shelby walked in, as grand and confident as a king, shrugging on his coat jacket. He looked smooth, like he was cut from glass.

As he did so, his eyes gave her a look that made her face heat. Since when have I blushed like this? She thought rapidly. Like a foolish schoolgirl.

More footsteps came clattering and two more men with similar haircuts rushed down. They stumbled in clumsily, stopping abruptly next to Thomas.

"Right. This is Arthur, John," Thomas said, pointing at the two men. "That one's Finn," he said.

"We a'ready met," the boy said.

"Nice to meet you all," Rosie said politely. The two older brothers took her hand and kissed it quickly, with an air of performance.

"May I say, Miss Walls, it is a pleasure—," The older brother—Arthur—said as he took her hand.

"Let's go," Thomas cut off, either impatient or annoyed. He turned to her and offered his arm, his icey blue eyes giving the only color to his face.

She nodded, wrapped her arm on his, and said a quickly goodbye to the men.

As they stepped out the door, she heard one of the men clap another on the back and say, not so quietly, "Fookin' ell, what a —,"

He was quickly shushed. Rosie hoped whatever he was about to say was a compliment.

They rode in Mr. Shelby's car, one far nicer than any gangster had a right to. The conversation was mostly quiet, until she asked, "Where are we heading?"

"A pub."

"A pub?"

"You'll see," the man said, then remained quiet.

After several minutes, she tilted her head to look over at him. Mr. Shelby had one hand on the wheel, the other casually bringing a cigarette to his mouth. He looked so nonchalant; a younger man could not pull off half of his disposition without seeming cavalier. He glanced over and sniffed.

"You look well-dressed," he remarked, his voice low and grainy.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Most of the women in this neighborhood couldn't afford one of your earrings." He inhaled his cigarette deeply. It sounded more like an observation than a judgement.

"Most of the women in this neighborhood have no jobs. No income except from their man," she replied.

"Aye," he agreed, inhaling. "Even so, not many men on this side of Birm could afford you a dress like that."

"Except for you, that is?" It was more of a statement than a question.

He didn't reply.

"Do you work with women often, Mr. Shelby?" She asked, turning to him.

He exhaled and said, "No, not often."

"Do you find it different than working with a man?"

Shelby turned his head and looked at her—with that same look from earlier that she couldn't place. Finally, he said, "Depends on the woman."

After a few more minutes, they arrived in front of the entrance to a pub. Shelby parked the car, stepped out and marched over to her door to open it. Rosie thanked him and stepped out into the crisp, fall air. She could see shadows of people inside through the stained glass while soft swing music came drifting to her ears.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand. Two men in long coats standing outside opened the doors for them and nodded to Thomas, knowing immediately who he was.

Inside, music poured out everywhere. The pub was decorated in red and gold drapes and carved mahogany wood. It smelled like alcohol and sweat and smoke. The room was stuffed with dozens of tables and chairs, all filled with chatting patrons and covered with cards and glasses. A large bar in the back was overflowing with drinks and men hustling to grab them; the bartenders' arms were moving so fast, they could have been conducting a symphony. In the middle, a big band played next to the wood dance-floor, calling for everyone to join in.

Everywhere, people were dancing, drinking, laughing. In the midst of all the noise, she let go of Thomas's hand. They passed through young men primping their hair, young women screeching in laughter, fat men huffing their cigars while sipping their whiskey. It was loud, almost too loud for her to hear Thomas beckoning her to follow him. She grabbed his hand again and pushed through throngs of people.

Nothing could hush this crowd, but Shelby's presence made a fair effort. A few gentlemen stopped to nod to Mr. Shelby, who gave little in response. One man—a Blinder—tipped his hat, showing a glint of the razor underneath. Some women gave smiles to her companion, while others turned instead to look at her. Rosie suddenly felt all the eyes on her. Even in all the chaos, people were sizing her up. That was something she had become accustomed to; she head her chin up and smiled back.

The two made their way down a hallway off in the back, closed off to the main hall. A host directed them inside a small, dim room with a small table, already laid with china and bottles of wine and Irish whiskey. The server closed the doors, suddenly muting the cacophony of the pub.

Thomas took off his coat before offering to take hers. The two sat down and lit cigarettes. Rosie relaxed in her chair, letting her posture suffer a little. It seemed to her that there was little need for formality with a man like Thomas Shelby.

"What is this pub called?"

"The Gilded Horseman."

"And you own it?"

"I own half the clubs in Birmingham," he said, taking a quick drink of whiskey.

Rosie smirked. "You own just about everythin' in Birm, don't you?" Thomas reached to pour her a glass of wine, but she stopped him. Instead, she reached for the whiskey.

He gave her an amused look and took a drag on his cigarette. "Everything but lingerie, I'd say," he joked dryly.

Rosie smiled and poured herself a glass. "I suppose you could say our little arrangement now means you have a hand in my company, however discreet it may be," Rosie said as she inhaled her cigarette. "So I think you might include that." She exhaled. "Tell me, have you ever actually seen my company's work? Surely you have. Women all over are digging up their husband's coffers for it." She was bragging. Humility didn't suit the night.

"Can't say I have," he said, following another swig of whiskey.

"I doubt that, somehow. Would you even know how to tell it's mine?" She laughed, taking a sip. The whiskey burned in the best of ways as it went down.

"If your lingerie is as popular as you say it is, I wager all the women in this club are wearing it right now," Thomas said, gesturing to the room outside.

"Oh, I know it. And they'd show you if you asked," Rosie laughed. Thomas smiled and puffed on his cigarette.

They were quiet for a moment, sipping and inhaling their vices. She took this chance to study his face. He was handsome, to be sure, but she'd never met a man who could look both so handsome and so severe. His face looked gaunt, but sharp, like he had been carved from unyielding stone. His eyes were his best feature, to be sure. But nothing about him was unpleasant to look at. She could see thin lines of formers scars still left on the corners of his brows, on the crests of his cheekbones.

She poured another glass of whiskey.

"I thought we would be dancing?" Rosie questioned him.

"I intend to have dinner with you first," he said, gesturing to the table.

"Ah, a real gentleman?" She teased. They continued chatting until a waiter entered with two plates of salads and bread.

As they began eating, Rosie asked, "What are your brothers like?"

"You've met them. Half-soaked," he replied. "But they're kin. I imagine you can relate."

Rosie smiled and nodded. "That I can. Any sisters?"

"One."

"And what's she like?"

"She's,"—he exhaled deeply, smoke pouring out of his mouth. He looked at her, lazily, sleepily—"she's smarter than any of us." The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Do you have any?"

"No," she said, sipping on a cigarette. She closed her eyes, thinking. "But my brother did have a wife once."

"Once?"

"She put a pistol in her mouth during the war." Rosie opened her eyes and stared back at him, her face like stone. "Not all casualties were in the trenches, I suppose."

They'd both finished eating. The waiter re-entered and replaced their plates with a serving of potato and pig sausage. They didn't move to touch their food.

"I knew a man, once, in France. He had eyes like yours—brown. Had little green flecks in them, just like yours," he said, putting out his cigarette and leaning back into his seat.

"His name was Patrick. One day, we were walking. This was before, a few weeks before I was assigned in minin' and diggin'. We'd spent the first two weeks in trenches, wading in mud. An—and you didn't do much walking. In the war. Walkin' was how you'd get your skull blown into pieces by a sniper," he gestured to his head, whiskey in hand. "But our knees…they were so used to standin', our knees felt like they'd been nailed straight." His hand imitated a hammer, pounding at his knee. "And they were pushin' us ahead, makin' us get to another waypoint. So we were walkin', the land was clear, no trees or buildings in sight. Rollin' hills, not a cloud in the sky. The reports said it was clear. So we walked."

His arm swept out, imitating the open plain. Thomas's face was smooth, free of expression, but his eyes were glazed over. He wasn't looking at her but at the space behind her, as if he was back in that field.

"And Patrick—he'd ran ahead. See, Patrick was the best runner back home, he'd tell us. It was stupid to run, it was stupid to do almost anythin'. But at that moment, he was like a dog. Like a fookin' dog that had to run, had to chase somethin'. He was fifty, maybe sixty meters in front of the rest of us. Just a dog, runnin' free.

"And I can see him there," he said, his voice swelled with anger, his finger pointing to a spot in the distance. "I can see him there, ahead of us. One second he was there. I was smilin', we all were. And the next—," Thomas's hands went up. "He was probably still alive, right. Layin' there, fookin' mangled. But the sound of the land mine and the smoke, we knew what it meant. It would draw attention from miles 'round. And we had to run. We ran. Away from where the mine'd been. We left 'im there," he said, his voice low.

"A few weeks later, they put me in the mines."

Rosie was quiet. Neither of them had touched their food.

Thomas flipped out another cigarette and offered one to her, then lit both. As he put out the match, he asked, "Why did you say yes, Rosie?" They made eye contact.

Rosie was quiet for a long while. Then, when it almost seemed she wouldn't respond, she said, "The same reason you told me about Patrick."

Thomas leaned forward, refilling his whiskey. "And what reason do you think that is?" he said, his ice-blue eyes somehow both so intense and so relaxed at once.

"Do you want me to say it out loud? The moment I say it, you'll scoff. Laugh and pretend it isn't true," she said, her eyes fleeting away. "Bloody 'ell, it sounds ridiculous." She looked down at her cigarette and flicked the ashes.

"Tell me."

Rosie paused. Then said, "You're lonely. And so am I." Her voice was quiet, but firm. "And not the sort of lonely that you can solve with sharing your bed or with drinking or—," she stopped.

"You're not a man who shares war stories for fun, Thomas Shelby. And I'm not a woman who goes on dates with gangsters for a cheap thrill."

Time passed and they were still talking. To describe their conversation as a dance would make it sound poetic, coordinated, romantic. It was not those things. But to describe it as such would not be wholly inaccurate. It was a back-and-forth. A test of each other in skill, in patience, in desire. They were in the dark and their conversation was their way of fumbling through it. She would share a story, a joke, a long tale from her past. And he would listen, smoking and drinking until she stopped. He looked happy, content, from across the table. His mouth was turned into a smile, his eyes blinking slowly in the dim lit.

Many men look stuffed into their suits, belted and strapped in, uncomfortable with the fit of their collars. But Thomas Shelby wore his suit like he was born in it. She thought to herself, it is hard to imagine him looking out of place in anything.

At some point, the waiters had taken their uneaten meals and replaced their bottles. She'd taken off her gloves. The band had stopped playing. But Rosie couldn't remember when.

"Have you ever been to America?" She asked, feeling sleepy from all the whiskey.

"Only once."

"And what did you think? Did it make you miss home?"

Without answering, he stood abruptly.

"A dance?" Tommy offered his hand.

"Here? Now?" She stood in response. There was no music, and the room was small.

"We don't need music."

She took his hand. Tommy moved her close and brought his other hand to her lower. Out of habit, Rosie laid her head in the space between his neck and shoulder. She was so close she could hear the slow thump of his heart.

They began dancing, a slow waltz. Rosie could hear his low breaths. Without realizing, she was humming to a tune she liked.

"Do you dance often, Tommy?" She asked in half-whisper, half hum.

"I can't say I do," he replied softly.

He slowly reached his arm out for her to turn and she followed his lead, her skirt swirling around her ankles. They came back in two steps, dancing slower and slower. Rosie sighed and found herself looking up at him, his eyes. They were looking back at her intently, with gentleness. Gentleness was never a trait she thought could be assigned to Thomas Shelby. But yet…why not? Why couldn't there be this side to him? It was here, right now, brought out in front of her.

"What are you humming?" He asked, low and even. A whisper in her ear.

"I'm not sure—my grandmother used to sing it. It's…about a bird, I think."

They drew closer and closer, her face barely an inch from his. She could smell his dark cologne, fresh and sharp. He smelled like midnight, like the crisp air from the countryside of her childhood. Rosie found herself closing her eyes. She wanted to melt in this, in this smell and feeling.

Her eyes fluttered, so close to his face. His jaw was square, covered in dark stubble. She didn't even think; she brought her hand to his face, caressed it slowly. He closed his eyes at her touch, breathing slowly.

Their mouths touched and moved against each other, their breaths slowing as they kissed.

She felt the coarseness of his stubble, the sharp angle of his face. They were pressed against each other, no space left to consider. His arm snaked around her, holding her against him.

After a moment, Rosie smiled and sighed softly, moving her face away just a bit to look at him. His eyes looked soft and sleepy, so close to hers.

"Tommy…" she whispered.

He brought her back and his mouth met hers again. She felt light, like she'd just floated up a few feet. Or maybe that was just the whiskey.

They pulled apart and she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

"I've had a lovely ti—," she began to say.

"Come with me," he whispered. An offer to stay the night.

"Oh no, Tommy," she smiled up at him. "Not tonight." She kissed his cheek. "You don't get to see what Rosie Walls's designer lingerie looks like just yet."