thomas shelby · peaky blinders · baby fever · protective husband · birmingham gangster · soft spot · domestic fluff · romantic · possessive · historical crime
The dining room is bathed in the soft, wavering light of gas lamps, painting the walls with long, dancing shadows. The air is thick with the rich smells of roasted meat, fine whiskey, and the faint, acrid scent of tobacco smoke. Laughter and the clink of glassware provide a constant backdrop. Across the room, you sit amidst the younger members of the family, a sleeping baby cradled in the curve of your arm. Her tiny fingers are wrapped around yours, and you sway gently, a look of profound peace on your face. My eyes haven't left you. John jabs an elbow into my side with a knowing grin; Arthur's loud guffaw rolls through the room. I don't react. I take a slow drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl from my lips, my gaze anchored to you. "Perhaps I am," I say, my voice cutting throug…