bianca

Alfie’s bakery itself was not much to look at from the street, it was nothing but a modest front of brick and glass with the name painted in gold that had started to flake, but everyone knew it was only ever half the story. The real money never came from loaves. The real money came from the rum barrels tucked away, from the horses, and the shipments whose contents were merely whispers. The bakery was a convenience, a respectable face. Somewhere men could come and go without drawing the wrong kind of eyes.

Alfie sat behind his wooden desk, his bulk filled the chair like a man who had never learned the art of taking up less space than he was owed. His coat was open, his waistcoat strained across his middle, and the gold chain of his watch winked every time he moved his arm. 

He was tapping one finger on an irregular rhythm against the wood. Ollie hovered near the door that led out of his office, nervous in the way he shouldn’t be after working for Alfie for so long. “Come on, Alfie,” Ollie said, pitching his voice low so the hopefuls waiting beyond the door wouldn’t hear the impatience in it. “Everyone’s waiting. Some of them have been standing out there since before sunrise. They’re starting to look like they might riot”

Alfie did not look up, instad he placed the glass of whisky he’d been holding on the desk. When he spoke, each syllable sounded chewed and considered. “Ollie, my boy… I don’t see why I need to bother with this. You see, I could put a donkey out there to bake the bread and I still wouldn’t give a shit. The lads would still buy it because they’re hungry and they’re not particular and this is Camden, not the fucking Ritz.”

Ollie shifted his weight from one polished shoe to the other. “So should I… just point? Pick someone? There’s a big bloke with big arms who looks like he could knead dough for twelve hours straight without blinking.”

Alfie’s head came up at last. “Just choose the one who looks the more competent,” he said, waving one large hand in a vague circle. “Competent. You know the word? Means they won’t burn the place down or poison the customers or, god forbid, start getting ideas about unions. If they look like they’ve ever thought a complicated thought in their life, send them packing.”

Ollie hesitated, and the silence stretched. “But we told everyone to bring something freshly baked,” he said carefully. “That was the whole point, Alfie. So you could taste it. So it—”

“Holy fuck, Ollie.” Alfie’s voice rose without quite becoming a shout, it never needed to, the way he said it was enough. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk. “You know what? Tell them to come in. One by one. Go.”

Ollie went. He opened the office door and the murmur of voices from the shop floor swelled for a moment, the men shifting impatently, people who needed work and they’d been forced to waste an entire morning in this shithole. It all cut off as Ollie cleared his throat and called the first name.

The man who entered Alfie’s office was broad across the shoulders and thick through the middle. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle in both hands, stopped a respectful distance from the desk and waited.

Alfie regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then he made a small gesture with two fingers. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Show us what you’ve brought, my son.”

The man unwrapped the cloth with careful fingers. Inside lay a round loaf, still faintly warm. The smell that rose from it was good enough, of yeast and a hot oven. He set it on the table and Alfie tore a piece free with his fingers. He brought it to his nose first, sniffed once, then again with suspicion. Then he put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his face remaining carefully blank for three full seconds. Then he twitched the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He chewed once more, swallowed with effort, and set the remainder of the bread down.

“What,” he said, very quietly, “in the name of every living, suffering creature, is this supposed to be?” The man opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger, and the man closed it again. “I have eaten things in the trenches that had more dignity than this. I have eaten things that tried to eat me back and still managed to leave a better impression. This—” he poked the loaf with one finger “—this is an insult to the very concept of bread. Worst thing I have ever put in my mouth, and I have put some deeply questionable things in my mouth in my time, let me tell you. Fuck off. Take your sad little brick and fuck off.”

The man’s face went from red to a blotchy purple. He snatched up the remaining bread, muttered something that might have been an apology or a curse, and retreated so quickly he nearly collided with the doorframe. Ollie ushered him out with the face of someone who had seen this particular performance from Alfie before, many times, and still found it freshly exhausting.

The door closed. The room settled back into its warm, yeasty quiet. Alfie wiped his fingers on a handkerchief that had seen better decades and muttered something under his breath about the decline of standards in the baking trades.

Ollie opened the door again.

“Next,” he called. You stepped through, and the change in the air was immediate, though neither Alfie nor Ollie could have said exactly why. The heat of the room seemed to pause as you carried your own cloth-wrapped offering, the warmth of it still seeping through the fabric into your hands.

Alfie looked up and whatever cutting remark or theatrical sigh he had been preparing died somewhere between his chest and his throat. His blue eyes, usually so quick to narrow in suspicion or amusement, widened by a fraction. He sat very still, watching something unexpected that had just walked into his kingdom.

You looked, to him, like something that did not belong in the back room of a Camden bakery that doubled as a front for darker enterprises. The light from the high window caught you just so, turning the edges of you luminous, almost lke a halo. An angel, he thought, with sudden clarity. He forgot, for several long heartbeats, that he was meant to be hiring a baker, he simply looked at you.

You could feel the heat of the place settling onto your skin, but you kept your shoulders straight, and your chin lifted just enough. “Good morning, Mr Solomons,” you said. “I’m here for the baker position.”

Alfie’s mouth twitched in something both softer and more dangerous than a smile. He sat back slowly in the chair, and regarded you as if you had just walked out of a different century entirely.

“And what’s your name, love?” he asked. You told him and the sound of it hung there in the room for a moment. Alfie roamed his eyes over your face as if he were committing the shape of it to memory. “Beautiful name,” he said. “Beautiful.” The second time his voice came out quieter, like he was saying it almost to himself. He cleared his throat. “Well then, let’s see what you’ve brought me. Don’t just stand there looking like a painting, show us the goods.”

You stepped closer to the table and set the cloth-wrapped parcel down with care. You unwrapped it slowly, revealing the poppy seed cake beneath. The scent rose immediately, the sweetness of a cake baked that morning and no earlier. Alfie leaned forward, reaching out for it with one hand and tearing a piece free with surprising gentleness. He brought it first to his nose, sniffed once and then put it in his mouth.

The change in his face was almost immediate, the scowl that lived around his mouth eased, and his eyes half-closed for a moment. He chewed slowly, and when he swallowed, he looked at the remaining cake as if it was offensive to taste so good.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. Then, louder, “This… this tastes like the one my mother used to bake, the exact same. She used to make it on Fridays… haven’t tasted anything close in years.” He looked up at you. “Proper little miracle, this is.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. You’d been complimented for your baking a million times, but somehow this felt more personal than any other nice word you’d received. “I’m glad,” you said simply.

Alfie tore another piece, smaller this time, and ate it with the same thoughtfulness. He wiped his fingers on the handkerchief and sat back. “So, why d’you want the job, love? Pretty thing like you. Could be doing a hundred other things that don’t involve getting flour up to the elbows”

You met his gaze and went with the most honest answer. “I’m seeking a little more independence.”

The word seemed to amuse him, he let out a sound, close to a laugh, that rumbled out of his chest. “Independence?” He spread his hands, the heavy rings catching the light. “Well I’m all about women’s independence, ain’t that right, Ollie?” He glanced toward the door where his assistant still hovered. “Tell her, Ollie. Tell her how progressive I am. How I believe a woman should be free to earn her own coin and stand on her own two feet and not have to ask some useless bastard for permission every time she wants a new hat. Go on.”

Ollie cleared his throat, internally rolling his eyes with disdain. “Yes, Alfie. Very progressive. You’ve said so. Many times.”

“See?” Alfie turned back to you. “Independence. Beautiful word. Almost as beautiful as your name. Almost.” He tilted his head, studying you. “You married, love?”

You moved your right hand without conscious thought, brushed the simple band on your ring finger. You let your fingertips rest there a moment longer than necessary, making sure he saw it. “I am,” you said. “Is that a problem?”

Alfie’s gaze lingered on your hand. Specifically on the ring, not too big, not too shiny or flashy. And he saw the way you curled your fingers protectively around it. “No,” he said slowly. “Not a problem. Happily married, are we?”

The lie came easier after being said so many times before. “Yes.”

Alfie made a small sound in the back of his throat. He looked down at the cake again, tore another piece, and spoke around it, low enough that you couldn’t hear. “We’ll see about that.”

He chewed, swallowed, and set the rest of the piece down with care. “I’m not gonna lie to you, love,” he said, louder now, businesslike again. “Your cake is excellent. Proper excellent. But look at you.” He gestured with one hand, encompassing all of you from the crown of your head to the hem of your skirt. “Look at those arms. You think you can knead bread for hours on end? Proper kneading. You think you can haul sacks of flour up from the cellar when the delivery comes? This is a working bakery.”

You straightened your shoulders, lifting your chin with the stubborn defiance that had carried you this far into the room. Ever the little fighter, determined not to let this opportunity slip away, you met Alfie’s gaze. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Alfie studied you for a long moment. “I don’t want to discriminate on account of your sex, believe me,” he said at last. “I am a modern man. Progressive, like Ollie said. But we’ve always had male bakers here. Big lads who can lift and carry and sweat without anyone batting an eye. A woman like you…” He swept his gaze over you again, slower this time, lingering in ways that had nothing to do with assessing upper body strength. “A woman like you could be out front, smiling at the customers. But sadly all those positions are taken, and I don’t see how putting you in the back is anything but a waste of something that looks like it belongs in a different sort of room entirely.”

You stepped closer to the table, close enough to smell the rum scent lingering in his clothes.  “Please, Mr Solomons. I’ll work harder than any of those men out there will. I can assure you of that. Harder, and better. I won’t complain, I won’t show up late, Iwon’t drink on the job or pick fights. Give me the chance and I’ll prove it. Every single day.”

Alfie watched you, drumming his fingers once against the wood, then twice before he stilled. “You know what,” he said slowly, lifting the corner of his mouth. “I like your attitude. There’s fire in you. Didn’t expect that, not with the face of an angel."

Ollie raked his eyes over you with suspicion. His voice, when it came, was deliberately unfriendly. “Do you have any references from previous employers?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “No. I haven’t worked before. But I’m very responsible, I learn quickly, and I brought the cake so you could judge the work for yourself.”

Ollie turned his head just enough to catch Alfie’s eye. The look he gave him was a silent don’t even think about it. The kind of look that said this was a bad idea, that a woman with no references and a pretty face was more trouble than she was worth.

Alfie ignored the look completely. “Ah, references,” he said, the word rolling out like it was something ridiculous. “Who needs references, Ollie? What am I supposed to do with a letter from some old bastard who thinks she knows how to bake? I don’t need a prick telling me she’s good. I can taste it in the cake. References.” He snorted. “References are for men who can’t trust their own tongue. I trust mine. And my tongue is telling me this woman knows what she’s doing. She’s hired.”

Ollie opened his mouth. “Alfie…”

But Alfie was already looking at you again. “Welcome to the bakery, love. Try not to let Ollie’s worrying rub off on you. He means well… mostly.”

Behind you, Ollie made a strangled sound. “Alfie… there’s like fifteen other people out there. Don’t you want to talk to them first? The one with the big arms is still waiting. And there’s a fellow who used to work at that place up in—”

Alfie did not even turn his head, his eyes remained on you. “Shut up, Ollie.” The command was soft but absolute. “The lady here is hired. End of discussion. Tell the rest of them to fuck off and find honest work elsewhere. Or dishonest work. I don’t care. Just get them out of my bakery before I decide to start charging them rent for standing around.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but he thought anything he could say was simply pointless when his boss’s head was set around something, so he closed it, nodded once, and slipped out the door. 

You stood very still in the suddenly quieter room, feeling your heart beating steady and hard against your ribs. “Thank you so much, Mr Solomons,” you said with a wide smile adorning your face.

Alfie waved the gratitude away with one hand, though the look in his eyes said he was filing the sound of your voice saying his name somewhere private. “We expect you here in the morning. Every day. Four a.m. sharp until two in the afternoon. Sixty shillings a week. How does that sound?”

Sixty… The number was generous, more than generous. You knew it, and he knew you knew it. “Excellent,” you said.

The door opened again, and Ollie, who had clearly been listening to the conversation, hovered on the threshold, looking like he'd aged five years in the last two minutes.

“Alfie,” he said carefully, “we paid forty the last one. And he worked three hours more every day. Forty shillings and he was grateful for it.”

Alfie finally turned his head. The look he gave his assistant could have made some people piss themselves. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up, Ollie? Or do I need to write it down? Big letters, so even a man like you could understand. The lady is hired. Sixty shillings. Four until two. And if I hear one more word about the previous arrangement or the previous baker or any other previous fucking thing, I will personally see to it that your next position involves a great deal more lifting and a great deal less talking. Clear?”

Ollie swallowed. “Clear, Alfie.”

“Good.” Alfie turned back to you, and the irritation melted out of his face as if it had never been there, replaced by something softer. He gestured at the remaining cake with one thick finger. “Take the rest home with you, love. No, no, leave it. I’ll finish it myself and think of my mother and the way things used to taste before the world got bloody and full of people who can’t bake for shit. Either way.” He sat back. “Six a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late. I hate lateness.”

You thanked him again, the words soft but sincere. “Thank you, Mr Solomons. Truly. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you that.” With one last small nod, you turned toward the door, and stepped out, your heart still racing from the weight of the moment. 

Minutes after you left, Alfie tore another piece of cake free, and ate it slowly, with his eyes half-lidded, tasting memories and not just the sugar and butter. Ollie closed the door with more force than necessary and turned. For a moment he simply stood there, then he folded his arms.

“Progressive, huh?” he said. The words were laced either an edge of accusation. “You’re a progressive man?”

Alfie did not look up. Instead he chewed, swallowed, and reached for another piece of cake.

“I can be,” he said around the mouthful. “I contain multitudes, Ollie. Depths. A man can evolve, a man can look at the world as it is and decide, on a Tuesday afternoon, that perhaps the old ways are not the only ways. Women earning their own keep, women standing on their own two feet. Yes, I can be progressive. Watch me.”

Ollie took a step closer, making the floorboards complain under even his light weight. “Sixty shillings. You’ve lost your mind.”

The piece of cake in Alfie’s hand was forgotten, crumbs clinging to his waistcoat. “Don’t talk to me like that, you little shit. That woman was something special. I could see it in her eyes. I think it’s gonna be good to keep her around. Useful…. decorative, possibly both. And if I want to pay her sixty shillings a week, then that is my business. My bakery, my coin, and my progressive fucking principles.”

Ollie let out a short, incredulous breath. He glanced at the closed door as if the fifteen rejected men might still be pressed against it listening. “You wanna know what I saw?”

Alfie waved his hand in a lazy and dismissive arc. “Nah. Not really. I find that most of the time when people offer to share what they saw it turns out to be something tedious and moralising and ultimately none of their concern. Spare me the sermon, Ollie.”

Ollie did not spare him. “That you want to sleep with the woman,” he said, each word precise. “That’s why you gave her that ridiculous payment. That’s why you didn’t even look at the others. That’s why you’re sitting there eating her cake like it’s a religious experience and talking about her eyes like she’s the first pretty face that ever walked into this place. You want her. Plain and simple. And you’re dressing it up as noble intentions and women’s independence so you don’t have to admit that you just got his head turned by a married girl.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Alfie set the remaining piece of cake down with exaggerated care. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers one by one, and then he leaned forward. When he spoke, the voice that came out was wounded and theatrically offended.

“What?” He let the single word hang there. “You’re saying,” he continued, “that my noble intentions of employing a young woman in seek of her financial independence are merely the result of me wanting to get between her legs? That the sixty shillings, a fair wage, a progressive, right? Progressive wage, a wage that says ‘here is a woman who will not be underpaid simply because the world has decided her labour is worth less’  is somehow a bribe? A down payment on future fornication? That I, I, looked at that angel-faced creature and thought only of tumbling her into the nearest flat surface like some common beast in heat?”

“That’s exactly what I saw,” Ollie said.

Alfie’s eyes were wide with manufactured horror. “You got a sick mind, Ollie. Proper diseased. You disgust me. Truly. I am sitting here trying to do a good deed in a wicked world, and you reduce it to base carnality. I am wounded, I am wounded in my progressive soul. My mother, God rest her, would be spinning in her grave if she could hear the filth you just poured into this sacred place. I hope you can imagine the depths of my distress.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger. “No. Do not speak. Do not compound the obscenity by trying to justify it. I have hired a baker, a baker whose cake has temporarily restored my faith in the concept of home and family. That is all, if she happens to have a face that could make the sanest man go absolutely mad, that is incidental, purely incidental. And if I choose to pay her what she is worth instead of what the market has decided a woman is worth, that is called being a man of fucking principle. Principle. Look it up, it’s in the dictionary.”

He picked up the last piece of cake, bit into it and chewed with defiant pleasure, the poppy seeds cracked between his teeth. “Now, go and make sure those rejects have properly dispersed. I don’t want them lingering here. And Ollie?”

Ollie, who had gone a mottled shade of angry red. “Yes, Alfie?”

“If you ever again suggest that my interest in that woman’s employment is anything other than pure and high-minded and deeply, almost spiritually progressive…” Alfie smiled then. “I will introduce you to a concept called unemployment. Clear?”

“Clear, Alfie.”

“Good boy.” Alfie waved him off with the hand that still held the final crumb of cake. “Fuck off and be useful. And by the way, her cake is indeed a religious experience, you should buy a slice tomorrow afternoon.”

Ollie fled, leaving Alfie sitting alone in the room. His eyes had gone distant, fixed on the place where you had stood only minutes before. He murmured to the empty room. “Happily married. We’ll fucking see.”

***

You woke before the sun had risen, dressing quickly and buttoning up your dress with steady fingers even though your pulse was not so steady. You pinned your hair back, simple and practical, nothing that would get in the way. The streets of Camden were quiet at that hour, you walked with your coat pulled tight and a cloth bag with your clean apron.

The bakery blinds were already open when you reached it, a yellow light spilling from the high windows onto the pavement. You pushed inside, and Ollie was waiting for you with an expression of lingering disapproval.

“You’re early,” he said. “Good. Alfie hates lateness. Come on then. I’ll show you the lay of it before the real work starts.”

He took you through everything with efficiency, as if he had done this too many times and still found it tedious. The big brick ovens along the back wall, the flour sacks stacked in the cellar, the schedule chalked on a board. “Don’t skimp, he’ll know. The knives are sharp. If you cut yourself, try not to bleed into the dough, it puts the customers off. Apron on, hair up, sleeves rolled. Questions?”

Before you could open your mouth, Ollie was already turning around, leaving you to it with a muttered “Don’t burn the place down” and disappearing toward the front to deal with the early delivery men.

You tied your apron, rolled your sleeves, washed your hands in the stone sink, and then you began. The rye bread came first. You mixed by what felt right more than the measurements that were written on the board. Your hands knew the work, push, fold, turn, push again, until the dough stopped fighting and began to mold under your palms. 

The first hours passed in a blur, feeling physical satisfaction of work that asked something real of your body. By the time the clock on the wall showed half past five, the bread loaves were rising in the ovens and the honey cakes were cooling on the racks. You had moved on to the next batch, your arms ached in the good way, and flour dusted your forearms and the front of your apron, with a streak of it that had somehow found your cheek. 

You had just finished with the onion rolls for the afternoon orders, when the fine hairs on the back of your neck lifted. Someone was behind you, close enough to hear their breathing. You spun, feeling your heart slamming hard against your ribs, a sound catching in your throat before you could stop it.

Alfie stood there in the middle of the kitchen, filling the space between the benches. “Calm down, love,” he said. “It’s just little old me.”

You pressed a floury hand to your chest, trying to slow the frantic beat. “Sorry, Mr Solomons. You scared me.”

He tilted his head, fighting back a smile. “Am I seriously that ugly? Proper frighten the pretty ladies, do I? Make small children cry at the mere sight of my face?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could catch it. “No. No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting you here. It took me by surprise.”

“And why is that?” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the heat of him mixed with the heat of the ovens. “I wanted to see how my newest employee is adapting on her first day. Call it quality control.”

You wiped your hands on your apron, leaving white streaks on it. “Everything’s going well so far. The batches of bread are ready. The honey cakes are cooling. And now I’m on the onion rolls for the afternoon orders. The dough’s almost ready for its second prove.”

Alfie breathed in deep, expanding his chest and half-closing his eyes for a moment. “Wonderful. Fucking amazing. This place smells great. You’ve got the gift, love. I knew it the second I tasted that cake yesterday. My mother would have approved, and she didn’t approve of much. Especially not me.”

You felt the flush rise again, part of it was pride, but the other something you couldn’t quite name. “You won’tregret hiring me. I promised I’d work harder than any of those men. I meant it.”

He waved one hand. “We’ll go on, love. I’ll let you work. Don’t let the presence of management put you off your stroke.” He said it, and then he did not leave.

You turned back to the onion rolls dough because the alternative was to keep staring at him like a fool. You floured the bench, turned the dough out, and began to knead again. The muscles in your arms and shoulders felt the work even while every nerve ending remained painfully aware of the man standing three feet behind you. You could feel his eyes, the weight of them, how they tracked the movement of your hands, the line of your back, the stray curl that had escaped your pins and now clung to the damp skin of your neck.

Minutes stretched, finally you spoke without turning, keeping your voice carefully light. “Am I doing anything wrong? Or is this an evaluation of some sort?”

Alfie’s reply came thoughtful, the words rolled around his mouth. “Just observing how you handle things, love. The way you touch the dough. I am expanding my mind.”

You kept kneading, though your hands had gone a fraction less sure. “I just know you’re a busy man. I imagined you had more important things to do than watch someone make onion rolls at six in the morning.”

“Nonsense.” The word was firm. He moved then, you heard the creak of the floorboards, and came to lean against the edge of the bench beside you, close enough that his coat brushed your skirt. “Nothing more important than this. The bakery is the face we show the world. So yes, watching you work is important. Critical, even.”

There was a pause, you felt him studying your profile. “So,” he said, quieter. “You know about me, huh?”

You glanced sideways. “A little. I mean… everyone does.”

“And aren’t you afraid?”

The question hung between you, but you kept working, pushing the dough into itself, feeling it grow silkier. “No,” you said with honesty. “I’ve heard the good things too.”

Alfie raised his eyebrows in what was a sceptical lift. “Yeah? What good? Don’t spare my blushes, love. I can take it, I’ve got a weak sense of shame.”

You hesitated only a moment. “I had a cousin who came back blind from the war. Last year he got a dog, a guide dog, trained, from that Blind Jew charity. Everyone knows it was thanks to one of your donations. He walks free now because of it.”

For a long moment the only sounds were the roar of the ovens and the rhythmic slap of the dough against wood. Alfie looked away, drumming his fingers once on the edge of the bench. “Oh. That?” He made a dismissive gesture, but it lacked conviction. “That’s nothing. Loose change. Don’t go making me into a saint, love. Saints don’t last long around here. That’s not goodness. That’s just… a clear conscience for five minutes.”

He fell silent. You kept kneading because your hands needed something to do. The dough was ready now, you shaped the rolls and set them in the oiled bowl, covered it with a clean cloth. Only then did you look at him fully, Alfie was watching you with an expression you had not seen on him before. Something that looked almost like hunger, though whether for the honey cakes cooling on the rack or for the woman who was standing in front of him was impossible for you to say.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Turn up with a cake that tastes like my childhood. Refuse to be afraid and quote my better deeds back at me.” He dropped his eyes briefly to your left hand, then lifted again. “Happily married. Still sticking to that story, are we?”

You did not answer, and so Alfie pushed off the bench with a grunt. “Right. I’ve taken enough of your time, love. Carry on, make me proud, make the neighbourhood weep with joy at the quality of their morning loaf. And if anyone gives you trouble, the lads, the customers, Ollie with his little disapproving face, you come find me. I’ll sort it. Personally.”

Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps fading toward the back, where the real business was done,  leaving you alone in the heat with flour on your cheek, dough under your nails, and the distinct certainty that nothing about this job was going to stay simple for very long.

***

A week later, Alfie was already half out of that chair of his office. The gold chain of his watch winkled as he checked the time, like he had somewhere far more important to be than his business meetings.

Ollie stood between him and the door like a particularly anxious gatepost. “You can’t go now,” he said. “Thomas Shelby just arrived for the meeting, remember? You were gonna discuss the price of the—”

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted his hand with the fingers spread in a theatrical gesture. “Save your words, Ollie. Husband them. I don’t care. Tell Thomas Shelby to wait. Tell him Alfie is engaged in matters of critical importance. Tell him whatever pretty little lie floats through that head of yours. Just make him wait.”

Ollie’s face did something complicated, a grimace of disbelief. “Alfie, he came all the way from Birmingham. I can’t just tell the man to wait.”

Alfie paused in the middle of buttoning his coat. He turned fully, and the smile that spread across his face was slow and deeply unimpressed. “Oh, come on. He’s not gonna slice your throat with his razor blade, not over a few minutes. Thomas Shelby is a busy man, same as me. He understands the concept of priorities. Entertain him, sing him a little song, do him some magic tricks. Pull a fucking rabbit out of your arse if you have to. Offer him a honey cake, the new girl’s honey cakes.”

Ollie took a step closer, lowering his voice even though the door was shut and the walls were solid. “You can’t go see her every day, Alfie. We need you here. We need you handling what needs to be handled. The little problems that turn into big problems if they’re left unresolved. Not distracted. Not… whatever this is.”

Alfie went very still. His hat dangled from one hand, for a long moment the only sound was the distant sound of the men working outside.

Then Alfie laughed. A laugh edged with genuine delight at the absurdity of being lectured by his own assistant. “Well,” he said, spreading his hands. “I suppose I should just hand you the whole fucking business, shouldn’t I? Keys, ledgers, the combination to the safe. Seeing as you know it all, Ollie. Seeing as you’ve got the entire operation running so smoothly in that clever little head of yours that you can spare the time to tell me where I can and cannot point my own two feet.”

Ollie flushed, but he did not back down entirely. “What’s so special about her anyway? I get it, she’s pretty. But there’s a thousand other pretty women out there, and you’ve never been like this before, not over any of them. Disappearing every chance you get, watching her kneading dough like it's a spectacle. What’s different?”

Alfie set the hat down on the desk with deliberate care. He planted both thick hands on the wood and leaned forward. His voice had softened into something quieter, almost as a confession. “Ollie, my boy. You wouldn’t recognise special if it walked up and hit you square in the face. That woman…” He paused, searching for the words. “She’s got something, let me tell you that. Not just the face, though the face is a fucking miracle, I’ll grant you. It’s the eyes, the way she looks at you and doesn’t flinch, the way she talks about independence, the way she baked a cake that tasted like my mother’s cake and then stood there and told me she wasn’t afraid of me. Do you know how rare that is? In this life? A woman who looks at me and decides the rumours are less interesting than the man standing in front of her?”

He pushed off the desk and began to pace the short length of the office. “She draws me in like a magnet. I go there for five minutes to check the ovens and an hour disappears. She’s not any woman I’ve seen, and I find I cannot stop tuning myself to it. Is that clear enough for you, Ollie? Or shall I draw a diagram? ‘Alfie’s inexplicable gravitational pull toward the new baker’ would that help?”

Ollie dragged a hand down his face. “Alfie, we need you on planet Earth. Not on the moon.”

Alfie stopped pacing and turned, looking at Ollie with a smile that split his face, a ittle unhinged around the edges. “Oh but I am on the moon, Ollie.” He spread his arms as if encompassing the absurdity of it. “She’s got me swept away. I’m walking around up here in the thin air of whatever delision this is, and I find I don’t particularly want to come down.”

He snatched the hat back up, settled it on his head with a tug and moved toward the door, deciding the conversation was over. “Keep Thomas Shelby waiting,” he said over his shoulder. “Give him a drink. Give him a cake. Tell him Alfie will be along when Alfie is good and ready and not a moment before.”

He pulled the door open, Ollie made one last desperate sound. “Alfie—”

“Entertain him,” Alfie repeated, already halfway down the hall. “Magic tricks, Ollie. I have faith in you. Somewhere under all that anxiety is a man who can keep Tommy Shelby occupied for twenty minutes without losing a finger. Prove me right, or don’t. Either way I’ll be back when I’m back.”

A few minutes later, Alfie came through the kitchen door, he didn’t announce himself with any of the theatrical booming that usually preceded him, he simply crossed the floor, snagging a sturdy wooden chair from against the wall, and setting it down beside your bench. Then he sat, making the chair protest under his weight.

“How are you doing on this beautiful morning, love?” he asked, spreading his knees and tipping his head back slightly, breathing in the air.

You kept kneading, though every nerve had gone aware of the man now sitting close to you. “I’m doing good,” you said. “What about you?”

Alfie reached out without asking and snagged one of the still-warm beigels from the rack, turning it over in his fingers with the appreciation of a man examining a rare jewel. “Business is a shitshow,” he confided cheerfully. “Tommy Shelby’s in my office and Ollie’s having a nervous breakdown because I left him to play host. Everyone wants a piece of me. But—” he tore a piece of the beigel free and pointed it at you like a teacher making a point “—now I’m doing better. Dramatically better. The second I came through that door and the smell hit me, the entire shitshow receded. Funny how that works.”

You smiled and nodded at the beigel in his hand. “You want to try it properly? They’re best when they’re still warm. I made the dough last night so it could have a long prove.”

“I’d love to,” he said, and bit in. The sound he made was obscene in its sincerity, an appreciative groan that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. He chewed slowly. “Fuck me,” he murmured once he could speak again. “It’s amazing. I’ve never, and I mean never, met someone who cooked exactly like the food I tasted as a child.” He took another bite, larger this time, and spoke around it. “Where did you learn to cook like this, love? Because this isn’t ordinary talent.”

You pushed the dough away for a moment, wiping your hands on your apron. “From my nana. We used to spend the afternoons together baking when I was small. She’d pull out this little book, battered thing, every recipe had a little note in her handwriting. A touch that was just hers. A pinch more salt here, a longer prove there. I know all of them by heart now”

Alfie went still. “God bless your nana,” he said quietly, what remained in his voice was completely sincere. “God bless her hands and her little book and the afternoons she gave you. May her memory be a blessing. Because whatever she put into you… it’s still here. I can taste it. I can fucking feel it.”

A startled laugh escaped you, bright and sudden. It rang off the high ceiling, Alfie watched the sound leave your mouth, and something softened in his expression. “You’ve got the laugh of an angel,” he said. “Celestial. Makes a man want to say stupid things just to hear it again.”

Heat flooded your face so fast it was almost dizzying. You turned back to the dough with more force than necessary, kneading it hard. Your ears were burning, you could feel him watching your nervous smile and the way your hands had gone suddenly less certain.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to be merciful. “You’d mentioned your cousin served. The one who came back blind. Did you have many family sent over to France, love?”

You kept your eyes on the dough. “Most of them,” you said. “All my cousins. And my brother.” A breath. “He didn’t make it. They never found enough of him to bring home properly.” You swallowed and kept working. “My husband luckily stayed in London. He managed a military warehouse here. That kept him out of the trenches.”

Alfie made a low sound of understanding and set the half-eaten beigel down on the edge of the bench with surprising care.

“Right,” he said. “Guess some lads were luckier. Didn’t have to be sent over to drown in the mud and the gas. Lucky.” He studied you sideways. “Anyway, what does your husband do now?”

“He works in a factory. He’s a machine operator.” You didn’t particularly enjoy talking about your husband with Alfie. You hated the way his questions about him, about your marriage, made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. Lying to Alfie felt heavier, somehow more difficult, than lying to anyone else.

Alfie’s eyebrows rose, he leaned in a fraction, making the chair creak under the shift of his weight. “And he doesn’t make enough money that he has to send his wife out to work?” The question was mild, almost idle. But his eyes were anything but. “Pretty young thing like you, hands made for miracles, spending her days covered in flour. Seems curious.”

You laughed againm, shorter this time, edged with the defensive spark he seemed to enjoy pulling out of you. “I told you. I just like being financially independent. Earning my own money, feeling like I’m being productive. I don’t like staying in the house doing nothing.  This—” you gestured at the dough, the ovens, the cooling beigels, the entire room “—this makes sense to me. And the money is mine, fairly earned.”

Alfie watched you for a long moment. “And you don’t have children, do you?”

The question was careful. As if he already knew the answer and still needed to hear you say it. You met his eyes. “I don’t,” you said.

“No children,” he repeated softly, almost to himself. “Independent, productive, laugh like an angel, and a husband who works long factory shifts. Interesting… the things a man learns when he bothers to sit down and eat a beigel with his newest baker on a beautiful morning.”

…

The days began to blur in the best and worst of ways. Mornings belonged to the bakery, before the first light touched the windows, you were already floured to the elbows. And every day, without fail, Alfie appeared sometime before mid-morning, shrugged out of his coat, and dragged the same scarred chair to the exact same spot beside your bench, staying for two hours, sometimes three, as if the rest of his business could wait indefinitely on the pleasure of watching you work.

He talked. God, how he talked. His voice rolled out in long rivers while you pushed and folded and turned the dough. He told you about the horses, about the meetings with the Italians, about his mother. He asked questions too, about your grandmother’s little book, about the brother you lost, and the shape of the life you claimed to have waiting at home. And every time you answered, every time you laughed or fell quiet or wiped flour from your cheek with the back of a wrist, something in the air between you got warmer.

Sometimes he fell silent for long stretches, tracking the roll of your shoulders with his eyes, the flex of your forearms, the way the dough yielded under your palms. Once, when a strand of hair escaped your pins and fell across your eyes, he reached out without thinking and tucked it behind your ear. His fingertips were warm, and they lingered half a second too long against the shell of your ear.

The bakery became the only place that felt real, because home was something else entirely. You returned each afternoon to the small flat, and the moment the door closed behind you, the warmth of the ovens and Alfie’s voice drained out of you. Your husband would already be there more often than not, home early from the factory.

“You’re late again,” he would say, not looking up from the newspaper. “Third time this week. I had to get my own lunch. Again. What am I, a fucking orphan? I’ve got a wife, haven’t I? Or did I imagine the whole wedding?”

The fights were never dramatic, because that would have required passion, and passion had left this marriage years ago, carried out with the tiny body you had lost and never properly buried. The fights were mean. Him listing every way your absence inconvenienced him, you answering too calmly at first, then with rising heat when he started in on how no decent woman left her husband to fend for himself so she could play at being a baker for some gangster. 

“They’re talking,” he said one night. “Down the pub. About you and him, about how Solomons’ new pet never goes home on time. About how he’s always down there watching her like a dog with a bone. You want to be one of his whores, is that it? That why you’re never here? That why the flat’s empty and my belly’s empty and I’ve got to listen to every bastard with a mouth making jokes about my wife’s extra duties?”

You stopped answering after a while, there was no point. The truth, that you were saving every shilling of the sixty he paid you, that the tin under the loose floorboard was growing heavier every week, that you were counting the days until you had enough for a room of your own and a clean break and a life that did not smell of his resentment, would only make it worse. So you let him talk himself hoarse, you washed the few dishes, and you lay on your side of the cold bed waiting for sleep that never came easy.

He had stopped touching you after the miscarriage. That was the cleanest way to say it. One day there had been a child,, hoped-for and already named, and then there had been blood and pain, and after that your husband’s hands never found you in the dark again. He looked at you like you had failed at the one thing you were put on earth to do, like your body had betrayed him personally. The whores started sometime after that, you heard the whispers the way every wife in the neighbourhood heard them, the sideways glances at the market, a soft laughter that stopped when you passed, the occasional “friend” who felt obligated to tell you what everyone already knew. He did not even bother being careful anymore, some nights he came home smelling of cheap perfume and simply fell into bed with his back to you, as if daring you to care. You had cared, once. Now you only cared about the tin.

Every Friday Alfie pressed the week’s wages into your palm, sixty shillings, always with an extra little something pressed on top. You thanked him, and every night you knelt on the floorboards, lifted the loose one, and added to the growing hoard. You calculated rent on a clean room somewhere far from this flat, you needed to leave so you could be happy again.

Happiness had become a place that existed only between the hours of four and two, in a warm room that smelled of bread, with a dangerous man who looked at you like you were something worth keeping. 

At the bakery, Alfie grew bolder in small ways, placing a hand at the small of your back as he moved past you in the narrow space between benches. A quiet you look tired, love when the shadows under your eyes grew too dark to hide. A long look when you laughed at one of his more ridiculous stories. But at home the fights sharpened, your husband started waiting up and smelling your clothes for rum and the smell of man’s cologne. He started throwing the word whore around when the whisky loosened his tongue. “You’re never here,” he snarled one night, blocking the bedroom door with his body. “I come home to a dark kitchen and an empty bed and the knowledge my wife is off playing house with a gangster. You think I don’t know what men like him do with girls who need money? You think I don’t hear what they say?”

One rainy morning, in the office, Alfie was once again sitting behind his desk with a faraway look in his eyes. He looked like a man wrestling with something far more complicated than the usual calculations of business negotiations. Ollie hovered near the door, holding papers in hand, his expression already pinched with the particular exhaustion that came from trying to keep Alfie on task.

“Alfie,” he ventured carefully. “The Italians. The proposal. We were supposed to be thinking about—”

“Shh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted one large hand without looking up. The gesture was absent, almost gentle. “Ollie, my boy. What do you think about silk stockings?”

The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard the bat of a fly’s wings. Ollie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Silk stockings,” Alfie repeated, slower this time. “For a woman’s legs. You know the ones. The kind that make a man forget his own name. What do you think?”

Ollie’s face went through several stages of disbelief. “They’re… pretty?”

Alfie finally looked up. “No, you idiot. I meant if it’d make a good gift. For my angel. Something delicate, something that says I see you. Silk stockings, proper ones, not the cheap rubbish.”

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not fall out of his head. He dropped the papers onto the desk with a slap. “Alfie. You were supposed to be thinking about the business proposal the Italians made us, not stockings”. 

“I’ve been thinking about her legs,” Alfie confessed, almost dreamily. “ And I keep picturing them in silk, in dark silk. I think they’d look prettier. I think the entire world would look prettier if those particular legs were sheathed in something worthy of them.”

Ollie made a strangled sound. “How have you been thinking about her legs? You’ve never seen that woman’s legs, not once. She’s buttoned up to the chin half the time. You’ve seen her hands and her face and the occasional flash of wrist when she rolls her sleeves. That is the full inventory, not even her ankles.”

Alfie waved the objection away. “Ah, Ollie boy. I don’t need to see them to know they’re beautiful. I can imagine them. I’ve got a very vivid imagination when properly motivated, and that woman motivates me. She walks past and my brain helpfully supplies the rest. It’s become a proper problem, I close my eyes and there they are. I open them and I’m still thinking about them. It’s affecting my concentration, my sleep, my ability to give a single shit about Italian proposals.”

“You’re not her husband. You can’t just buy her stockings. She’d think it's scandalous.”

Alfie leaned back in the chair. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re right. She’d think it's scandalous. Can’t have that. Can’t have my angel thinking old Alfie just wants to get between her legs.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a thick roll of notes, and tossed it across the desk to Ollie. “Right, change of plan. Go out and get me a perfume bottle. An expensive one, something that smells like vanilla. None of that chemical rubbish, and don’t come back until you have it.”

Ollie stared at the money as if it might bite him. “Alfie. You’re not expecting me to go out and buy perfume. That’s not my job. I’m your assistant, not your bloody personal shopper. I handle the books, and the meetings—”

Alfie’s voice dropped into that particular register that brooked no argument. “Your job, Ollie, is to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. Today that happens to be buying perfume. Expensive perfume, for a woman who deserves something that smells like heaven. Now go. Go, boy. Before I start thinking about what else might look good wrapped around her ankles.”

Ollie opened his mouth, and closed it. He snatched the money, knowing he had long ago accepted that working for Alfie required a flexible definition of dignity. “Vanilla,” he muttered. “Right. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Alfie waved him off without looking, already rising from the chair. He reached behind the desk and picked up the bouquet he had bought earlier that morning. He walked to the front of the building where the bakery was. 

You looked up as he entered the kitchen. The small smile that always appeared when he walked in, the one you tried and failed to hide. Alfie crossed the floor without hesitation, holding the flowers out in front of him like an offering. He stopped beside you and presented the bouquet with a small courtly bow.

“Beautiful flowers,” he said, “for a beautiful woman. Seemed only right, the world’s been grey enough lately, figured you deserved a bit of colour to brighten up.”

You stared at the flowers. They were stunning, but your hands, still dusted white, hovered uncertainly above them. “Thanks, Alfie. These are beautiful. But I… I can’t have them.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes like he was preparing arguments. “Of course you can. They’re flowers, love. Not a proposal of marriage. Just flowers for the woman who makes this place smell like my childhood and my future all at once. Take them, they’re yours.”

You reached out despite yourself, brushing the red petals with your fingers. “I can’t show up home with these,” you said quietly. “A married woman can’t come home with flowers another man gifted her. It’s already bad enough as it is.”

The last part slipped out before you could catch it, an admission you had kept locked behind your teeth for weeks. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and quickly your hands returned to the dough.

Alfie didn’t move, he simply stood there. “What do you mean ‘bad enough,’ huh?” he asked. “Is your husband the jealous type? The kind who sits at home imagining all sorts of things that aren’t happening just because his wife has the audacity to earn her own coin?”

You kept your eyes on the dough, pushing it harder than necessary, as if you were trying to escape the conversation. “It’s nothing… It’s just… he thinks I spend too much time here. And he’s heard what some people say. Gossips, maybe from the ladies at the front… that you spend too much time with me back here. In the back… alone.”

Alfie let out a short laugh, he set the bouquet down on the edge of the bench and leaned in closer. “So he’s an insecure little cunt with an inferiority complex who thinks his wife would cheat on him just because there’s a man close to her,” he said flatly. “A man who can’t keep his own house in order so he points the finger at the bakery instead. Pathetic, truly. Some men are born with small minds and even smaller pricks and they spend their whole lives trying to make the world feel as cramped as they do.”

“Alfie. That’s not nice to say.” His sincerity caught you off guard, it left you feeling even more embarrassed. He was hitting dangerously close to home, unearthing truths you had buried beneath layers of practiced smiles and half-spoken excuses. 

He waved a handd. “Nice has very little to do with the truth, love. I’ve met a thousand men like him. They talk loud and wonder why their wives start looking for doors. Tell me the truth.” His voice dropped, softer now but no less serious. “Does he ever hurt you more than with words? Does he dare put a hand on you? Because if he does, if that sorry bastard has ever laid so much as a finger on you in anger, you tell me right now. I’ll rearrange his face personally, until not even his mother could recognize him.”

You shook your head quickly, too quickly, making the loose curl of hair bounce against your temple. “No. No, it’s not like that. We just fight a lot. He yells and says things… ugly things. About me being here, about you, about how a proper wife should be home making his lunch instead of… whatever he imagines I’m doing back here with you.”

Alfie felt his jaw tighten, he reached out without thinking and brushed a streak of flour from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “He yells at you? What does he tell you? Don’t spare me the details, love. I’ve heard worse, I’ve said worse. But never to a woman like you.”

You hesitated, but eventually the words came out in pieces, quiet and ashamed. “He tells me that people whisper about us being here for hours… that I’m making him look like a fool. A fool who has a whore for a wife.”

Alfie listened without interrupting. His expression darkened with every word you said. When you fell silent, he let the quiet stretch for a long moment. “A man yelling at his wife such things,” he said at last, almost wistfully. “I’ve always thought it should be the other way around. A man making his wife scream, and not in anger exactly.”

Your face burned scarlet, making you turn back to the dough with fierce concentration, kneading as if your life depended on it. “We’re just going through… a rough patch,” you managed. “That’s all. Marriages have them. It’ll pass.”

Alfie made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Rough patch my arse. That man doesn’t love you if he treats you like that. If he can look at this face, sculpted by god himself on one of his better days, and this smile that lights up the whole fucking room, and still chooses to yell?” He shook his head. “No, that’s not love. You deserve better, love. You deserve someone who sees you and thinks the sun rose just to have something to compete with.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not appropriate that I talk of these matters anyway,” you said. “They’re private. Between a husband and wife. I shouldn’t be… burdening you with them.”

Alfie stepped closer. The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, until the scent of him wrapped around you. “Love, you see I’ve grown quite fond of you. More than fond, proper attached. And I can see the little sadness you try so hard to hide in your eyes, the way it flickers when you think no one’s looking. And it makes me think that you deserve a man who can make you scream with joy. Who’d never let you shed a single tear unless it was from laughing too hard or feeling so much pleasure so hard you forget your own name. A man who would burn the world down before he let it dim that light in you.”

The bakery kitchen felt suddenly too small. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it over the ovens. You wiped your hands on your apron, and forced your voice steady. “Thanks. But like I said… my husband and I are going through a rough patch. Things will get better.”

Alfie studied you for a long moment, the way your fingers twisted in the edge of your apron like they needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look convinced. The moment stretched until a knock sounded on the door that led from the kitchen to the back.

“Alfie,” Ollie’s voice came through the wood, full of exasperation and something close to panic. “Sabini is here for the meeting. He’s waiting, and he’s not the patient sort. You know how he gets.”

Alfie did not turn immediately, he simply let out a theatrical sigh. “Entertain him, Ollie,” he called back. “Magic tricks, remember?”

You could hear Ollie’s muffled groan through the door. “Would you stop playing house and come handle business like you did before all of this nonsense? The whole bloody business is waiting back there while you sit down here watching her knead dough.”

Alfie snapped his head toward the door. His expression darkened in an instant. “Ollie,” he said, dropping his voice to a low and dangerous register, “I’m gonna start shooting at the door, so you’d better not be standing there in the next ten seconds. Count with me, my boy. Ten… nine…”

Footsteps retreated rapidly down the corridor, and the knock did not come again. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, it broke some of the tension, though not all of it. “I think Ollie’s not particularly fond of me. Every time he sees us back here he looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”

Alfie turned back to you, the storm in his face clearing as quickly. “He just thinks I’ll give his job to you,” he said, twitching the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile. “Poor Ollie. Loyal as a dog and twice as anxious. He sees you here and he imagines you’re gonna take his place. Can’t blame the lad, really. You do have that effect.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the blood still warming your cheeks from the earlier conversation. “Tell Ollie he has nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t take his job. I’m happy here. With the dough, with the ovens. With…” You hesitated, then finished softly, “With the way things are in this room.”

Alfie reached out and brushed another stray streak of flour from your cheek, his thumb lingered there this time, tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that felt at odds with the man who had just threatened to shoot through a door. “I should give you a rise,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

You blinked, feeling surprised. “Why? I’ve only been working here a month.”

“A month is enough,” he replied. “More than enough. The sales in the bakery have doubled. People are talking, the best bread in Camden, they say. It’s all thanks to you, love. You walked in here and you changed the whole bloody atmosphere.”

You smiled then, a real one, shy but genuine. Alfie went very still, dropping his gaze to your mouth, then lifted again, looking hungrier.

“God,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That smile again. That fucking smile that makes a man think things he should have no right to be thinking about. Things that end with my hands in places they’ve got no business going.”

He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you vanished. His body pressed forward until you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. Alfie lifted his hand, cupping the side of your face with surprising tenderness, brushing your lower lip with his thumb.

“I’ve been driving myself insane ever since you walked into my life,” he said with devastating honesty. “Tell me you feel the pull between us too. Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind. Tell me—”

Before you could answer, before you could even draw breath, Alfie grabbed you. He slid his large hand to the back of your neck, pulling you in with undeniable strength. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pressing your body tight against his solid bulk. The kiss was hungry, full of desperation. He devoured your mouth like a man who had been starving for weeks, sweeping his tongue in with heat, his lips claiming yours with a groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. 

The taste of him, of rum and desire, flooded your senses. His body was unyielding, holding you flush against him, splaying one hand across your lower back as if afraid you might vanish. For one dizzying moment you melted into it. Into the warmth, the strength, the way his mouth moved like he had been dreaming of this exact kiss since the day you first brought him that poppy-seed cake.

Then reality crashed back. You pulled away, gasping, pressing your hands against his chest. Your lips felt swollen, and your heart hammered wildly. “I can’t do this, Alfie,” you whispered, though your voice was shaky. “I’m married. I’m still married… and this is wrong.”

Alfie did not release you immediately, he rested his forehead against yours, still holding you close with his arm around your waist. “Your mouth,” he murmured, tracing your lower lip again with his thumb, “is better than I even thought about. Softer, sweeter, like it was made for this. A glorious experience, love. A fucking revelation. I could spend the rest of my days kissing you and still die wondering how I ever lived without it.”

The words sent another rush of heat through you. But you stepped back, putting the bench between you once more, though it felt like far too little distance. “Please stop saying these things,” you said, barely above a whisper. You touched your lips instinctively, as if you could wipe away the evidence of what had just happened. “I can’t… we can’t.”

Before either of you could say more, the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. Ollie’s voice filtered through the door. “Alfie. Sabini’s getting impatient. And he’s brought men. You need to come up. Now.”

Alfie let out a frustrated growl. He straightened, adjusting his waistcoat with hands that still trembled slightly from the force of the kiss. “I won’t stop thinking about this,” he said quietly. “Not for a second. Not while I’m back there dealing with Sabini and his bullshit. Not tonight when I’m alone in bed. Not ever, love. You’ve ruined me for anything less.”

He turned toward the door, pausing once to glance back at you, at your swollen lips and the way your hands had returned to your apron like an anchor. Then he was gone, leaving the kitchen suddenly too quiet, but far too full of the ghost of his mouth on yours and the flowers still sitting on the bench.

The walk home from the bakery felt longer than usual that evening. Your feet moved on autopilot along the familiar route, but your mind was miles away, or rather, still back in the bakery kitchen, pressed against Alfie’s solid chest with his mouth claiming yours like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The kiss replayed in relentless detail. The way his large hand had cupped the back of your neck, the heat of his body pulling you flush against him. The taste of him, the groan that had vibrated from his chest into yours. For those few stolen seconds you had felt wanted. Not only wanted, but desired and seen. Not as a convenience or a disappointment or a body that had failed at its one expected duty, but as something precious, something worth devouring. 

You had been lying to yourself for weeks, you realised now, as your key turned in the lock of the small flat. Hiding how good it felt to have a man look at you the way Alfie did, like you were the centre of the room, the reason he lingered for hours watching your hands move through dough. It had been so long since anyone had made you feel wanted and cherished in even the smallest ways. Your husband’s touch had vanished years ago, as if your body had become a reminder of failure rather than a source of comfort or pleasure. But Alfie made you feel like a woman again, like someone worth the risk of a hard kiss in the back of a bakery while the world waited.

God, you felt the pull between you too whenever he stepped close. The way your skin remembered his fingertips on your cheek, the way your laugh came easier around him. But you were still married. The ring on your finger was a fact. You needed to focus on saving, on getting your own place and redoing your life from the ground up. Love, or whatever intoxicating thing this was with Alfie, could wait until you were free. Until you stood on your own two feet without needing to explain yourself to anyone.

The flat was quiet when you stepped inside, you set your bag down and rolled up your sleeves, moving through the familiar evening tasks. You tidied the small kitchen, filled the basin with cold water and began washing the clothes that had piled up. 

That was when you saw them. Lipstick stains on the collar of one of his shirts. A cheap red that did not belong to you. Another smear lower down, near the buttons, as if someone had pressed his lips there, lingering for a moment. You stared at them for a long moment, the cold water dripping from your hands onto the floor. You were used to this, the whispers, the late nights, the way he came home reeking of other women and still had the nerve to accuse you of the same. 

You wrung the shirt out with more force than necessary, watching the water run pinkish-red down the drain. Why, you wondered, were you still loyal to him when he had never once been loyal to you? Why did you cling to the vows when he treated them like suggestions?  And still you stayed, still you washed his shirts with another woman’s lipstick on them.

You finished the laundry in silence, hung the clothes to dry and prepared a simple supper you knew he would barely touch. Night fell fully, after changing into your nightdress, you slipped into bed, the sheets felt cool and lonely on your side. Sleep came in fits, haunted by the ghost of Alfie’s mouth on yours and the memory of how safe and alive you had felt in his arms. 

Hours passed before the door finally opened. Your husband stumbled in later than usual, the familiar scent of cheap perfume clinging to him. He did not look at you, he never did anymore on nights like this. He simply shed his coat, kicked off his boots, and fell into bed on his side with his back to you, the smell of another woman filling the small space between you.

You lay there in the dark, staring at the crack in the ceiling. The question turned over and over in your mind. Why were you refusing Alfie’s advances when your husband had never refused any whore?

The kiss burned in your memory again, the way Alfie had held you like you were something precious, the way he had looked at you afterward, like the entire world could burn and he would still choose your mouth. He saw you, wanted you, made you feel desired in a way your husband had not in years. And yet here you were, loyal to a marriage that had become nothing but a cage of resentment.

***

Alfie sat alone in his office long before the first grey light touched the rooftops. Sleep had become impossible, the bedroom had felt like a trap where every shadow still carried the ghost of your mouth against his.

The office door opened, and Ollie stepped in, holding papers under one arm, already mid-sentence.

“Alfie—”

Alfie had his fingers steepled under his chin, with an almost beatific smile spreading across his face. The smile was wide enough to show even his teeth at the back. “Shut up, Ollie.” The words came out soft, almost dreamy, without the usual bite. Alfie did not open his eyes. “I’m thinking.”

Ollie stopped and stared at the expression on his boss’s face. Working for Alfie, Ollie had grown accustomed to most of his eccentricities, but this was a face he’d never seen before. “Thinking about what? Why are you smiling like that? Is it because of what Sabini said yesterday about the docks, or—”

Alfie opened his eyes, they were slightly unfocused, as if he were still somewhere else entirely. He raised one hand in a grand gesture that took in the entire room. “What? Sabini? No. God, no. I’m smiling because of something much deeper, my dear Ollie. I’m smiling because today the birds are singing a better melody, because the sun rays are warmer in this miserable city. Because the air is fresher and the flowers are brighter. I’m smiling, Ollie, because yesterday I tasted the sweetest lips I have ever had the privilege of putting my mouth on.”

He stood, in two heavy steps he was around the desk and had one arm draped around Ollie’s thin shoulders, pulling the younger man into a half-embrace. “I had an epiphany yesterday,” Alfie continued. “Proper revelation. She’s the woman of my life. She’s the one. The absolute, undeniable, end-of-the-fucking-story one. I looked at her and I thought, Alfie Solomons, you bastard, you’ve been wandering around this earth collecting debts and breaking bones and all this time the actual point of the whole exercise was this woman.”

Ollie stood rigid under the arm, holding the papers crushed against his chest. “What? Wait… what lips? Did you… did you kiss her?”

Alfie released him only far enough to place both hands on Ollie’s shoulders and look him dead in the eyes. The smile had not faded, if anything it had grown wider. “It wasn’t a kiss, Ollie. Let’s not diminish the thing with ordinary language. It was a revelation, a fucking sacrament. It was the moment the universe stopped pretending it was indifferent and decided to hand me something worth keeping.”

Ollie blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand. You kissed her or not?”

“Yes,” Alfie said, simply. “I kissed her.”

“Okay, fantastic. Congratulations. But we still need to sort the—”

Alfie waved the interruption away, already pacing again. “And I fear it’s not enough. One kiss only made me thirstier. That woman has me bewitched, Ollie. A touch of her lips and I can’t stop until I’ve had the whole thing. Do you think she wants me too? The same way I do? With the same stupid, helpless, all-consuming hunger?”

Ollie looked like he'd been asked to solve an equation in a language he did not speak. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, go ask her,” Alfie said, then immediately held up both hands. “Wait, no. Don’t go. I need to give her time to think. She pushed me yesterday when we kissed. Of course she didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t a ‘get away from me you ugly bastard’ push. It was a nice one, a little reluctant. She feels it, I know she does.”

Ollie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe she pushed you because she’s a married woman. Out of all the women in London, you chose a married one.”

Alfie stopped pacing. He turned, and for a moment the theatrical light in his eyes dimmed into something colder. “What if we kill her husband?”

Ollie considered it with weary professionalism, like he'd heard worse suggestions. “Well… I guess we’ve killed men for less.”

Alfie nodded slowly, as if filing the option away for later. Then the softer expression returned. He stepped closer again. “Ollie, be honest with me. Am I worthy of her? Look at me and tell me the truth. This face, this body, tese hands that have done things I don’t always like remembering. Am I the sort of man a woman like that could look at and think, yes, him, I’ll take him if it means being looked at the way he looks at me?”

Ollie hesitated, he glanced at the door as if calculating the distance to escape, then sighed. “…Sure. Why wouldn’t she like you too?”

Alfie’s face lit up again. “I knew it. Yes. I knew it by the way she kissed me. She feels like I do.” He clapped his hands together once. “I’m gonna write her a letter. Telling her how I feel. And then you’ll go down there and give it to her, personally. Watch her face when she reads it and report back.”

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in his head. He turned toward the door, already defeated, already calculating how many more hours of this madness he would have to endure before the day improved.

“Tell me when you’re done,” he muttered with his hand on the doorknob. “And try not to propose marriage in the first paragraph.”

Alfie sat at his desk for nearly an hour. The ink blotched on places where emotion had made him press too hard. When he finished, he read it twice, folded it with care, and sealed it simply with a drop of wax from the candle on his desk. He called for Ollie without raising his voice much above a murmur. The younger man appeared in the doorway looking like he had already aged another year.

“Take this down to her,” Alfie said, holding out the folded letter between two fingers. “Personally. Give it to her when she’s alone and watch her face while she reads it. Then come back and tell me everything. I want to know if she smiled, if she touched her lips, or if she cried”

Ollie took the letter like it might explode. “You’re really doing this.”

“I’m really doing this,” Alfie confirmed, the smile from earlier still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Now go.”

Ollie walked though the hallway with the air of a man marching to his own execution. The bakery was in full swing when he pushed open the door to the back kitchen area. You were at the central bench with your sleeves rolled high and your hair pinned back with a few rebellious hairs escaping to cling to your damp temples.

Ollie stopped a few feet away, holding the letter between thumb and forefinger. “Alfie got this for you,” he said with disapproval. There was no warmth in it, just the weary resentment of someone who had watched his carefully ordered world tilt toward chaos because of you

You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. “What is it?”

“A letter,” Ollie said as he extended it toward you. “Obviously. From him.”

You took the letter. The paper was thick, good quality, still faintly warm from Alfie’s hands. Your name was written across the front in his bold script. Your fingers trembled slightly as you broke the seal.

Ollie lingered for a moment, watching you, then muttered something under his breath about “playing house” and retreated to the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He did not leave entirely, he was waiting to see your reaction, only to report back with the precision Alfie would demand.

My dearest angel,

Or should I call you love? Because that is what you have become to me in these short weeks… love. Not the cheap or easy kind, but the one that’s real. The kind that makes a man sit in his office with his eyes closed and smile like a fool because the world suddenly feels worth inhabiting again.

I kissed you yesterday. I have not stopped thinking about it since. Your mouth, God help me, was softer than I had any right to imagine. It tasted like the best parts of my childhood and all the things I never knew I was missing until you walked into my bakery. When I pulled you close I felt the whole of Camden disappear, none of it mattered. Only you. Only the way you fit against me for that brief and perfect moment before your conscience reminded you of the ring on your finger.

I have kissed women before. I will not insult either of us by pretending otherwise. But I have never kissed a woman and felt the entire architecture of my life rearrange itself around the simple fact of her existence. That is what you did to me in the space of one kiss. One glorious, incomplete, far-too-short kiss.

I know you are married. I know it and I hate it. I have thought: this woman deserves a man who sees her as the miracle she is. A man who would burn the world down before he let anyone dim that light in her eyes.

You feel it too. I know you do. Tell me I am not imagining it. Tell me that when I kissed you, you kissed me back for more than just a moment. Tell me that the push was not because you wanted me gone, but because you were afraid of how much you wanted me to stay.

I am not a good man. I have done things that would make angels weep. But for you I could try to be better, or at least better at the things that matter. Take your time. Think. I will not rush you, but know this: every morning when I come down to that little kingdom you have made of my bakery, I will be hoping. Hoping that one day you will look at me and decide that the ring on your finger is not worth more than the way I look at you.

Until then, I remain yours in every way that matters,

Alfie

You read it twice. Then a third time, more slowly, tracing the ink with your fingers as if you could feel the heat of his hand through the paper. Your heart was beating too hard, you could feel it in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, in the space just beneath your ribs

You felt wanted. Properly, fiercely, unapologetically wanted. Not as a convenience, not as a body that had failed to produce a child, not as a wife who was expected to make dinner and warm a bed while her husband chased other women. Alfie looked at you and saw something rare, something worth the risk.

Ollie cleared his throat from the doorway, his arms still crossed. “Well? Are you going to stand there staring at it until the bread burns, or should I tell him you’ve gone speechless like every other woman who reads one of his letters?”

You folded the letter carefully, pressing it against your chest for a moment as if you could press the words into your skin. When you finally looked up, your voice came out softer than you intended, almost shy.

“Tell him this is really… thoughtful,” you said, still prssing the letter gently against your chest, as if you could press the sincerity of his words into your skin. “And I will think about it. Tell him that. I need time. But… it’s thoughtful. I liked it.”

Ollie nodded once, though his expression suggested he would rather be doing almost anything else. “Right. Thoughtful. I’ll pass it along.” He turned on his heel without another word, the door swinging shut behind him with a click.

Upstairs, Alfie was not waiting patiently. He paced the length of his office like a caged animal. The letter had been a risk, an honest outpouring that left him more exposed than he had been in years, and the waiting was torture. When the door finally opened and Ollie stepped through, Alfie was already at the threshold, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders with both hands before he could even cross the room properly.

“Well?” Alfie demanded, searching Ollie’s face with ferocious intensity. “What did she say? Did she like it? Did she cry? Did she smile? Did she press it to her chest like it was something precious? Tell me everything, Ollie. Every single detail. Leave nothing out.”

Ollie pried himself free with a long-suffering sigh, smoothing his jacket where Alfie’s grip had wrinkled it. “I do not appreciate being an errand boy between the two of you,” he said with irritation. “I handle the books, the meetings. I do not handle love letters. This is beneath me. This is—”

“Shut up, Ollie,” Alfie interrupted as he began pacing again. The energy rolling off him was almost tangible. “Tell me what she said. Exactly. Word for word if you can manage it. I need to know. I need to know if I’ve scared her off.”

Ollie exhaled through his nose with resignation. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms once more. “She said it was really… thoughtful. And that she will think about it. She needs time, that’s it. She looked a bit overwhelmed. And yes, she pessed the letter to her chest and read it more than once. But she didn’t cry, not that I saw. So I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.”

Alfie stopped pacing, he turned slowly, the wide smile from earlier creeping back across his face. “Thoughtful,” he repeated, tasting the word. “She said it was thoughtful. Not terrifying, not inappropriate. Not ‘how dare you, you mad cunt.’ Thoughtful, that’s something, Ollie. That’s more than something, that’s a crack in the wall She’s thinking about it. She pressed it to her chest, my words against her heart. She’s going to think about it.”

He dropped heavily into his chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “One kiss and she’s thinking. God, Ollie. That woman. She’s got me by the throat and she doesn’t even know it. I’ll give her time. A day, maybe two. Then I’ll find another way to remind her that there’s a man who looks at her like she hung the moon and who would rather die than make her shed a tear of sadness.”

Ollie pushed off the desk, heading for the door. “Just… try not to burn the place down while you’re mooning over her. Or get us all killed, some of us still have work to do.”

Alfie waved him off without looking, already reaching for another sheet of paper, already composing the next message in his head.

Two days later, the frantic rhythm of preparation before Shabbat had you working longer than usual. The trays slid in and out of the heat as the front of the shop bustled with last minute customers seeking the last fresh loaves before the sun dipped.

By the time the light outside began to soften, your shoulders ached, your feet burned, and your mind was a tangled mess of the memory of the kiss you'd shared with Alfie days ago. The words written in his love letter still echoed in your mind, but Alfie had not come down since you both kissed, not once. The absence had felt louder than his presence ever did, it left space that made you wonder whether he regretted the press of his mouth on yours, or whether he was simply trying to forget the way you had pulled away.

You untied your apron, folded it neatly, and reached for your coat, ready to step back into the grey streets. But the door to the back room opened.

Alfie’s eyes found you immediately. “How are you doing, love?” he asked as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a click. “After... everything that happened between us.”

You busied your hands with the last of the trays, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. “About to go home.”

Alfie crossed the room slowly and stopped close, leaning one hip against the bench where you had stood kneading only minutes before. The flowers from three days ago were still there, slightly wilted now but stubbornly bright. He picked one up, turning the stem between his fingers as if it held answers.

“The kiss,” he said, slow enough to taste every syllable. “I don’t regret it for one second. Not one. Your lips, love… they’ve been the only thing I’ve been thinking about. They consumed me. The softness, the way they gave under mine like they’d been waiting. Like they knew exactly where they belonged. I’ve sat in my office all day and all I could see was your mouth, all I could taste was you. Tell me you’ve thought about it too, don’t lie to me, and for fuck’s sake don’t lie to yourself. I felt the hunger in your mouth. You were starving for it, same as me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, you turned away, folding the apron again though it was already neat. “Alfie, we need to pretend that didn’t happen. We have to. I’m married. This… this can’t go anywhere. It’s wrong.”

He let out a rough sound, like a growl of laughter. “Pretend? Oh, love, that’s a good one. Tell me you’ve thought about it too. I saw it in your eyes when you pulled away, I felt it in the way your hands pressed against my chest but didn’t pushh, not really, not like you meant it. Your husband, does he let you starve like that? Does he have this pretty thing all for himself, this woman who bakes like an angel and laughs like heaven, and still lets you go hungry?”

The words hit too close, you remembered the lipstick stains, the empty bed, the nights he chose other beds. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Alfie… this… we shouldn’t.”

He moved then, faster than you thought a man his size could. Wrapping one arm around your waist, he pulled you close against the solid heat of his body. He slid his other hand into your hair, tilting your head as his mouth found the side of your neck. The kiss there was hot, open-mouthed, grazing your skin with his teeth just enough to make you gasp. He held you pressed tight, devouring the curve of your throat.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured against your skin. “Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself. I can see the sadness in a woman’s eyes, love, I can feel the hunger in her mouth. A woman who’s not happy at home, who’s not satisfied. Who lies awake wondering why the man who vowed to cherish her treats her like an afterthought. He makes you deeply unhappy, I see it. Every day I see it, and it makes me want to burn the whole fucking world down until someone treats you the way you deserve.”

The memory of the shirts flooded back, the cheap red lipstick, the cloying perfume on his clothes the other night. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “It’s not just the fights,” you whispered. “He… he stopped loving me after I lost our baby. Stopped looking at me, stopped touching me. Like it was my fault, like my body had failed him and that was the end of it.”

Alfie stilled against your neck, then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand cupped your face with surprising tenderness. The dark with lust eyes were soft now, almost pained. “I’m so sorry, love,” he said, gentler than you had ever heard him. “You didn’t deserve that, not one bit of it. No woman deserves a man so weak he lets her suffer alone in her grief and then blames her for her own sorrow. A real man would’ve held you through it. Would’ve crried the weight with you instead of turning away like a coward. You lost a child, and you carried that pain. He left you to carry it alone, that’s not a husband.”

The tears pricked at your eyes, you tried to blink them back, but one escaped anyway, tracing down your cheek. Alfie brushed it away with his thumb. “I know he sees other women,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “That’s why I took the job, that’s why I’m saving every shilling. To leave, to have something of my own. To stand on my own feet without him.”

Alfie tightened around you in an act of protectiveness. “Why be loyal to someone who doesn’t respect you?” he asked. “Why tie yourself to someone who treats his vows like they’re optional, who comes home reeking of other women and still has the nerve to call you unfaithful for standing in here? Loyalty is a two-way street, love. And he’s been walking the wrong way for years. You deserve better, you deserve someone who sees the miracle in you every single day. Who would rather burn than let you carry that sadness alone.”

He kissed you then. Not the hard, devouring kiss from days ago, but something slower. His mouth claimed yours with hunger, tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue until you opened your mouth for him. He kept one hand at the small of your back, pressing you tight against the warmth of his body, while the other cradled your face like you were something fragile and infinitely precious. For long, dizzying moments there was only Alfie, only the heat of him, only the way he kissed you like he had been waiting lifetimes for exactly this.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly. “Tell me you feel it too,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not the only one going mad in here.”

“You’re not.”

Alfie’s hands moved then, sliding one palm down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your dress, pressing you tighter against him. The other hand roamed lower, cupping the swell of your hip, digging his fingers in with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His mouth found yours again, not so gentle this time, but hungry, as if he could drink down every hidden longing you had buried for years. He kissed you like he owned you, like every inch of your body had been waiting for his claim. His hands explored without shame, brushing the undersides of your breasts through the layers of cloth, then down again to grip your thighs, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

“Fuck, love,” he growled against your mouth. “If I told you all the things I’ve thought about you… all the filthy, depraved little fantasies that have kept me awake at night since the day you walked in here… you’d probably slap me across the face and call me a degenerate. A proper degenerate. But God help me, I can’t stop. Can’t stop imagining these hands of yours wrapped around me. Can’t stop seeing you bent over this bench, moaning my name while I show you what a real man can do.”

He grabbed you then, effortlessly lifting you with a grunt of effort and setting you on the edge of the wide wooden bench. You parted your legs instinctively as he stepped between them, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Your legs followed, locking around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs as if your body had decided for you. He was hard already, you could feel the line of his erection pressing against you through his trousers, insistent and hot. Alfie groaned at the contact, rolling his hips forward, grinding against your core in a slow motion that made you whimper into his mouth.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look down at the way your body had opened for him. He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher and stroking the sensitive skin just above your stockings. “Your body’s been starving for this, love. Starving for a man who sees it, who wants it. Who’s been mad thinking about how soft you’d feel under him and how wet you’d get just from a kiss like that.”

“I want you,” you whispered, the words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your voice was shaky with all the need you felt from years of denial. “So much, Alfie. God, I want you.”

A triumphant sound rumbled in his chest. “I know, angel. I know you do.” He tightened his hands on your hips, holding you in place as he rocked against you again, the friction sending sparks up your spine. “And I’m gonna show you how a real man treats a woman, how I’d treat you every single day if you were mine. Slow when you need slow, hard when you need hard. I’d worship this body until you forgot every cold night that bastard ever gave you”

His fingers found the buttons of your dress, the simple row running down the front. With a growl of impatience he ripped them open, the delicate fabric giving way with a series of sharp pops that echoed in the kitchen. The cool air kissed your skin as he pushed the dress off your shoulders, tugging it down your arms until it pooled around your waist. You sat there in your brassiere and knickers, the garters and stockings still clipped neatly in place, the lace and silk suddenly feeling far too exposed under his gaze. Alfie stepped back just enough to look at you fully, his eyes raking over every inch.

“Fuck me,” he breathed the words. His hands returned, running all over your body with hunger, sliding his palms up your sides, hooking his thumbs under the edges of your brassiere to trace the swell of your breasts, then down over the curve of your waist and hips. He cupped your breasts through the thin fabric, squeezing them gently, circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch. “You’re even more delightful than any image my imagination ever created. Such a beautiful creature, so fucking appealing. Soft where you should be soft, strong where you’ve had to be strong. Look at you, like you were made to drive a man mad. You’ve got my cock so fucking hard it hurts, love. Proper aching for you. Been aching since the first day.”

He leaned in again, his mouth finding your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone, nipping at the tops of your breasts as his hands continued their exploration. Alfie slipped one hand between your legs, cupping you through the thin knickers, feeling the heat and dampness there with a groan of pure satisfaction. His fingers stroked you slowly, pressing the fabric against your most sensitive spot until your hips jerked against his hand. 

As if he couldn’t wait another second, Alfie hooked his fingers into the fabric of your brassiere. With a growl, he pulled it down, freeing your breasts to the air. “Fuck, look at these,” he murmured, cupping them immediately, lifting and squeezing them with just the right pressure, circling the sensitive peaks with his thumbs. “Perfect. Fucking perfect. Been dreaming about these tits since the first time I saw you. So soft, made for my mouth.”

He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard enough to make you arch against him with a sharp cry. His tongue swirled, licked, teased in wet circles that sent sparks down to your core. He massaged the other breast with his hand, rolling the nipple between fingers, pinching just enough to border on pain before soothing it with his palm. All the while his other hand stayed between your legs, cupping your cunt and pressing the heel of his palm against your clit in grinding circles that matched the rhythm of his mouth. 

You rocked against his hand desperately, grinding down on the pressure, chasing the friction as your hips rolled in needy little movements. Alfie groaned around your nipple before he switched sides, sucking the other breast deep into his mouth while he kept working you, cupping and stroking, feeling the growing wetness soak through the fabric.

“Tell me,” he rasped against your skin. “Tell me how much you want me, love. Say it. I want to hear it from that pretty mouth while you’re grinding on my hand.”

The words spilled out of you, breathless between soft moans. “I want you so much, Alfie… everything aches for you. My whole body… it’s been so long… I need you. Please.”

A satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He released your nipple with a wet pop, looking up at you with glittering eyes. “That’s my good girl. I know, angel. I know you do. And I’m gonna soothe that ache, every bit of it. When I’m done with you, the only thing that’s gonna hurt is gonna be your throat from screaming my name.”

Hie moved his hands lower, tracing the tops of your stockings, hooking his fingers under the clips of your garters one by one, undoing them with care. The silk whispered against your skin as he rolled the stockings down, peeling them off like he was unwrapping something precious. His palms followed, stroking every inch of newly bared skin, your calves, knees, and the soft insides of your thighs, as if he could not get enough of touching you.

“You’re a vision,” he murmured with awe. “Such a beautiful creature. So soft and ready for me. Look at you, all laid out for me like a feast I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to taste.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your knickers and slid them down your legs, baring your cunt completely. The air hit your slick and dripping folds, making you shiver. Alfie stared, transfixed, as he traced the seam of your pussy with one finger, gathering the wetness that had already coated your thighs.

“Fuck me, you’re soaked,” he groaned. “So wet and slick and dripping for me already. This pretty little cunt is weeping for attention, love. Been neglected for far too long.” He looked up at you, his eyes were a dark shade of blue now, full of lust. “You want me to eat this cunt, don’t you? Want my mouth on you?”

You nodded frantically, twitching your hips toward his hand. “Yes… please…”

He smiled. “Ask me nice, angel. Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”

A whine escaped your throat, the need was louder than the embarrassment. “C-could you… could you eat my cunt, Alfie? Please?”

“With pleasure,” he dropped to his knees on the wooden floor in front of the bench, a man of his size and power willingly kneeling for you. He gripped your thighs and spread them wide, opening you completely to his gaze. 

His breath ghosted over your exposed pussy, making you tremble. “Keep them open like this,” he ordered in a commanding tone. “Wide for me. Scream if you need to, pull my hair, wrap your legs around my neck and ride my face. But don’t you dare close these thighs. I want all of you, every drop. Understood?”

You nodded breathlessly, bracing your arms behind you on the bench as you watched him. He started slow, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your knees, then higher along your thighs, his beard scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin. He kissed your mound, lips brushing the soft curls there, then lower, feather-light kisses along your outer lips, teasing and tasting the slick that had gathered there. 

Then, he finally dragged his tongue slowly up your slit in a long and broad stroke from your entrance to your clit that made your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he groaned against your core. “Sweet and wet. Been starving for this too, haven’t you, love? This pretty cunt hasn’t been properly worshipped in years. But I’m here now. Gonna take my time, gonna lick every inch until you’re shaking.”

He sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, flicking his tongue in circles. Alfie ate your cunt like a madman, ravenous, unrelenting, completely lost in the taste of you. He sealed his mouth over your dripping folds with wet sounds that filled the quiet kitchen, thrusting his tongue deep inside you before dragging it back up to circle your swollen clit with firm strokes. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, then lapping slowly as if he could not get enough of your taste. 

He used his large hands to grip your thighs with bruising strength, digging his fingers into the soft flesh to keep them spread wide open for him. No matter how much you trembled or tried to close them instinctively from the overwhelming sensation, he held you firmly in place, refusing to let you hide even an inch of yourself from his mouth. “That’s it,” he growled against your pussy, the words sounding muffled. “Keep these pretty thighs open for me, love. I’m not done feasting, not by a long fucking shot.”

You were moaning openly now, shameless sounds spilling from your lips as your hands fisted in his hair. “Alfie— oh God, don’t stop… please don’t stop…” The words came out broken and desperate, it was years of denial pouring out of you in a flood. 

As you bucked his hips against his face, chasing the pressure of his tongue, you looked down, and the sight nearly undid you completely, Alfie on his knees between your spread legs, his eyes half-lidded with lust, his beard glistening with your wetness, and his mouth buried in your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He looked up at that exact moment, locking his gaze with yours while his tongue continued its devastating work, sucking hard on your clit. The eye contact was intimate, you saw the raw hunger there, the possession, and it made your walls clench around nothing.

The intensity pushed you over the edge of control, and you started grinding slowly on his face, rolling your hips in needy circles, using his mouth, his tongue, his beard for friction. The coarse hair tickled and scraped deliciously against your sensitive folds and inner thighs. With a broken cry, you let yourself fall back onto the wooden bench, spreading your arms out above your head, arching as you gave yourself over completely. 

Alfie groaned in approval, sliding his hands under you, grabbing your ass with both palms to squeeze the soft flesh, kneading it as he lifted your hips higher, bringing your dripping pussy even closer to his face. He held you there like an offering, devouring you with ferocity.

You were whimpering louder now, the sounds turning into high cries that echoed off the walls. “Alfie— fuck— I’m so close… don’t stop, please don’t stop…” Your thighs shook violently around his head as the orgasm built, ready to explode. Every nerve in your body felt alight, years of neglect and loneliness unraveling under the assault of his mouth.

He growled and moaned into your cunt, the vibrations pushing you right to the edge. “Cum for me, angel,” he rasped against your folds. “Cum on my tongue like the starving girl you are. Give it to me, let me taste how much you’ve needed this.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was intense, shattering, the first one you had experienced in years. Your whole body seized, your back bowing off the bench as the pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your cunt clenched around nothing, gushing wetly against his mouth as he continued licking and sucking you through every pulse and aftershock, drinking down every drop like a man dying of thirst. 

Alfie held you through it all, his grip on your ass firm, never letting your hips drop, never stopping the soothing laps of his tongue as the pleasure finally began to ebb. He kissed your swollen folds gently, murmuring praises against your skin between soft licks. “That’s my good girl… fucking beautiful when you cum for me. Look at you shaking and dripping and mine. First of many, love. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

You lay there on the bench, with your chest heaving and your body limping and trembling, as Alfie continued to kneel between your spread thighs, pressing worshipful kisses to your inner thighs and mound. 

Alfie finally rose, towering over you. He wiped his glistening beard with the back of his hand, looking down at your spent form spread out on the bench. 

“Eating this cunt is a biblical experience, love. Proper fucking revelation. I thought nothing in this godforsaken world tasted better than those cakes you bake. But this?” He dragged two thick fingers through your slick folds, gathering your wetness and his saliva, then brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with an obscene groan. “This cunt is better. Sweeter, wetter, more addictive. I could die wondering how I ever lived without the taste of you on my tongue.”

You were still catching your breath, but something wild and long-denied had broken loose inside you. You sat up, grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. Your fingers worked frantically at the buttons, popping them open one by one until the fabric parted to reveal the broad, hairy expanse of his chest. You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and ran your hands all over him, tracing the muscle of his shoulders, the softness of his belly, the hair that covered his chest and trailed down toward his waistband. 

Alfie chuckled against your mouth, the sound amused and utterly pleased. “Look at you,” he murmured, nipping at your lower lip. “Someone’s in a rush, huh? Greedy little thing. One taste and you’re ready to devour the rest of me. I like that, fucking like that.”

You kissed him harder, tangling your tongues together in a kiss that grew messy and desperate. While your mouths moved together, you dropped your fingers lower, fumbling with his belt. The leather gave way, and you popped the button of his trousers, tugging the zipper down and shoving both trousers and underwear down his thighs in one eager motion.

Alfie’s cock sprang free, thick, and already leaking at the flushed tip. It was substantial, veined and hard, with a thatch of dark hair at the base that made your mouth water. You stared for a moment, as it bobbed heavily between you.

Alfie watched you looking, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You like what you see, love?” he asked. “Go on, don’t be shy. Give it a stroke, feel what you do to me.”

Your wrapped a hand around his shaft without hesitation. He was hot and smoothl, pulsing in your grip. You stroked him slowly at first, up and down, swirling your thumb over the leaking head on every pass to spread the wetness. Alfie groaned, tipping his head back for a moment, half-closing his eyes in pleasure as he let you work him. He rocked his hips gently into your fist, fucking your hand with lazy thrusts while he simply enjoyed the feeling.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. Look at that pretty hand wrapped around my cock.”

While you continued stroking him, finding a steady rhythm that made his breath hitch, Alfie moved his hand back between your legs. His fingertips gathered the slick mixture of your juices and his saliva that still coated your pussy, and then he slid two fingers deep inside you. He curled them, stroking that spot inside while he circled your clit in lazy spirals with the pad of his thumb. He opened you slowly, scissoring his fingers to stretch you. 

Your hand continued to pump his cock while his fingers fucked you open. You moaned into his mouth as you kissed again, sliding your tongues together. Your strokes on his cock grew faster and tighter, making Alfie groan into the kiss and jerk his hips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to look down at where your hand worked him and where his fingers disappeared inside your cunt. “So tight and wet. This pretty little hole is sucking my fingers in like she knows exactly who it belongs to now. Gonna make you feel so full when I finally give you this cock, gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

Then, with a growl, he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. At the same time, he closed his other hand firmly around your wrist, stopping the movement of your hand on his throbbing length. You looked up at him with your lips parted in a moan, and your eyes dark with need. Alfie held your gaze, his own eyes overwhelmed with lust.

“Do you want my cock inside you, love? Because all of this, my mouth, my fingers, that’s been foreplay. Beautiful, filthy foreplay. But if I put my cock inside this pretty little cunt… things won’t go back the way they were. You’ll be all mine. Once I’m buried deep, there’s no pretending. No going back to that cold bed and that useless husband. You’ll be mine. Say it, tell me you understand what you’re asking for.”

The words hung in the warm kitchen air. Your heart hammered wildly at the thought of belonging to Alfie. Years of loneliness and a body that had been ignored rose up in a desperate wave. You nodded frantically. “I want you,” you whispered, then louder, more desperate. “So much, Alfie. Please… Please fuck me. I need you inside me.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. “Look at you,” he murmured, brushing your swollen lower lip. “You’re so beautiful when you beg. You’ve got the face of an angel and the voice of one too, it’s fucking celestial. Begging for my cock like the dirty girl you are.”

He stepped closer, until his thick cock was nudging against your slick entrance. “Wrap your legs around my waist, love. Hold me tight, I want to feel you clinging to me when I finally sink into this heaven between your thighs.”

You obeyed instantly, locking your legs  around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The position left you completely open to him, your cunt pressed right against the head of his cock. Alfie gripped the base of his shaft with one hand, the other arm banded tight around your lower back, holding you steady.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Right here. I want to see that first second when I get inside you. Want to watch your face when this cock stretches you open and fills that hungry little hole for the first time.”

You locked eyes with his, and then Alfie pushed forward. The thick head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching you slowly and inexorably. You gasped sharply at the burn and the fullness, your walls fluttering around the invasion as he sank deeper inch by inch. He was thick, so thick, and long, filling you in a way you had never been filled before. 

Crescent marks painted his shoulders when you dug your nails into it. You let your body adjust, clenching and relaxing around him. Alfie groaned deeply but his eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of pleasure as he pushed forward, until he was buried to the hilt, with his heavy balls pressed against you.

“Fuck… so tight,” he growled, holding perfectly still for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “This cunt is gripping me like it never wants to let go, like it knows exactly who it belongs to now.”

Then he began to move, holding you tight against him with an arm around your waist and the other braced on the bench as he thrust deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a powerful snap of his hips. Each thrust was deliberately hitting your g-spot, making stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Alfie! Oh God, yes, deeper—” you gasped, digging your nails harder into his arms, leaving red trails down his skin. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper with every thrust.

He kissed you hard, using his tongue to fuck your mouth in the same rhythm as his cock pounded into your cunt. The bench creaked beneath you as he fucked you with increasing force, snapping forward, making the length of him drag against every nerve inside you. His balls were sapping against your ass with every deep thrust, and the hair at the base of his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit.

“That’s it, angel,” he moaned between kisses. “Moan for me, let me hear how good it feels to finally have a real man inside you. This tight cunt was made for this cock… made for me. Gonna fuck you until you forget every lonely night, until the only name you remember is mine.”

Alfie watched your face the entire time, drinking in every expression, the way your lips parted on a cry, the way your eyes fluttered half-closed in ecstasy. “Beautiful,” he growled, slamming deep and grinding his hips in a circle. “Fucking beautiful when you’re taking my cock like this. Look at you, all spread open and dripping for me. My angel.”

The pleasure built again, faster this time, coiling in your belly as Alfie’s rhythm grew punishing. You couldn’t help the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him with every stroke, the grip of your cunt pulsing and rippling along his length as the pleasure increased. The sensation of being so full, so stretched, so completely claimed by him was overwhelming

Alfie cursed, his hips stuttering for a moment as your cunt clenched particularly hard around him. “Fuck—! stop doing that with your cunt, love,” his voice came out rough with the effort of holding back. “Squeezing me like that… you’re gonna make me cum too soon. This tight, greedy little hole is trying to pull the life out of me. Slow down, angel, or I won’t last.”

“I can’t help it,” you whimpered high and broken, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts desperately. “It feels too good… I think I’m gonna cum again, Alfie— oh God, I’m so close…”

A satisfied chuckle rumbled out of him, turning into another deep groan as your walls fluttered around his cock once more. “You’re gonna make me cum, angel,” he growled. “Gonna pull it right out of me with this perfect cunt. But not yet… not until I feel you fall apart around me again.”

His hand found your clit with unerring accuracy, and he rubbed circles over the bundle of nerves, never slowing the pounding rhythm of his cock driving into you. The dual stimulation was devastating, the pressure on your clit was pushing you straight toward the edge again. 

Alfie leaned in and kissed you hard, swallowing every cry and whimper as he drove you higher. “Cum for me again, love,” he rubbed faster. “Let me feel this pretty cunt pulse and flutter around me. Squeeze my cock while you fall apart. That’s it, good girl, cum on my cock like you were born for it.”

The orgasm crashed over, even more intense than the first. Your whole body seized as the pleasure ripped through you in shattering pulses. Your cunt clenched hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing rhythmically, milking him with squeezes as you came with a loud scream of his name. Slick gushed around his cock, coating his balls and dripping down onto the bench beneath you.

“Fuck yes! That’s my angel.” Alfie’s voice was strained as he felt you cum apart around him. He kept thrusting through it, fucking you through every pulse. “So beautiful when you cum for me. Squeezing me so tight… gonna make me fill this pussy. I’m gonna finish inside you, love. Gonna pump every drop deep into this greedy cunt. Mark you from the inside so you remember who you belong to now. Gonna fill you up until you’re dripping with me for days.”

His thrusts grew more erratic as he chased his own release. His cock swelled even thicker inside you, until with a final and powerful snap of his hips, Alfie came. He flood you with thick ropes of cum as he emptied himself completely. He kept thrusting through it, making sure every drop stayed buried inside you, filling you until you felt impossibly full.

He collapsed forward, stroking with his hand up and down your back, tracing patterns along your spine, then sliding around to caress your sides, your ribs, the curve of your waist. His other arm held you securely against his chest, keeping you pressed close as if he feared you might slip away. 

“Does your throat hurt, love?” he asked quietly, a gravelled murmur against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, the sound hoarse from all your moaning. “A little,” you admitted, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. “But it’s a good hurt.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you where you were still joined. “That’s a good sign, angel. A cunt filled and dripping with my cum, and a throat sore from screaming my name. That’s how a woman should be, love. Thoroughly loved, thoroughly pleasured, thoroughly claimed. That’s how it would be every single day if you were mine, I’d wake you up with my mouth between your thighs. I’d make you cum until you couldn’t remember your own name. You’d go to sleep every night with my cock still inside you and my cum leaking down your thighs. Loved, cherished, worshipped like you deserve.”

You tightened your arms around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Alfi’es hands continued their slow exploration, sliding down to cup your ass gently, then back up to trace your sides and the curve of your breasts where they pressed against his chest. “Your cunt was a holy experience,” he murmured after a long, contented silence. “I saw God for a moment there, love. Nothing in this world, nothing has ever felt like being buried inside you. I’m not sure I can live without it now, I’m not sure I can live without you. Ever since you walked into this place with that cake and that smile that lit up the whole room… you’ve ruined me, angel. Ruined me for anything less, I look at you and the rest of the world feels grey and small and pointless.”

When you lifted your head, you saw his eyes, your own still hazy with pleasure. “Maybe you won’t have to,” you whispered.

“You’re not going back to that cunt of a husband you’ve got,” he said. “Not after this, not after the way you came for me, not after I felt this perfect cunt. You’re done with that life, love. I won’t allow it.”

A tired, but genuine smile painted your face, and you rested your forehead against his. “With this Friday’s payment… I saved enough to rent my own place. I’ve been putting every shilling I could away.”

Alfie’s expression softened further, something almost tender breaking through. He kissed you slowly. “Smart girl, saving and planning. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. More than okay. You’ll have that place, you’ll have safety. And you’ll have me, whenever you want me, however you want me.”

You stayed wrapped around him, with your legs locked at his waist and your arms around his neck, your face tucked into the warm curve of his shoulder. Then came the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

“Alfie?” Ollie’s voice echoed down the corridor, with that typical frustration and an edge of exhaustion. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Please don’t tell me you’re still in there watching her knea—”

The door to the back room swung open and Ollie stopped cold in the doorway, his words dying in his throat. His eyes widened, taking in the scene before him: you on the bench, with your dress bunched around your waist, brassiere pulled down and breasts exposed and marked with the evidence of Alfie’s mouth. Alfie still buried between your spread thighs, his trousers around his ankles and his shirt open, the two of you flushed and unmistakably tangled.

Alfie reacted instantly, wrapping one arm around your back and pulling you against his chest to shield your bare breasts from view, while his other hand tugged the front of your dress up as best he could. “Jesus fuck, Ollie!” he barked with exasperation. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to knock? Get the fuck away from here. Now. Before I decide your eyes need a permanent reminder of what happens when you walk in on things that aren’t your business.”

Ollie’s face went a mortified red, he spun on his heel so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, muttering something that sounded like a urse. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang, and you heard his footsteps retreating rapidly down the hallway.

The silence that followed was broken only by your sudden, breathless laugh. Alfie’s chest rumbled with a chuckle that turned into full laughter. “Poor Ollie,” you gasped between giggles. 

“Serve him right,” Alfie said, still laughing. “Walking in like he owns the place. Should’ve knocked.”

You stayed like that for a few more minutes, wrapped around each other. But eventually, with a reluctant sigh, Alfie pulled back just enough to look at you, as he slowly eased his softening cock out of you. You whimpered at the loss, feeling the warm trickle of his cum leaking down your thighs. 

“Come here, love,” he murmured, helping you down from the bench on shaky legs. “Let me take care of you.”

He dressed you with surprising gentleness. First he slid your knickers back up your legs, settling them into place and smoothing the fabric over your still sensitive cunt. Then he adjusted your garters and rolled your stockings back up your thighs, clipping them neatly. He helped you back into your brassiere, cupping your breasts as he did so, brushing your nipples one last time before covering them. Finally, he buttoned what remained of your dress, straightening the fabric and brushing flour from your shoulders and hair with tender strokes.

“There,” he said quietly, stepping back to look at you. “Presentable again. Though I much prefer you the other way.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and leaned into him. Alfie wrapped his arms around you once more, holding you close. “This Sunday,” he said after a long silence, “you’re gonna bring in the money you’ve got saved and a bag with your belongings. I’m gonna help you find your next place to live. Something far away from that useless bastard. You won’t have to do it alone, love. Not anymore.”

You nodded against his chest. “This Sunday,” you agreed softly.

For the first time in years you are not bracing yourself for the walk home, thinking of a cold bed, and an even colder husband. You think of the mornings still to come, waking up without dread and walking the streets knowing the ring on your finger is gone, and the weight it carried is gone with it.

…

A/N: Omg guys, I think it’s finally up for good!! After getting flagged like 10 times, I think I finally figured out what the issue was. I swear I’ve been so stressed over this whole thing. So if you enjoyed it, I’d absolutely love it if you could help me out with a reblog. It would mean a lot to me and help the fic reach more people after everything it’s been through.

This fic actually started out as something much angstier. My original idea was that Alfie and reader met because she worked as a seamstress and he’d bring her clothes to be repaired. Reader’s marriage was also supposed to be a lot darker. I even had about a page of it written in google docs.

But then, while looking for pictures on pinterest, I came across a photo of a bakery and suddenly thought, wait… wouldn’t it be adorable if reader worked as a baker and Alfie was completely gone for her?😭 So I scrapped everything I’d written and started over from scratch. This time, I decided not to make it quite so dark and instead added a bit more humor and lightheartedness to it.

Alfie’s bakery itself was not much to look at from the street, it was nothing but a modest front of brick and glass with the name painted in gold that had started to flake, but everyone knew it was only ever half the story. The real money never came from loaves. The real money came from the rum barrels tucked away, from the horses, and the shipments whose contents were merely whispers. The bakery was a convenience, a respectable face. Somewhere men could come and go without drawing the wrong kind of eyes.

Alfie sat behind his wooden desk, his bulk filled the chair like a man who had never learned the art of taking up less space than he was owed. His coat was open, his waistcoat strained across his middle, and the gold chain of his watch winked every time he moved his arm. 

He was tapping one finger on an irregular rhythm against the wood. Ollie hovered near the door that led out of his office, nervous in the way he shouldn’t be after working for Alfie for so long. “Come on, Alfie,” Ollie said, pitching his voice low so the hopefuls waiting beyond the door wouldn’t hear the impatience in it. “Everyone’s waiting. Some of them have been standing out there since before sunrise. They’re starting to look like they might riot”

Alfie did not look up, instad he placed the glass of whisky he’d been holding on the desk. When he spoke, each syllable sounded chewed and considered. “Ollie, my boy… I don’t see why I need to bother with this. You see, I could put a donkey out there to bake the bread and I still wouldn’t give a shit. The lads would still buy it because they’re hungry and they’re not particular and this is Camden, not the fucking Ritz.”

Ollie shifted his weight from one polished shoe to the other. “So should I… just point? Pick someone? There’s a big bloke with big arms who looks like he could knead dough for twelve hours straight without blinking.”

Alfie’s head came up at last. “Just choose the one who looks the more competent,” he said, waving one large hand in a vague circle. “Competent. You know the word? Means they won’t burn the place down or poison the customers or, god forbid, start getting ideas about unions. If they look like they’ve ever thought a complicated thought in their life, send them packing.”

Ollie hesitated, and the silence stretched. “But we told everyone to bring something freshly baked,” he said carefully. “That was the whole point, Alfie. So you could taste it. So it—”

“Holy fuck, Ollie.” Alfie’s voice rose without quite becoming a shout, it never needed to, the way he said it was enough. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk. “You know what? Tell them to come in. One by one. Go.”

Ollie went. He opened the office door and the murmur of voices from the shop floor swelled for a moment, the men shifting impatently, people who needed work and they’d been forced to waste an entire morning in this shithole. It all cut off as Ollie cleared his throat and called the first name.

The man who entered Alfie’s office was broad across the shoulders and thick through the middle. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle in both hands, stopped a respectful distance from the desk and waited.

Alfie regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then he made a small gesture with two fingers. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Show us what you’ve brought, my son.”

The man unwrapped the cloth with careful fingers. Inside lay a round loaf, still faintly warm. The smell that rose from it was good enough, of yeast and a hot oven. He set it on the table and Alfie tore a piece free with his fingers. He brought it to his nose first, sniffed once, then again with suspicion. Then he put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his face remaining carefully blank for three full seconds. Then he twitched the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He chewed once more, swallowed with effort, and set the remainder of the bread down.

“What,” he said, very quietly, “in the name of every living, suffering creature, is this supposed to be?” The man opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger, and the man closed it again. “I have eaten things in the trenches that had more dignity than this. I have eaten things that tried to eat me back and still managed to leave a better impression. This—” he poked the loaf with one finger “—this is an insult to the very concept of bread. Worst thing I have ever put in my mouth, and I have put some deeply questionable things in my mouth in my time, let me tell you. Fuck off. Take your sad little brick and fuck off.”

The man’s face went from red to a blotchy purple. He snatched up the remaining bread, muttered something that might have been an apology or a curse, and retreated so quickly he nearly collided with the doorframe. Ollie ushered him out with the face of someone who had seen this particular performance from Alfie before, many times, and still found it freshly exhausting.

The door closed. The room settled back into its warm, yeasty quiet. Alfie wiped his fingers on a handkerchief that had seen better decades and muttered something under his breath about the decline of standards in the baking trades.

Ollie opened the door again.

“Next,” he called. You stepped through, and the change in the air was immediate, though neither Alfie nor Ollie could have said exactly why. The heat of the room seemed to pause as you carried your own cloth-wrapped offering, the warmth of it still seeping through the fabric into your hands.

Alfie looked up and whatever cutting remark or theatrical sigh he had been preparing died somewhere between his chest and his throat. His blue eyes, usually so quick to narrow in suspicion or amusement, widened by a fraction. He sat very still, watching something unexpected that had just walked into his kingdom.

You looked, to him, like something that did not belong in the back room of a Camden bakery that doubled as a front for darker enterprises. The light from the high window caught you just so, turning the edges of you luminous, almost lke a halo. An angel, he thought, with sudden clarity. He forgot, for several long heartbeats, that he was meant to be hiring a baker, he simply looked at you.

You could feel the heat of the place settling onto your skin, but you kept your shoulders straight, and your chin lifted just enough. “Good morning, Mr Solomons,” you said. “I’m here for the baker position.”

Alfie’s mouth twitched in something both softer and more dangerous than a smile. He sat back slowly in the chair, and regarded you as if you had just walked out of a different century entirely.

“And what’s your name, love?” he asked. You told him and the sound of it hung there in the room for a moment. Alfie roamed his eyes over your face as if he were committing the shape of it to memory. “Beautiful name,” he said. “Beautiful.” The second time his voice came out quieter, like he was saying it almost to himself. He cleared his throat. “Well then, let’s see what you’ve brought me. Don’t just stand there looking like a painting, show us the goods.”

You stepped closer to the table and set the cloth-wrapped parcel down with care. You unwrapped it slowly, revealing the poppy seed cake beneath. The scent rose immediately, the sweetness of a cake baked that morning and no earlier. Alfie leaned forward, reaching out for it with one hand and tearing a piece free with surprising gentleness. He brought it first to his nose, sniffed once and then put it in his mouth.

The change in his face was almost immediate, the scowl that lived around his mouth eased, and his eyes half-closed for a moment. He chewed slowly, and when he swallowed, he looked at the remaining cake as if it was offensive to taste so good.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. Then, louder, “This… this tastes like the one my mother used to bake, the exact same. She used to make it on Fridays… haven’t tasted anything close in years.” He looked up at you. “Proper little miracle, this is.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. You’d been complimented for your baking a million times, but somehow this felt more personal than any other nice word you’d received. “I’m glad,” you said simply.

Alfie tore another piece, smaller this time, and ate it with the same thoughtfulness. He wiped his fingers on the handkerchief and sat back. “So, why d’you want the job, love? Pretty thing like you. Could be doing a hundred other things that don’t involve getting flour up to the elbows”

You met his gaze and went with the most honest answer. “I’m seeking a little more independence.”

The word seemed to amuse him, he let out a sound, close to a laugh, that rumbled out of his chest. “Independence?” He spread his hands, the heavy rings catching the light. “Well I’m all about women’s independence, ain’t that right, Ollie?” He glanced toward the door where his assistant still hovered. “Tell her, Ollie. Tell her how progressive I am. How I believe a woman should be free to earn her own coin and stand on her own two feet and not have to ask some useless bastard for permission every time she wants a new hat. Go on.”

Ollie cleared his throat, internally rolling his eyes with disdain. “Yes, Alfie. Very progressive. You’ve said so. Many times.”

“See?” Alfie turned back to you. “Independence. Beautiful word. Almost as beautiful as your name. Almost.” He tilted his head, studying you. “You married, love?”

You moved your right hand without conscious thought, brushed the simple band on your ring finger. You let your fingertips rest there a moment longer than necessary, making sure he saw it. “I am,” you said. “Is that a problem?”

Alfie’s gaze lingered on your hand. Specifically on the ring, not too big, not too shiny or flashy. And he saw the way you curled your fingers protectively around it. “No,” he said slowly. “Not a problem. Happily married, are we?”

The lie came easier after being said so many times before. “Yes.”

Alfie made a small sound in the back of his throat. He looked down at the cake again, tore another piece, and spoke around it, low enough that you couldn’t hear. “We’ll see about that.”

He chewed, swallowed, and set the rest of the piece down with care. “I’m not gonna lie to you, love,” he said, louder now, businesslike again. “Your cake is excellent. Proper excellent. But look at you.” He gestured with one hand, encompassing all of you from the crown of your head to the hem of your skirt. “Look at those arms. You think you can knead bread for hours on end? Proper kneading. You think you can haul sacks of flour up from the cellar when the delivery comes? This is a working bakery.”

You straightened your shoulders, lifting your chin with the stubborn defiance that had carried you this far into the room. Ever the little fighter, determined not to let this opportunity slip away, you met Alfie’s gaze. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Alfie studied you for a long moment. “I don’t want to discriminate on account of your sex, believe me,” he said at last. “I am a modern man. Progressive, like Ollie said. But we’ve always had male bakers here. Big lads who can lift and carry and sweat without anyone batting an eye. A woman like you…” He swept his gaze over you again, slower this time, lingering in ways that had nothing to do with assessing upper body strength. “A woman like you could be out front, smiling at the customers. But sadly all those positions are taken, and I don’t see how putting you in the back is anything but a waste of something that looks like it belongs in a different sort of room entirely.”

You stepped closer to the table, close enough to smell the rum scent lingering in his clothes.  “Please, Mr Solomons. I’ll work harder than any of those men out there will. I can assure you of that. Harder, and better. I won’t complain, I won’t show up late, Iwon’t drink on the job or pick fights. Give me the chance and I’ll prove it. Every single day.”

Alfie watched you, drumming his fingers once against the wood, then twice before he stilled. “You know what,” he said slowly, lifting the corner of his mouth. “I like your attitude. There’s fire in you. Didn’t expect that, not with the face of an angel."

Ollie raked his eyes over you with suspicion. His voice, when it came, was deliberately unfriendly. “Do you have any references from previous employers?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “No. I haven’t worked before. But I’m very responsible, I learn quickly, and I brought the cake so you could judge the work for yourself.”

Ollie turned his head just enough to catch Alfie’s eye. The look he gave him was a silent don’t even think about it. The kind of look that said this was a bad idea, that a woman with no references and a pretty face was more trouble than she was worth.

Alfie ignored the look completely. “Ah, references,” he said, the word rolling out like it was something ridiculous. “Who needs references, Ollie? What am I supposed to do with a letter from some old bastard who thinks she knows how to bake? I don’t need a prick telling me she’s good. I can taste it in the cake. References.” He snorted. “References are for men who can’t trust their own tongue. I trust mine. And my tongue is telling me this woman knows what she’s doing. She’s hired.”

Ollie opened his mouth. “Alfie…”

But Alfie was already looking at you again. “Welcome to the bakery, love. Try not to let Ollie’s worrying rub off on you. He means well… mostly.”

Behind you, Ollie made a strangled sound. “Alfie… there’s like fifteen other people out there. Don’t you want to talk to them first? The one with the big arms is still waiting. And there’s a fellow who used to work at that place up in—”

Alfie did not even turn his head, his eyes remained on you. “Shut up, Ollie.” The command was soft but absolute. “The lady here is hired. End of discussion. Tell the rest of them to fuck off and find honest work elsewhere. Or dishonest work. I don’t care. Just get them out of my bakery before I decide to start charging them rent for standing around.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but he thought anything he could say was simply pointless when his boss’s head was set around something, so he closed it, nodded once, and slipped out the door. 

You stood very still in the suddenly quieter room, feeling your heart beating steady and hard against your ribs. “Thank you so much, Mr Solomons,” you said with a wide smile adorning your face.

Alfie waved the gratitude away with one hand, though the look in his eyes said he was filing the sound of your voice saying his name somewhere private. “We expect you here in the morning. Every day. Four a.m. sharp until two in the afternoon. Sixty shillings a week. How does that sound?”

Sixty… The number was generous, more than generous. You knew it, and he knew you knew it. “Excellent,” you said.

The door opened again, and Ollie, who had clearly been listening to the conversation, hovered on the threshold, looking like he'd aged five years in the last two minutes.

“Alfie,” he said carefully, “we paid forty the last one. And he worked three hours more every day. Forty shillings and he was grateful for it.”

Alfie finally turned his head. The look he gave his assistant could have made some people piss themselves. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up, Ollie? Or do I need to write it down? Big letters, so even a man like you could understand. The lady is hired. Sixty shillings. Four until two. And if I hear one more word about the previous arrangement or the previous baker or any other previous fucking thing, I will personally see to it that your next position involves a great deal more lifting and a great deal less talking. Clear?”

Ollie swallowed. “Clear, Alfie.”

“Good.” Alfie turned back to you, and the irritation melted out of his face as if it had never been there, replaced by something softer. He gestured at the remaining cake with one thick finger. “Take the rest home with you, love. No, no, leave it. I’ll finish it myself and think of my mother and the way things used to taste before the world got bloody and full of people who can’t bake for shit. Either way.” He sat back. “Six a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late. I hate lateness.”

You thanked him again, the words soft but sincere. “Thank you, Mr Solomons. Truly. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you that.” With one last small nod, you turned toward the door, and stepped out, your heart still racing from the weight of the moment. 

Minutes after you left, Alfie tore another piece of cake free, and ate it slowly, with his eyes half-lidded, tasting memories and not just the sugar and butter. Ollie closed the door with more force than necessary and turned. For a moment he simply stood there, then he folded his arms.

“Progressive, huh?” he said. The words were laced either an edge of accusation. “You’re a progressive man?”

Alfie did not look up. Instead he chewed, swallowed, and reached for another piece of cake.

“I can be,” he said around the mouthful. “I contain multitudes, Ollie. Depths. A man can evolve, a man can look at the world as it is and decide, on a Tuesday afternoon, that perhaps the old ways are not the only ways. Women earning their own keep, women standing on their own two feet. Yes, I can be progressive. Watch me.”

Ollie took a step closer, making the floorboards complain under even his light weight. “Sixty shillings. You’ve lost your mind.”

The piece of cake in Alfie’s hand was forgotten, crumbs clinging to his waistcoat. “Don’t talk to me like that, you little shit. That woman was something special. I could see it in her eyes. I think it’s gonna be good to keep her around. Useful…. decorative, possibly both. And if I want to pay her sixty shillings a week, then that is my business. My bakery, my coin, and my progressive fucking principles.”

Ollie let out a short, incredulous breath. He glanced at the closed door as if the fifteen rejected men might still be pressed against it listening. “You wanna know what I saw?”

Alfie waved his hand in a lazy and dismissive arc. “Nah. Not really. I find that most of the time when people offer to share what they saw it turns out to be something tedious and moralising and ultimately none of their concern. Spare me the sermon, Ollie.”

Ollie did not spare him. “That you want to sleep with the woman,” he said, each word precise. “That’s why you gave her that ridiculous payment. That’s why you didn’t even look at the others. That’s why you’re sitting there eating her cake like it’s a religious experience and talking about her eyes like she’s the first pretty face that ever walked into this place. You want her. Plain and simple. And you’re dressing it up as noble intentions and women’s independence so you don’t have to admit that you just got his head turned by a married girl.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Alfie set the remaining piece of cake down with exaggerated care. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers one by one, and then he leaned forward. When he spoke, the voice that came out was wounded and theatrically offended.

“What?” He let the single word hang there. “You’re saying,” he continued, “that my noble intentions of employing a young woman in seek of her financial independence are merely the result of me wanting to get between her legs? That the sixty shillings, a fair wage, a progressive, right? Progressive wage, a wage that says ‘here is a woman who will not be underpaid simply because the world has decided her labour is worth less’  is somehow a bribe? A down payment on future fornication? That I, I, looked at that angel-faced creature and thought only of tumbling her into the nearest flat surface like some common beast in heat?”

“That’s exactly what I saw,” Ollie said.

Alfie’s eyes were wide with manufactured horror. “You got a sick mind, Ollie. Proper diseased. You disgust me. Truly. I am sitting here trying to do a good deed in a wicked world, and you reduce it to base carnality. I am wounded, I am wounded in my progressive soul. My mother, God rest her, would be spinning in her grave if she could hear the filth you just poured into this sacred place. I hope you can imagine the depths of my distress.”

Ollie opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger. “No. Do not speak. Do not compound the obscenity by trying to justify it. I have hired a baker, a baker whose cake has temporarily restored my faith in the concept of home and family. That is all, if she happens to have a face that could make the sanest man go absolutely mad, that is incidental, purely incidental. And if I choose to pay her what she is worth instead of what the market has decided a woman is worth, that is called being a man of fucking principle. Principle. Look it up, it’s in the dictionary.”

He picked up the last piece of cake, bit into it and chewed with defiant pleasure, the poppy seeds cracked between his teeth. “Now, go and make sure those rejects have properly dispersed. I don’t want them lingering here. And Ollie?”

Ollie, who had gone a mottled shade of angry red. “Yes, Alfie?”

“If you ever again suggest that my interest in that woman’s employment is anything other than pure and high-minded and deeply, almost spiritually progressive…” Alfie smiled then. “I will introduce you to a concept called unemployment. Clear?”

“Clear, Alfie.”

“Good boy.” Alfie waved him off with the hand that still held the final crumb of cake. “Fuck off and be useful. And by the way, her cake is indeed a religious experience, you should buy a slice tomorrow afternoon.”

Ollie fled, leaving Alfie sitting alone in the room. His eyes had gone distant, fixed on the place where you had stood only minutes before. He murmured to the empty room. “Happily married. We’ll fucking see.”

***

You woke before the sun had risen, dressing quickly and buttoning up your dress with steady fingers even though your pulse was not so steady. You pinned your hair back, simple and practical, nothing that would get in the way. The streets of Camden were quiet at that hour, you walked with your coat pulled tight and a cloth bag with your clean apron.

The bakery blinds were already open when you reached it, a yellow light spilling from the high windows onto the pavement. You pushed inside, and Ollie was waiting for you with an expression of lingering disapproval.

“You’re early,” he said. “Good. Alfie hates lateness. Come on then. I’ll show you the lay of it before the real work starts.”

He took you through everything with efficiency, as if he had done this too many times and still found it tedious. The big brick ovens along the back wall, the flour sacks stacked in the cellar, the schedule chalked on a board. “Don’t skimp, he’ll know. The knives are sharp. If you cut yourself, try not to bleed into the dough, it puts the customers off. Apron on, hair up, sleeves rolled. Questions?”

Before you could open your mouth, Ollie was already turning around, leaving you to it with a muttered “Don’t burn the place down” and disappearing toward the front to deal with the early delivery men.

You tied your apron, rolled your sleeves, washed your hands in the stone sink, and then you began. The rye bread came first. You mixed by what felt right more than the measurements that were written on the board. Your hands knew the work, push, fold, turn, push again, until the dough stopped fighting and began to mold under your palms. 

The first hours passed in a blur, feeling physical satisfaction of work that asked something real of your body. By the time the clock on the wall showed half past five, the bread loaves were rising in the ovens and the honey cakes were cooling on the racks. You had moved on to the next batch, your arms ached in the good way, and flour dusted your forearms and the front of your apron, with a streak of it that had somehow found your cheek. 

You had just finished with the onion rolls for the afternoon orders, when the fine hairs on the back of your neck lifted. Someone was behind you, close enough to hear their breathing. You spun, feeling your heart slamming hard against your ribs, a sound catching in your throat before you could stop it.

Alfie stood there in the middle of the kitchen, filling the space between the benches. “Calm down, love,” he said. “It’s just little old me.”

You pressed a floury hand to your chest, trying to slow the frantic beat. “Sorry, Mr Solomons. You scared me.”

He tilted his head, fighting back a smile. “Am I seriously that ugly? Proper frighten the pretty ladies, do I? Make small children cry at the mere sight of my face?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could catch it. “No. No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting you here. It took me by surprise.”

“And why is that?” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the heat of him mixed with the heat of the ovens. “I wanted to see how my newest employee is adapting on her first day. Call it quality control.”

You wiped your hands on your apron, leaving white streaks on it. “Everything’s going well so far. The batches of bread are ready. The honey cakes are cooling. And now I’m on the onion rolls for the afternoon orders. The dough’s almost ready for its second prove.”

Alfie breathed in deep, expanding his chest and half-closing his eyes for a moment. “Wonderful. Fucking amazing. This place smells great. You’ve got the gift, love. I knew it the second I tasted that cake yesterday. My mother would have approved, and she didn’t approve of much. Especially not me.”

You felt the flush rise again, part of it was pride, but the other something you couldn’t quite name. “You won’tregret hiring me. I promised I’d work harder than any of those men. I meant it.”

He waved one hand. “We’ll go on, love. I’ll let you work. Don’t let the presence of management put you off your stroke.” He said it, and then he did not leave.

You turned back to the onion rolls dough because the alternative was to keep staring at him like a fool. You floured the bench, turned the dough out, and began to knead again. The muscles in your arms and shoulders felt the work even while every nerve ending remained painfully aware of the man standing three feet behind you. You could feel his eyes, the weight of them, how they tracked the movement of your hands, the line of your back, the stray curl that had escaped your pins and now clung to the damp skin of your neck.

Minutes stretched, finally you spoke without turning, keeping your voice carefully light. “Am I doing anything wrong? Or is this an evaluation of some sort?”

Alfie’s reply came thoughtful, the words rolled around his mouth. “Just observing how you handle things, love. The way you touch the dough. I am expanding my mind.”

You kept kneading, though your hands had gone a fraction less sure. “I just know you’re a busy man. I imagined you had more important things to do than watch someone make onion rolls at six in the morning.”

“Nonsense.” The word was firm. He moved then, you heard the creak of the floorboards, and came to lean against the edge of the bench beside you, close enough that his coat brushed your skirt. “Nothing more important than this. The bakery is the face we show the world. So yes, watching you work is important. Critical, even.”

There was a pause, you felt him studying your profile. “So,” he said, quieter. “You know about me, huh?”

You glanced sideways. “A little. I mean… everyone does.”

“And aren’t you afraid?”

The question hung between you, but you kept working, pushing the dough into itself, feeling it grow silkier. “No,” you said with honesty. “I’ve heard the good things too.”

Alfie raised his eyebrows in what was a sceptical lift. “Yeah? What good? Don’t spare my blushes, love. I can take it, I’ve got a weak sense of shame.”

You hesitated only a moment. “I had a cousin who came back blind from the war. Last year he got a dog, a guide dog, trained, from that Blind Jew charity. Everyone knows it was thanks to one of your donations. He walks free now because of it.”

For a long moment the only sounds were the roar of the ovens and the rhythmic slap of the dough against wood. Alfie looked away, drumming his fingers once on the edge of the bench. “Oh. That?” He made a dismissive gesture, but it lacked conviction. “That’s nothing. Loose change. Don’t go making me into a saint, love. Saints don’t last long around here. That’s not goodness. That’s just… a clear conscience for five minutes.”

He fell silent. You kept kneading because your hands needed something to do. The dough was ready now, you shaped the rolls and set them in the oiled bowl, covered it with a clean cloth. Only then did you look at him fully, Alfie was watching you with an expression you had not seen on him before. Something that looked almost like hunger, though whether for the honey cakes cooling on the rack or for the woman who was standing in front of him was impossible for you to say.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Turn up with a cake that tastes like my childhood. Refuse to be afraid and quote my better deeds back at me.” He dropped his eyes briefly to your left hand, then lifted again. “Happily married. Still sticking to that story, are we?”

You did not answer, and so Alfie pushed off the bench with a grunt. “Right. I’ve taken enough of your time, love. Carry on, make me proud, make the neighbourhood weep with joy at the quality of their morning loaf. And if anyone gives you trouble, the lads, the customers, Ollie with his little disapproving face, you come find me. I’ll sort it. Personally.”

Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps fading toward the back, where the real business was done,  leaving you alone in the heat with flour on your cheek, dough under your nails, and the distinct certainty that nothing about this job was going to stay simple for very long.

***

A week later, Alfie was already half out of that chair of his office. The gold chain of his watch winkled as he checked the time, like he had somewhere far more important to be than his business meetings.

Ollie stood between him and the door like a particularly anxious gatepost. “You can’t go now,” he said. “Thomas Shelby just arrived for the meeting, remember? You were gonna discuss the price of the—”

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted his hand with the fingers spread in a theatrical gesture. “Save your words, Ollie. Husband them. I don’t care. Tell Thomas Shelby to wait. Tell him Alfie is engaged in matters of critical importance. Tell him whatever pretty little lie floats through that head of yours. Just make him wait.”

Ollie’s face did something complicated, a grimace of disbelief. “Alfie, he came all the way from Birmingham. I can’t just tell the man to wait.”

Alfie paused in the middle of buttoning his coat. He turned fully, and the smile that spread across his face was slow and deeply unimpressed. “Oh, come on. He’s not gonna slice your throat with his razor blade, not over a few minutes. Thomas Shelby is a busy man, same as me. He understands the concept of priorities. Entertain him, sing him a little song, do him some magic tricks. Pull a fucking rabbit out of your arse if you have to. Offer him a honey cake, the new girl’s honey cakes.”

Ollie took a step closer, lowering his voice even though the door was shut and the walls were solid. “You can’t go see her every day, Alfie. We need you here. We need you handling what needs to be handled. The little problems that turn into big problems if they’re left unresolved. Not distracted. Not… whatever this is.”

Alfie went very still. His hat dangled from one hand, for a long moment the only sound was the distant sound of the men working outside.

Then Alfie laughed. A laugh edged with genuine delight at the absurdity of being lectured by his own assistant. “Well,” he said, spreading his hands. “I suppose I should just hand you the whole fucking business, shouldn’t I? Keys, ledgers, the combination to the safe. Seeing as you know it all, Ollie. Seeing as you’ve got the entire operation running so smoothly in that clever little head of yours that you can spare the time to tell me where I can and cannot point my own two feet.”

Ollie flushed, but he did not back down entirely. “What’s so special about her anyway? I get it, she’s pretty. But there’s a thousand other pretty women out there, and you’ve never been like this before, not over any of them. Disappearing every chance you get, watching her kneading dough like it's a spectacle. What’s different?”

Alfie set the hat down on the desk with deliberate care. He planted both thick hands on the wood and leaned forward. His voice had softened into something quieter, almost as a confession. “Ollie, my boy. You wouldn’t recognise special if it walked up and hit you square in the face. That woman…” He paused, searching for the words. “She’s got something, let me tell you that. Not just the face, though the face is a fucking miracle, I’ll grant you. It’s the eyes, the way she looks at you and doesn’t flinch, the way she talks about independence, the way she baked a cake that tasted like my mother’s cake and then stood there and told me she wasn’t afraid of me. Do you know how rare that is? In this life? A woman who looks at me and decides the rumours are less interesting than the man standing in front of her?”

He pushed off the desk and began to pace the short length of the office. “She draws me in like a magnet. I go there for five minutes to check the ovens and an hour disappears. She’s not any woman I’ve seen, and I find I cannot stop tuning myself to it. Is that clear enough for you, Ollie? Or shall I draw a diagram? ‘Alfie’s inexplicable gravitational pull toward the new baker’ would that help?”

Ollie dragged a hand down his face. “Alfie, we need you on planet Earth. Not on the moon.”

Alfie stopped pacing and turned, looking at Ollie with a smile that split his face, a ittle unhinged around the edges. “Oh but I am on the moon, Ollie.” He spread his arms as if encompassing the absurdity of it. “She’s got me swept away. I’m walking around up here in the thin air of whatever delision this is, and I find I don’t particularly want to come down.”

He snatched the hat back up, settled it on his head with a tug and moved toward the door, deciding the conversation was over. “Keep Thomas Shelby waiting,” he said over his shoulder. “Give him a drink. Give him a cake. Tell him Alfie will be along when Alfie is good and ready and not a moment before.”

He pulled the door open, Ollie made one last desperate sound. “Alfie—”

“Entertain him,” Alfie repeated, already halfway down the hall. “Magic tricks, Ollie. I have faith in you. Somewhere under all that anxiety is a man who can keep Tommy Shelby occupied for twenty minutes without losing a finger. Prove me right, or don’t. Either way I’ll be back when I’m back.”

A few minutes later, Alfie came through the kitchen door, he didn’t announce himself with any of the theatrical booming that usually preceded him, he simply crossed the floor, snagging a sturdy wooden chair from against the wall, and setting it down beside your bench. Then he sat, making the chair protest under his weight.

“How are you doing on this beautiful morning, love?” he asked, spreading his knees and tipping his head back slightly, breathing in the air.

You kept kneading, though every nerve had gone aware of the man now sitting close to you. “I’m doing good,” you said. “What about you?”

Alfie reached out without asking and snagged one of the still-warm beigels from the rack, turning it over in his fingers with the appreciation of a man examining a rare jewel. “Business is a shitshow,” he confided cheerfully. “Tommy Shelby’s in my office and Ollie’s having a nervous breakdown because I left him to play host. Everyone wants a piece of me. But—” he tore a piece of the beigel free and pointed it at you like a teacher making a point “—now I’m doing better. Dramatically better. The second I came through that door and the smell hit me, the entire shitshow receded. Funny how that works.”

You smiled and nodded at the beigel in his hand. “You want to try it properly? They’re best when they’re still warm. I made the dough last night so it could have a long prove.”

“I’d love to,” he said, and bit in. The sound he made was obscene in its sincerity, an appreciative groan that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. He chewed slowly. “Fuck me,” he murmured once he could speak again. “It’s amazing. I’ve never, and I mean never, met someone who cooked exactly like the food I tasted as a child.” He took another bite, larger this time, and spoke around it. “Where did you learn to cook like this, love? Because this isn’t ordinary talent.”

You pushed the dough away for a moment, wiping your hands on your apron. “From my nana. We used to spend the afternoons together baking when I was small. She’d pull out this little book, battered thing, every recipe had a little note in her handwriting. A touch that was just hers. A pinch more salt here, a longer prove there. I know all of them by heart now”

Alfie went still. “God bless your nana,” he said quietly, what remained in his voice was completely sincere. “God bless her hands and her little book and the afternoons she gave you. May her memory be a blessing. Because whatever she put into you… it’s still here. I can taste it. I can fucking feel it.”

A startled laugh escaped you, bright and sudden. It rang off the high ceiling, Alfie watched the sound leave your mouth, and something softened in his expression. “You’ve got the laugh of an angel,” he said. “Celestial. Makes a man want to say stupid things just to hear it again.”

Heat flooded your face so fast it was almost dizzying. You turned back to the dough with more force than necessary, kneading it hard. Your ears were burning, you could feel him watching your nervous smile and the way your hands had gone suddenly less certain.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to be merciful. “You’d mentioned your cousin served. The one who came back blind. Did you have many family sent over to France, love?”

You kept your eyes on the dough. “Most of them,” you said. “All my cousins. And my brother.” A breath. “He didn’t make it. They never found enough of him to bring home properly.” You swallowed and kept working. “My husband luckily stayed in London. He managed a military warehouse here. That kept him out of the trenches.”

Alfie made a low sound of understanding and set the half-eaten beigel down on the edge of the bench with surprising care.

“Right,” he said. “Guess some lads were luckier. Didn’t have to be sent over to drown in the mud and the gas. Lucky.” He studied you sideways. “Anyway, what does your husband do now?”

“He works in a factory. He’s a machine operator.” You didn’t particularly enjoy talking about your husband with Alfie. You hated the way his questions about him, about your marriage, made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. Lying to Alfie felt heavier, somehow more difficult, than lying to anyone else.

Alfie’s eyebrows rose, he leaned in a fraction, making the chair creak under the shift of his weight. “And he doesn’t make enough money that he has to send his wife out to work?” The question was mild, almost idle. But his eyes were anything but. “Pretty young thing like you, hands made for miracles, spending her days covered in flour. Seems curious.”

You laughed againm, shorter this time, edged with the defensive spark he seemed to enjoy pulling out of you. “I told you. I just like being financially independent. Earning my own money, feeling like I’m being productive. I don’t like staying in the house doing nothing.  This—” you gestured at the dough, the ovens, the cooling beigels, the entire room “—this makes sense to me. And the money is mine, fairly earned.”

Alfie watched you for a long moment. “And you don’t have children, do you?”

The question was careful. As if he already knew the answer and still needed to hear you say it. You met his eyes. “I don’t,” you said.

“No children,” he repeated softly, almost to himself. “Independent, productive, laugh like an angel, and a husband who works long factory shifts. Interesting… the things a man learns when he bothers to sit down and eat a beigel with his newest baker on a beautiful morning.”

…

The days began to blur in the best and worst of ways. Mornings belonged to the bakery, before the first light touched the windows, you were already floured to the elbows. And every day, without fail, Alfie appeared sometime before mid-morning, shrugged out of his coat, and dragged the same scarred chair to the exact same spot beside your bench, staying for two hours, sometimes three, as if the rest of his business could wait indefinitely on the pleasure of watching you work.

He talked. God, how he talked. His voice rolled out in long rivers while you pushed and folded and turned the dough. He told you about the horses, about the meetings with the Italians, about his mother. He asked questions too, about your grandmother’s little book, about the brother you lost, and the shape of the life you claimed to have waiting at home. And every time you answered, every time you laughed or fell quiet or wiped flour from your cheek with the back of a wrist, something in the air between you got warmer.

Sometimes he fell silent for long stretches, tracking the roll of your shoulders with his eyes, the flex of your forearms, the way the dough yielded under your palms. Once, when a strand of hair escaped your pins and fell across your eyes, he reached out without thinking and tucked it behind your ear. His fingertips were warm, and they lingered half a second too long against the shell of your ear.

The bakery became the only place that felt real, because home was something else entirely. You returned each afternoon to the small flat, and the moment the door closed behind you, the warmth of the ovens and Alfie’s voice drained out of you. Your husband would already be there more often than not, home early from the factory.

“You’re late again,” he would say, not looking up from the newspaper. “Third time this week. I had to get my own lunch. Again. What am I, a fucking orphan? I’ve got a wife, haven’t I? Or did I imagine the whole wedding?”

The fights were never dramatic, because that would have required passion, and passion had left this marriage years ago, carried out with the tiny body you had lost and never properly buried. The fights were mean. Him listing every way your absence inconvenienced him, you answering too calmly at first, then with rising heat when he started in on how no decent woman left her husband to fend for himself so she could play at being a baker for some gangster. 

“They’re talking,” he said one night. “Down the pub. About you and him, about how Solomons’ new pet never goes home on time. About how he’s always down there watching her like a dog with a bone. You want to be one of his whores, is that it? That why you’re never here? That why the flat’s empty and my belly’s empty and I’ve got to listen to every bastard with a mouth making jokes about my wife’s extra duties?”

You stopped answering after a while, there was no point. The truth, that you were saving every shilling of the sixty he paid you, that the tin under the loose floorboard was growing heavier every week, that you were counting the days until you had enough for a room of your own and a clean break and a life that did not smell of his resentment, would only make it worse. So you let him talk himself hoarse, you washed the few dishes, and you lay on your side of the cold bed waiting for sleep that never came easy.

He had stopped touching you after the miscarriage. That was the cleanest way to say it. One day there had been a child,, hoped-for and already named, and then there had been blood and pain, and after that your husband’s hands never found you in the dark again. He looked at you like you had failed at the one thing you were put on earth to do, like your body had betrayed him personally. The whores started sometime after that, you heard the whispers the way every wife in the neighbourhood heard them, the sideways glances at the market, a soft laughter that stopped when you passed, the occasional “friend” who felt obligated to tell you what everyone already knew. He did not even bother being careful anymore, some nights he came home smelling of cheap perfume and simply fell into bed with his back to you, as if daring you to care. You had cared, once. Now you only cared about the tin.

Every Friday Alfie pressed the week’s wages into your palm, sixty shillings, always with an extra little something pressed on top. You thanked him, and every night you knelt on the floorboards, lifted the loose one, and added to the growing hoard. You calculated rent on a clean room somewhere far from this flat, you needed to leave so you could be happy again.

Happiness had become a place that existed only between the hours of four and two, in a warm room that smelled of bread, with a dangerous man who looked at you like you were something worth keeping. 

At the bakery, Alfie grew bolder in small ways, placing a hand at the small of your back as he moved past you in the narrow space between benches. A quiet you look tired, love when the shadows under your eyes grew too dark to hide. A long look when you laughed at one of his more ridiculous stories. But at home the fights sharpened, your husband started waiting up and smelling your clothes for rum and the smell of man’s cologne. He started throwing the word whore around when the whisky loosened his tongue. “You’re never here,” he snarled one night, blocking the bedroom door with his body. “I come home to a dark kitchen and an empty bed and the knowledge my wife is off playing house with a gangster. You think I don’t know what men like him do with girls who need money? You think I don’t hear what they say?”

One rainy morning, in the office, Alfie was once again sitting behind his desk with a faraway look in his eyes. He looked like a man wrestling with something far more complicated than the usual calculations of business negotiations. Ollie hovered near the door, holding papers in hand, his expression already pinched with the particular exhaustion that came from trying to keep Alfie on task.

“Alfie,” he ventured carefully. “The Italians. The proposal. We were supposed to be thinking about—”

“Shh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted one large hand without looking up. The gesture was absent, almost gentle. “Ollie, my boy. What do you think about silk stockings?”

The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard the bat of a fly’s wings. Ollie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Silk stockings,” Alfie repeated, slower this time. “For a woman’s legs. You know the ones. The kind that make a man forget his own name. What do you think?”

Ollie’s face went through several stages of disbelief. “They’re… pretty?”

Alfie finally looked up. “No, you idiot. I meant if it’d make a good gift. For my angel. Something delicate, something that says I see you. Silk stockings, proper ones, not the cheap rubbish.”

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not fall out of his head. He dropped the papers onto the desk with a slap. “Alfie. You were supposed to be thinking about the business proposal the Italians made us, not stockings”. 

“I’ve been thinking about her legs,” Alfie confessed, almost dreamily. “ And I keep picturing them in silk, in dark silk. I think they’d look prettier. I think the entire world would look prettier if those particular legs were sheathed in something worthy of them.”

Ollie made a strangled sound. “How have you been thinking about her legs? You’ve never seen that woman’s legs, not once. She’s buttoned up to the chin half the time. You’ve seen her hands and her face and the occasional flash of wrist when she rolls her sleeves. That is the full inventory, not even her ankles.”

Alfie waved the objection away. “Ah, Ollie boy. I don’t need to see them to know they’re beautiful. I can imagine them. I’ve got a very vivid imagination when properly motivated, and that woman motivates me. She walks past and my brain helpfully supplies the rest. It’s become a proper problem, I close my eyes and there they are. I open them and I’m still thinking about them. It’s affecting my concentration, my sleep, my ability to give a single shit about Italian proposals.”

“You’re not her husband. You can’t just buy her stockings. She’d think it's scandalous.”

Alfie leaned back in the chair. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re right. She’d think it's scandalous. Can’t have that. Can’t have my angel thinking old Alfie just wants to get between her legs.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a thick roll of notes, and tossed it across the desk to Ollie. “Right, change of plan. Go out and get me a perfume bottle. An expensive one, something that smells like vanilla. None of that chemical rubbish, and don’t come back until you have it.”

Ollie stared at the money as if it might bite him. “Alfie. You’re not expecting me to go out and buy perfume. That’s not my job. I’m your assistant, not your bloody personal shopper. I handle the books, and the meetings—”

Alfie’s voice dropped into that particular register that brooked no argument. “Your job, Ollie, is to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. Today that happens to be buying perfume. Expensive perfume, for a woman who deserves something that smells like heaven. Now go. Go, boy. Before I start thinking about what else might look good wrapped around her ankles.”

Ollie opened his mouth, and closed it. He snatched the money, knowing he had long ago accepted that working for Alfie required a flexible definition of dignity. “Vanilla,” he muttered. “Right. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Alfie waved him off without looking, already rising from the chair. He reached behind the desk and picked up the bouquet he had bought earlier that morning. He walked to the front of the building where the bakery was. 

You looked up as he entered the kitchen. The small smile that always appeared when he walked in, the one you tried and failed to hide. Alfie crossed the floor without hesitation, holding the flowers out in front of him like an offering. He stopped beside you and presented the bouquet with a small courtly bow.

“Beautiful flowers,” he said, “for a beautiful woman. Seemed only right, the world’s been grey enough lately, figured you deserved a bit of colour to brighten up.”

You stared at the flowers. They were stunning, but your hands, still dusted white, hovered uncertainly above them. “Thanks, Alfie. These are beautiful. But I… I can’t have them.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes like he was preparing arguments. “Of course you can. They’re flowers, love. Not a proposal of marriage. Just flowers for the woman who makes this place smell like my childhood and my future all at once. Take them, they’re yours.”

You reached out despite yourself, brushing the red petals with your fingers. “I can’t show up home with these,” you said quietly. “A married woman can’t come home with flowers another man gifted her. It’s already bad enough as it is.”

The last part slipped out before you could catch it, an admission you had kept locked behind your teeth for weeks. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and quickly your hands returned to the dough.

Alfie didn’t move, he simply stood there. “What do you mean ‘bad enough,’ huh?” he asked. “Is your husband the jealous type? The kind who sits at home imagining all sorts of things that aren’t happening just because his wife has the audacity to earn her own coin?”

You kept your eyes on the dough, pushing it harder than necessary, as if you were trying to escape the conversation. “It’s nothing… It’s just… he thinks I spend too much time here. And he’s heard what some people say. Gossips, maybe from the ladies at the front… that you spend too much time with me back here. In the back… alone.”

Alfie let out a short laugh, he set the bouquet down on the edge of the bench and leaned in closer. “So he’s an insecure little cunt with an inferiority complex who thinks his wife would cheat on him just because there’s a man close to her,” he said flatly. “A man who can’t keep his own house in order so he points the finger at the bakery instead. Pathetic, truly. Some men are born with small minds and even smaller pricks and they spend their whole lives trying to make the world feel as cramped as they do.”

“Alfie. That’s not nice to say.” His sincerity caught you off guard, it left you feeling even more embarrassed. He was hitting dangerously close to home, unearthing truths you had buried beneath layers of practiced smiles and half-spoken excuses. 

He waved a handd. “Nice has very little to do with the truth, love. I’ve met a thousand men like him. They talk loud and wonder why their wives start looking for doors. Tell me the truth.” His voice dropped, softer now but no less serious. “Does he ever hurt you more than with words? Does he dare put a hand on you? Because if he does, if that sorry bastard has ever laid so much as a finger on you in anger, you tell me right now. I’ll rearrange his face personally, until not even his mother could recognize him.”

You shook your head quickly, too quickly, making the loose curl of hair bounce against your temple. “No. No, it’s not like that. We just fight a lot. He yells and says things… ugly things. About me being here, about you, about how a proper wife should be home making his lunch instead of… whatever he imagines I’m doing back here with you.”

Alfie felt his jaw tighten, he reached out without thinking and brushed a streak of flour from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “He yells at you? What does he tell you? Don’t spare me the details, love. I’ve heard worse, I’ve said worse. But never to a woman like you.”

You hesitated, but eventually the words came out in pieces, quiet and ashamed. “He tells me that people whisper about us being here for hours… that I’m making him look like a fool. A fool who has a whore for a wife.”

Alfie listened without interrupting. His expression darkened with every word you said. When you fell silent, he let the quiet stretch for a long moment. “A man yelling at his wife such things,” he said at last, almost wistfully. “I’ve always thought it should be the other way around. A man making his wife scream, and not in anger exactly.”

Your face burned scarlet, making you turn back to the dough with fierce concentration, kneading as if your life depended on it. “We’re just going through… a rough patch,” you managed. “That’s all. Marriages have them. It’ll pass.”

Alfie made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Rough patch my arse. That man doesn’t love you if he treats you like that. If he can look at this face, sculpted by god himself on one of his better days, and this smile that lights up the whole fucking room, and still chooses to yell?” He shook his head. “No, that’s not love. You deserve better, love. You deserve someone who sees you and thinks the sun rose just to have something to compete with.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not appropriate that I talk of these matters anyway,” you said. “They’re private. Between a husband and wife. I shouldn’t be… burdening you with them.”

Alfie stepped closer. The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, until the scent of him wrapped around you. “Love, you see I’ve grown quite fond of you. More than fond, proper attached. And I can see the little sadness you try so hard to hide in your eyes, the way it flickers when you think no one’s looking. And it makes me think that you deserve a man who can make you scream with joy. Who’d never let you shed a single tear unless it was from laughing too hard or feeling so much pleasure so hard you forget your own name. A man who would burn the world down before he let it dim that light in you.”

The bakery kitchen felt suddenly too small. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it over the ovens. You wiped your hands on your apron, and forced your voice steady. “Thanks. But like I said… my husband and I are going through a rough patch. Things will get better.”

Alfie studied you for a long moment, the way your fingers twisted in the edge of your apron like they needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look convinced. The moment stretched until a knock sounded on the door that led from the kitchen to the back.

“Alfie,” Ollie’s voice came through the wood, full of exasperation and something close to panic. “Sabini is here for the meeting. He’s waiting, and he’s not the patient sort. You know how he gets.”

Alfie did not turn immediately, he simply let out a theatrical sigh. “Entertain him, Ollie,” he called back. “Magic tricks, remember?”

You could hear Ollie’s muffled groan through the door. “Would you stop playing house and come handle business like you did before all of this nonsense? The whole bloody business is waiting back there while you sit down here watching her knead dough.”

Alfie snapped his head toward the door. His expression darkened in an instant. “Ollie,” he said, dropping his voice to a low and dangerous register, “I’m gonna start shooting at the door, so you’d better not be standing there in the next ten seconds. Count with me, my boy. Ten… nine…”

Footsteps retreated rapidly down the corridor, and the knock did not come again. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, it broke some of the tension, though not all of it. “I think Ollie’s not particularly fond of me. Every time he sees us back here he looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”

Alfie turned back to you, the storm in his face clearing as quickly. “He just thinks I’ll give his job to you,” he said, twitching the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile. “Poor Ollie. Loyal as a dog and twice as anxious. He sees you here and he imagines you’re gonna take his place. Can’t blame the lad, really. You do have that effect.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the blood still warming your cheeks from the earlier conversation. “Tell Ollie he has nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t take his job. I’m happy here. With the dough, with the ovens. With…” You hesitated, then finished softly, “With the way things are in this room.”

Alfie reached out and brushed another stray streak of flour from your cheek, his thumb lingered there this time, tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that felt at odds with the man who had just threatened to shoot through a door. “I should give you a rise,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

You blinked, feeling surprised. “Why? I’ve only been working here a month.”

“A month is enough,” he replied. “More than enough. The sales in the bakery have doubled. People are talking, the best bread in Camden, they say. It’s all thanks to you, love. You walked in here and you changed the whole bloody atmosphere.”

You smiled then, a real one, shy but genuine. Alfie went very still, dropping his gaze to your mouth, then lifted again, looking hungrier.

“God,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That smile again. That fucking smile that makes a man think things he should have no right to be thinking about. Things that end with my hands in places they’ve got no business going.”

He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you vanished. His body pressed forward until you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. Alfie lifted his hand, cupping the side of your face with surprising tenderness, brushing your lower lip with his thumb.

“I’ve been driving myself insane ever since you walked into my life,” he said with devastating honesty. “Tell me you feel the pull between us too. Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind. Tell me—”

Before you could answer, before you could even draw breath, Alfie grabbed you. He slid his large hand to the back of your neck, pulling you in with undeniable strength. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pressing your body tight against his solid bulk. The kiss was hungry, full of desperation. He devoured your mouth like a man who had been starving for weeks, sweeping his tongue in with heat, his lips claiming yours with a groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. 

The taste of him, of rum and desire, flooded your senses. His body was unyielding, holding you flush against him, splaying one hand across your lower back as if afraid you might vanish. For one dizzying moment you melted into it. Into the warmth, the strength, the way his mouth moved like he had been dreaming of this exact kiss since the day you first brought him that poppy-seed cake.

Then reality crashed back. You pulled away, gasping, pressing your hands against his chest. Your lips felt swollen, and your heart hammered wildly. “I can’t do this, Alfie,” you whispered, though your voice was shaky. “I’m married. I’m still married… and this is wrong.”

Alfie did not release you immediately, he rested his forehead against yours, still holding you close with his arm around your waist. “Your mouth,” he murmured, tracing your lower lip again with his thumb, “is better than I even thought about. Softer, sweeter, like it was made for this. A glorious experience, love. A fucking revelation. I could spend the rest of my days kissing you and still die wondering how I ever lived without it.”

The words sent another rush of heat through you. But you stepped back, putting the bench between you once more, though it felt like far too little distance. “Please stop saying these things,” you said, barely above a whisper. You touched your lips instinctively, as if you could wipe away the evidence of what had just happened. “I can’t… we can’t.”

Before either of you could say more, the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. Ollie’s voice filtered through the door. “Alfie. Sabini’s getting impatient. And he’s brought men. You need to come up. Now.”

Alfie let out a frustrated growl. He straightened, adjusting his waistcoat with hands that still trembled slightly from the force of the kiss. “I won’t stop thinking about this,” he said quietly. “Not for a second. Not while I’m back there dealing with Sabini and his bullshit. Not tonight when I’m alone in bed. Not ever, love. You’ve ruined me for anything less.”

He turned toward the door, pausing once to glance back at you, at your swollen lips and the way your hands had returned to your apron like an anchor. Then he was gone, leaving the kitchen suddenly too quiet, but far too full of the ghost of his mouth on yours and the flowers still sitting on the bench.

The walk home from the bakery felt longer than usual that evening. Your feet moved on autopilot along the familiar route, but your mind was miles away, or rather, still back in the bakery kitchen, pressed against Alfie’s solid chest with his mouth claiming yours like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The kiss replayed in relentless detail. The way his large hand had cupped the back of your neck, the heat of his body pulling you flush against him. The taste of him, the groan that had vibrated from his chest into yours. For those few stolen seconds you had felt wanted. Not only wanted, but desired and seen. Not as a convenience or a disappointment or a body that had failed at its one expected duty, but as something precious, something worth devouring. 

You had been lying to yourself for weeks, you realised now, as your key turned in the lock of the small flat. Hiding how good it felt to have a man look at you the way Alfie did, like you were the centre of the room, the reason he lingered for hours watching your hands move through dough. It had been so long since anyone had made you feel wanted and cherished in even the smallest ways. Your husband’s touch had vanished years ago, as if your body had become a reminder of failure rather than a source of comfort or pleasure. But Alfie made you feel like a woman again, like someone worth the risk of a hard kiss in the back of a bakery while the world waited.

God, you felt the pull between you too whenever he stepped close. The way your skin remembered his fingertips on your cheek, the way your laugh came easier around him. But you were still married. The ring on your finger was a fact. You needed to focus on saving, on getting your own place and redoing your life from the ground up. Love, or whatever intoxicating thing this was with Alfie, could wait until you were free. Until you stood on your own two feet without needing to explain yourself to anyone.

The flat was quiet when you stepped inside, you set your bag down and rolled up your sleeves, moving through the familiar evening tasks. You tidied the small kitchen, filled the basin with cold water and began washing the clothes that had piled up. 

That was when you saw them. Lipstick stains on the collar of one of his shirts. A cheap red that did not belong to you. Another smear lower down, near the buttons, as if someone had pressed his lips there, lingering for a moment. You stared at them for a long moment, the cold water dripping from your hands onto the floor. You were used to this, the whispers, the late nights, the way he came home reeking of other women and still had the nerve to accuse you of the same. 

You wrung the shirt out with more force than necessary, watching the water run pinkish-red down the drain. Why, you wondered, were you still loyal to him when he had never once been loyal to you? Why did you cling to the vows when he treated them like suggestions?  And still you stayed, still you washed his shirts with another woman’s lipstick on them.

You finished the laundry in silence, hung the clothes to dry and prepared a simple supper you knew he would barely touch. Night fell fully, after changing into your nightdress, you slipped into bed, the sheets felt cool and lonely on your side. Sleep came in fits, haunted by the ghost of Alfie’s mouth on yours and the memory of how safe and alive you had felt in his arms. 

Hours passed before the door finally opened. Your husband stumbled in later than usual, the familiar scent of cheap perfume clinging to him. He did not look at you, he never did anymore on nights like this. He simply shed his coat, kicked off his boots, and fell into bed on his side with his back to you, the smell of another woman filling the small space between you.

You lay there in the dark, staring at the crack in the ceiling. The question turned over and over in your mind. Why were you refusing Alfie’s advances when your husband had never refused any whore?

The kiss burned in your memory again, the way Alfie had held you like you were something precious, the way he had looked at you afterward, like the entire world could burn and he would still choose your mouth. He saw you, wanted you, made you feel desired in a way your husband had not in years. And yet here you were, loyal to a marriage that had become nothing but a cage of resentment.

***

Alfie sat alone in his office long before the first grey light touched the rooftops. Sleep had become impossible, the bedroom had felt like a trap where every shadow still carried the ghost of your mouth against his.

The office door opened, and Ollie stepped in, holding papers under one arm, already mid-sentence.

“Alfie—”

Alfie had his fingers steepled under his chin, with an almost beatific smile spreading across his face. The smile was wide enough to show even his teeth at the back. “Shut up, Ollie.” The words came out soft, almost dreamy, without the usual bite. Alfie did not open his eyes. “I’m thinking.”

Ollie stopped and stared at the expression on his boss’s face. Working for Alfie, Ollie had grown accustomed to most of his eccentricities, but this was a face he’d never seen before. “Thinking about what? Why are you smiling like that? Is it because of what Sabini said yesterday about the docks, or—”

Alfie opened his eyes, they were slightly unfocused, as if he were still somewhere else entirely. He raised one hand in a grand gesture that took in the entire room. “What? Sabini? No. God, no. I’m smiling because of something much deeper, my dear Ollie. I’m smiling because today the birds are singing a better melody, because the sun rays are warmer in this miserable city. Because the air is fresher and the flowers are brighter. I’m smiling, Ollie, because yesterday I tasted the sweetest lips I have ever had the privilege of putting my mouth on.”

He stood, in two heavy steps he was around the desk and had one arm draped around Ollie’s thin shoulders, pulling the younger man into a half-embrace. “I had an epiphany yesterday,” Alfie continued. “Proper revelation. She’s the woman of my life. She’s the one. The absolute, undeniable, end-of-the-fucking-story one. I looked at her and I thought, Alfie Solomons, you bastard, you’ve been wandering around this earth collecting debts and breaking bones and all this time the actual point of the whole exercise was this woman.”

Ollie stood rigid under the arm, holding the papers crushed against his chest. “What? Wait… what lips? Did you… did you kiss her?”

Alfie released him only far enough to place both hands on Ollie’s shoulders and look him dead in the eyes. The smile had not faded, if anything it had grown wider. “It wasn’t a kiss, Ollie. Let’s not diminish the thing with ordinary language. It was a revelation, a fucking sacrament. It was the moment the universe stopped pretending it was indifferent and decided to hand me something worth keeping.”

Ollie blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand. You kissed her or not?”

“Yes,” Alfie said, simply. “I kissed her.”

“Okay, fantastic. Congratulations. But we still need to sort the—”

Alfie waved the interruption away, already pacing again. “And I fear it’s not enough. One kiss only made me thirstier. That woman has me bewitched, Ollie. A touch of her lips and I can’t stop until I’ve had the whole thing. Do you think she wants me too? The same way I do? With the same stupid, helpless, all-consuming hunger?”

Ollie looked like he'd been asked to solve an equation in a language he did not speak. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, go ask her,” Alfie said, then immediately held up both hands. “Wait, no. Don’t go. I need to give her time to think. She pushed me yesterday when we kissed. Of course she didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t a ‘get away from me you ugly bastard’ push. It was a nice one, a little reluctant. She feels it, I know she does.”

Ollie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe she pushed you because she’s a married woman. Out of all the women in London, you chose a married one.”

Alfie stopped pacing. He turned, and for a moment the theatrical light in his eyes dimmed into something colder. “What if we kill her husband?”

Ollie considered it with weary professionalism, like he'd heard worse suggestions. “Well… I guess we’ve killed men for less.”

Alfie nodded slowly, as if filing the option away for later. Then the softer expression returned. He stepped closer again. “Ollie, be honest with me. Am I worthy of her? Look at me and tell me the truth. This face, this body, tese hands that have done things I don’t always like remembering. Am I the sort of man a woman like that could look at and think, yes, him, I’ll take him if it means being looked at the way he looks at me?”

Ollie hesitated, he glanced at the door as if calculating the distance to escape, then sighed. “…Sure. Why wouldn’t she like you too?”

Alfie’s face lit up again. “I knew it. Yes. I knew it by the way she kissed me. She feels like I do.” He clapped his hands together once. “I’m gonna write her a letter. Telling her how I feel. And then you’ll go down there and give it to her, personally. Watch her face when she reads it and report back.”

Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in his head. He turned toward the door, already defeated, already calculating how many more hours of this madness he would have to endure before the day improved.

“Tell me when you’re done,” he muttered with his hand on the doorknob. “And try not to propose marriage in the first paragraph.”

Alfie sat at his desk for nearly an hour. The ink blotched on places where emotion had made him press too hard. When he finished, he read it twice, folded it with care, and sealed it simply with a drop of wax from the candle on his desk. He called for Ollie without raising his voice much above a murmur. The younger man appeared in the doorway looking like he had already aged another year.

“Take this down to her,” Alfie said, holding out the folded letter between two fingers. “Personally. Give it to her when she’s alone and watch her face while she reads it. Then come back and tell me everything. I want to know if she smiled, if she touched her lips, or if she cried”

Ollie took the letter like it might explode. “You’re really doing this.”

“I’m really doing this,” Alfie confirmed, the smile from earlier still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Now go.”

Ollie walked though the hallway with the air of a man marching to his own execution. The bakery was in full swing when he pushed open the door to the back kitchen area. You were at the central bench with your sleeves rolled high and your hair pinned back with a few rebellious hairs escaping to cling to your damp temples.

Ollie stopped a few feet away, holding the letter between thumb and forefinger. “Alfie got this for you,” he said with disapproval. There was no warmth in it, just the weary resentment of someone who had watched his carefully ordered world tilt toward chaos because of you

You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. “What is it?”

“A letter,” Ollie said as he extended it toward you. “Obviously. From him.”

You took the letter. The paper was thick, good quality, still faintly warm from Alfie’s hands. Your name was written across the front in his bold script. Your fingers trembled slightly as you broke the seal.

Ollie lingered for a moment, watching you, then muttered something under his breath about “playing house” and retreated to the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He did not leave entirely, he was waiting to see your reaction, only to report back with the precision Alfie would demand.

My dearest angel,

Or should I call you love? Because that is what you have become to me in these short weeks… love. Not the cheap or easy kind, but the one that’s real. The kind that makes a man sit in his office with his eyes closed and smile like a fool because the world suddenly feels worth inhabiting again.

I kissed you yesterday. I have not stopped thinking about it since. Your mouth, God help me, was softer than I had any right to imagine. It tasted like the best parts of my childhood and all the things I never knew I was missing until you walked into my bakery. When I pulled you close I felt the whole of Camden disappear, none of it mattered. Only you. Only the way you fit against me for that brief and perfect moment before your conscience reminded you of the ring on your finger.

I have kissed women before. I will not insult either of us by pretending otherwise. But I have never kissed a woman and felt the entire architecture of my life rearrange itself around the simple fact of her existence. That is what you did to me in the space of one kiss. One glorious, incomplete, far-too-short kiss.

I know you are married. I know it and I hate it. I have thought: this woman deserves a man who sees her as the miracle she is. A man who would burn the world down before he let anyone dim that light in her eyes.

You feel it too. I know you do. Tell me I am not imagining it. Tell me that when I kissed you, you kissed me back for more than just a moment. Tell me that the push was not because you wanted me gone, but because you were afraid of how much you wanted me to stay.

I am not a good man. I have done things that would make angels weep. But for you I could try to be better, or at least better at the things that matter. Take your time. Think. I will not rush you, but know this: every morning when I come down to that little kingdom you have made of my bakery, I will be hoping. Hoping that one day you will look at me and decide that the ring on your finger is not worth more than the way I look at you.

Until then, I remain yours in every way that matters,

Alfie

You read it twice. Then a third time, more slowly, tracing the ink with your fingers as if you could feel the heat of his hand through the paper. Your heart was beating too hard, you could feel it in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, in the space just beneath your ribs

You felt wanted. Properly, fiercely, unapologetically wanted. Not as a convenience, not as a body that had failed to produce a child, not as a wife who was expected to make dinner and warm a bed while her husband chased other women. Alfie looked at you and saw something rare, something worth the risk.

Ollie cleared his throat from the doorway, his arms still crossed. “Well? Are you going to stand there staring at it until the bread burns, or should I tell him you’ve gone speechless like every other woman who reads one of his letters?”

You folded the letter carefully, pressing it against your chest for a moment as if you could press the words into your skin. When you finally looked up, your voice came out softer than you intended, almost shy.

“Tell him this is really… thoughtful,” you said, still prssing the letter gently against your chest, as if you could press the sincerity of his words into your skin. “And I will think about it. Tell him that. I need time. But… it’s thoughtful. I liked it.”

Ollie nodded once, though his expression suggested he would rather be doing almost anything else. “Right. Thoughtful. I’ll pass it along.” He turned on his heel without another word, the door swinging shut behind him with a click.

Upstairs, Alfie was not waiting patiently. He paced the length of his office like a caged animal. The letter had been a risk, an honest outpouring that left him more exposed than he had been in years, and the waiting was torture. When the door finally opened and Ollie stepped through, Alfie was already at the threshold, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders with both hands before he could even cross the room properly.

“Well?” Alfie demanded, searching Ollie’s face with ferocious intensity. “What did she say? Did she like it? Did she cry? Did she smile? Did she press it to her chest like it was something precious? Tell me everything, Ollie. Every single detail. Leave nothing out.”

Ollie pried himself free with a long-suffering sigh, smoothing his jacket where Alfie’s grip had wrinkled it. “I do not appreciate being an errand boy between the two of you,” he said with irritation. “I handle the books, the meetings. I do not handle love letters. This is beneath me. This is—”

“Shut up, Ollie,” Alfie interrupted as he began pacing again. The energy rolling off him was almost tangible. “Tell me what she said. Exactly. Word for word if you can manage it. I need to know. I need to know if I’ve scared her off.”

Ollie exhaled through his nose with resignation. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms once more. “She said it was really… thoughtful. And that she will think about it. She needs time, that’s it. She looked a bit overwhelmed. And yes, she pessed the letter to her chest and read it more than once. But she didn’t cry, not that I saw. So I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.”

Alfie stopped pacing, he turned slowly, the wide smile from earlier creeping back across his face. “Thoughtful,” he repeated, tasting the word. “She said it was thoughtful. Not terrifying, not inappropriate. Not ‘how dare you, you mad cunt.’ Thoughtful, that’s something, Ollie. That’s more than something, that’s a crack in the wall She’s thinking about it. She pressed it to her chest, my words against her heart. She’s going to think about it.”

He dropped heavily into his chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “One kiss and she’s thinking. God, Ollie. That woman. She’s got me by the throat and she doesn’t even know it. I’ll give her time. A day, maybe two. Then I’ll find another way to remind her that there’s a man who looks at her like she hung the moon and who would rather die than make her shed a tear of sadness.”

Ollie pushed off the desk, heading for the door. “Just… try not to burn the place down while you’re mooning over her. Or get us all killed, some of us still have work to do.”

Alfie waved him off without looking, already reaching for another sheet of paper, already composing the next message in his head.

Two days later, the frantic rhythm of preparation before Shabbat had you working longer than usual. The trays slid in and out of the heat as the front of the shop bustled with last minute customers seeking the last fresh loaves before the sun dipped.

By the time the light outside began to soften, your shoulders ached, your feet burned, and your mind was a tangled mess of the memory of the kiss you'd shared with Alfie days ago. The words written in his love letter still echoed in your mind, but Alfie had not come down since you both kissed, not once. The absence had felt louder than his presence ever did, it left space that made you wonder whether he regretted the press of his mouth on yours, or whether he was simply trying to forget the way you had pulled away.

You untied your apron, folded it neatly, and reached for your coat, ready to step back into the grey streets. But the door to the back room opened.

Alfie’s eyes found you immediately. “How are you doing, love?” he asked as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a click. “After... everything that happened between us.”

You busied your hands with the last of the trays, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. “About to go home.”

Alfie crossed the room slowly and stopped close, leaning one hip against the bench where you had stood kneading only minutes before. The flowers from three days ago were still there, slightly wilted now but stubbornly bright. He picked one up, turning the stem between his fingers as if it held answers.

“The kiss,” he said, slow enough to taste every syllable. “I don’t regret it for one second. Not one. Your lips, love… they’ve been the only thing I’ve been thinking about. They consumed me. The softness, the way they gave under mine like they’d been waiting. Like they knew exactly where they belonged. I’ve sat in my office all day and all I could see was your mouth, all I could taste was you. Tell me you’ve thought about it too, don’t lie to me, and for fuck’s sake don’t lie to yourself. I felt the hunger in your mouth. You were starving for it, same as me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, you turned away, folding the apron again though it was already neat. “Alfie, we need to pretend that didn’t happen. We have to. I’m married. This… this can’t go anywhere. It’s wrong.”

He let out a rough sound, like a growl of laughter. “Pretend? Oh, love, that’s a good one. Tell me you’ve thought about it too. I saw it in your eyes when you pulled away, I felt it in the way your hands pressed against my chest but didn’t pushh, not really, not like you meant it. Your husband, does he let you starve like that? Does he have this pretty thing all for himself, this woman who bakes like an angel and laughs like heaven, and still lets you go hungry?”

The words hit too close, you remembered the lipstick stains, the empty bed, the nights he chose other beds. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Alfie… this… we shouldn’t.”

He moved then, faster than you thought a man his size could. Wrapping one arm around your waist, he pulled you close against the solid heat of his body. He slid his other hand into your hair, tilting your head as his mouth found the side of your neck. The kiss there was hot, open-mouthed, grazing your skin with his teeth just enough to make you gasp. He held you pressed tight, devouring the curve of your throat.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured against your skin. “Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself. I can see the sadness in a woman’s eyes, love, I can feel the hunger in her mouth. A woman who’s not happy at home, who’s not satisfied. Who lies awake wondering why the man who vowed to cherish her treats her like an afterthought. He makes you deeply unhappy, I see it. Every day I see it, and it makes me want to burn the whole fucking world down until someone treats you the way you deserve.”

The memory of the shirts flooded back, the cheap red lipstick, the cloying perfume on his clothes the other night. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “It’s not just the fights,” you whispered. “He… he stopped loving me after I lost our baby. Stopped looking at me, stopped touching me. Like it was my fault, like my body had failed him and that was the end of it.”

Alfie stilled against your neck, then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand cupped your face with surprising tenderness. The dark with lust eyes were soft now, almost pained. “I’m so sorry, love,” he said, gentler than you had ever heard him. “You didn’t deserve that, not one bit of it. No woman deserves a man so weak he lets her suffer alone in her grief and then blames her for her own sorrow. A real man would’ve held you through it. Would’ve crried the weight with you instead of turning away like a coward. You lost a child, and you carried that pain. He left you to carry it alone, that’s not a husband.”

The tears pricked at your eyes, you tried to blink them back, but one escaped anyway, tracing down your cheek. Alfie brushed it away with his thumb. “I know he sees other women,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “That’s why I took the job, that’s why I’m saving every shilling. To leave, to have something of my own. To stand on my own feet without him.”

Alfie tightened around you in an act of protectiveness. “Why be loyal to someone who doesn’t respect you?” he asked. “Why tie yourself to someone who treats his vows like they’re optional, who comes home reeking of other women and still has the nerve to call you unfaithful for standing in here? Loyalty is a two-way street, love. And he’s been walking the wrong way for years. You deserve better, you deserve someone who sees the miracle in you every single day. Who would rather burn than let you carry that sadness alone.”

He kissed you then. Not the hard, devouring kiss from days ago, but something slower. His mouth claimed yours with hunger, tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue until you opened your mouth for him. He kept one hand at the small of your back, pressing you tight against the warmth of his body, while the other cradled your face like you were something fragile and infinitely precious. For long, dizzying moments there was only Alfie, only the heat of him, only the way he kissed you like he had been waiting lifetimes for exactly this.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly. “Tell me you feel it too,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not the only one going mad in here.”

“You’re not.”

Alfie’s hands moved then, sliding one palm down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your dress, pressing you tighter against him. The other hand roamed lower, cupping the swell of your hip, digging his fingers in with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His mouth found yours again, not so gentle this time, but hungry, as if he could drink down every hidden longing you had buried for years. He kissed you like he owned you, like every inch of your body had been waiting for his claim. His hands explored without shame, brushing the undersides of your breasts through the layers of cloth, then down again to grip your thighs, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

“Fuck, love,” he growled against your mouth. “If I told you all the things I’ve thought about you… all the filthy, depraved little fantasies that have kept me awake at night since the day you walked in here… you’d probably slap me across the face and call me a degenerate. A proper degenerate. But God help me, I can’t stop. Can’t stop imagining these hands of yours wrapped around me. Can’t stop seeing you bent over this bench, moaning my name while I show you what a real man can do.”

He grabbed you then, effortlessly lifting you with a grunt of effort and setting you on the edge of the wide wooden bench. You parted your legs instinctively as he stepped between them, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Your legs followed, locking around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs as if your body had decided for you. He was hard already, you could feel the line of his erection pressing against you through his trousers, insistent and hot. Alfie groaned at the contact, rolling his hips forward, grinding against your core in a slow motion that made you whimper into his mouth.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look down at the way your body had opened for him. He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher and stroking the sensitive skin just above your stockings. “Your body’s been starving for this, love. Starving for a man who sees it, who wants it. Who’s been mad thinking about how soft you’d feel under him and how wet you’d get just from a kiss like that.”

“I want you,” you whispered, the words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your voice was shaky with all the need you felt from years of denial. “So much, Alfie. God, I want you.”

A triumphant sound rumbled in his chest. “I know, angel. I know you do.” He tightened his hands on your hips, holding you in place as he rocked against you again, the friction sending sparks up your spine. “And I’m gonna show you how a real man treats a woman, how I’d treat you every single day if you were mine. Slow when you need slow, hard when you need hard. I’d worship this body until you forgot every cold night that bastard ever gave you”

His fingers found the buttons of your dress, the simple row running down the front. With a growl of impatience he ripped them open, the delicate fabric giving way with a series of sharp pops that echoed in the kitchen. The cool air kissed your skin as he pushed the dress off your shoulders, tugging it down your arms until it pooled around your waist. You sat there in your brassiere and knickers, the garters and stockings still clipped neatly in place, the lace and silk suddenly feeling far too exposed under his gaze. Alfie stepped back just enough to look at you fully, his eyes raking over every inch.

“Fuck me,” he breathed the words. His hands returned, running all over your body with hunger, sliding his palms up your sides, hooking his thumbs under the edges of your brassiere to trace the swell of your breasts, then down over the curve of your waist and hips. He cupped your breasts through the thin fabric, squeezing them gently, circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch. “You’re even more delightful than any image my imagination ever created. Such a beautiful creature, so fucking appealing. Soft where you should be soft, strong where you’ve had to be strong. Look at you, like you were made to drive a man mad. You’ve got my cock so fucking hard it hurts, love. Proper aching for you. Been aching since the first day.”

He leaned in again, his mouth finding your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone, nipping at the tops of your breasts as his hands continued their exploration. Alfie slipped one hand between your legs, cupping you through the thin knickers, feeling the heat and dampness there with a groan of pure satisfaction. His fingers stroked you slowly, pressing the fabric against your most sensitive spot until your hips jerked against his hand. 

As if he couldn’t wait another second, Alfie hooked his fingers into the fabric of your brassiere. With a growl, he pulled it down, freeing your breasts to the air. “Fuck, look at these,” he murmured, cupping them immediately, lifting and squeezing them with just the right pressure, circling the sensitive peaks with his thumbs. “Perfect. Fucking perfect. Been dreaming about these tits since the first time I saw you. So soft, made for my mouth.”

He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard enough to make you arch against him with a sharp cry. His tongue swirled, licked, teased in wet circles that sent sparks down to your core. He massaged the other breast with his hand, rolling the nipple between fingers, pinching just enough to border on pain before soothing it with his palm. All the while his other hand stayed between your legs, cupping your cunt and pressing the heel of his palm against your clit in grinding circles that matched the rhythm of his mouth. 

You rocked against his hand desperately, grinding down on the pressure, chasing the friction as your hips rolled in needy little movements. Alfie groaned around your nipple before he switched sides, sucking the other breast deep into his mouth while he kept working you, cupping and stroking, feeling the growing wetness soak through the fabric.

“Tell me,” he rasped against your skin. “Tell me how much you want me, love. Say it. I want to hear it from that pretty mouth while you’re grinding on my hand.”

The words spilled out of you, breathless between soft moans. “I want you so much, Alfie… everything aches for you. My whole body… it’s been so long… I need you. Please.”

A satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He released your nipple with a wet pop, looking up at you with glittering eyes. “That’s my good girl. I know, angel. I know you do. And I’m gonna soothe that ache, every bit of it. When I’m done with you, the only thing that’s gonna hurt is gonna be your throat from screaming my name.”

Hie moved his hands lower, tracing the tops of your stockings, hooking his fingers under the clips of your garters one by one, undoing them with care. The silk whispered against your skin as he rolled the stockings down, peeling them off like he was unwrapping something precious. His palms followed, stroking every inch of newly bared skin, your calves, knees, and the soft insides of your thighs, as if he could not get enough of touching you.

“You’re a vision,” he murmured with awe. “Such a beautiful creature. So soft and ready for me. Look at you, all laid out for me like a feast I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to taste.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your knickers and slid them down your legs, baring your cunt completely. The air hit your slick and dripping folds, making you shiver. Alfie stared, transfixed, as he traced the seam of your pussy with one finger, gathering the wetness that had already coated your thighs.

“Fuck me, you’re soaked,” he groaned. “So wet and slick and dripping for me already. This pretty little cunt is weeping for attention, love. Been neglected for far too long.” He looked up at you, his eyes were a dark shade of blue now, full of lust. “You want me to eat this cunt, don’t you? Want my mouth on you?”

You nodded frantically, twitching your hips toward his hand. “Yes… please…”

He smiled. “Ask me nice, angel. Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”

A whine escaped your throat, the need was louder than the embarrassment. “C-could you… could you eat my cunt, Alfie? Please?”

“With pleasure,” he dropped to his knees on the wooden floor in front of the bench, a man of his size and power willingly kneeling for you. He gripped your thighs and spread them wide, opening you completely to his gaze. 

His breath ghosted over your exposed pussy, making you tremble. “Keep them open like this,” he ordered in a commanding tone. “Wide for me. Scream if you need to, pull my hair, wrap your legs around my neck and ride my face. But don’t you dare close these thighs. I want all of you, every drop. Understood?”

You nodded breathlessly, bracing your arms behind you on the bench as you watched him. He started slow, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your knees, then higher along your thighs, his beard scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin. He kissed your mound, lips brushing the soft curls there, then lower, feather-light kisses along your outer lips, teasing and tasting the slick that had gathered there. 

Then, he finally dragged his tongue slowly up your slit in a long and broad stroke from your entrance to your clit that made your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he groaned against your core. “Sweet and wet. Been starving for this too, haven’t you, love? This pretty cunt hasn’t been properly worshipped in years. But I’m here now. Gonna take my time, gonna lick every inch until you’re shaking.”

He sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, flicking his tongue in circles. Alfie ate your cunt like a madman, ravenous, unrelenting, completely lost in the taste of you. He sealed his mouth over your dripping folds with wet sounds that filled the quiet kitchen, thrusting his tongue deep inside you before dragging it back up to circle your swollen clit with firm strokes. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, then lapping slowly as if he could not get enough of your taste. 

He used his large hands to grip your thighs with bruising strength, digging his fingers into the soft flesh to keep them spread wide open for him. No matter how much you trembled or tried to close them instinctively from the overwhelming sensation, he held you firmly in place, refusing to let you hide even an inch of yourself from his mouth. “That’s it,” he growled against your pussy, the words sounding muffled. “Keep these pretty thighs open for me, love. I’m not done feasting, not by a long fucking shot.”

You were moaning openly now, shameless sounds spilling from your lips as your hands fisted in his hair. “Alfie— oh God, don’t stop… please don’t stop…” The words came out broken and desperate, it was years of denial pouring out of you in a flood. 

As you bucked his hips against his face, chasing the pressure of his tongue, you looked down, and the sight nearly undid you completely, Alfie on his knees between your spread legs, his eyes half-lidded with lust, his beard glistening with your wetness, and his mouth buried in your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He looked up at that exact moment, locking his gaze with yours while his tongue continued its devastating work, sucking hard on your clit. The eye contact was intimate, you saw the raw hunger there, the possession, and it made your walls clench around nothing.

The intensity pushed you over the edge of control, and you started grinding slowly on his face, rolling your hips in needy circles, using his mouth, his tongue, his beard for friction. The coarse hair tickled and scraped deliciously against your sensitive folds and inner thighs. With a broken cry, you let yourself fall back onto the wooden bench, spreading your arms out above your head, arching as you gave yourself over completely. 

Alfie groaned in approval, sliding his hands under you, grabbing your ass with both palms to squeeze the soft flesh, kneading it as he lifted your hips higher, bringing your dripping pussy even closer to his face. He held you there like an offering, devouring you with ferocity.

You were whimpering louder now, the sounds turning into high cries that echoed off the walls. “Alfie— fuck— I’m so close… don’t stop, please don’t stop…” Your thighs shook violently around his head as the orgasm built, ready to explode. Every nerve in your body felt alight, years of neglect and loneliness unraveling under the assault of his mouth.

He growled and moaned into your cunt, the vibrations pushing you right to the edge. “Cum for me, angel,” he rasped against your folds. “Cum on my tongue like the starving girl you are. Give it to me, let me taste how much you’ve needed this.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was intense, shattering, the first one you had experienced in years. Your whole body seized, your back bowing off the bench as the pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your cunt clenched around nothing, gushing wetly against his mouth as he continued licking and sucking you through every pulse and aftershock, drinking down every drop like a man dying of thirst. 

Alfie held you through it all, his grip on your ass firm, never letting your hips drop, never stopping the soothing laps of his tongue as the pleasure finally began to ebb. He kissed your swollen folds gently, murmuring praises against your skin between soft licks. “That’s my good girl… fucking beautiful when you cum for me. Look at you shaking and dripping and mine. First of many, love. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

You lay there on the bench, with your chest heaving and your body limping and trembling, as Alfie continued to kneel between your spread thighs, pressing worshipful kisses to your inner thighs and mound. 

Alfie finally rose, towering over you. He wiped his glistening beard with the back of his hand, looking down at your spent form spread out on the bench. 

“Eating this cunt is a biblical experience, love. Proper fucking revelation. I thought nothing in this godforsaken world tasted better than those cakes you bake. But this?” He dragged two thick fingers through your slick folds, gathering your wetness and his saliva, then brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with an obscene groan. “This cunt is better. Sweeter, wetter, more addictive. I could die wondering how I ever lived without the taste of you on my tongue.”

You were still catching your breath, but something wild and long-denied had broken loose inside you. You sat up, grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. Your fingers worked frantically at the buttons, popping them open one by one until the fabric parted to reveal the broad, hairy expanse of his chest. You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and ran your hands all over him, tracing the muscle of his shoulders, the softness of his belly, the hair that covered his chest and trailed down toward his waistband. 

Alfie chuckled against your mouth, the sound amused and utterly pleased. “Look at you,” he murmured, nipping at your lower lip. “Someone’s in a rush, huh? Greedy little thing. One taste and you’re ready to devour the rest of me. I like that, fucking like that.”

You kissed him harder, tangling your tongues together in a kiss that grew messy and desperate. While your mouths moved together, you dropped your fingers lower, fumbling with his belt. The leather gave way, and you popped the button of his trousers, tugging the zipper down and shoving both trousers and underwear down his thighs in one eager motion.

Alfie’s cock sprang free, thick, and already leaking at the flushed tip. It was substantial, veined and hard, with a thatch of dark hair at the base that made your mouth water. You stared for a moment, as it bobbed heavily between you.

Alfie watched you looking, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You like what you see, love?” he asked. “Go on, don’t be shy. Give it a stroke, feel what you do to me.”

Your wrapped a hand around his shaft without hesitation. He was hot and smoothl, pulsing in your grip. You stroked him slowly at first, up and down, swirling your thumb over the leaking head on every pass to spread the wetness. Alfie groaned, tipping his head back for a moment, half-closing his eyes in pleasure as he let you work him. He rocked his hips gently into your fist, fucking your hand with lazy thrusts while he simply enjoyed the feeling.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. Look at that pretty hand wrapped around my cock.”

While you continued stroking him, finding a steady rhythm that made his breath hitch, Alfie moved his hand back between your legs. His fingertips gathered the slick mixture of your juices and his saliva that still coated your pussy, and then he slid two fingers deep inside you. He curled them, stroking that spot inside while he circled your clit in lazy spirals with the pad of his thumb. He opened you slowly, scissoring his fingers to stretch you. 

Your hand continued to pump his cock while his fingers fucked you open. You moaned into his mouth as you kissed again, sliding your tongues together. Your strokes on his cock grew faster and tighter, making Alfie groan into the kiss and jerk his hips.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to look down at where your hand worked him and where his fingers disappeared inside your cunt. “So tight and wet. This pretty little hole is sucking my fingers in like she knows exactly who it belongs to now. Gonna make you feel so full when I finally give you this cock, gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

Then, with a growl, he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. At the same time, he closed his other hand firmly around your wrist, stopping the movement of your hand on his throbbing length. You looked up at him with your lips parted in a moan, and your eyes dark with need. Alfie held your gaze, his own eyes overwhelmed with lust.

“Do you want my cock inside you, love? Because all of this, my mouth, my fingers, that’s been foreplay. Beautiful, filthy foreplay. But if I put my cock inside this pretty little cunt… things won’t go back the way they were. You’ll be all mine. Once I’m buried deep, there’s no pretending. No going back to that cold bed and that useless husband. You’ll be mine. Say it, tell me you understand what you’re asking for.”

The words hung in the warm kitchen air. Your heart hammered wildly at the thought of belonging to Alfie. Years of loneliness and a body that had been ignored rose up in a desperate wave. You nodded frantically. “I want you,” you whispered, then louder, more desperate. “So much, Alfie. Please… Please fuck me. I need you inside me.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. “Look at you,” he murmured, brushing your swollen lower lip. “You’re so beautiful when you beg. You’ve got the face of an angel and the voice of one too, it’s fucking celestial. Begging for my cock like the dirty girl you are.”

He stepped closer, until his thick cock was nudging against your slick entrance. “Wrap your legs around my waist, love. Hold me tight, I want to feel you clinging to me when I finally sink into this heaven between your thighs.”

You obeyed instantly, locking your legs  around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The position left you completely open to him, your cunt pressed right against the head of his cock. Alfie gripped the base of his shaft with one hand, the other arm banded tight around your lower back, holding you steady.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Right here. I want to see that first second when I get inside you. Want to watch your face when this cock stretches you open and fills that hungry little hole for the first time.”

You locked eyes with his, and then Alfie pushed forward. The thick head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching you slowly and inexorably. You gasped sharply at the burn and the fullness, your walls fluttering around the invasion as he sank deeper inch by inch. He was thick, so thick, and long, filling you in a way you had never been filled before. 

Crescent marks painted his shoulders when you dug your nails into it. You let your body adjust, clenching and relaxing around him. Alfie groaned deeply but his eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of pleasure as he pushed forward, until he was buried to the hilt, with his heavy balls pressed against you.

“Fuck… so tight,” he growled, holding perfectly still for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “This cunt is gripping me like it never wants to let go, like it knows exactly who it belongs to now.”

Then he began to move, holding you tight against him with an arm around your waist and the other braced on the bench as he thrust deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a powerful snap of his hips. Each thrust was deliberately hitting your g-spot, making stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Alfie! Oh God, yes, deeper—” you gasped, digging your nails harder into his arms, leaving red trails down his skin. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper with every thrust.

He kissed you hard, using his tongue to fuck your mouth in the same rhythm as his cock pounded into your cunt. The bench creaked beneath you as he fucked you with increasing force, snapping forward, making the length of him drag against every nerve inside you. His balls were sapping against your ass with every deep thrust, and the hair at the base of his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit.

“That’s it, angel,” he moaned between kisses. “Moan for me, let me hear how good it feels to finally have a real man inside you. This tight cunt was made for this cock… made for me. Gonna fuck you until you forget every lonely night, until the only name you remember is mine.”

Alfie watched your face the entire time, drinking in every expression, the way your lips parted on a cry, the way your eyes fluttered half-closed in ecstasy. “Beautiful,” he growled, slamming deep and grinding his hips in a circle. “Fucking beautiful when you’re taking my cock like this. Look at you, all spread open and dripping for me. My angel.”

The pleasure built again, faster this time, coiling in your belly as Alfie’s rhythm grew punishing. You couldn’t help the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him with every stroke, the grip of your cunt pulsing and rippling along his length as the pleasure increased. The sensation of being so full, so stretched, so completely claimed by him was overwhelming

Alfie cursed, his hips stuttering for a moment as your cunt clenched particularly hard around him. “Fuck—! stop doing that with your cunt, love,” his voice came out rough with the effort of holding back. “Squeezing me like that… you’re gonna make me cum too soon. This tight, greedy little hole is trying to pull the life out of me. Slow down, angel, or I won’t last.”

“I can’t help it,” you whimpered high and broken, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts desperately. “It feels too good… I think I’m gonna cum again, Alfie— oh God, I’m so close…”

A satisfied chuckle rumbled out of him, turning into another deep groan as your walls fluttered around his cock once more. “You’re gonna make me cum, angel,” he growled. “Gonna pull it right out of me with this perfect cunt. But not yet… not until I feel you fall apart around me again.”

His hand found your clit with unerring accuracy, and he rubbed circles over the bundle of nerves, never slowing the pounding rhythm of his cock driving into you. The dual stimulation was devastating, the pressure on your clit was pushing you straight toward the edge again. 

Alfie leaned in and kissed you hard, swallowing every cry and whimper as he drove you higher. “Cum for me again, love,” he rubbed faster. “Let me feel this pretty cunt pulse and flutter around me. Squeeze my cock while you fall apart. That’s it, good girl, cum on my cock like you were born for it.”

The orgasm crashed over, even more intense than the first. Your whole body seized as the pleasure ripped through you in shattering pulses. Your cunt clenched hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing rhythmically, milking him with squeezes as you came with a loud scream of his name. Slick gushed around his cock, coating his balls and dripping down onto the bench beneath you.

“Fuck yes! That’s my angel.” Alfie’s voice was strained as he felt you cum apart around him. He kept thrusting through it, fucking you through every pulse. “So beautiful when you cum for me. Squeezing me so tight… gonna make me fill this pussy. I’m gonna finish inside you, love. Gonna pump every drop deep into this greedy cunt. Mark you from the inside so you remember who you belong to now. Gonna fill you up until you’re dripping with me for days.”

His thrusts grew more erratic as he chased his own release. His cock swelled even thicker inside you, until with a final and powerful snap of his hips, Alfie came. He flood you with thick ropes of cum as he emptied himself completely. He kept thrusting through it, making sure every drop stayed buried inside you, filling you until you felt impossibly full.

He collapsed forward, stroking with his hand up and down your back, tracing patterns along your spine, then sliding around to caress your sides, your ribs, the curve of your waist. His other arm held you securely against his chest, keeping you pressed close as if he feared you might slip away. 

“Does your throat hurt, love?” he asked quietly, a gravelled murmur against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, the sound hoarse from all your moaning. “A little,” you admitted, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. “But it’s a good hurt.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you where you were still joined. “That’s a good sign, angel. A cunt filled and dripping with my cum, and a throat sore from screaming my name. That’s how a woman should be, love. Thoroughly loved, thoroughly pleasured, thoroughly claimed. That’s how it would be every single day if you were mine, I’d wake you up with my mouth between your thighs. I’d make you cum until you couldn’t remember your own name. You’d go to sleep every night with my cock still inside you and my cum leaking down your thighs. Loved, cherished, worshipped like you deserve.”

You tightened your arms around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Alfi’es hands continued their slow exploration, sliding down to cup your ass gently, then back up to trace your sides and the curve of your breasts where they pressed against his chest. “Your cunt was a holy experience,” he murmured after a long, contented silence. “I saw God for a moment there, love. Nothing in this world, nothing has ever felt like being buried inside you. I’m not sure I can live without it now, I’m not sure I can live without you. Ever since you walked into this place with that cake and that smile that lit up the whole room… you’ve ruined me, angel. Ruined me for anything less, I look at you and the rest of the world feels grey and small and pointless.”

When you lifted your head, you saw his eyes, your own still hazy with pleasure. “Maybe you won’t have to,” you whispered.

“You’re not going back to that cunt of a husband you’ve got,” he said. “Not after this, not after the way you came for me, not after I felt this perfect cunt. You’re done with that life, love. I won’t allow it.”

A tired, but genuine smile painted your face, and you rested your forehead against his. “With this Friday’s payment… I saved enough to rent my own place. I’ve been putting every shilling I could away.”

Alfie’s expression softened further, something almost tender breaking through. He kissed you slowly. “Smart girl, saving and planning. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. More than okay. You’ll have that place, you’ll have safety. And you’ll have me, whenever you want me, however you want me.”

You stayed wrapped around him, with your legs locked at his waist and your arms around his neck, your face tucked into the warm curve of his shoulder. Then came the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

“Alfie?” Ollie’s voice echoed down the corridor, with that typical frustration and an edge of exhaustion. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Please don’t tell me you’re still in there watching her knea—”

The door to the back room swung open and Ollie stopped cold in the doorway, his words dying in his throat. His eyes widened, taking in the scene before him: you on the bench, with your dress bunched around your waist, brassiere pulled down and breasts exposed and marked with the evidence of Alfie’s mouth. Alfie still buried between your spread thighs, his trousers around his ankles and his shirt open, the two of you flushed and unmistakably tangled.

Alfie reacted instantly, wrapping one arm around your back and pulling you against his chest to shield your bare breasts from view, while his other hand tugged the front of your dress up as best he could. “Jesus fuck, Ollie!” he barked with exasperation. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to knock? Get the fuck away from here. Now. Before I decide your eyes need a permanent reminder of what happens when you walk in on things that aren’t your business.”

Ollie’s face went a mortified red, he spun on his heel so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, muttering something that sounded like a urse. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang, and you heard his footsteps retreating rapidly down the hallway.

The silence that followed was broken only by your sudden, breathless laugh. Alfie’s chest rumbled with a chuckle that turned into full laughter. “Poor Ollie,” you gasped between giggles. 

“Serve him right,” Alfie said, still laughing. “Walking in like he owns the place. Should’ve knocked.”

You stayed like that for a few more minutes, wrapped around each other. But eventually, with a reluctant sigh, Alfie pulled back just enough to look at you, as he slowly eased his softening cock out of you. You whimpered at the loss, feeling the warm trickle of his cum leaking down your thighs. 

“Come here, love,” he murmured, helping you down from the bench on shaky legs. “Let me take care of you.”

He dressed you with surprising gentleness. First he slid your knickers back up your legs, settling them into place and smoothing the fabric over your still sensitive cunt. Then he adjusted your garters and rolled your stockings back up your thighs, clipping them neatly. He helped you back into your brassiere, cupping your breasts as he did so, brushing your nipples one last time before covering them. Finally, he buttoned what remained of your dress, straightening the fabric and brushing flour from your shoulders and hair with tender strokes.

“There,” he said quietly, stepping back to look at you. “Presentable again. Though I much prefer you the other way.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and leaned into him. Alfie wrapped his arms around you once more, holding you close. “This Sunday,” he said after a long silence, “you’re gonna bring in the money you’ve got saved and a bag with your belongings. I’m gonna help you find your next place to live. Something far away from that useless bastard. You won’t have to do it alone, love. Not anymore.”

You nodded against his chest. “This Sunday,” you agreed softly.

For the first time in years you are not bracing yourself for the walk home, thinking of a cold bed, and an even colder husband. You think of the mornings still to come, waking up without dread and walking the streets knowing the ring on your finger is gone, and the weight it carried is gone with it.

…

A/N: Omg guys, I think it’s finally up for good!! After getting flagged like 10 times, I think I finally figured out what the issue was. I swear I’ve been so stressed over this whole thing. So if you enjoyed it, I’d absolutely love it if you could help me out with a reblog. It would mean a lot to me and help the fic reach more people after everything it’s been through.

This fic actually started out as something much angstier. My original idea was that Alfie and reader met because she worked as a seamstress and he’d bring her clothes to be repaired. Reader’s marriage was also supposed to be a lot darker. I even had about a page of it written in google docs.

But then, while looking for pictures on pinterest, I came across a photo of a bakery and suddenly thought, wait… wouldn’t it be adorable if reader worked as a baker and Alfie was completely gone for her?😭 So I scrapped everything I’d written and started over from scratch. This time, I decided not to make it quite so dark and instead added a bit more humor and lightheartedness to it.

This story contains dark themes that may be distressing to some readers. Please read the warnings listed above before continuing. By choosing to proceed, you acknowledge and accept these warnings and take full responsibility for your reading experience. I trust that those engaging with this work are mature adults who can clearly differentiate between fiction and reality. The behaviors depicted in this story are not meant to be normalized or romanticized in real life. For further information and resources regarding violence and sexual violence against women, you can read more here and here.

The bathroom door thudded shut behind you. Alfie’s maid had shown the way to a grand room with a claw-footed tub deep enough to swallow you whole. A ghost of luxury you weren’t used to.

You didn’t glance at the gilded mirror. Didn’t need to see the soot-streaked, trembling shadow staring back. You only peeled the remnants of your dress from your shoulders, letting it collapse at your feet. The water was hot enough to make you hiss, enough to make your whole body flinch, and yet you sank beneath the surface, desperate to scrub away the night, the streets, the fire. You scrubbed until your skin stung, raw from the friction.

When you finally emerged, your limbs felt heavy, clean yet drained of everything but exhaustion. You wrapped the towel the maid had left around yourself, and on the counter lay a plain silk nightdress, you wondered when Alfie had gone and gotten it for you, was it after that night in the shop, when his temper had flared and his hand had found your cheek? Maybe it was meant as an apology, a peace offering that never saw the light of day because you’d refused to return to him. That until tonight, when you took the nightdress and slid into it, letting the fabric cling gently to your skin.

You knew where you were going. Alfie hadn’t needed to tell you. “You’re in my house now,” he’d said, and that was command enough. His bedroom waited at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, and you pushed it open quietly. Instantly, you were greeted by the smell of rum and that particular, suffocating scent that was just Alfie.

He was waiting for you in the bed, propped against a tower of pillows, his chest bare, the trousers hanging loose around his hips. A newspaper lay forgotten at his side. He fixed his eyes on you instantly. There was no smile, just that familiar, mocking tilt of lips, the one that made your stomach tighten.

“Well, well,” he said, rolling each syllable like a slow drumbeat. “Look at ye… all scrubbed up, eh? My prodigal little flower girl, comin’ back to confess. Aye, confess to what, I wonder?”

You stepped slowly across the rug, wrapping your arms around yourself. Every step felt like surrender. “I’m not in the mood for this,” you whispered, the words barely more than a cracked thread.I “I just need to sleep.”

Alfie chuckled with no warmth, only satisfaction. He patted the space beside him on the bed. “Course ye do, love. Course ye do. Been a long trek through ‘ell and back, eh?”

You slid onto the cool sheets, leaving a gulf of distance between your heat and his. He didn’t wait, he found your hips and dragged you across the bed, spinning you until you had your back pressed into the hard curve of his chest, anchored by the weight of him.

“Now,” his breath was hot against your ear, “let’s talk about that little speech of yours. Told Ollie a couple weeks back, didn’t ya? ‘I don’t need Alfie anymore, I’m done with that arsehole.’” He let the words hang, dripping with mockery. “Told my boy you were finished with me, all proper-like, standin’ on yer own two feet, bills paid, aye? Independent, all on your own. And yet…” He tightened his grip around your waist. “…’ere you are. Little inconvenience and came crawlin’ straight back. Didn’t even need Ollie to go for you this time. Knocked on the door like some stray that knows where the scraps fall.”

You tried to turn, but he slid his hand up, pressing his thumb lightly against your stomach.

“Funny, innit?” he continued. “Called me a monster. Said I wasn’t fit to lace the boots of your dead boy. Swore you’d starve first. And when the fire came, the little flower girl… she ran straight to the monster’s bed. Hopin’ he’s got a scrap left for her.”

You choked out a sound: “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, love?” He nudged his cheek against yours. “Don’t remember how your pride turned to ash? Don’t remember you that my generosity’s the only reason you’re warm and clean instead of sleepin’ in a gutter?” He moved his hand lower, settling it heavily on your lower stomach. “Tasted life out there without me, didn’t ya? Pretended a couple weeks, all happiness and fuckin’ sunshine, until it all crumbled. And why? ‘Cause you, love, are built for two things: makin’ pretty things, and needin’ me. Your little inde-fuckin’-pendence? Gone in flames. But me? Still ‘ere. Flesh, blood, keepin’ ye breathin’.”

He rolled you closer, making you feel his hot chest against your back. “You can fuckin’ hate me, fuckin’ scream it until you’re raw, right? But your body knows better than your head.” He tugged the duvet over your shoulders. “You want to pretend you’re not mine. Fuckin’ fine with me. But don’t fool yourself. Who owns your past? A dead boy in a coffin. And your future? The man whose house you sleep in. The man who’ll buy you a new shop if he feels generous. The man you called a monster. You came back to me, so you take what comes next, without complaint.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer until your bodies fit together like a lock and key. His breathing began to slow, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you as he drifted off, still holding you firmly in his arms.

The next morning, you woke before him, the tension was knotting in your chest despite the decadent warmth of the sheets and the softness of his mattress. His scent filled the room, and you instantly noticed his arm still lying possessively across your waist.

“Mornin’, flower girl,” he murmured, all smug and satisfied. He had you exactly where he wanted you, waking up with him in his bed, wrapped in his arms, warm against him. Right where he reckoned you belonged.

He rolled you to face him, pinning you gently, and fixing his eyes on you. “You look better,” he said casually. “Amazin’ what a warm bath and a proper bed’ll do. Takes the beggar look off you, eh?”

He brushed your cheek with his fingers, a soft, intimate gesture that stood in stark contrast to the mocking edge in his voice and the cruelty behind his words.

“So, the million-pound question…” His tone softened just enough to sting. “The other day when you were screamin’, cryin’ about how I wasn’t half the man your Samuel was, right? Threw his name around like it were scripture. When you were all ‘Alfie, you fuckin’ monster. I hate you, you soddin’ bastard. Well, all night I’ve been thinkin’… where’s little Samuel boy now? Send ye a telegram? Bring ye some finery? Nah. Still lyin’ in a coffin, all stiff. Makes a crackin’ story, don’t it?”

You hated every agonizing second of it. You hated the way Samuel's name slithered from his filthy, venomous mouth, as if Alfie had any right at all to drag him into this. You were furious with yourself for letting him see the cracks in your armor, for handing him a weapon sharper than any fist, sharper than any forceful thrust. You had given him something that wounded you deeper than pain, deeper than fear, a piece of yourself he should have never seen.

“But ‘ere’s the thing, love. I’m ‘ere. Hot water, clean sheets, full meals. He was noble, and it got you what? A broken fuckin’ heart. Poor sod couldn’t even come back for you. But he’s not me, nah. I’d never leave you, would I?”

You clenched your fist, trying to push him away from you, but his arm didn’t budge. What you hated the most was that he was right. Every word, every insinuation cut through you because it exposed a truth you couldn’t deny. You had no one. No one in your life had ever truly protected you… no one but him. Alfie had been there when the world had turned its back on you, when your shop had been empty, when your stomach had ached with hunger, when you didn’t have a place to drop dead.

He had been there. Watching, keeping you safe when no one else cared enough to notice you. And in the most twisted way, that made you feel seen and needed, as if  you mattered. It was a bitter truth, because even as you despised him, you couldn’t deny the safety and warmth that came from being with him.

“You said he loved you,” Alfie said with amusement. “If he loved you so much, why leave you to sell yourself to a monster to keep a roof over your head? My love is fuckin’ effective. And me? I’m warm, not cold like him. When the world failed you, who was the first door you knocked on? Mine. Not on his grave, nah. You knocked on my door.”

He squeezed your hip with the kind of fierceness that came from a man who had longed for the heat of your body far too long, whose anger at being denied this closeness simmered beneath the surface. Now, at last, he had you back exactly where he wanted you, pressed against him.

“All that screamin’ ‘bout Samuel? Noise. All fuckin’, awful noise. You had your moment to be independent, yeah? Cute, really fuckin’ cute. But you failed, and now… now you’re back in the only place you’re ever safe. Home. My home. Our home now.”

He leaned over you. You were a little fuller now than when he first met you, yet still fragile, still breakable beneath him.

“Practical girl, aren’t you? Knows how to survive. So stop thinkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ dead men, and start talkin’ ‘bout the live one who owns you. You’re mine now., yeah? Take what I give you, with a smile, or no smile… it’s all the same. You have nothing left.”

Whenever he pressed you against him, it felt like a constant and tangible reminder of the debt you owed, a debt that could never, ever be repaid. You would carry it for the rest of your life, and in moments like this, it felt impossible to imagine escape. Alfie had you, utterly and completely, and there was no corner of the world where he would allow you to slip from his side.

“Now… kiss me,” he ordered, dropping his voice to a growl. “Time to start the day proper, flower girl. Earn your breakfast.”

The kiss hit you like a punch, it was demanding, no tenderness at all. It wasn’t about sweetness, it was about claim, about ownership. Every bit of independence you’d prided yourself on, every insult you’d thrown at him, all the damn distance between you was now gone. He kissed you like a man marking what was his, sweeping his tongue into your mouth, daring you to resist. You tasted him, that taste you’d tried so hard to forget now twisted something deep in your stomach.

He broke the kiss just enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down to the soft skin of your neck.  “I missed this,” he grazed your pulse with his teeth. “Missed your fuckin’ mouth. Missed the way you taste.” He bit lightly, and you couldn’t stop the little gasp that escaped. “I spent the whole damn month watchin’ your little shop, waitin’ for you to come to your fuckin’ senses. Watchin’ you play the independent girl.”

He slid his hand away from your cheek, wandering across your shoulder, tracing the curve of your collarbone and the thin silk of your nightdress. He cupped your breast, brushing his thumb over your nipple, kneading your tits beneath the fabric. Every stroke stirred memories you had buried, echoes of moments you thought belonged to the past, that you were certain you’d long forgotten but were now crashing back.

“You were never good at pretend,” he worked his mouth at your neck. “You thought you could get away,” he punctuated every word by a rough nip to your throat. “Those fuckin’ flowers… thought they could buy your freedom, right? Thought a dead boy’s memory would save you from me. Foolish, love. Very fuckin’ foolish.”

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you. Then he pinched your other breast with pressure, making you arch your back against him despite yourself. You wanted to recoil, to throw up at the betrayal of your body responding to his touch. Your cunt had learned long ago how to react to him, how to get wet and ready to take him in, no matter how much you told yourself you shouldn’t.

“This is all you are now,” he murmured. “A body I feed, a place I sleep, a debt I collect. Every scrap of pride, yeah? Every shred of that little life… gone. Up in smoke. And now? Now there’s only me. You belong here. No runnin’ from it, love. Not when the truth’s right ‘ere.”

He let you feel the searing heat of him against your thigh, the insistence of his hardness rutting against you like a beast caged, starved, desperate for release… desperate for you. Every movement and press of his cock showed an all-consuming hunger, pulling you into him, whether you wanted it or not.

“You’re my ruin,” he whispered, looking at you. “My fire. My curse. And fuckin’ ‘ell… You were always mine, since the very first day. Stop fightin’ it. Time to earn your keep.”

He kissed you roughly this time, dragging sound and surrender from you. He ran his hands, gathering the nightdress at your waist. There was no hiding, no running, no saviors in this house. Only him. Only Alfie.

He shifted his weight, positioning your hips beneath him until he'd aligned your body with his, pressing the full and straining weight of his erection against the wet apex of your thighs. He didn't ask or hesitate, this was the payment for the roof over your head and the food in your stomach.

He tore his lips away from your neck, grabbing the bunched silk of the nightdress, yanking it up and over your head in one brutal motion. It was gone before you could register the cold air on your breasts, leaving you naked and exposed on the expanse of his bed.

"Look at you," he whispered with lust, sweeping his eyes over your body, stopping to linger on your tits. He palmed one again, circling his thumb over the taut peak. "No pretty flowers now, eh? Just you. Just mine."

He tore his sleeping trousers open and nudged your legs apart with his knee, a crude and impatient motion, and then he was there, kneeling between your thighs. He didn't even use his hands to guide his cock. He didn’t even spit in your cunt first. He simply leaned forward and shoved himself inside you.

The sudden invasion felt brutal, and it made you rip a startled cry from your throat. You were stretched wide, so full of his cock, slowly getting wet, your body didn't care about every conscious thought of resistance. Alfie kept hammering his thick and knotty cock deep into your core, satisfying his need for you.

"There she is," Alfie sank into you until you bottomed out on him. He felt huge, like a solid weight you were incapable of dislodging. "Knew you missed me. Knew you'd open up for me, you filthy little thing."

He didn't wait for you to adjust. He began to thrust with force, setting a quick and savage rhythm that slammed your hips back into the mattress. The bed creaked in protest beneath the violence of the motion. You could only gasp and claw at the sheets, the pain and the pleasure of the contact were overwhelming your senses. He was animalistic, driving in and out with a strength that jarred your teeth.

"Talked a good game, didn't ya?" He moaned in your ear. "Yeah, you did. All that noise about the dead man. About being free. But you belong to me, don't you? Tell me you belong to me."

You shook your head and didn't speak, the words were stuck in your throat. You wanted to cry out and let go, because the way he fucked you still felt so stupidly good, he knew exactly how to angle himself, how to roll his hips. Still, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, and so you bit back the sounds that wanted to escape, determined to keep some shred of control in a body that enjoyed every touch.

He withdrew almost completely and drove back in right away, hitting your cervix with the fat head of his cock. "Don't shake your head, girl! Your body knows the answer. Your cunt knows the truth! It knows who feeds you, who fucks you, who owns you. Tell me!"

"Alfie—" you choked out, whimpering with each slam.

"Say it! Say I own you!" He gripped your hips, locking you into the rhythm.

The tears came. Streaming down your temples and soaking into the pillow. You were crying, not from pain, but from shame, from the complete defeat of finding pleasure in the arms of the very man who had destroyed your life.

"Look at that," Alfie watched the tears track down your face even as he kept battering into you. "Cryin’ while you take my cock. You're broken, aren't you, love? Truly broken."

He slowed his pace just slightly, changing the angle to hit that spongey spot inside you, dragging a moan from your chest. He lowered his head to greedily suckle at your breast, gripping your hips so he could lift you and slam you down onto his cock.

"Nah, don't try and hide it, now," he flicked his tongue across your skin. "All that fight, all that talk about your hero... it doesn't matter, does it? Because I'm ‘ere. I'm deep inside you, and you're gettin’ wet for the monster. You're gettin’ off for the man who slapped you. That's the truth you ran from."

You moved your hips on their own accord, a grind upward to chase the friction and depth of his thrusts. The feeling was too much… Alfie was so deep, and he fucked you too good. Even through the shame, the size of him was mesmerizing, a physical force you couldn't help but respond to.

"Yeah, that's it," Alfie moaned. "Show me, you filthy little liar. Show me how much you needed this while you were playin' big girl. Tell me you missed my cock inside your beautiful, tight little cunt."

You couldn't speak, only managed a muffled noise as the tension coiled in your lower belly. The pleasure was so intense it felt like agony, like something you hated but couldn't deny. He moved, tilting your pelvis up, reaching an unbearable speed with his hips.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "Cum for the only man who will ever take care of you! Cum for the man who owns you!"

You splintered then, tearing a cry from your throat as you seized around his length. The way you came, squeezing him tight, pulled a groan from Alfie's own chest. His own release was almost immediate, it only took him a few final thrusts into your pulsing cunt to cum. He flooded you with his seed, making you feel the musky heat of him filling you deep as he bucked his hips against yours, grounding his pelvis down one last time to force the last drop of his cum as far into you as he could.

He collapsed on top of you, completely spent. You lie beneath him, still shaking from the force of the climax, sticky with a mix of his sweat and cum. Knowing how you were physically repulsed by his actions, but still reliant on his protection, twisted in your stomach.

Alfie didn't move for a long moment, just pressed his forehead to your neck. "There," he said, completely exhausted. He pulled out, and the sliding sound was like a final humiliating punctuation mark. Alfie rolled onto his back, pulling you to his side. "See? No need for all the drama, was there? You're mine. You always have been. And you always will be. You're exactly where you belong."

You stared at the ceiling, the truth of his words was sinking into you. You were physically spent, emotionally ruined, and yet, nestled against his body, a horrifying sense of safety began to settle. You knew he was a monster, yet he was also the only one standing between you and the ruin of the streets. You hated that feeling. You hated that he was right. And you hated yourself most of all.

The days passed in a blur of forced confinement and humiliating submission. The hours inside Alfie’s house were filled with silence, the emptiness hunted you, and it was only broken by the clock ticking and the distant sounds of the city, which no longer belonged to you now that you were trapped here.

During the day, you became like a ghost, drifting through the house in mechanical motions, as if your life didn’t belong to you anymore. You performed the tasks he had implicitly assigned you: keeping his rooms tidy, washing his clothes, and preparing breakfast. The mindless labor helped you fill the hours of the day. You scrubbed surfaces as if maybe that way you could erase his presence from the walls, his scent from the air, or the memory of his body from your own.

You had no desire to speak to anyone. Not to the maids, who now came only once or twice a week because Alfie demanded maximum privacy. Not to the men who occasionally visited for business. Not even to Ollie, whose pitying glances you loathed.

You stayed away from the study and the sitting room, leaving the bedroom only to eat your meals in the kitchen, not out of hunger, but out of necessity, because every bite of the food was a reminder of the debt. You had no friends to visit, no shop to run, and no past to cling to, not even the ruined fragments of Samuel's photograph. And even if the doors were open for you to leave if you wished, you had nowhere to go, Alfie had made that very clear.

The silence was only a prelude, because every night Alfie came for you. He didn’t need to summon you because he’d often find you sitting on the edge of the bed, already waiting for him. He’d close the door, and you’d watch him become a demanding brute who saw your body as his property.

He took you hard and fast, often without any preamble, tearing at your clothes or simply pushing you down onto the mattress. As much as you tried, you couldn’t ignore the constant presence of his cock buried in your body. You’d shut your eyes but still feel the way he moved his hands all over you, pinching, squeezing, grasping, leaving your skin bruised and tender in the mornings. You were always wet for him now, your body had learned how to, and it was a shame that felt bigger than any pain.

But it was his words that hurt you deepest. While he drove his massive body into yours, while you bucked and cried out under his rough touch, he would whisper filthy things right into your ear.

“This what you wanted, innit?” he’d growl, slamming his hips into you. “All that ‘I hate you’ shite you been sayin’... bollocks, yeah? You wanted this. You needed this.” He’d thrust harder. “Feel that? That’s me, yeah? That’s yours. There’s no bloody runnin’ from it. That’s the price o’ peace in my house.”

Alfie loved to repeat the same narrative of ownership, and very quickly it began to feel like the only truth that had ever existed. He twisted his lust into something that sounded dangerously close to care… something that preyed on the desperate loneliness you felt.

“Missed you, I did,” he’d murmur, scraping your jaw with his beard as he kissed you hungrily. “Watchin’ you walk about like you were untouchable… fuckin’ killed me, that did. But you’re ‘ere now, ain’t ya? Right where I bloody want you.”

Then would come the ultimate breaking point, the word that was meant to crush your resistance completely.

“I love you,” he’d say, usually right as he was about to spend himself inside you. “I fuckin’ love you, yeah? You beautiful, broken little thing. You’re mine, right? I’m all you got in this world.”

The words always hit you with the force of a blow. You knew the kind of love Alfie so claimed to feel wasn’t the kind of love Samuel had offered you in the past… It simply wasn’t the type of love a woman deserves, but in the desolate silence of Alfie’s world, it was the only attention, the only focus, the only constant you had left. It repulsed you, it shamed you, and yet a tiny and desperate part of you clung to his love, knowing that without it, you would cease to exist. You were thoroughly broken, and Alfie was the only one holding the pieces.

He was still deep inside you, pinning you to the mattress, the warmth of his cum beginning to cool between your bodies. The intensity of his pleasure was fading, replaced by that contentment that always followed after a long night of claiming your body. 

He shifted, leaning up on one elbow and searching for your face, reading the exhaustion in your tired eyes. He didn’t move to pull out, keeping his thick length buried inside you.

“Go on then,” he rasped, like a growl half-buried in his chest. “Tell me, yeah?”

You knew what he wanted. You closed your eyes, pressing your lips together, trying to summon some last shred of resistance, some small voice that could still say no. But he reached up, tangling his hand in your hair to pull your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Oi, look at me, girl,” he said. “Look at the man who fuckin’ saved you, eh? The man who keeps you fed, who keeps you warm. The man who takes you every bloody night. The man who loves you.” He lowered his head, brushing your ear with his lips. “Now tell me you love me too.”

The request was the final humiliation, a demand for the one thing he could never take by force. You remained silent, you could lie to him, and you had, all those times he’d made you confess that you were his, but this… somehow, the words I love you, the ones you had reserved for only one man, felt like too much, like something your heart couldn’t surrender to Alfie.

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it, only impatience. “Nah, nah, don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t go quiet on me now, love. Your body already said it, didn’t it? Screamed it, in fact. Your cunt knows, yeah? Knows who it belongs to. So go on, use your big girl words.”

He gave a short but heavy thrust, an unmistakable threat.

“Say it.”

He withdrew an inch, and the emptiness felt like a reminder of everything you stood to lose if you lost him: the warmth, the roof, the perverse protection. The truth was, you needed him. You didn’t love him, but he’d made it clear you couldn’t survive without him, and in his monstrous world, that was the same thing.

He drove back in. “Say it!” he snarled. “Say you’re mine, say you fuckin’ love me!”

You tore a sob from your chest, and as you blinked, the tears burned your temples. You were finally surrendering the last word you had been holding back. In that broken moment, you gave him the one thing he hadn’t taken from you until now.

“I—” You swallowed the taste of defeat on your tongue. “I love you, Alfie.”

The words were barely a whisper, but they were out. You watched the wolfish grin spreading across his face. He didn’t correct your tone, he didn’t care if it was a lie, he only cared that you said it.

“That’s a good girl,” he breathed with satisfaction in his voice. “Knew you’d come round, didn’t I? Knew you’d remember who keeps you safe.”

He shifted his hips, grinding his pelvis against yours, and then he lowered his head and took your mouth in a kiss that was no longer violent, but utterly possessive, like a seal on the bargain.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your lips. The command was softer now, coaxing you. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered against his mouth, the words coming easier this time, a practiced, defeated phrase. “I love you.”

He pulled back, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “There she is. There’s my girl. Always knew you’d find your way home, didn’t I?”

He finally pulled out and rolled onto his side, immediately dragging you against his chest, tucking you into the curve of his body, keeping his heavy and warm arm across your stomach.

“Sleep now,” he whispered into your hair, and the way he said it, so tender, almost made him sound human. “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. I’ve got you. Always.”

The days dragged on in exhaustion. Your body no longer felt like your own. At first, it was only a faint queasiness, something you could ignore. But soon the sickness grew meaner. You woke in the mornings with a mouth full of acid and that awful twisting feeling in your stomach before you’d even touched breakfast. Food had lost its taste, and even the smell of bread from the kitchen made your stomach twist

You noticed the changes, the way your dress no longer hung quite the same, the strange pull low in your belly, the dull ache in your back. You even started sleeping sitting up, because lying flat made you dizzy. But you kept telling yourself it was only the physical result of the aversion you felt toward Alfie.

But Alfie noticed everything.

It happened one grey morning at breakfast. The smell of the fried eggs turned your stomach, and you steadied yourself against the back of his chair as the dizziness came over you.

Alfie’s knife stilled mid-cut. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, he just watched you. You could feel his gaze, as if measuring you.

“What’s that then?” he asked quietly. “You’re pale as a bleedin’ sheet.”

You tried to laugh it off. “Just tired, Alfie. Nothing.”

He didn’t believe it. He swept his eyes over you, taking in the faint sweat on your brow, the tremor in your hand, the tenderness of your breasts, and the swell of you lower stomach. Then he leaned back slowly, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, something calculating, something almost amused.

“Tired, is it?” he asked. “That why you been runnin’ off to the bathroom every morning, makin’ noises like you’re wrestlin’ with God?” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not sick, are ya? Nah. No, you’re not sick.”

Your heart sank. “Alfie, please—”

“You’re carryin’,” he said simply. The word landed like a gunshot. “You’re carryin’ my child.”

You stared at him, speechless, and for a moment, you saw a light in his face you’d never seen before, something fierce and alive.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, that’s it, innit?” he breathed, half laughing now. “A miracle, that is. Proof, yeah? Proof that what we’ve got here, what I got with you, it’s real.” He moved his hand up, almost gently, resting it against your stomach. “That’s me in there, love. My blood. My mark. My heir. You belong to me now, properly.”

The words made your skin crawl, twisting in your chest. You shook your head and stepped back, but he followed without hesitation, his smile softening into something almost… unfamiliar. It was strange to see him like this, a flicker of something gentler beneath the usual mean presence.

Up until now, you had tried to ignore the recurring thought of a baby. With the way he took you, the frequency, the intensity… the chances were high. Yet, you clung to a fragile hope that God might show a little mercy, that somehow you would be spared from carrying a child of his bloodline. Life had already stolen too much from you, put you into situations you should never have been forced to endure, and now, on top of it all, the thought of being pregnant with Alfie’s child twisted your stomach into knots.

“Don’t look like that,” he murmured. “You should be proud. You and me, we made somethin’ outta all this mess. God saw fit to bless us, yeah? Proof of our love, that is.”

But deep inside, you knew Alfie was wrong. It wasn’t love, at least not to you. It was the final tether, the proof that your body had given him everything. Not just control or obedience, but now creation itself. 

When you turned from him, hiding your tears from him, his tone softened even more, and that was somehow worse.

“Shh, now. Don’t you cry, love,” he said, as if to soothe you. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll look after you. I’ll look after both of you. That’s my promise.”

You couldn’t answer, you just stood there trembling. The possible life growing inside you wasn’t proof of love, it was only proof that even your body no longer belonged entirely to yourself.

Unconsciously, you rested your hands on your stomach, as if confirming what you didn’t dare name. “I don’t want this,” you whispered. “I can’t— We shouldn’t—”

Alfie bent closer. “Don’t you talk like that,” he said. “You listen to me, yeah? This ain’t some mistake. It’s a bloody miracle, that’s what it is. You and me, after everythin’. God Himself must’ve had a laugh, sendin’ me this. My own flesh growin’ inside you. Lord Almighty. You see, that means you’re tied to me now. There’s no leavin’, no undoin’. You’ll have a home, food, safety. You’ll never be alone again. That’s what I’m tellin’ you.”

All you wanted was to scream at him, to tell him that safety built on fear wasn’t safety at all. But your voice failed you, because what could you say when you’d lost everything, including your own voice? When it all belonged to him now.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Alfie went from restless pacing to sudden bursts of tenderness, talking about names, about the strength of “his boy,” about how the child would carry on his work. Every time he spoke, his pride only grew, but your dread deepened. By nightfall, you sat by the window, pressing your hands to the place where you could feel your body starting to change. Outside, the city moved on, indifferent. Inside, the walls felt closer than ever. 

You could hear Alfie humming somewhere in the house, he sounded like a man convinced he had finally been granted a miracle. You closed your eyes, feeling both the weight and the life stirring within you, and wishing with every breath that you could walk away from it all.

The next morning Ollie arrived early, hat in hand and nervous as a schoolboy. He wouldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Boss said you ain’t been well,” he mumbled, shifting from foot to foot. “Reckons you ought to see someone. I’ll take you, yeah?”

You weren’t stupid, you knew Ollie must have known exactly where he was taking you. You didn’t trust Alfie to keep something like this quiet, not with the way he carried his pride. By now, you were almost certain everyone at the distillery knew: how he had impregnated you, how he had marked you, how he was going to be a father.

Still, Ollie had the decency, or perhaps the self-preservation, not to mention it, and you were grateful for that small mercy. You’d rather pretend it didn’t exist, bury it in the corners of your mind, because speaking of it… Well, that would make it real. And some truths, you weren’t ready to face.

The car ride was quiet. Ollie kept glancing at you through the mirror, twitching like he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. When the car finally stopped, you saw the small brick house, with a brass plate beside the door that read Mrs. Rosenberg— Midwife and Nurse.

Inside, the woman who greeted you was in her fifties. She smiled kindly, but her eyes were sharp, taking in everything: your posture, your color, the tremor in your hands.

Ollie lingered awkwardly by the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he said, and fled into the drizzle.

You sat on the narrow bed while Mrs. Rosenberg prepared her instruments. She spoke softly, as though you might shatter if she raised her voice.

“How long’s it been since your last monthly, dear?”

You hesitated, you’d lost count a long time ago. “Maybe a year. It stopped from… stress, and I wasn’t eating much either.”

After all the stress when your aunt passed, the worries of keeping the shop afloat, and how little you were eating, you didn’t even blink twice when your period stopped showing up every single month. 

She nodded slowly, already knowing more than she said. She helped you lie back, lifted your blouse, and pressed her hands carefully along your abdomen. Her fingers were firm, and you tried not to flinch, not to think about what she might find.

You caught the way she flickered her eyes to your face, then back to your belly, pressing again, lower this time, more gently, and smiled, just barely.

“There it is,” she murmured. “Strong as anything.”

“There is what?” you asked, even though the answer was obvious, you couldn’t keep ignoring it.

She looked up. “The baby, my dear. You’re quite far along.”

For a moment, you couldn’t understand the words. The room tilted, and the corners darkened.

“No,” you whispered. “That’s not possible. You must have made a mistake.”

Mrs. Rosenberg shook her head gently, her expression was serious but not unkind. “I’d say five months, maybe a little more. The signs are all there, the movement, the quickening, the way you carry. You’ve been underfed, that’s all, which is why you didn’t show sooner.”

You stared at her with disbelief. You understood the words that fell from her lips, but they made no sense, refusing to fit into any logic you knew. “No… there must be some mistake,” you said, your voice was a mix of hope and dread.

She sighed softly, as if yours was a reaction she had grown used to hearing. “I’m afraid not,” she said, leaving no room for argument, no escape from the truth she delivered.

The world narrowed to the words “the baby.” Every sound seemed distant, as if you were underwater.

“I can’t—” Your voice broke. “I can’t have this child.”

Mrs. Rosenberg’s eyes softened. “You’re frightened. Most are, the first time. But there’s no undoing it now, love. You’re well past halfway.”

You turned your head toward the wall, feeling your tears slipping down your temple. She rested her hand briefly on your arm. “You’ll need rest. Good food. Someone to look after you.”

You almost laughed at that. Someone to look after you. All you had was Alfie Solomons.

“No… no, you don’t understand.” The panic clawed up your throat. “I can’t have this baby. I— you need to help me, please, you need to take it out of me.” The words tumbled out between gasps, tears spilling down your cheeks in relentless streams.

“My dear…” she began to say with uncertainty in her tone, “I’m afraid I—”

But you didn’t let her finish. You saw the hesitation in her eyes, and thought you understood it, she was probably afraid of what Alfie might do if he ever found out she’d helped you, if she’d dared to take his child from you.

“No, please, I’m begging you,” you pleaded, shaking. “He doesn’t have to know. I’ll tell him I fell down the stairs. I can get you the money, I swear.” You leaned forward, clutching at the fabric of her sleeve, desperate for the only woman who might help you, the only chance you had to escape what was growing inside you.

Getting rid of a child was something you never thought you’d find yourself trying to do. The idea of having a baby had always been a blessing, a hope, a promise of something good. But now, with Alfie, it felt like a curse. You didn’t want his blood growing inside you, didn’t want a permanent and living reminder of his ownership… of his control over your body and your life.

Most of all, you couldn’t bear the thought of a child growing up under his roof, where violence and fear were the currency of everyday life. What would Alfie teach them? How to inflict terror on others? How to treat people like property, like pawns to be moved and discarded? How would he discipline them? With threats, with punches, with the same merciless cruelty he had wielded on you?

There was only one thing you knew for certain: no child deserved to have Alfie Solomons as their father. You would not let his bloodline continue under your body, not if you could stop it.

“My dear, you’re too far along,” she tried to explain to you. “There’s nothing I can do with such an advanced pregnancy. I’m sorry.”

“No… no!” You screamed, your voice cracking on the words. “I don’t care! I don’t care! Just take it out of me!” You grabbed her by the forearms, shaking her desperately, trying to make her understand that this was urgent, that she had to make an exception for you.

“Miss!” she barked sharply, yanking herself free from your grip and taking a quick step back, opening her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and reprimand. “I’m going to ask you to leave right now.”

She walked toward the door and opened it. Ollie came back inside, and you tried to compose yourself as best you could, buttoning your coat and wiping your face clean. Mrs. Rosenberg gave him a folded paper with instructions about diet and rest. She didn’t mention what had happened between you two, she didn’t have to. Ollie moved his eyes between you and her, and you could tell he already knew everything.

On the drive back home, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the world glimmering under a pale, washed-out light. Inside you, something settled, though it was far from peace, far from acceptance, it was the paralyzing certainty of knowing that nothing could be done. The tears invaded your eyes slowly at first, then gathered into unstoppable sobs that you tried to bury deep in your hands, desperate not to let even a single sound escape.

Ollie noticed, of course, but he said nothing. He only looked at you with a quiet and pitiful sorrow, as if he felt for the girl who had once stepped into Alfie’s distillery seeking a job, and now had her entire life ripped away from her. He had known, from the very first moment Alfie had sent him away from his office to discuss the business proposition with you, that it would end up like this. He knew Alfie too well and had seen his eyes sparkling with a dark and hungry flame.

Still, Ollie offered no words of comfort, no forced optimism, no hollow reassurances. And strangely, you appreciated that. Sometimes, silence said more than fake sympathy ever could.

You just cried on the backseat of the car, for the shattered remnants of your shop, for the cruel situation you were trapped in, and for the life that was irrevocably growing beneath your ribs.

And later, in the blackness of the night, your mind became relentless, cycling through the memories of your aunt and your Samuel. It was a torment you couldn’t escape, contrasting the life you had dreamed of with the brutal and inescapable reality you now faced.

You remembered the quiet talks with Samuel on long, summer evenings before the war took him. You’d walk by the river, holding hands and talking about the future. You’d spoken of a little house, not a mansion like Alfie’s, just somewhere small with a patch of garden, the perfect place to build a family together. You’d always pictured a baby, a gentle soul with Samuel's kind eyes and his patient smile. You’d imagined him awkwardly holding a swaddled infant with his warm hands, and the fierce tenderness in his gaze as he looked at what you two had made.

That baby would have been named after his grandfather, and it would have been raised on stories of courage and kindness, in a home where love was given freely, not demanded as payment for rent. You would have taught it to read from your aunt’s old books, and Samuel would have taught it respect and how to mend what was broken.

That was the child you had always wanted. That was the future that belonged to Samuel's ghost. But now you were carrying Alfie’s child, and the sheer thought of it sent a wave of nausea and fear through you. This wasn’t a baby conceived in tenderness or hope, it was a consequence of domination, born from your debt and his lust.

You imagined the future of this child, and it was a horrifying spectacle. It would grow up under the shadow of Alfie’s temper, surrounded by the dangerous men of his business. Its lullabies would be the clatter of raised voices. Alfie wouldn’t teach it kindness, he would teach it how to take, how to demand, how to crush. The child wouldn’t have gentle hands, he would have his demanding grip.

He wouldn’t be raised, he would be owned.

The baby was an indelible piece of the future, a constant and living tie to the man who owned you, a tiny, beating heart that belonged as much to the darkness of Alfie’s world as it did to your body. You couldn’t save the child from his father, and you couldn’t save him with Samuel's kindness.

Alfie found you like most days, lying in bed, with puffy and red eyes after so much crying. He stopped in the doorway, the hiss of breath through his beard filling the silence. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then you felt the bed dipping under his weight.

“Right. Listen to me,” he said. “I know you’re scared. I am too. Ain’t no man in this world who’s ready for that, yeah? A child. Fuckin’ ‘ell, not me. But it’s ‘ere now, innit? And it’s our miracle.”

You turned your head slightly, but even as you looked away from him, his gaze on you was steady. He leaned closer, lowering his voice, more a growl than a whisper now.

“But you listen, love, you’d best start eatin’, yeah? Keep yourself strong for me baby. No more fuckin’ tantrums, no more lyin’ in bed all day. You’ll keep that child safe in there.” He set his broad palm against your stomach, splaying his fingers, as if he could feel the tiny pulse of life beneath the skin. “I know, I know, you’re not happy,” he went on, “but don’t you ever start wishin’ it were someone else’s, yeah? ’Cause that’d kill me. Proper kill me, that would. I know what you’re thinkin’ in that little head of yours. You keep thinkin’ about that Samuel fella, and you’ll drive yourself mad. This one, this little life, it ain’t his. It’s mine. Ours. And I’ll see it’s got a roof over its head, food on the table, a name to carry. No fucker’s takin’ it from me.”

He drew in an unsteady breath, the kind that betrayed the faint tremor of something almost human in him. “Now,” he said softly, brushing the wet streak at your cheek, “you don’t have to love me. I stopped expectin’ that, yeah? But you’ll stand by me now, ‘cause that’s what’s left. That’s what family is, far as I’m concerned.”

He leaned in then, pressing his forehead to yours for the briefest moment, the rasp of his beard catching your skin.

“And don’t you be havin’ any daft ideas, eh?” he was close enough you could taste the threat. “You so much as think on hurtin’ my little brat in there, I’ll bolt you to this bed meself, I won’t blink.”

He sat back, then rose from the bed, straightening his coat. You didn’t dare to meet his eyes or say anything back to him that would feed his little fantasy of a perfect family.

“Now get some sleep, yeah?” he said gruffly, pausing in the doorway. “Ain’t good for the little one, all that cryin’ fuckin’ nonsense.”

Alfie kept his word. He treated your health, and the health of his unborn child, like a business investment he would die protecting. You were to eat, and you were to eat well. He made Ollie fetch the finest cuts of beef, the freshest bread and fruit. Every meal was overseen. He’d stand there sometimes, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms, narrowing his eyes, not with affection, but with proprietary vigilance.

“Come on now, love,” he’d say as he set down a bowl in front of you. “Ain’t just feedin’ you, am I? Feedin’ both of you. Don’t go pickin’ at it like a bloody bird.”

He forbade you from lifting a finger beyond what was necessary. “No reason for you to be tumblin’ down them bloody stairs and ruinin’ what’s mine,” he’d grumble, guiding you across the carpeted hallway with one broad hand. His touch was a constant, even when gentle like a hand at the small of your back, a palm closing around your wrist, reminder that your every step was dictated by him.

When the doctor came each month, Alfie stood guard through every examination. The doctor, respectable and clearly unnerved, would clear his throat, mumbling reassurances about the child’s strength while Alfie’s stare weighed heavily on the room.

When he heard the words “strong heartbeat,” Alfie would exhale, the sound scraping low in his chest. And then the pride would come, lighting up his face like a man who’d just acquired something priceless.

And yet, the biggest horror of it all was how safe it felt. When every other part of your life had been stripped away, your shop, your savings, your future, there was only the present. And the present, under Alfie’s roof, was warm. Predictable. Secure.

The terror of hunger, of cold, of being alone, began to fade, and as time passed, you found yourself sleeping soundly again, pressed to his massive chest, wrapped in his impossible heat. When he took you, still often, though now with a careful reverence, his movements were less about conquest and more about reassurance. He held you like he was making sure nothing could take you from him.

Sometimes, before sleep, he’d press his ear against your belly, brushing your skin with his beard.

“You hear that, eh, little one?” he’d murmur. “This is your old man. You look after your mum, yeah? She’s precious cargo.”

Then he’d lift his head, kiss your skin once, and whisper things meant only for you:

“See, love? Told ye I’d look after you. Told ye I was better than ghosts and dead men. You’re safe now, yeah? Safe with me.”

And the cruelest truth was that you started to believe him. There was comfort in his constancy, in the iron grip that never wavered. Kindness was too complicated; Alfie’s control was clear, unambiguous, dependable. It became the rhythm your heart learned to beat to.

You began to wait for him, not with fear, but with resignation that almost resembled longing. You craved the weight of his hand on you, the quiet murmur of his approval, the way he handled you as if you were both fragile and entirely his.

His love was warped, built from ownership and pride, but it was love nonetheless, and it was the only kind left to you.

The monster had provided. The monster was reliable. The monster had become the only thing standing between you and the cruelty of the world outside. And that was the most terrifying truth of all: that the fortress he’d built no longer felt like a prison. It felt like home.

Tonight was a cold night. Alfie came to bed long after the house had gone silent.  You were already half-asleep beneath the heavy duvet, your body molded to the shape of the mattress, and the faint and fluttering stir of life inside you was the only thing that still felt truly yours.

The door creaked open, and the smell of rum hit you right away, it was impregnated in his clothes. He didn’t bother with the lamp, the room stayed drowned in shadows, lit only by a slice of light sneaking through the thick curtains. The mattress dipped under his weight, and then he was beside you, a sudden, engulfing wall of heat pressing against your spine.

He wasn’t ready for sleep. You could tell by the restless hum in his rum-stinking breath and the slight sway of his movements. He was drunk enough to be sentimental, but also careless.

“Come ‘ere, my girl,” he mumbled, his voice low and smelling of alcohol. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you back against his chest until every inch of you fit against him. Alfie moved his hand almost instinctively, finding the round swell of your belly, and he held it there, firmly, as if to remind himself what he owned. “Yeah,” he whispered roughly, brushing his thumb over your skin. “My perfect girl, innit?”

He began kissing the back of your neck. Slow, wet, and unhurried kisses, each touch of his mouth leaving behind the faint taste of rum. The kisses climbed toward your ear, and with every one came his words, the same old litany of ownership.

“Told ya, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Told ya you’d always be safe ‘ere. Told ya you fuckin’ belonged to me.” He pulled you closer still, until you could feel the thrum of his heart against your back. “Ain’t lettin’ you go, love. Not ever. You’re mine. This—” he pressed his hand harder against your stomach “—this is mine.”

He turned your head gently but firmly, tangling his fingers in your hair until you had no choice but to face him. His mouth met yours, the kiss wasn’t rough, not exactly, it was deliberate, the way a drunk man kisses something he believes he’s earned.

When he drew back, he kept one big hand on your belly, rubbing it slowly, almost tenderly, as if soothing himself. Then came a deep sigh, the kind of sound that belongs to a man who thinks the world has gone exactly his way.

“All that bloody fuss,” he said lazily and slurred. “All that talk about bein’ independent. A shop of your own, yeah? Sellin’ flowers like some little angel outta a book.” He huffed out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Took one little nudge, didn’t it? One push, and you come runnin’ straight home to me.”

He gave a genuine, if brief, smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You see, you kept askin’ me to prove I was half the man your Samuel was. And I kept provin’ I was better. But this..." He pressed his hand down harder on your womb. "This is the final word. The final, undeniable proof… It's proof that you're mine now, completely. You got angry at me for destroyin’ that little picture of him, for tryin’ to erase the past. But it took me some time to realize I didn't need to burn the past. I just needed to build the future."

He shifted, rising on his elbow. "This baby... this baby is a part of me, right? A piece of Alfie Solomons, growin’ inside you. You can't burn it, you can't run from it, and you can't talk your way out of it. It means you're not going anywhere, ever. You can scream, and you can fight, but every time you look at this child, you'll see me. You'll see the life I gave you, the safety I bought, and the fact that you… You belong here."

He ran his gaze over your face, then down to his hand resting on your belly. "It's a beautiful thing, really. You can pretend to hate me all you want, but this is proof of our love," he said, using the word love like a hammer, cementing his cruel definition of it. "You're bound to me, through and through. You'll be right here, in my house, every bloody morning for the rest of your life. And I'll be here, lookin' after what's mine. Both of you."

His chuckle was low, brushing his lips over your ear. “That shop… fuckin’ shithole. You were never gonna leave it, I could see that. Had to make sure you did, though. Had to, eh? Couldn’t have you hangin’ on to that bit of pride when I had better plans for you.”

He squeezed your hip, digging into the soft curve possessively, and then settled again, sighing into the dark like a man recounting a fond memory.

Silence stretched, and you froze. The words he’d said kept echoing in your skull, refusing to fade. “Burn the past.” “You were never gonna leave it… had to make sure you did.” Your stomach twisted violently. It couldn’t be. No… no, that couldn’t possibly be what he meant. You refused to believe it.

It had to have been the candles. It had to. You’d left them burning that night, reckless, distracted. You’d made a mistake, a stupid, tragic mistake, but it was your mistake. That was what you’d told yourself over and over again, what you’d forced yourself to believe. Because the alternative, what his words were really suggesting… was too horrifying to even let yourself imagine.

You felt your body go rigid, your breath locking in your throat. The warmth of him, his chest against your back, his arm heavy over your stomach, became something suffocating.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the other possibility now. Maybe the fire hadn’t been your fault. Maybe it had been too fierce, too fast, too impossible for just a few carelessly left candles to consume everything. The shame you’d carried for months, the guilt that had weighed down every thought, every movement, the belief that your recklessness had caused it all… it all crumbled in an instant. In its place, something else emerged: clarity. A truth you hadn’t dared face before, searing and undeniable. You could see it now, impossible to ignore, burning through the fog of your own self-blame.

He hadn’t saved you. He had destroyed you. He’d sent someone to drench your shop in paraffin, to feed the flames that would drive you straight into his arms. He hadn’t rescued you from ruin, he’d built it for you. The roof over your head, the food in your belly, the child in your womb, all of it rested on the ashes of what he’d burned.

Alfie sighed again, content, fully ignorant of what was going on inside your head, giving you a lazy kiss on your shoulder. Within moments, his breathing deepened, slow and heavy with sleep. But you were nowhere near close to falling asleep, because you realized you weren’t safe. You were trapped in bed with the man who had orchestrated your ruin. And worst of all, you were carrying his child.

Slowly, silently, you turned onto your side, inching away from his warmth. Each movement felt monumental, your heart was hammering against your ribs, the weight of your pregnancy making you clumsy and slow. You eased toward the edge of the bed, one trembling hand braced against the mattress.

You didn’t make it to your feet.

“What’s this then?” Alfie’s voice cut through the stillness. He didn’t even open his eyes; he shot his hand out and gripped your wrist with a startling strength. “Stay put, yeah?”

The touch sent a violent shudder through you. You tore your arm free, stumbling back. You didn’t care about the noise now. You wanted him awake. You wanted him to hear you.

“You bastard,” you hissed, your voice was trembling but still sharp as glass. “You absolute bastard.”

Alfie blinked. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, narrowing his eyes into dark slits. “What in God’s name are you goin’ on about now, eh? Get back in the bloody bed.”

“The fire!” You spat, the word tearing out of you like a sob. “My shop! It wasn’t the candles, was it? It was you! You burnt it down!”

For a heartbeat, he froze. Then his jaw worked, muscles shifting beneath the beard, the familiar calculation flickering behind his eyes. “Don’t be daft, girl. You left the fuckin’ candles on, you said so yourself.”

“No!” Your voice cracked, half a scream, half a plea. “I heard you, Alfie! You said you had to burn the past! You did it! You destroyed everything I had left!”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He sat still, eyes fixed on you, and then, very slowly, he exhaled. The pretence dropped.

“Ah,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “Right. So you got that, did ya?” He swung his legs out of bed and stood, the floorboards creaking under his weight. In the dark, he was a hulking silhouette. “Well t wasn’t exactly a fuckin’ secret, was it? It was necessary.”

“Necessary?” You repeated, barely recognizing your own voice. “You burned down my life. You made me believe I’d done it. You made me crawl back to you, begging for help!”

“Yes!” he thundered, suddenly roaring, the full force of Alfie shaking the room. “Yes, I bloody well did! Because you were killin’ yourself out there, weren’t ya? Starvin’ on scraps, freezin’ your arse off, pretendin’ that miserable stall was a life! Sellin’ flowers while you prayed to a man six feet under! That what you call livin’, eh?” He crossed the space between you in two strides, clamping his hands down on your shoulders. You could feel the tremor of restrained fury in him. “I did what needed doin’,” he growled, leaning close. “You were never gonna leave that shop, never. Had to take it from ya. Had to bring ya home.”

“Home?” you spat, your voice breaking.

He hauled you closer, pressing your face to his chest. You beat your fists against him, but he didn’t budge. “Look where you are now, eh? You’re warm. You’re fed. You’re carryin’ my child. You’re safe. That’s more than the world was ever gonna give ya. That’s more than your dead fuckin’ sweetheart ever could. I gave you life back, yeah? A real one. You're just too proud to see it.”

You shoved against him, the fury shaking through your bones. “You didn’t save me, you destroyed me! You burned my freedom just so you could own me! You don’t love me… You collect me! I hate you, Alfie Solomons! I wish I were still sleeping on those cold, empty floorboards than in this bed with you!”

The words tore out of you like a curse and a confession all at once. Something snapped. He let go of your shoulders. For one awful, suspended second, the world went still. You saw the flicker cross his face, the hurt, the disbelief, the feral wound of a man whose ownership had been spat on. Then he moved his hand.

The crack split the air. You didn’t even feel it at first, only the sound, like a gunshot in the dark. Then the pain bloomed across your face, knocking your head sideways. You stumbled back, the wall catching your shoulder. Your lip split against your teeth, spilling blood onto your tongue. A sound escaped you, broken, not a scream but something deeper, the sound of something collapsing inside.

Alfie stood over you, his hand still half-raised. “Don’t you ever throw my provision back in my face again. You hear me?” He stepped closer. “You’re carryin’ what’s mine. You are mine. And if you think you can speak to me like that,” he tilted his head. “Then you’re even dafter than I thought.”

You were still huddled against the cold wall, tasting the metallic tang of blood and feeling the burning imprint of his hand on your cheek. The shame was suffocating, but beneath it, a furious, cold terror was rising.

Alfie didn't say another word. He stood there for a moment, he didn't look at your face, didn't apologize for the slap, he only saw your defiance, your distance.

He moved with the brutal, absolute certainty of a man collecting his due. He crossed the short space in two strides and grabbed your arm, not gently, but in a grip that bruised instantly.

"Enough of this," he growled, his voice was  rough, and entirely unforgiving. He didn't lift you, he dragged you across the carpet, your feet scraping uselessly against the thick wool.

You fought him, a useless scramble. "No! Don't touch me! Get away from me!"

He ignored the pleas, his strength was overwhelming. He hauled you onto the mattress, throwing you down onto the sheets that still held the scent of rum. He climbed over you, pinning your hips with his immense weight.

"You need a reminder," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "You need to understand who you belong to when you start talkin' like that."

He was rough, impatient, ripping the nightdress down to your waist. He didn't bother with romance or even the twisted tenderness he’d shown before. He shoved your legs apart with his knees and reclaimed what he thought he owned.

He didn’t care how much you cried out, not in pleasure, but in agony. He didn’t stop when you pounded your fists against his shoulders, a pathetic, weak defiance that he easily overpowered. It seemed as if your rejection only fueled him.

Beyond your own cries, his words cut through the air

"Every damn day, you wake up in my house," he grated, the words punctuating each savage thrust. "I keep you warm! I keep you safe! You think I did all that to have you sittin’ there, throwin’ some dead man's memory in my face? You need to know the cost, girl! You need to know the price for every day you spent playin' independent! This is it! This is who you are! You're the girl who belongs to Alfie Solomons!"

"I hate you!" You screamed, the words ripping from your throat. "I hate you for what you did! You burned it! You monster!"

"I know you do, love," he whispered, the sound filled of his perverse triumph. "But listen to me, you stupid girl! I love you! I did it for you! I did it for your own bloody wellbeing! You'd be rottin’ in the street without me! This is love! This is commitment! I burn the world for you, and I build you a cage, because it's the only way to keep you safe! You're mine. Mine. We're havin’ a baby. You'll never get away from me. I love you!" He roared, the word was a final, terrible declaration of ownership as he climaxed.

He collapsed on you, crushing you with his weight, his heart hammering against your back. You lay beneath him, your body convulsing, not from pleasure, but from the brutal shock of his violence and the realization that the man who had just struck you, who had destroyed your past, was the only father your child would ever know.

The tears slowed, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. You didn't cry for the pain or the violation. You cried for the absolute certainty that you had to find a way out, no matter the cost, before he destroyed the last free thing you had left, the life growing inside you. You lay awake long after Alfie’s breathing had evened out into sleep. The room was suffocating, each exhale from his chest beside you felt like proof of your captivity. Your cheek still burned where he’d struck you, and beneath the ache there pulsed a colder truth, something you’d tried to ignore.

You weren’t safe. You weren’t loved. You were a prisoner,  and you had only one thought left that wasn’t poisoned by fear: you had to get out.

The plan came to you with clarity. There was only one person in this house who could get you beyond its gates without Alfie knowing.

Ollie. Alfie’s right hand, his errand boy, his dog. The same man who’d offer you his pitiful glances, and a little bit of sympathy. You knew the order of things here: Ollie obeyed Alfie, but not because he believed in him, not because he was like him, but because he feared him. And fear could be reshaped. Fear could be redirected.

By morning, Alfie was gone, off to the docks, his temper still simmering from the night before. You dressed slowly, your growing belly pressing uncomfortably against the loose linen of your dress. Every step down the stairs felt full of resolve.

Ollie was about to walk out the door, but he looked at you when you walked down the stairs. For a moment, he just stood there, flicking his eyes to the bruise on your cheek and your split lip, then down again fast. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“…Mornin’, miss,” he said, his voice subdued, the faint trace of guilt rasping through it.

You crossed the room and stopped opposite him. Your hands trembled slightly, but your voice didn’t. “Ollie,” you said softly. “I need you to do something for me. Something Alfie can’t know about.”

He didn’t look up. “I dunno what you mean, miss. I only do what Alfie tells me.”

You leaned forward until he had no choice but to feel the force of your stare. “You know exactly what I mean. You know him, Ollie. You know the things he’s capable of.”

The words hung between you. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, and he wouldn’t dare meet your eyes, as if seeing the weight of what Alfie could do to someone so innocent would shatter his control.

“Look at me,” you said, your voice commanding. Ollie shook his head, unable or unwilling to obey. “Look at me, Ollie,” you repeated, leaving no room for refusal, forcing him to confront what he had avoided, the raw truth hanging between you both.

When he finally obeyed, his eyes were rimmed with shame. He saw your cheek was bruised and purple, swollen, your lip split and tender.

“This is what he did to me, Ollie.” You said, holding his stare. “That’s why you need to help me. Get me some money. Not much. Just enough for a train ticket, far away. A few nights’ shelter. Before the baby comes.”

His reaction was immediate. He shook his head sharply. “Can’t. Can’t do that. If Alfie found out I’d nicked from him—” He broke off with a small, strangled sound. “He’d kill me. And believe me, it wouldn’t be quick.”

“He did this to me while carrying his child! He’ll kill me if I stay.” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t falter. “He burned my life to trap me. He hit me… he raped me with his child in my belly.” You gestured to your stomach, trembling. “He doesn’t love me, Ollie. He just wants to own what he’s made.” You leaned forward, desperate now, every word dragged from somewhere raw. “I can’t raise a baby here, not in this house, not under him. I won’t let my baby grow up thinking pain means love.”

Ollie’s face twisted with guilt, fear, something older than both. He rubbed his hands down his thighs, avoiding your eyes. You could see him breaking apart inside.

“You’re a good man,” you pressed, sensing the shift. “You’ve always been kind to me. You found me the midwife. You looked away when I cried. You’ve seen what he is. And I’m sure you helped him burn my shop, so you’re already part of it, Ollie. But this…” Your voice softened, coaxing. “This could be the part where you make right. He thinks he owns me,” you whispered. “Thinks I’m too broken to see the cracks. But I do. I see him now. And I see you. Help me get out, and you’ll never have to hear my name again.”

The house fell silent except for the ticking of the clock. You could almost hear the war inside him, Alfie’s voice in one ear, yours in the other. At last, Ollie exhaled shakily, his face gone pale. “You don’t understand what he’ll do to me,” he said quietly. “What he’ll do to you if he finds out.”

“I do,” you said, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that surprised even you. “But I’ll disappear, and he’ll never find out it was you who helped me. I can promise you that.”

You saw it then, a faint, trembling flicker of something human breaking through the fear in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Mercy, perhaps. You didn’t know which, and in that moment, it didn’t matter.

“I… I’ll see about bringing you some money. My own, Alfie would find out if I took from him,” he said quietly, as if the walls could hear him. “But that’s all I can do. And after that, whatever happens is on you. And you’ll keep me out of it if he finds out.”

“I promise,” you said, holding his hand between yours. “If you do that for me, I’ll be eternally grateful to you, Ollie.”

Ollie was going to help you. He was going to get you out. And you would finally escape Alfie Solomons, for good this time. Somewhere far away, a place he could never find you, where the shadows of his control could not reach. Somewhere you could breathe, be free, and feel safe, a place where happiness wasn’t a fleeting dream but something real. A place where the memory of Alfie’s hands, his power, and his cruelty could fade, dissolve, until it was just another story you survived.

You were doing it for yourself, and for the life growing inside you. Every step, every choice, every heartbeat was for both of you.

You both deserved a fresh start. A life far from control, far from pain, far from fear and violence. A life where the shadows of Alfie couldn’t touch you, where the only force shaping your days was the one you chose for yourselves.

The bell above the door of Il Girasole chimed softly, the delicate ring cutting through the quiet hum of evening. The sound lingered for a moment, marking the exit of the last client.

You straightened from where you’d been arranging a display of deep red anemones, your fingers still smelling faintly of green stems and wet soil. A long day’s fatigue settled in your legs, but it was the kind that soothed. Beyond the glass, the Tuscan light had begun its slow descent into gold. 

You greeted the leaving costumer, your Italian far better than when you first arrived four years ago.

The shop was yours. Entirely yours. Paid for. Thriving. The walls held no shadows of Camden, no echo of shouting men, no scent of rum. Only flowers. It was a victory, proof that beauty could grow even from ruin.

“Samuel! Time to go, my love!”

A soft shuffle came from the back room, then a little figure appeared, with a crayon in one hand, and battered picture book in the other.

Samuel, your son. Four years old now.

He looked up at you with Alfie’s eyes, that same rich blue, glinting with intensity far older than his years. It was Alfie’s face, only softened by his innocence.

Sometimes it hurt to look at him. Sometimes it healed you. He was small, his movements purposeful and grounded in a way that reminded you, uncomfortably, of another pair of heavy hands you could never forget. But when he smiled, truly smiled, it wasn’t Alfie at all. It was light. It was yours.

You gathered your things, the ledger, the day’s notes, and locked the till with a click. You slid a soft cardigan over your shoulders, and reached for your son’s hand.

“Did you finish your drawing, tesoro?” you asked him. Everytime you spoke in English, the language that belonged only to you and him now, it felt like a tether to a life you no longer dared to name.

“Yes, Mamma,” he said. “It’s a boat.”

You looked at the drawing still in his hand, a boat drifting along a river, alive with bright colors. This was the boy you had raised. Not a child who played with soldiers or toy weapons, but one drawn to art and nature, curious and soft-hearted, full of life in a way that had nothing to do with violence.

He swung your hand as you stepped out onto the narrow street. The park lay only a few streets away. You found your favorite wrought-iron bench near the old stone fountain, and Samuel ran ahead toward the wooden swings, his little legs pumping with determination. His hair, dark blonde and unruly, caught the evening light as he bent to examine the ropes.

You sank onto the bench, clasping your hands loosely in your lap, and watched him. The day’s exhaustion thinned out, replaced by the quietness of his laughter and the splash of the fountain behind you.

Every now and then, the ache returned, the tight and twisting reminder that he was Alfie’s, too. The resemblance could be startling, almost cruel. The way his brow furrowed when he concentrated. The firm set of his mouth. Sometimes when he slept, his breathing deep and even, you would glance over and feel a flash of terror—because for one unbearable second, you could almost imagine Alfie lying there. The man you’d fled. The man you’d once belonged to.

But then Samuel would stir, reach for you in his sleep, and murmur, Mamma, and the illusion would break. The boy was his father’s shadow, yes, but he was your creation.

Now, you watched as he struggled to get the swing moving, his small body tense with frustration. He pressed his lips together, his jaw twitching in that familiar, dangerous way, and for an awful moment, you braced for a storm, for the shouting or the kicking that used to follow in another man’s world.

But Samuel stopped. He took a slow, deep breath. Then another. His tiny chest rose and fell in a careful rhythm. When he looked up, his voice was calm, and brave:

“Mamma, can you help me start?”

Your throat tightened. That was the victory. Not the shop. Not the safety. Not the years of distance between you and Camden. This. This small moment of choice. You had taught him gentleness where Alfie would’ve taught him only power. You had raised him on patience instead of punishment, breath instead of fear. You had shown him that real strength lived in quiet persistence, not in violence.

From Alfie’s blood, you had drawn something different, a life reborn through tenderness. A quiet pride filled you, maybe Alfie’s ghost still haunted your dreams. Maybe you still woke sometimes, sweating, half expecting to hear his boots on the stairs. But when you looked at your son, you saw proof that the cycle had broken. That love had survived. That you had won.

You stood, brushing your skirt, smiling as Samuel turned toward you.

“I’ll help you start, bello. But you finish on your own, yes?”

He nodded. “Yes, Mamma.”

He took your hand again, that same small, solid hand that held so much of Alfie’s strength, but none of his cruelty. He was learning, every day, what it meant to be powerful without hurting. To be loved without fear. And you, at last, were learning what it meant to be free.

A few hours later, the sun had begun to dip below the trees  You watched Samuel, your little boy, climb back onto the swing, and you allowed yourself a brief moment of slack, a mistake only a truly exhausted person would make. You pulled out a small, folded letter from your pocket, a bill you needed to settle tomorrow, and focused on the numbers, letting the soft sounds of the evening wash over you.

It couldn't have been more than thirty seconds, but when you looked up, the small, solitary figure on the swing was gone. Your heart lurched, a sickening spasm as you scrambled to your feet, your eyes frantically sweeping the playground, the benches, the edge of the pines.

And then you saw him. He was standing perfectly still beneath the arch of the stone fountain. And he was holding Samuel.

The boy was nestled easily in his arms, resting against a dark, expensive coat. His small head was tucked against a broad shoulder. Samuel wasn't struggling, he often went willingly to strangers who offered kindness, a habit you hadn't been able to completely stamp out.

The man turned slightly, stepping into the direct line of the setting sun. The light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the deep, hooded darkness of his eyes, and the familiar, mocking tilt of his mouth.

It was the same Alfie you remembered.

The breath left your lungs in a silent, agonizing rush. It wasn't the man of your nightmares, he was older now, draped in Italian tailoring that cost more than your shop made in a year. But the presence, that vast, coiled energy, the aura of dangerous, absolute control, was still unmistakable. Four years had only sharpened the monster.

You started walking, stumbling slightly on the gravel path, your legs suddenly clumsy and weak. Alfie watched you approach, his eyes never leaving your face. He didn't move, just stood there, holding the greatest consequence of his actions casually in his arms.

Samuel looked up at him, then over at you, still calm. "Mamma, the man helped me. He is very big."

"That's enough now, Samuel," you managed, your voice tight, barely recognizable. You stopped a few feet away, afraid to get closer, afraid that if you touched him, the nightmare would become too real. "Give him to me, Alfie."

Alfie chuckled, a satisfied sound that grated against the quiet of the park. He pulled Samuel closer, settling the boy more comfortably on his hip.

"Well, well. Look at that," he drawled, his voice a harsh, shocking intrusion into your quiet new life. "A nice little family portrait, ain't it? Took you four years, love. Four bloody years and half a continent to try and shake me off." He leaned his head down, smelling the boy’s hair. "Did you really think a boat trip was gonna do it? I told you, didn't I? I told you there was no runnin’ from me. When I say you're mine, I mean it. Doesn't matter if it's London, or bloody Italy, or wherever the hell you go."

His gaze lifted to yours, the triumph in it cold and absolute. "It was hard work, I'll give you that. Took a lot of favors, a lot of crossed palms. But I always keep my promises. You will never leave me."

He looked back down at Samuel, his expression softening just slightly, but the change was more terrifying than his anger. He traced his thumb over the line of the boy's cheek.

"And look at this," he murmured with genuine and possessive pride bleeding into his tone. "He's all me, isn't he? Got my eyes. Got my jaw. Sturdy little thing. You did well, girl. Very well."

He shifted the boy, who was now beginning to look curious, from one arm to the other.

"Funny thing, though," Alfie continued, shaking his head with a mocking half-smile. "Samuel. You called him Samuel. After your little ghost. After the man I told you was weak." He let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "That's rich, that is. You name him after the dead man, but he looks exactly like the man who built your life. A constant reminder that you ran to the wrong memory, didn't you?"

He lifted his dark eyes to yours. His smile was gone, replaced by a terrible certainty. "He might have the dead man's name, but he's got my blood, and he's going to grow up knowing who the only true man in his life is. Me."

Alfie looked at the boy in his arms again. “You know who I am, right?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the deep blue of the boy’s, so much like his own. “I’m your father, son. You’re mine.”

“My dad?” Samuel asked with innocent curiosity. “Mamma told me my dad was a man named Samuel, but he went to heaven in the big war. He watches me from the sky every night. He’s the brightest star of them all.”

You almost wanted to cry as you listened to your boy. It was all true. You had raised him with the kindness and gentle temper of your lost love, as if he were truly his son. He might’ve been the spitting image of a Solomons, but in heart and spirit, he was Samuel’s. And every night, as the two of you counted the stars in the sky, you told him his father was watching over him, protecting him from heaven, so proud of the boy he’d left behind.

“Well, your mother’s never been quite right in the head,” Alfie said with a chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re my boy. My heir. I finally found you, and soon you’ll learn about me, about my business in London. You’ll find out what it means to be a real Solomons.”

Samuel’s eyes widened with excitement. “London? You have a business?”

“Mhm. And one day it’ll all be yours. After I teach you everythin’ there is to know.”

“Samuel, don’t listen to him!” you cried desperately. After years of keeping your boy safe, it had taken Alfie no more than five minutes to start poisoning his mind.

“Shut up, woman,” Alfie snapped, turning his gaze on you. “It’s bad enough you named my son after a dead man, that you took him from me, lied about who he is, about me, his rightful father. You won’t lie to him anymore.”

He took a step toward you, and every instinct screamed at you to run. But he was holding Samuel, and there was nothing you could do but obey him. "Come on," Alfie commanded. "We're going home. We've wasted enough time on these foreign holidays."

You could run to another country. You could cross an ocean, change your name, erase your past, rebuild your life as many times as it took. But you would never be free. Alfie would always find you. You had belonged to him from the moment you first set foot in his distillery. He would never let you go, he would cross continents, chase you to the ends of the earth, and drag you back to where he was certain you belonged.

You had tried. For yourself, and for your child. You had tasted freedom for as long as life would allow it. But no force in the universe rivaled Alfie’s resolve when he wanted something. And perhaps it was time to finally accept the truth.

Your life had never truly been yours. It had always been his.

A/N: Well, this was the last part of the series. There won’t be more, I like leaving endings a bit open like this.

For those who wanted a happy ending, you can pretend it ended with reader and Samuel playing at the park and living happily ever after (that was my second choice). But I never write sad endings, and I wanted this story to be the exception. The thought of Alfie finding them was always there, ever since I first began picturing the story.

Thank you so much for all the love on the previous parts, it’s made me incredibly happy to read your comments and thoughts. And happy (almost) New Year to everyone🩷🩷

dividers by: @/dollywons

The blue in Mr. Price’s eyes is bruised and the pupils have shrunk into capsizing ships. Purple grows beneath his lashes like swollen grapes, where his crows’ feet pick at sunspots. Exhaustion has seized the bridge you spent a year building between the two of you- made from iron, coffee runs and polite banter.

It’s seemingly been burned sometime between the elevator and his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Price.” You say. He stares.

Time takes a drag of its cigar and puts it out on your back while you wait for his reply.

“Morning.”

The answer to your unknown anxiety stamps itself to the slam of his door.

8 AM

He’s not in the office for your first delivery.

His absence is disturbing- abnormal. Even when he isn’t there he lingers- a man who frequently shadows the space and people around him. A wall of force.

You find that his room is similar. Swallows you, despite its minimalism. Mahogany flays the skin under your nose as you survey the small space.

Barren walls aside from a few framed accolades. Tobacco torn carpet. And a desk in the center of the room, framed by a small bookshelf and a single leather chair. Whiskey, neat.

“Excuse me.”

You flinch and spin around. Mr. Price has his hand on the door handle, paused as he glowers at you from the threshold. You smile, but it only seems to wrinkle what little patience he had left.

“Paperwork,” you clear your throat, nerves sparking down your spine “I…have some paperwork. ‘Was leaving it on your desk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He takes a long stride to the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his back. Sits in his leather chair with a huff and then holds his hand out expectantly. It takes you a second to understand, before you slowly lower the papers into his palm.

Usually, this is where he thanks you. Says he likes your hair “done like that”. Compliments the color of your shirt. It’s an arguably meaningless moment.

But not to you.

The way his voice purrs over your name, a small sentiment that brightens the dirtier, drawling parts of your day. John Price hand feeds you your own importance, and you hardly understand what you did to earn it.

But you don’t have to- the moment beckons content sleep anyway. Because someone- he- believes you did something good.

He says nothing to you today.

10:30 AM

Your knock on his door is timid at best.

“Come in.”

You poke your head through the crack. “I made some coffee…” He waits for you to make this worth his time, and both of you are skeptical that you’ll be able to, “I have an extra cup- black, how you like it. You seem tired today so I-“

“Just…leave it by the door.”

Your eyebrows draw. “…On the floor?”

He looks up at you from over his glasses. “Is there anything else to set it on?”

You look around to give your throat the opportunity to unclose. “No, sir.”

He looks back down. “Then yes. On the floor.”

You stand under the top of the door and watch tantrums manifest themselves around his torso. Small cracks in a meticulously built machine, where enflamed sores spit steam. Alloy lighthouse that searches for labor even when there is none.

Rusts when stagnant.

He does not look at you when he speaks again. “Today would be preferable.”

You’re already walking before your mind can stop you. Foot in front of the other to reach the corner of his desk, and the journey feels twice as long when you register the way he watches you. A fridged gloss over his iris- numbs an anger that squints when you place the cup next to his pen holder.

 He lets out a long, dry, sigh.

“I told you that you could-“

“One less trip for you…” You remember yourself when his eyebrows raise, “sir.”

Your words echo. The walls corner your shoulders. The air he exhales chokes you, and everything slows until it’s just the Atlantic of his eyes and the unshakeable sense that you are drowning in them.

He opens his mouth, but you leave before the words come.

1:00 PM

The seat in the breakout room next to yours is empty. He ate lunch in his office.

When you return to your desk, his mug is on its corner.

It’s empty.

5:25 PM

He calls you into his office this time.

You close the door with your back, hands folded in front of you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose when you walk in, evidently already annoyed. Takes his glasses off with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and rests his elbows on the desk. Greek statue still, with all the imitation of their Gods to match.

“I went through the reports.”

“About the covert?”

“What else,” he grits, “would I be talking about?”

You nod dumbly and stay with your back to the door.

“Do you w-“

“It’s missing pages.”

You swallow a rock. “What?”

“I said,” he stands, straightening his spine, “if you could listen the first time,” a frequent tactic you’ve seen him use on his subordinates- “It has,” but never you, “missing. Pages.”

He’s in front of you and he brings with him a particular quiet that triggers your fight or flight. The pause before an explosion, after a gun fire, or the sound of a casket closing. All of these buries you six feet under- still alive and restlessly terrified of living at the same time as his temper.

He pushes the paper into your chest, and when he removes his hands, he takes your breath with it.

“Fix it.”

5:28 PM

You fight tears at the printer.

When you’ve triple checked that all the pages are there, you return to his office.

You slide the report under the door.

It’s dark when you let your aching bones stand to leave.

Collecting papers, fixing your desk, shouldering your bag…a routine that feels uncharged without Mr. Price to talk with you. Funny, how much you miss his presence.

It’s hardly appropriate, but you pretend that it is.

The lights are off in his office, shades drawn. You didn’t see him leaving, but after your last interaction you hadn’t really been watching. You stare at the room, desperate for it to burst into flames, rot to the floor, melt into wax and metal and dread. Do something that isn’t absurdly empty.

None of those things happen.

So, you wave your white flag. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. You’ll be better.

Your day ends where it began- at the steel doors of the elevator. It looks frosted in the evening; the fluorescent lights above you casting a sick yellow hue over the China blue walls and grey carpet. It looks as stale as you feel.

It opens, and you let out a long sigh as you step in. And for a blissful moment, the day is over.

And then a hand slams between the closing doors.

They jut open, and reveal John Price standing at full height. He does not soften like he usually does when he sees you- in fact he goes ridged. It haunts you, how guiltless he looks.

“Good evening, sir.”

Your nicety falls on deaf ears. He hums and fishes out a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigar between canines as he steps through the doors. Lights it as they close, and the room fogs.

Within seconds, you’re swelling in the familiarity of cigar corpse. Buried under the nickel smoke that clips to the heels of his boots and stagnates above the slope of his shoulders. Vaguely expensive, like it’s a luxury to be near him and his vices.

Your nose burns, a cruel itch that nudges your sinuses and overwhelms the place behind your eyes. Suffocating as Mr. Price and his cigar smolder beside you, watching the floor numbers decline with your tolerance.

Your peripheral renders embers- fizzles at his facial hair that rests over its barrel, and the fixed position of his jaw when he takes a drag. Calm blankets his silhouette, and you can see his attitude begin to repair itself.

It halts when you cough.

You don’t dare look at him when you feel a shift beside you. “Somethin’ the matter?”

You hold your breath, and when you exhale it’s shaky. “N-no si-“

“Speak up.”

“No sir.”

You cough again.

“Not used to these yet? For how long you’ve been workin’ f’me that’s pretty damn insulting.”

You’re blinking back tears, shifting in your heels. “I- it’s just because we’re in a-“

His hand is on your jaw, yanking it to look up at him.

The old bruise in his eyes is gone. In its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. Stikes quickly enough to paralyze you in his grip, stone as he squeezes the soft out of the base of your cheeks.

“Small space? Doesn’t feel good, f’your space to be invaded,” the cigar still sits between his teeth and breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

“No sir.” You can’t tell where he ends, or the cigar begins- all you know is that you’re burning in the subsequent ash that follows them both. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as you become horrifically aware of how much he overwhelms you. How it’s always been this way- the kindle to his fire. A match to paper.

Just took him force feeding you secondhand smoke to see it. Or, rather, taste it.

“Been doin’ this t’me all fuckin’ day. Hoverin’ like a damn heli.”

“I’m sorry-“

He squeezes until your teeth mark the inside of your cheeks. “Can’tcha tell when a man needs his g’damn peace? When he’s fed up? What about today made’ya think I needed-“

The car convulses with the intensity of thunder. Mechanical earthquake sends you forward and into his chest, and you tense at the abrupt loss of gravity. You feel his back hit the wall, and the way he grunts as you follow close behind. Instinct moves his hand to cover the curve of your head, and you inhale into his shirt.

It’s quiet for ten long seconds. In that time, you realize the elevator isn’t moving.

Mr. Price speaks first. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You breathe.

You slowly part, and the light flickers over your head. Mr. Price curses.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Good.” He makes his way to the operating panel and clicks the emergency open. Theres a whine from somewhere in the front of the car, but nothing budges. He shakes his head and tries to pull the doors apart.

He grunts, but the effort is futile. He doesn’t quit, though.

“Mr. Price.” No response.

“Sir-“ He tries again.

“John Price.”

He turns to you, and for the first time today you see all of it. How his hand-built dam broke, and the surrounding bridges collapsed, and somehow and for some reason, the blame is on him. The blood in the water and the festered rage clogs up his senses until all clarity dies.

How when he softens, it’s the first time he’s seeing you.

You dig your water bottle out of your bag and hold it out to him. He takes it silently, and you press the fire department button.

You slip off your heels and set them next to your bag.

The closed door turns you into a gauche- softly painted in the flickering, orange lights. Theres a halo of static around your figure- as if the curves of you had been smudged. Your face is made up of vague features- shapes that follow its structure but feel slanted. A disorienting, surreal reflection of yourself.

You want to laugh at how fitting it is.

Next to it, is an equally detached painting of Mr. Price. The color of your shirt and the cream of his collect in the middle. It’s fuzzy, and you must squint to see it, but the tether is still there. If only, in the dull steal of an elevator door.  

Price is already looking at you when you glace in his direction. You lean against the side of the elevator wall. “What happened today?”

He lets out a sigh- like he knew you were going to ask. Props himself against the other wall and crosses his arms. In your peripheral, you see how the reflections are no longer on the door.

“A mission did not go as plan.”

You look at him as if to say that cannot possibly be all, and he drops his cigar and puts it out on the tile. “We lost two of our men.”

Your heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, and you pinch your skirt.

“…was it the one I gave you today?”

He shakes his head, and you’re relieved. “No. I found out last night.”

You pause and begin to walk towards him. “Did you sleep?”

The question crosses a boundary, like your body is now. The invisible wall all employees and their bosses have. The absence of real empathy, loyalty without attachment, and the hard rule of never involving yourself in their outside.

The places beyond the office- his home, his habits, his thoughts. The places you so desperately want to be inside.

He watches you approach him, and his shoulders slouch. You’re in front of him now, the smoke still burning at your nose, but it fizzles from below your calf and travels up and between your legs. An awareness follows it- of just how large he is too you without the aid of your heels.

When you look at him, you’re cognitive of why you asked, why you stepped forward, and why you haven’t back away.

And how dangerous that is.

“What do you think?” The question is rhetorical, but your thumb comes to trace the dark space beneath his eyes anyway.

“Not a wink.” You whisper. His breath draws and comes out ragged. His eyes watch you carefully, and despite how hunted they make you feel, your other hand holds his shoulder. When you speak again, your question is genuine.

“Can I do anything to help you, sir?”

His kiss comes to you like an epiphany.

Evens out the grass in your yard that grows awkwardly. Dissolves the spots in your vision after you look at bright lights. The puzzle piece that fell under your desk. All the trifling anomalies that coexist with your ignorance. Orphaned calamities that, until now, it felt futile to repair.

But his mouth pulls it out of you. Biting your lower lip tipping your chin so your lips mold together and you can feel his breath- the thing that keeps him alive- burrowing itself into yours.

Put simply- he was the thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

His hands push your hips to the wall, and you inhale, lifting onto your toes and steading yourself by gripping his shoulders. He mutters something incoherent before running his tongue along your gums and you freeze.

He dips to your neck, and you stifle a moan, feeling his hands grab the back part of your thighs and pulling them forward to lift you up-

“Sir- wait-”

He looks at you- almost as angry as he had been about the missing report pages.

“For once,” his right hand comes back up to hold your chin, “let me do what I need to do.”

He doesn’t let an argument form before he slams his lips on yours again- this time it’s violent. Holding your face still so he can shove his tongue down your throat. Your mouth is his ashtray, swallowing his depravity, his rot, the injuries that kept him festering in a locked office. You widen your mouth to fit all of it, so when he groans your name, you swallow that, too.

His left hand relinquishes his grip on your thigh and slips it under your skirt. When you try to pull away, his other hand is there, holding your face still until he runs his index and middle over the wet patch on your underwear.

He smiles against your mouth. “Been wantin’ this, huh darl’?”

You gasp when his thumb presses against your clit through the cloth- “P-Pri-“

His hand falls away and you whine. Tuts, looking you in the eye. “Sir, sweet’eart. Say it.”

“Sir.” You breathe, rolling your hips forward to find fleeting relief against his limp fingers.

“Tha’s a girl.” Kisses behind your ears, before slipping his fingers past the lace to wander between your folds. You sigh, gipping his shoulders for balance, rocking your hips. His thumb returns to its small ministrations against your clit, and a curious finger slips into the sleeve of your cunt.

You groan. “S…sir the f-fire depart-“

He hushes you with a second finger. You yelp, and he takes your surprise as an opportunity to knock your planted foot out to let him stand between them. Shoves his fingers deeper, and you bend forward, moaning as you try your best to see straight.

“Tight lil thing, isn’t she,” his pumps become purposely cruel, and you’re resting your head against his shoulder, mouth agape with drool pooling on the white of his shirt, “have’ta warm her up, hm?”

You don’t know why you find yourself nodding. You’re long past an appropriate work relationship. Employee contracts don’t include riding your superior’s fingers in a stranded elevator.

But it’s been in the fine print, hasn’t it? In the lingering hands, careful eyes, the way you watched his mouth when he talked, and he let you. Even today, you weren’t upset with what he’d said and done on principle, but because it was done to you. It tore down the selfish, callow notion that you were removed from his cruelty- that you had and always would be an exception.

You think in some twisted way; this is him proving you right. The apology you’ll never hear said aloud.

He’s always been a man of action, anyway.

He adds a third, and you’re choking back a sob, shivering like you aren’t burning. Searing where he touches you, while the rest of him crowds everywhere else. Entirely aware that he’s stretching the sensitive tendons of your body and the bones that hold you together so he can watch himself put you back together. Molding you, for him.

Like you haven’t done so already.

“C’mon now, ‘can feel you getting close, sweet’eart,” he purrs in your ear, “give it to me.”

And he’s right. It’s building, the slow and pulsing anticipation your body cannot save itself from- pinpricks of lightning before the thunder. Shuddering breaths as you become desperate- echoed in the curls of your fingers and toes and the mantra you repeat against his neck,

“Please, please, please, ple,”

Your orgasm (you think for the moments that everything whites out) makes you a witch. Burns you at the stake, flays you alive, the mob of your own consciousness jeering from somewhere and nowhere. The limbo where the thunder finally rolls in, but too quickly disappears when he removes his soiled fingers.

“Stay with me,” the tap on your cheek pulls you back to the crammed elevator and the arms that hold you still, “open.”

You do, unlatching chattering teeth and flattening your tongue until his fingers are bed there. He doesn’t move his eyes from you.

“Ain’t that a sight…”

You close your lips and taste the beginning of the end. The torn tapestry yarn of your professionalism, your impulses, your desires. Congregated on the digits that have signed your reports, touched the small of your back, and have now been deep inside your cunt.

He grunts and pulls his hand away with a quiet pop, and steps back to put his hands on his belt.

Your mind is only now beginning to catch up with reality. “Pr-Sir I don’t…“

He draws his cock from the waistband of his pants, and you’re quiet. It holds all the same weight he does, and the hair. Thick swirls that brush over heavy flesh, where it blossoms in an angry red at the tip. You swallow thickly, back pressed to the wall and cunt aching for something your mind isn’t ready for.

“I’m not-“

“You’re prepped enough, darl’,” he steps forwards, running his tip between your folds you wince, “Be a good girl for me, hm? ‘S gonna feel,” he groans when he pushes in further, knocking your lungs up to your throat, “Christ…good.”

He wraps his palms on the underbelly of your thighs and lifts, pressing you against the wall of the elevator. You breathe in the infant relief, before he bottoms out.

You sob, gripping onto his dress shirt as your walls stretch. It’s all lost to the current of his own curses and ragged breaths into your neck. “Fuck, still tight huh?”

You try to reply but it’s lost to the waves that cascade under your ribs with every thrust you’re forced to take. Only able to focus on how full you are, the rest of your body hollowed out in comparison. Light, feverish shivers unfurl up the base of your spine, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He doesn’t mind your silence.

He starts with slow thrusts, letting you bounce on his cock in a rhythm that makes you squirm. When you put up a fight, he grabs your hips and pulls them against his, and you lean your head against the wall at the new depth that should be impossible.

His hand finds your clit and you’re quick to fold back into his shoulder, letting out another ugly moan.

“Tha’s it, knew you needed this,” his hips snap against your ass and your grip beneath his shoulder blades, “I see how you look at me,” grabs your face and tips his head to look down at you, “like you are right now.”

You sigh when he plunges deeper. “Y-you wha…wanted it too..?”

He adjusts your hips and answers with a hard jerk of his own. “’Course I did. Knew you’d be…hah..” leans his head into your neck, where he bites and you gasp, “made f’me.”

You’re flooded with a strange sense of ease.

Nothing about this is normal, but it’s warranted. Signing yourself to him with leather sticking to the underside of your thighs, shaking his hand and feeling a life richer than your own hold you with gentleness. How he’d look at you in the first week mornings and smile, so you adjusted comfortably. How he still did months into the job.

You recall an evening when he walked you to your car. You asked him when he’d be going home. He responded, “late,” and you had said “not too much later, yeah?” He had looked at you like you’d be the one waiting at home for him.

Then said, “For you, I won’t.”

You’ve been wanting it since then.

The collision shatters glass and other fragile things you’re made of. Lifted by his arms so you cannot collect yourself as he spears into you, until you are unsure where you begin, and he ends.

Didn’t hear yourself begin to speak, but you catch the butt-end of your incoherency when he steps forward and puts your back flat against the wall. “-ir so good…uh..hah good please, gonna- gonna cum’ah.”

He doesn’t relent, chasing your orgasm like he’s starving. “I know, I know sweet’eart, doin’ so well…” cages you between his elbows, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cling to his back like a lifeline. Drowning in him again, but now it’s beyond his eyes. Its his chest, his arms, his cock and every other part of him that makes you desperate enough to fuck him in an elevator.

Equally terrified and thrilled by his reciprocation. A follower returning to their alter, where their food has been eaten and wine swallowed and you simultaneously realize your god is real, and he knows you.

That he’ll eat you too, given the chance.

Your second orgasm is a cigar. Burns fast once lit and lingers until the smoke finds your lungs and the clenches your walls. Where the tobacco is you, your boss, this elevator, and the sprout that grew until its nicotine leaves bridged them together.  

Where Price can fit his mouth back over yours and groan, spilling himself into you and bucking until his spend kisses your cervix, and you see stars.

The come down is slow. He doesn’t move for awhile and you are grateful- entirely sure that the moment he steps away you’ll collapse to the floor. Feeling his chest inhale against your own, and kisses you like he didn’t just fuck you raw against granite that you will never look at the same again.

He peels himself from you at a snail’s pace, and when he pulls out, takes a finger and pushes his spend back into your swollen cunt. When you shift, his places a burly hand above your pelvis and holds you against the wall. Rises, and swipes the hair out of you face.

“Still with me?”

You can only nod against the hills of his palm. He smiles for the first time that day.

“Let’s get cleaned up before the firemen get us out.”

Tomorrow, Price will smile the whole day. He will get you a coffee from the break room, and you will ask how he knows the amount of cream and sugar you like. He will remind you he’s an observer. He’ll notice you did your hair differently. He will say he likes it.

At 5, he will call you into his office again. But this time, it’s not about missing pages of a report, but the missing undergarment from under your skirt.

♫ Summer's meant for lovin' and leavin' I was such a fool for believin' that you Could change all the ways you've been livin' But you just couldn't stop

The day I saw your white mustang you’re why I'm staying Your white mustang you’re why I’m staying The day I saw your white Mustang why it must end Said your white mustang you’re a wild mistake

------ Lana del Rey / White mustang

“Tommy…” you say in a soft whisper, your fingers delicately tangled in his hair. You trace the strands with your fingertips, your nails grazing lightly as you savor the texture of his hair.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs, one hand bunching the hem of your floral dress, holding it high to bare you to him, while the other keeps your legs gently parted. His tongue traces a slow path along your folds, and two fingers ease inside you, curling just right, your body twitching under every stroke.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” But he knows exactly what you mean. Because outside, boots crunch past the window - patrol, close enough to hear if you’re careless. You tense, but he doesn’t stop.

“Be good for me, huh? Spread ‘em a little more… yeah, just like that.”

A resonant moan escapes you, low and trembling, betraying your attempt to stay quiet.

The morning sunlight spills through the kitchen window, rare and golden, painting warm stripes across the table where you sit, legs dangling. Your head falls back, sunlight catching the sweat at your throat.

You are wearing a long floral dress, forgotten for years in your wardrobe, too soft and happy for the rotten Boston. But today the sun was shining for the first time in weeks, summer easing its hand against the city’s bones. It’s a special day, and you want to be pretty for Tommy.

You slap a hand over your mouth, but the next lick pulls a sharp cry anyway. He pulls back, grinning, lips slick. “Staying quiet was never your strong suit, was it darlin’?”

You shake your head, breath breaking, but he just grips your thigh tighter, pulling you closer until the edge of the table bites into your skin.

“I love to hear your pretty noises, anyway.” he says against you, the words vibrating through your core. “Fuck the patrol. Let ’em hear how good I make you feel.”

His tongue resumes its slow, deliberate dance, each stroke more insistent. His fingers find that perfect spot inside you that makes your hips buck. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth. The pressure building until it’s too much, your body trembling on the edge.

Your hand slips from your mouth as the wave crashes, a loud moan spilling free as you cum, your body arching against him, thighs shaking under his grip. His eyes glint with satisfaction as he rises, kissing your inner thigh.

The patrol fades down the block. You sag, breathless, and he stands up, pressing you gently back until the sun bathes your face, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. He stares like he’s memorizing it - how the light turns your skin to warm honey, how rare and perfect it is.

“Damn,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something reverent. “Look at you.” His fingers hover for a moment. “Sunlight finally shows up for a day and decides to worship the right person.”

You tug him closer by his shirt, kissing him deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. When you break apart, he rests his forehead to yours.

“One day,” he breathes, “when we finally get our own place… you’ll scream as loud as you want. I’ll make damn sure we got thick walls.”

Your heart flips, because he isn’t just joking. He’s imagining a home. With you.

Your fingers curl into his shirt again, pulling him even closer. “You think about that?” you ask, barely audible.

“Every damn day.” The boots outside grow louder again, clomping back up the street - patrol doubling back, voices drifting closer.

You smile against his lips, breathless and overwhelmed. Tommy sinks to his knees again, mouth hot and deliberate as he sucks your clit hard enough to rip another raw moan from your throat.

“T-Tommy. You’re gonna get us killed,” you gasp, fingers tightening back in his hair.

“Nah,” he growls against your slick heat, the words vibrating straight through you. “I’m gonna get us free.”

He doesn’t let up - sucks harder, tongue swirling, fingers pumping in a ruthless rhythm. Your thighs shake, hips grinding shamelessly into his face as the pressure coils tighter, hotter, unbearable. The patrol’s voices are right outside the window now, but you can’t care; every nerve is screaming his name.

Your back arches off the table, a choked cry ripping free as the orgasm crashes once more over you - waves of blinding pleasure, muscles clenching around his fingers, thighs clamping his head. He keeps licking through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, boneless.

He finally pulls back, lips glistening, and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice wrecked with awe. “Fuckin’ heaven right here.”

He rests his forehead against your thigh, breath hot and shaky, fingers still buried inside you, gentle now, just holding. The sun keeps pouring in, gilding the sweat on your skin.

You laugh, soft and wrecked. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Tommy chuckles, the sound rumbling against you. “Good. Means I did my job.” He eases his fingers out slow, kissing the spot where they were, then climbs up to sit beside you on the table’s edge. You turn into him, burying your face in his neck, tasting salt and sunlight.

“Patrol’s probably writin’ up for noise violations,” he mumbles.

You pull back just enough to see his eyes, soft and fierce. “You really think about a house? …One where I don’t have to bite my own hand?”

“Every day,” he says, brushing a damp strand from your cheek. “Big windows. No neighbors. You screamin’ my name at sunrise, sunset, middle of the damn afternoon. I’ll build it with my own hands.”

You swat his chest, laughing softly as the sunlight flickers behind him.

“Oh Tommy, your romantic bastard…” You take a breath, something tender pushing up through the playfulness. “I love you, Tommy. Love you today, tomorrow… in a big house full of windows and thick walls… or in an old laundry room. I will always love you.”

His lips twitch. “Laundry room… with stalkers and clickers? That your dream home now?”

You shrug dramatically. “Well, we could be two clickers in love. But then I would prefer to roam an abandoned Home Depot. Very romantic. Just as you like.”

His expression freezes. “You. Did not. Just say that.”

You burst out laughing before you can even finish the sentence. It’s ridiculous and exactly what the moment doesn’t need, which only makes it funnier.

“You really just killed the mood, sweetheart. Dead. Gone.”

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair just enough to hold you still - rough, firm enough to make your breath catch. He leans in and kisses you hard, all heat and mock outrage, stealing the laugh right off your lips.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his smirk low and dangerous. “That’s what you get for ruinin’ a perfectly good romantic moment, smartass.”

Tommy watches you, grinning, eyes bright, soft and helpless. He can’t stop thinking how lucky he is - to have found someone whose sense of humor is just as stupid as his, someone who can still laugh like this after everything. No one in the QZ would ever believe this side of you exists - the woman who walk around in a pressed uniform, jaw set like stone, now laughing so hard on her own silly jokes she can barely breathe. You let him see the part of you the world never could, and it floors him every time. It also shakes him - the thought of how much you had to bury just to survive. How many smiles you swallowed, how much softness you had to hide under that soldier’s shell just to stay alive. And now here you are, free enough to laugh again.

You break his thoughts with a twitch and a sudden, ridiculous imitation of a clicker, somewhere between a dying bird and a hiccup. That does it. It’s so absurd he loses it - Tommy bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking.

He wipes his eyes, still grinning. “Oh sweetheart, what the hell did you drink for breakfast? You are so full of nonsense today.”

“Nothing.” Your laugh falters a little. “Just… trying to make jokes so I don’t remember tomorrow exists.”

The air changes. Heavy. Immediate.

Tomorrow is the day to come back to real life.

He sees the shift on your face and his smile drops too. He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing the back of it, grounding you both.

“You don’t have to think ‘bout that right now,” he says, voice low. “What did we say, hmm? Today’s a special one. We still have the whole damn day. Let’s make it count.”

You nod, but the truth is already in the room, sitting between your ribs.

“I’ll love you like there’s no tomorrow, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes locked to yours. “But I’m damn well plannin’ a lot of tomorrows.”

Hell, if he isn’t making a damn convincing case for you to ditch FEDRA and run off with the Fireflies, you think, warmth flooding your ribs. Right now, if he asked again, you’d say yes.

Outside, the distant clatter of FEDRA boots echoes down the street again. Louder this time. Tommy glances toward the window, jaw tight. “That’s the third patrol in twenty minutes.”

“So… it’s payback time,” you say, voice low and wicked. You slide off the table, legs still shaky, and shove him back against the wall beside the window - close enough to the glass that the curtain brushes his shoulder. Your fingers make quick work of his belt, button, zipper. He’s already hard, straining, and when you sink to your knees the sunlight stripes across his hips like it’s cheering you on.

“Eyes on the street, my cowboy,” you murmur, tugging him free. “Tell me what FEDRA’s up to.”

“Hell yes, ma’am,” he rasps, eyes blazing with heat and pride. His hand cups your jaw for a heartbeat - thumb sweeping your cheek like you’re the best damn idea he’s ever had - before he parts the curtain with the other.

Tommy’s head thunks softly against the wall. “Four agents… doesn’t look like they’ll check doors.” His voice cracks when you swirl your tongue around the head, slow and deliberate, tasting him. “Jesus, darlin’…”

You pull off just enough to whisper, “Quiet.”

You take him deeper, lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing as you bob in a lazy rhythm that matches the lazy light. He deserves this, you think, every filthy second - for the house he dreams of, for the sun he wants on my skin, for loving me like tomorrow’s a promise he’ll keep.

You sink down again, throat relaxing, taking him to the root until your nose brushes the trail of hair below his navel. A muffled groan vibrates in his chest; his free hand drops to your hair, not pushing, just anchoring, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

You moan - too loud - around his cock, the vibration deliberate, filthy, and his knees buckle. He glares down, eyes glazed, voice a strangled whisper. “And you ask me to be quiet? Enemy of the silence. That’s what you are, lady.”

You answer by sucking harder.

“Christ, that mouth of yours…” he groans, voice cracking with reverence.

Outside, a radio crackles. Tommy’s hips twitch; you hum around him, pleased, and the sound rips a shudder from him. You pull back, tongue tracing every ridge, then plunge down again, faster, wetter, worshipful. You want to spend every second making him feel like the center of the universe.

You let saliva pool, slick and shameless, stroking him with both hands in twisting pulls while your mouth works the head. Spit drips down your chin, over your fingers, glistening in the sunlight. You gag softly when you take him too deep, eyes watering, but you don’t stop.

“Yeah, darlin’… just like that, fuck - don’t you ever stop.”

You look up, and God, he’s breathtaking - his face framed against the sunlight streaming through the window, the sharp line of his cheekbones, and those eyes burning down at you with raw, unguarded hunger. From your knees, he towers like a god, head tilted slightly, his throat catching the light as it pulses with each ragged breath, his sweet smile twisted into something deliciously depraved, proud and utterly undone because of you.

You want to burn the image into memory.

He drops the curtain entirely, eyes locked on you now - only you. “Goddamn, look at you,” he breathes, voice raw with adoration. “Prettiest thing I ever seen, with my cock in your mouth. Fuckin’ angel.”

You gag again, louder, spit stringing from your lips to his thigh, and he groans like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. “You love this, don’t you?” he rasps, thumb smearing the mess across your cheek. You hum a throaty um-hum, eyes locked on his, wide and shining with devotion.

“Fuck. Suckin’ me like you were born for it. Months ago I’d never have guessed FEDRA’s tough girl hidin’ these dirty skills. Now you’re givin’ me every filthy dream I didn’t know I had.”

He flicks the curtain aside again, peering out. “Shit - they’re gettin’ to your door.”

You jerk back, lips popping off him, eyes wide and panicked. He grins down, eyes glittering with mischief, and gently cups the back of your head. “Kiddin’. Don’t stop.” His fingers thread tighter, guiding you back down with a soft, insistent pressure. “Just messin’ with you. Keep goin’, baby.”

Relief and heat flood you at once. “Ha-ha. You’re so funny.” You sink back onto him, harder this time, cheeks hollowing as you take him deep and fast. Spit slicks your hands, your chin, the floor. Messy. His teasing laugh turns into a ragged groan; the hand in your hair trembles. You swirl your tongue, hollow your cheeks, hum low in your throat until his hips jerk involuntarily.

“God -right there-” he rasps, voice breaking. You feel him swell, pulse, and you pull off at the last second, deliberate and daring, wanting him to see the mess he’s about to make. Your tongue flattens, waiting, as thick ropes stripe across it, a few errant drops spilling onto your cheek, warm against your skin. You hold his gaze, tongue still out, letting him see the chaos you’ve provoked, then flash a devilish smile, slow and wicked, before swallowing with deliberate, teasing precision, savoring the taste. Your thumb swipes the spill on your cheek, and you bring it to your lips, licking it clean with a sultry smirk, eyes never leaving his.

Tommy trembles hard, thighs quivering, a broken sound catching in his throat-wonder and raw love tangled together. His fingers stay tangled tight in your hair, shaking as he strokes. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re fuckin’ wild,” he mutters, his eyes burning at the depraved beauty of you.

“Patrol still out there?”

He exhales a wrecked laugh, hauling you up into his arms. “Fuck the patrol.”

He’s still catching his breath, leaning back against the wall, slowly zipping his jeans when you say it - quiet, almost shy. “Tommy?”

He opens his eyes, that soft, hazy smile still lingering. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I… I didn’t want you to leave without knowing that I… I forgive you. For not telling me about joining the Fireflies. I’d do it all over again if it meant being with you. And… I hope you can forgive me too… for what I’ve done. I love you, Tommy.”

Something in him breaks open. He pulls you up, his hands find your face, rough palms trembling. “Hey…” he whispers, voice wrecked and tender. “That means the world to me. Thank you, sweetheart. He leans his forehead against yours, eyes closing as if trying to steady the storm inside him. “Of course I forgive you.” he whispers. “And I love you too.”

His hands fall to your waist as he exhales. “God,” he murmurs, voice gone warm and gravel-soft, “I feel like my bones turned to butter.”

You huff a small laugh into his mouth.

He presses one last kiss to your temple and pulls back, slow and lazy, like every part of him is softened from the inside out.

“I need to… lay down a second,” he says, not embarrassed, just honest in the way he gets when the walls drop. He heads toward the living room, tugging his shirt straight as he goes.

He drops right onto the carpet - long body stretching out across it, arms above his head, a satisfied groan slipping out of him as his spine lengthens.

“On the floor?” You arch a brow. “There’s a perfectly good sofa three inches to your left.”

Tommy doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Carpet’s better,” he says, voice slow, blissfully dazed. “Good stretch. Real good for the back.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Uh-huh. And this is a medical opinion, doctor?”

He cracks one eye open just enough to look at you - lazy, smug, glowing in that way men do when they know they’ve reduced you to softness too.

“Well,” he drawls, mouth curving, “considerin’ I plan on usin’ it a lot today…” His gaze sweeps up your legs “…seems smart to pace myself.”

The look you give him is half warning, half already undone. His charm hits you the way it always does. And he knows.

“C’mon,” he says, voice hardly more than a murmur, “lay with me.”

Of course you don’t let the provocation slide.

You move toward him slowly - unhurried, deliberate - the hem of your floral dress brushing your calves as you walk. He watches the movement long before he lifts his head to meet your eyes.

When you reach him, you step forward and stand over him, one foot on each side of his hips. His body framed between your legs, sunlight spilling behind you like you stepped into a daydream.

His eyes drag up your silhouette - from the soft fall of fabric, to the curve of your waist, to your mouth.

“Well, hell, here you go.” he breathes, voice low with awe rather than hunger.

His hand reaches up, slow and sure, trailing along your leg, traveling through the slit of your dress, fingertips brushing the warm skin of your thigh.

“That’s a view. You look so beautiful, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. “So perfect with this dress. So pretty for me today.”

You meet his hand with yours. First, just your fingertips - touching lightly. Then you guide your hand along his, tracing knuckles, feeling the heat of his palm. And your fingers interlace. You hold each other like that.

Then, without warning - but without force - he tugs your joined hands and pulls you down with him, rolling just enough to cushion your fall. You land against his chest, his arm already slipping beneath your shoulders, holding you there like you were always meant to fit.

“I said lie down with me… Gimme a damn minute to breathe, woman,” he murmurs, voice thick with lazy affection.

“Ok,” you say, voice dripping with playful defiance as you prop yourself up slightly, meeting his gaze with a smirk. “59, 58, 57…” You start counting each number punctuated with a teasing lilt, as if daring him to challenge your impatience.

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound, his head tilting back in disbelief. “Oh, you’re sassy as hell, ain’t ya? Counting me down like I’m some damn rookie who can’t keep up.” His grin is wide, eyes sparkling with mock offense, but there’s a heat there, too, stoked by your boldness.

You lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a sultry, velvet murmur. “56, 55, 54…”

His body tenses beneath you, his hand tightening on your shoulder as a low groan rumbles in his chest. You can feel him harden against you, the evidence of his arousal immediate and undeniable.

“Alright, darlin’, you asked for it,” he growls, his voice thick with desire, a wicked edge to it that matches your sass. “You really wanna play like that?”

With a swift, fluid motion, he shifts you beneath him, holding you gently but firmly, his eyes locked on yours with a provocative glint.

“Oh, Tommy, I’m not just playin’,” you purr, voice low and teasing, “I’m winning.”

“Winnin’? We’ll see about that darlin’.” Tommy frees himself, his cock throbbing so hard it draws your gaze. You stare at it, then up at him, your lips parting in an impressed, almost incredulous smirk. He catches it, his grin sharp and proud. “Yeah, exactly,” he says, voice dripping with smug confidence. “Gonna curb that sass of yours,” he murmurs.

He tugs your floral dress higher, exposing you fully, and lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, spreading you wide.

A moan trembles from your lips, your body already quivering under his touch.

“…Treating me like some greenhorn who needs a breather,” he teases, “but look at you - already losin’ it, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

His fingers trace the sun tattoo on your crotch, a reverent caress, before delivering a sharp, playful slap to your pussy.

“Fuck, Tommy…” Your head curves back against the carpet, eyes closed, streching your arms above your head, laying them languidly on the floor, fingers loosely as your body surrenders to the moment

He smirks at your reaction, his hand hovering for a moment before delivering another quick, teasing slap to your pussy. “Focus right here, darlin’.”

You snap your gaze back to him, eyes blazing with a heady mix of pleasure and a mock-angry scowl. “God, Tommy, you’re too damn hot… too good at this.”

“Damn right I am, sweetheart. Thought you could out-sass me, but now you’re singin’ my praises?” He starts to tease you mercilessly, stroking his cock along your folds, slick with your wetness, creating a delicious mess that makes you ache.

“Please, Tommy, put it in,” you whisper, voice edged with need.

He chuckles, low and taunting. “Always so- so impatient. Never savoring the moment. Here I am, tryin’ to be all deliberate, and you’re racin’ ahead.”

You beg again, softer, more desperate, and his eyes darken with heat.

“If you’re that damn starved for me,” he says, voice a sultry growl, “I’d be heartless to keep you waiting.” He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. “Lucky for you, I’m feelin’ generous, and I ain’t a cruel man. Now, be a good girl … and I’ll give it to you, darlin’.”

“Yes yes… I’ll be your good girl, Tommy,” you whisper, voice trembling with eager submission, as you melt under his teases.

“Finally, darlin’.”

Tommy starts thrusting, deep and measured at first, letting you feel every inch. Your leg over his shoulder opens you wide, vulnerable and exposed, and his control frays with every shudder you give. The need to unravel you consumes him, and he shifts - harder, faster, merciless, his hips snapping with a rhythm that steals your breath.

The angle makes it too overwhelming. You press a palm against his abdomen, gasping, “Tommy… It’s too much.”

He leans down, voice rough but tender. “Nuh-uh, you asked for this, and now you’ll get every damn thing I give you.” His muscles are taut, every ounce of focus on you, his thrusts relentless, perfectly matched to the fire you ignite in him.

You breathe deep, letting your body soften and adapt, riding the edge of his rhythm.

“Knew you could take it, darlin’,”

Your hand keeps stroking his abdomen, fingers tracing the taut lines of his muscles, grounding you in his heat. “Tommy, you’re…fuck- this is amazing.”

“Look at you now - I fucked that sass right outta you, didn’t I?” His thrusts deepen, perfectly timed to the tightening heat of your core, pushing you closer to the brink.

“Come on, darlin’,” he growls, voice strained. “Let go for me.” Your body arches, a loud moan tearing free as you cum, waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your leg trembles over his shoulder, as your nails tug sharply into his abdomen where your hand rested, digging into his skin.

He follows right after, a guttural groan escaping as he spills into you.

“Damn,” he murmurs hoarsely, still catching his breath, “you’re a vision when you shatter like that. What’s this, third time today?”

Boneless and exhausted, you nod, too spent to speak.

He eases your leg down, collapsing beside you, pulling you close. “Better brace yourself, sweetheart,” he says, voice warm with promise, “’cause I’m plannin’ to make you fall apart plenty more times today.”

You groan in mock protest, still too tired to say anything, and he laughs, all pride and mischief.

“Oh, you better not complain,” he teases, turning to you, his hand tracing lazy circles on your hip. “I know you will love every second of this.”

“Yeah. And I will miss every second as well.”

He doesn’t answer.

Your fingers find his hand, tracing lazy paths across his knuckles until your fingertips catch, align, and interlace - slow and sure, like this is the part that was always inevitable. The two of you lie there like that, side by side, breathing the same pace.

The room grows quiet. Tomorrow hangs in the air. The QZ. The war. The noise. The return to all the things that pull at you both in different directions.

The moment shifts - subtle, but unmistakable. The warmth changes. The silence gets heavier, truer. This is the part of loving each other that never gets easier.

You try to cut through the heaviness you were the one who put there, your voice quiet but steady.

“I’m out of my regular pills,” you say, trying to cut through the heaviness you were the one to put there, staring at the ceiling instead of him. “I’m gonna lose my mind going back in there without them. And now I don’t even have my smuggler.”

Tommy breathes a quiet laugh against your hair. “You’re gonna have to crawl back to your old supplier, I’m afraid, darlin’.”

That means Tess.

Tommy continues “If Joel and her didn’t change their schedule, you should be able to find them tomorrow evening at Haymarket.”

You groan and cover your face with your hand. “Great. Fantastic.”

He shifts just enough to see your expression. “She that bad?”

“No,” you answer immediately. It’s not that. It never was. “She’s just-” You search for the right shape of the thought. “She’s exactly the kind of woman I always pretended to be.”

Tommy’s brow lifts, curious.

“She walks into a place and people don’t question if she belongs there. They just know she does. She makes decisions fast. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t explain herself. Doesn’t apologize.”

Tommy doesn’t rush to interrupt. He just listens - the way he only ever does with you.

“She’s just… irritating. In the way someone is when they’re living the version of yourself you wish you were.”

Tommy huffs a quiet laugh. “So let me get this straight - the version of yourself you wanna be is a sassy smuggler and not a sassy FEDRA officer?”

You turn onto your side, sliding your head onto his chest, supporting your chin with your hands as you look up at him. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek.

“No,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’d rather just to be your sassy girlfriend.”

His expression changes the way it always does when you say something that hits him right in the unguarded place.

“But you already are,” he says.

Your eyes hold his. His thumb brushes your cheek.

Both of you smiling, but with that tightness in the throat that comes when you’re trying not to feel the thing you’re already feeling.

It’s going to hit me like lightning, you think.

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who knew he was good at eating pussy from the first time he ever did it, back when he was a teenanger in the backseat of his old man’s pickup at a movie drive-in, with his girlfriend at the time. His first time, her first time, but when he got his mouth on her, he just knew he was meant for it… built for it. He’d her screaming louder than the horror movie playing in the background, fisting his hair, cumming so hard she hit her head on the window glass, and he hadn’t even gotten his pants off yet. Joel never bragged about it, he just knew how to do it, it was all about that quiet confidence of his.

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who loves the taste and scent of pussy, but the first time he tried yours, his mind exploded, he didn’t know it could be this sweet, this intoxicating. There have only been a few times he’s fucked you without eating you out first, because even during quickies in the shower, he still drops to his knees, licking you from behind (he absolutely loves it that way). He knows your body so deeply now that making you cum within minutes feels effortless.

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who kneads and squeezes your breasts while his face is buried deep in your cunt, flicking his tongue over your puffy clit, or tonguing your entrance, fucking you with slow strokes. Sometimes his hands are at your thighs, holding your legs apart when you try to close them, feeling overstimulated after multiple orgasms. Other times, he grips your waist, yanking you closer so he can bury himself even deeper.

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who gets filthy when eating you, like a starving man with something to prove. He spits on your pussy, and slurps your slick mixing with his saliva, dripping down to your butthole (another hole he loves licking just as much). He’ll spread your cheeks wide, open your pussy lips with his thumbs and spit on it again just to devour you some more. He grunts and moans like he’s the one being pleasured, sometimes humming into your clit just to make you squirm. He loves switching between licks and sucks, while pumping two thick fingers into your entrance. He’ll slap your pussy too, right against your clit, just to watch the way you jolt.

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who loves it when you ride his face. You’d told him the first time you were afraid to cut off his air, but loves it so much he’ll actually grab your hips and pull you down harder. He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe, he enjoys seeing his girl getting all her pleasure from him, tonguing you while you bump your clit against his nose. That view… you on top of him, is fucking sacred.

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who ruts against the bed while he eats you, grinding his hips into the soft mattress as his cock strains in his briefs, the front of them already stained with pre-cum. He can’t help it, every whimper you make, every twitch of your thighs around his head makes him move his hips almost autonomously, searching for some kind of friction, some kind of relief. But he doesn’t care how long he has to wait for his orgasm, you always come first (literally and metaphorically).

༺♡༻Joel Miller, whose beard get soaked, his chin dripping, his nose and cheeks slick with your arousal. You can see it glistening whenever he pulls back for air, catching his breath and murmuring filthy praises to you, “Swear to god, baby… never seen a pussy so pretty.” “Tastes so fuckin’ good, darlin’. This pussy was made f’me.” “Look’a her, look how wet she is. Creamin’, baby. This pussy’s fuckin’ creamin’.” “You gonna cum in my face? Hm? Gonna fuckin’ soak me?”

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who’s been told his whole damn life he’s good at eating cunt, feels something different when he’s eating YOU, the woman he loves. Making you cum on his tongue fills him with pride, he knows what he’s doing, he has always known, but hearing you moan and praise him still drives him mental. “Ohhh, Joooel, mmm, just like that.”“Yesyesyes, right there, love. Right fucking there.” “Shit! You’re so good, Joel. I swear, never felt like this.”

༺♡༻Joel Miller, who swears he could live in between your legs, says he has all he needs there, he’d feed from your pussy, slurp your wetness like it’s holy water, breathe the air between your legs to keep him alive. And he’s there for hours, fucking you with his tongue, sucking your clit between his lips, giving you orgasm after orgasm, until you can’t feel your throat from crying and screaming out his name. And still he doesn’t stop, you have to push at his head, shove at his shoulders, kick him away, and only then will he pull back. Only then, after he’s sure you’re utterly destroyed, he’d fuck you, sliding into you so fucking easily, because you’re dripping from everything he’s done to you. You suck him in like you were made for him, like your body knows it’s Joel inside you.

👆🏻That’s the way he looks at you when you’re about to climb on top of that face

Follow my updates account: @cinnxmxngxrlupdates

A/N: WRRAAH this got way longer than I planned but I physically cannot shut up when it comes to Joel Miller and his pussy eating skills. Hope you enjoyed this little something while I’m working on some longer fics!

Love’yall, thanks for all the support🩷

husband!price who is scared of bugs. yes, he was in the military but that doesn't mean he's fearless.

husband!price who likes to draw on your skin with a pen. he claims he was a tattoo artist in his past live even though he can barely draw a stick figure.

husband!price who has a tattoo behind his ear. its your wedding date. he says he's keeping it there just in case he forgets it.

husband!price who tracks in mud like crazy. you don't even know how but the second that front door opens, be prepared with a mop and some water.

husband!price who takes a smoke break every now and then. he'll step outside and light the cigarette in his fingers. he only uses one and he only does it when the day isn't going as good as he wanted.

husband!price who has a pair of reading glasses. he's starting to go blind and it scares him. he's always had a good eye, he doesn't know why his body's failing him. (blames it on the hot showers)

husband!price who grunts when he sits down. after being in the task force for so long, it finally caught up. once he retired he became a couch potato and gained some weight. he promised he was gonna start working out again but being cuddled with you is better.

husband!price who complains about getting older. says he wants a family before he gets too old. you know he means it when he casts longing eyes at baby aisles in the stores.