#tv fandom

Autolycos, king of thieves.

Nonchalantly flirting with Cleopatra, stealing everything he can but still with a heart of gold.

Bruce, we're rooting for you! ❤️

The clock on the wall of the Shelby Company Limited office didn't just tick; it echoed. It was 11:42 PM, and the thick scent of whiskey and expensive tobacco had long since settled into the mahogany grain of the furniture.

​You sat at your desk in the outer office, the rhythmic clack of your typewriter the only thing tethering the room to the waking world. You were finishing the ledger for the Garrison Lane properties—work that wasn’t due until Monday, but you knew Tommy would ask for it by dawn.

​Inside the private office, a sliver of amber light spilled from beneath the door. Thomas Shelby was still there. He was always still there.

​You knew his habits better than he knew your last name. You knew he took his tea with two sugars but usually let it go cold. You knew which files made his jaw tighten and which ones made him reach for the opium pipe he thought he hid so well.

​To him, you were a ghost in a floral blouse. You were the "efficient one." The one who ensured his world didn't collapse into the Birmingham mud while he was busy fighting wars on three different fronts. You found him devastatingly handsome—the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his steady, sapphire eyes seemed to look through people—but you weren't delusional. Men like Thomas Shelby didn't fall for secretaries; they used them as structural support.

​The heavy door creaked open. Thomas emerged, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, revealing the faded ink of tattoos on his forearms. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that a night's sleep couldn't fix.

​He stopped at your desk, surprised to see you still there.

​"The ledger for the housing estates," you said softly, sliding a perfectly organized folder toward the edge of your desk before he could even ask. "And I've rescheduled the meeting with the Italians for Tuesday. You’ll be in a better frame of mind by then."

​Thomas stared at the folder, then at you. For the first time in months, his gaze didn't slide past you. It lingered.

​"You’re still here," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

​"Someone has to be, Mr. Shelby. The world doesn't stop turning just because the sun goes down."

​He leaned against your desk, the smell of smoke and rain clinging to his heavy overcoat. He picked up the folder, flipping through the pages. His thumb brushed a note you’d made in the margin—a small correction to a math error he’d made earlier that afternoon.

​"I made a mistake," he noted, his eyes tracking the ink.

​"A minor one," you replied, keeping your voice professional despite the way your heart was drumming against your ribs. "Easily fixed."

​"You fix a lot of things, don't you?" He looked up, his expression unreadable. "My schedules. My books. My brothers' messes." He paused, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't think I’ve ever seen you leave before I do."

​"I prefer to see the job finished."

​Thomas sighed, a sound of genuine defeat that he never allowed the world to hear. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the desk for a fraction of a second before he pulled back to rub his face.

​"Go home," he said, though the command lacked its usual bite. It sounded almost like a plea for quiet. "The streets aren't safe at this hour. I'll have Johnny drive you."

​"I can walk, sir. I'm used to the dark."

​"I'm not asking," he said, regaining a flicker of that Shelby steel. He stepped closer, reaching down to close your typewriter case for you. As he did, his hand brushed yours—a brief, electric contact of skin against skin. He froze for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, realizing perhaps for the first time that the woman who kept his life together was more than just a ghost in the office.

​"You're too good for this place," he whispered, so low you almost missed it. "But God help me, I don't know what I’d do if you left."