It must have been an unspoken agreement, that wink. Tommy had his dinner, around the same table where his mother once sat, around the same table his father never stumbled home to in time. He had his dinner, kissed baby Finn good night, and peeled off into the evening towards the Cut.

Polly had cleaned their wounds when they had swaggered home, victorious, earlier that day. Her eyes were lined with red where they were once lined with kohl. She cried a lot. She cried for her sister in law who ended her life. She cried for her son and her daughter who were stripped from her arms. She cried for her husband. Polly spent so much of her life crying. Arthur, John, and Tommy sat still at the table before dinner. They patiently let their aunt fuss and mutter over them, a swipe of blood was washed away here, a reddened knuckle was inspected there.

When she was done, Polly gave her boys a disapproving look and chased them out of her sight. Finn was crying. It was time to feed him. She warmed milk on a stove. Ada sat with him squirming in her arms while Polly spoon-fed the milk. It would dribble all over his pink cheeks, and they would take great effort to wipe the underside of his fat chin each night so it wouldn't smell the next morning.

It became a nightly ritual for the Shelby women. The Shelby men were bounding off to god knows where. Arthur Senior would be at a brothel, Arthur Junior would trail after his father to wait at the Garrison instead, John would wander the streets with a coy smirk and a toothpick in his mouth, and Tommy… nobody knew just where Tommy would go. Even Freddie Thorne, Tommy's frequent walking companion, would stop at 6 Watery Lane to find the house quiet, his friend gone, with only Ada and the baby for company.

Sometimes Tommy would walk to Balsall Heath. Other days he would join his Uncle Charlie at the yard, lingering around the horses or loading platforms with shipments of steel rods. Most days he would disappear for hours and hours and reappear just as quietly as he had left.

Tonight, Tommy Shelby was walking briskly towards the Cut, sweeping his eyes up and down the cobblestoned canals to catch a glimpse of her dark hair or the corners of her skirts. It was light when he plopped down and lit a cigarette. Patiently, he waited.

After two hours smoking down tab after tab, Tommy's eyes caught sight of a distant figure approaching with a large basket in tow. Curiously, through squinted eyes, he tried making out the features despite the darkening skies.

It was her. Greta Jurossi.

With a smile growing on his lips, Tommy was grateful for the closing distance. He needed more time to shrink the stupid grin itching at the corners of his mouth. It was no good being so eager. He wanted to play it cool, composed, effortlessly charming. But, as Greta's approached closer, a large smile splayed across her face, and Tommy couldn't help but return it without shame.

"This is for you and your friends," she held out the heavy basket with shaky elbows. "It's not from my family. It's from me."

The basket was filled with bread, olive oil, fresh fruits, jars of preserves, and a little bit of everything from her father's shelves. Tommy couldn't accept, but she shoved it all into his arms anyway and joined him on the canal's ledge. Tommy carefully set the basket down on the other side of him, and held the cigarette from his mouth out to her. She declined with a polite shake of her head.

While he distracted himself with a floating log down in the water, Tommy could feel her eyes on him. Her skirts brushed against his leg. She was so close but just too far for any accidental innocuous contact that would surely send his heart racing. A brush of an elbow here, a little lean of the shoulder there.

When Tommy forcefully pulled his attention away from the drifting log and turned towards her, his heart swelled in his chest. Greta was searching his face with so much concern, tracing the bruises and cuts with her eyes. More than anything, Tommy wanted to tuck her face between his palms with gentle assurances that he was okay and that every bruise was worth it if she looked at him just like that.

"Does it hurt?" she finally asked. Their eyes had met and it was like looking into the sun.

"Nah," he lied, looking away from the intensity of her concern. "We've been in worse scrapes."

Greta looked down at the swollen and angry knucklebones Tommy rested on his knee. "Thank you for what you did. My father works hard to keep his business respectful."

I did it for you. The words stuck to a dry tongue. "You're welcome," he said instead and immediately cringed at the way it came out. "Your father must trust you a lot to watch his shop."

Greta's face fell. "He's sick. Well," she quickly restated, "he's in pain from old wounds. Before I was born he was attacked by the mafia." The 'Ndrangheta, she wanted to speak the name but simply posing it on her tongue made a shiver run down Greta's spine. "He hasn't slept well ever since, and ma has to look after him. My older sister gets a few pennies from mending blankets for the neighbors with babies. I never want to be sitting alone pulling stitches." The words flew from her mouth so easily. Greta, embarrassed, snapped her mouth shut and offered a quirk of her lips in apology. "I like watching the store," she finished.

I liked watching you fight, she wanted to add. It made me feel brave. But the thought was smothered and Greta waited expectantly for his response.

Tommy lit a cigarette. "You need to promise me something."

Greta's eyes narrowed in suspicion but she gestured for him to continue, dubious.

Bluish-gray smoke yawned from his nostrils as he spoke, "You come directly to me if that fucker ever bothers you again."

Stubborn, Greta was quick to open her mouth, whether to object or insist otherwise, she wouldn't know until the words took form, but Tommy shook his head to stop her.

"I know you can handle it yourself," he smiled good-heartedly so as not to embarrass her. "I just don't want you to have to."

A sharp spark broke out in between Greta's ribs and sent a bonfire roaring and licking at her heart. She froze, suddenly squeamish and shy under the curve of his mouth and the soft look in his eye. Her breath, once even, was heavy as it was released from a long hold behind the seam of her lips.

Tommy sensed her discomfort immediately and pain caught his chest. He'd put her off. Fuck. He quickly tried to explain but Greta had already edged off the stone wall and landed on her feet. "I just meant… Greta, I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"I have to go home." Her eyes briefly flickered up to meet him. It was like looking at a burning sun. She dragged her eyes away. "Thank you again for what you did."

She wanted to say his name. In fact, she'd been practicing it all evening but now, when faced with those eyes and that beautiful smile, Greta blushed just thinking about her voice speaking his name.

"Can I walk you home?"

Greta shook her head no.

Even after she said a brief goodbye and briskly walked through the night alone, Tommy watched her until she disappeared around the bend. A part of him had hoped that she would turn and see him watching. He considered racing after her and insisting on walking her back safely, but he'd muddled it all already and was too embarrassed to rise.

"Fuck," he muttered again, hung his head, and fished through his pockets for another cigarette.