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𝙩𝙬𝙤.

𝙩𝙬𝙤 | 𝘈 𝘛𝘈𝘓𝘌 𝘖𝘍 𝘏𝘖𝘙𝘚𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘞𝘏𝘐𝘚𝘒𝘌𝘠

｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

OF ALL THE THINGS Annabel Keats knew about Tommy Shelby, which weren't many, she knew he loved horses.

She didn't know for how long he had loved them, but as she was in the process of throwing out the remains of beer and dirty water from the pub she caught him speaking to his horse, trying to calm him down from what seemed like quite a scare. She watched how he murmured soft words to the animal and softly patted its muzzle and she found in the gesture a kindness that made her doubt her opinion of him as a cold, heartless piece of crap.

Before he caught her staring, and before she could talk herself out of it, Annabel grabbed another bucket and tossed it in front of Thomas Shelby as he passed, barely missing him. In truth she was hoping to get a reaction out of him, anything to prove to her that underneath his hardened exterior there was a human being.

Not only that, but while she was very young, she wasn't stupid (arguably). She knew what the sensations that arose whenever Tommy Shelby was near, whenever she heard his husky voice and what she felt when he talked to her in such a close proximity at the King's fire meant. The girlish and immature part of her that still lingered from not only her age but her upbringing stupidly wanted his attention, even though her rational mind told her it was such, such a dangerous thing to hold.

Tommy stopped in his tracks. He was aware of the game Annabel was playing. He had been alive for longer than her and had played the same games before the war robbed him of his youth. He had no interest in her, he tried to convince himself. What was she anyways? She was nothing but a girl, roughly ten or eleven years younger than him, spared from the hardships of the working class, from scarcity and most importantly, from the war. He had done his research. He knew who she was. Annabel Lee Keats, named after her mother's favorite poem, a runaway from the prestigious Keats family of London, whose fortune had been made of the backs of people like the Shelbys.

He wasn't affected by the way her slender fingers combed through her fiery hair as she forced a laugh at a intoxicated man's banter, or by the way her hips swayed from side to side to the song of the other barmaid, Grace, as she weaved through the pub, refilling men's drinks with a radiant smile on her face that could light up the tunnels he was forced to dig in France. He wasn't affected by the way her brown doe eyes told tales of love and adventure and her eyelashes batted up at him when he talked to her at the fire. He wasn't affected a young woman who he had no business being affected by.

He looked up at her, and she bore a small smirk on her face.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Shelby." She said innocently, honey and a hint of mockery dripping from her words, which almost made Tommy smirk.

He was not affected.

She continued. "That's a beautiful horse." Tommy nodded. "What's his name?"

"He doesn't have a name."

Annabel's eyes widened and Tommy thought she looked as if someone had told her they had just shot her dog. He noticed how emotional she seemed to get a the slightest thing. First, it was his comment at the Garrison, then at the bonfire and now at a simple horse that for him was nothing but a business deal, despite his love for horses.