The gentle breath of dawn seeped across the horizon, bathing the land like a softly whispered promise, rolling forth in a way of dewy fog that spoke of spring coming just into view. For the Earth had thawed, winter relinquishing its harsh grasp on the world. As the frozen foundation, where not a single step was left behind in a mere trace upon the solid soil, began to melt.

The ground beneath your boots, squashed softly with the familiar sound of saturated dirt, the mud a welcome comfort after the sheen of ice and piles of snow that coated the cobbles and paved the once vivacious country roads. It gripped to the bottom of your soles, feeling the weight of your strolling frame threatening to be dragged down upon the timidly blooming environment, but there was something grounding in the mud that mucked the tips of your riding boots and filled the air with a rich scent of the newly awakened Earth.

It was a crisp morning, the warmth of the sun had yet to bleed into the atmosphere and erase the traces of the cold evening's presence. But it's rays of marigold and the softest streak of quartz pink, shone through the haze of fresh morning. Flooding the sky above you with a tentative hue that contrasted the once dense indigo blanket of impenetrable night.

Spring whispered along the sing-song melodies of the newly arrived birds, returning to Birmingham as though they too knew that warmer days were destined to arise. Although the voice was timid, trickling softly through the breeze that rustled the bare branches of trees that yearned for the return of their leaves, and breathed as if the chartreuse that began to seep back into the dormant blades of surrounding grass, was a life resurrected.

Spring spoke softly, like an echo trailing along the chilled morning current, but its voice was felt as the sun pattered along the concealed blades of your shoulders. It was faint but undeniably familiar, for it was like the return of an old friend and you knew that with its innocent whispers, laid the promises that it was not far from reach.

You hadn't expected to see him here, at the stables just as the sun began to rise with the prospect of a new day to behold. But by all accounts, Thomas Shelby was a man who rose before the sun, somedays, never even going down when it sank the day before. He was left to the mercy of his own mind, not that of the ticking clock or the setting sun. Sleep to Thomas Shelby was neither friend nor foe, but rather one in the same. And by all you'd heard of the Peaky Blinder standing feet away from you now, unbeknownst to your approaching footsteps, he rather preferred to journey what was left of this life on his own.

He appeared out of place, as the sunlight streaked through the wooden posts and wide splinters, casting a bright glow of marigold down upon his shoulders. For he adorned an immaculate suit, one tailored to his body with such perfection that it fit like a glove slipped effortlessly into. He looked out of place amongst the mud and the horses and the poverty of Small Heath, as wealth dyed his pockets and ambition begun to embolden his success.

Thomas Shelby was moving up in the world, he was making a name for himself and for his family, but here he was, back home, in the stables as though he'd never left at all. There was something oddly poignant about the way he looked standing there, however. For even as he stood out like a sore bloody thumb, something about his presence almost felt right, like he was the last missing puzzle piece of this picture of a stable at dawn and he completed the frame completely.

The beams of timid sunlight fell upon him without any hesitancy, bathing the ebony fabric that clothed his frame in the shadows of a man tortured by a past and a present and tormented with the thought of his future. It was a stark contrast and yet, the hue refused to clash like lightning and thunder might roll through a stormy sky. They merely intertwined with one another, as though the light of the morning's newly risen sun, knew Thomas once. And the darkness of his attire and icy demeanor, welcomed in the light like it hadn't seen the sight for ages.

It was mesmerizing to observe, as you stood silently in the doorway, for it was like watching a spotlight pan across an old treasure. Unearthing what had once been lost and letting the fall of its illumination, seep into the cracks and crevices of its broken surface and fractured foundation.

You didn't have to know Thomas Shelby to know that the war had changed him... the war had changed everyone.

"She's a beauty." Your voice rings out louder than you've ever heard it resound before, the void of content silence amplifying the soft waver of your timid tone, but hurdling it towards the Peaky Blinder as if a bullet readied to puncture his flesh.

But it doesn't, not the way you'd expected it to. For the words left your own lips, feeling the way the letters trickled over the edge like running water from a stream and they still managed to make you jump slightly at the harshness in which they collided with the surrounding air. But Thomas Shelby didn't startle, and he didn't dare shake, he merely turned on his heel and directed his gaze towards you.

It was a swift motion; one you'd never seen done with such blatant calm and composure that it was nearly unnerving, but he simply turned to eye you with a soft raise of his raven brow, never once ceasing in his palm's soft stroke of the gentle mare beside him.

She was a beauty, of pure blood and yet the sure signs of something gypsy running through her veins if you'd ever seen one. Her coat a velvety while, like the fresh virgin snow of the season but like all things here in Small Heath, perfection was quickly tainted. She adorned splotches of soft grey, like woven threads of silver across her lower back. She was gentle and kind, wild when the wind blew just the right way in the pastures, but she was a tender creature. And it was evident, that Thomas Shelby was just as fond of her as you'd grown to become over the past few weeks.

His gaze was all-consuming, even with the distance that lingered between your frames, the breath of cerulean that overwhelmed his irises washed over you like a formidable wave, threatening to drown you beneath the strength of his current.

They were a blue not often seen out in the destitute and bleak display of Small Heath, a shade that not even the sky on its greatest of days, could capture with the sense of ease that Thomas Shelby had managed. Even as you stood in the threshold, with his imposing shadow looming over the hay and panning along the wood like a ghost in the night, you could see the depths in which his rippling rivers ran.

For the cerulean shimmered like the cast of the moon against the canal's serene stream, but there were flickers that appeared ever so faintly beneath the crashing waves, that spoke of the stormy seas his body had surely been rocked upon time and time again. Something broken hiding under the illusion of perfection and as you stared deeper into his unwaveringly curious gaze, without a single ounce of trepidation soaring through your veins, you realized he might've just gotten away with the facade, if only his eyes concealed the extent of his burdened soul.

"So, you've been the one looking after me girl then, ey?"

His voice journeyed along the current of a deep Birmingham rumble and yet, his words were like velvet falling from his lips. Effortless as they eased over the bridge of his full and slightly pouted lips, before gliding into the atmosphere with a calm and composure that immediately wrapped its presence around your stilled frame. His tone was one that just simply was, it wasn't threatening or frightening like so many around these parts and yet, it wasn't entirely welcoming or warm. It just was. But listening to his voice, the way it wove itself into the stitching of the universe, it was as if they were threads that all along had belonged within its structure.

Swallowing a breath, you gently push your weight off of the wooden beam in the doorway and start your way towards the Peaky Blinder who's intimidatingly strong gaze had yet to abandon you. Feeling the soles of your boots crunch softly atop the sweet hay that permeates the air, the scrape of the wood beneath your palm as your lift yourself away from your safe position at the door, you find yourself halfway towards Mr. Shelby by the time your voice endeavors to speak up again.

"You're gentle with her," You observe in a breath your mind hadn't registered you were going to spare, for it might have stopped your abrupt statement before the letters even formed upon the tip of your tongue. But they trickled into the atmosphere, that smelled of sweet hay and the comforting scent of horses and the mixture of the newly awakening Earth, without a single shred of hesitancy evident in your bones. "I must admit, it surprises me, Mr. Shelby."

He doesn't berate you for speaking too freely or observing such a thought that should stay as such in one's mind however. Thomas merely hums softly under his breath as though your words have struck a chord of fascination inside of his conscious. "And why would that be?"

Your steps slow just as you reach the beautiful mare, letting your own palm gently ease over her coat of silken white, before letting your gaze return through the sprawl of your lashes towards Thomas who awaits your explanation.

His shadow engulfs you, falling over the shoulders of the horse beside him and yet, its creeping shade finds you as well. Bathing you in a chill untouched by the rising sun's fresh light and you can't help but ponder if the poignant cool rush is left over from the density of night, or if it merely comes from him. Like an air of his that is suddenly tangible enough in the atmosphere, that your fingertips can reach out and brush a trail straight through.

"Surely, I am not to be the one to break your reputation to you."

You tried your hardest to keep the slightest tinge of mirth out of your tone, the soft curl of your lips luckily hidden behind the structure of the large but beautiful beast in front of you. But you knew Thomas perceived all that you wished to hide from your expression with such blatant ease, it was as though all of your efforts were futile from the very beginning. But he didn't say anything, not a single word.

It was bewildering and perplexing and you studied him as his eyes drifted away from you and down to the mare in front of him, because he should have. You wouldn't have faulted him for reminding you of your place, of his own and that your tongue should be watched more carefully in his presence.

You didn't know this man and he didn't know you. You'd been employed by Charlie Strong for only a few months time now and was always made aware that if Thomas Shelby came around, to give him what he asked for and leave him be. But here you were, enacting the daredevil as you balanced along the thin line of curiosity and prying, of conversation with a Peaky Blinder or downright stupidity. But he didn't say a word about it, even as you were convinced they tunneled through his mind at lightening speed, Thomas restrained from chastising you for your over-honest observations.

There was something in that notion, you realized, as you peered up at the man whose eyes irrefutably softened when they were upon the beautiful animal, that spoke of his character. In ways that words used to fill in the void, never truly could.

"They're better judges of one's soul." Thomas spoke cryptically, under his breath in a whisper that traveled along a single exhale, as his eyes continued to stroke just like his palm over his mare.

The bold current of stunning cerulean that had nearly threatened to freeze you where you stood, despite the warming promise lingering in the air, had since abandoned you and left you with the ability to take in a breath, that didn't feel like it might just turn to ice should his scrutiny fall across it. It was upon the sight of his hand now, the thin band of gold wrapped securely around his pinky finger, glinting faintly in the cast of the timid sunlight flooding in through the stable. And there was something in the juxtaposition of the horse's pale white coat and the deep crimson ghosts that resided just beneath the lines of Thomas's palms, that you found bewilderingly captivating.

"And still, it isn't frightened by yours."

Your remark was not a question, for it begged no response. It wasn't judgmental and it wasn't cruel. It was simply an observation that fell from your lips in a lighthearted breath of wonderment, as you gazed upon the stoic man who should've had you and the horse itself, trembling in the base of your bones.

He was a different man around horses. Warmer, with a certain glint of contentment reflecting in the currents of his cerulean gaze. As though through all of his life, no matter where he found himself or what it was that he found himself doing, when he was with horses, he felt most at home. It grounded him, perhaps. Humanizing a man who appeared too cold and too heartless to truly empathize and feel for another human being.

But he did feel, perhaps, a little too deeply at times and he did have a heart, one that not many got the chance to see in this lifetime. But it was apparent when he was around these gentle beasts, like you could nearly see the way it beat beneath the confines of his chest and could almost about hear the sound of its thundering rhythm like a base beating in the sky above.

Thomas Shelby was different around horses, as if they were the only creatures in the world that seemed to know each and every inch of his heart and deemed it in a way the rest of the world never would.

"You're very brazen."

You felt his eyes far before your own snapped back up to view his expectant gaze, for it was like the wash of the sun across your shoulder blades, only this was a formidable wave of cold that you could feel send the faintest of goosebumps trickling down the notches of your spine. They were stern and yet, they weren't completely solid. The currents in his orbs, as you lifted your head to see, could never quite sit still. They were always moving, ebbing and flowing, as if the ice that circled his irises had frozen the essence of his thoughts and emotions into its surface.

Swallowing a breath, you meet his scrutiny through the sweep of your lashes and respond in a soft exhale. "You're very inexplicit."

Silence washed over Thomas, as his stare that had the ability to snap you in half as if your bones were merely bare twigs in the winter, but you realized that silence was where he thrived. While it made others in his presence uneasy, the way his eyes could nearly puncture hole into your flesh with the way the blue pierced like the tip of a weapon, unable to read him like he could read you immediately. While the silence could incite fear into those who stood across from him, Thomas remained firm in place like he knew the ground beneath his feet could never shift. He reveled in the silence, he lived there and knew it like the back of his own bloody hand and as his hand dropped down from its placement against the beautiful mare, you realized Thomas knew how to use it well.

Everything about the man was methodical, calculated and conceived in his mind like everything the Earth had to offer, were merely pieces on a chess board. For he knew the way to build anxiety in the base of one's chest, until their rapid heartbeat drowned out the sound of the world around them, by never once abandoning his sights from their frame. He knew how to drag out the ticking hands on the clock, until one was nearly bursting at the seams in the stifling silence that felt like it stretched on for eternity, as his steps were slow but effortlessly fluid, like that of a predator stalking through the grass.

He knew how to unravel a person, whether it be a man or a woman, he knew how to unarm them without ever having to draw on his own concealed weapon. He knew how to make them wait, how to intimidate them and make them just nervous enough that they found themselves waiting on bated breath for what he might have to say next.

It was rather impressive, you concluded, as Thomas Shelby's shadow engulfed you like the fall of night. For you felt the way your heart thudded relentlessly within the confines of your chest, like if he proceeded any further, it might just beg to be freed. The slow and calculated patter of his footsteps in the short space, making the silence that consumed the stable beat like it had its own rhythm and you could feel it in the cavity of your mind.

Perhaps, you weren't the typical type of woman he could unravel with the touch of his hand or the sweet touch of his lips, but he knew just how to create the build of anxiety in the flow of your veins. For his eyes, they ran over you like he aimed to drown you beneath the frigid waves. Studying you, seeing just how far he could peer into your soul and unearth all of your little secrets and deepest darkest fears, deciphering just how much he had an effect over you.

"My gentle hand surprises you," Thomas remarks with a furrowed brow, the crease of deep raven accentuating the depths of his steady gaze. But the stern and defined lines along his chiseled expression, gives away not a single sign to the emotion lingering just beneath the surface.

Thomas had a profound and unnerving way of appearing like he felt not a single thing, stoic and collected as if he were an impenetrable force. All the while, stripping back every possible layer of your own expression and exterior with unsettling ease, leaving your own emotions and very soul, exposed to his perceptive eye. "and yet, you are not afraid."

Perhaps, you should have been. Maybe, after all of the stories, the whispers, the sheer knowledge of who this man was and all that he did and could do, it should've left you frightened to stand before him now. Alone, exposed, at the mercy of his hand. But as you stared up into his orbs that threatened to all but drown you beneath the indisputable weight of his brilliant cerulean blue, you weren't the slightest bit afraid.

"You said it yourself Mr. Shelby, that horses are better judges of the human soul. I figure, if she's not afraid of yours, then what reason do I truly have?"

The silence that followed, was different than the silence that had proceeded his words. For it felt like it had managed to still even Thomas himself, as your words landed upon the current of the atmosphere with a gentle and almost breathless explanation. He didn't speak, never once endeavoring to fracture the quiet that builds like an all-consuming void between your close frames, but he doesn't tear his eyes away from you, if anything, you swear the blue deepens.

He smelled of smoke, even as there wasn't a cigarette freely burning between the grip of his fingertips, the aroma of tobacco lingered like a ghost on his heel. It fell from his heavy exhales and the soft blow of the morning breeze that riffled through his suit jacket, the threads of soft ebony tweed embellished with the scent of him. The intoxicating vice and rich tones of something Earthy and sharply masculine, like sandalwood and the unmistakable aroma of fresh rain. It was an odd combination, swirling around until it melded in the open air with the soft sweetness of the hay, but it was beguiling and all too overpowering in the core of your senses.

There was something perplexingly beautiful about the Peaky Blinder who stood inches from your own scarce breath, for it was the kind of beauty that never should have been. It was out of place and unnecessary and incredibly bewildering that it be him and yet, you couldn't refute the face that Thomas Shelby was a man of looks far beyond this world.

For his flesh told of his life, the scars of his past and of his current struggles, the bags that weighed beneath his eyes like stones sinking in the canal, spoke of the sleep that evaded him like the plague. But somehow, it was nearly kissed by the sun. For freckles were sprinkled generously along the bridge of his nose and expanding over the skin above his cheekbones, and there was something warm in his complexation that was inexplicable. And his bone structure, as impossible as it was, it appeared like it had been carved by hand. His jawline so wildly sharp and defined, that if you were to reach your hand out and brush your thumb across its surface, it might just cut your skin like the tip of a razor blade.

He could draw you in, his allure magnified in the silence that penetrated his strong aura. But with a sudden cough rumbling up from the base of Thomas's throat, his hands lifting to tighten the already perfectly snug fit of his iconic cap, that adorns his scalp like the fabric of a king, the trance that had halted both of you in a void of unbreakable silence, is suddenly fractured.

Reality and the grips of morning light, pouring in through the cracks, spreading life back into the moment like beams in a kaleidoscope. Blinking furiously, feeling like the blue of his scrutiny had threatened to burn the surface of your own captivated gaze, you gaze down towards your shoes.

Thomas Shelby could make you feel like you were trapped under water, holding your breath, until you could nearly feel the last of your oxygen fizzling away without a single hope that more might be spared. But the moment he looked away, you were rushed to land and felt the flood of air into your lungs, burning and choking as the suffocating sensation slowly eases.

He doesn't speak another word as he straightens his jacket and begins to brush past you. His footsteps so very close to your own stilled set, that you feel the softest graze of his arm against your shoulder blade as he passed silently on your left. You didn't realize, until Thomas passed through the stable's threshold, just how much air in the space he'd consumed as though his name was printed along its foundation. For the moment his feet hit the mud of the Earth, you feel more oxygen rush into your lungs than you even knew was available to begin with.

Thomas was a man nearly impossible to read, much less understand and he left you with an unsettled sensation sinking in your chest, after your first interaction and his abrupt departure. But just when you thought he was gone, perhaps perturbed by your brazen remarks or simply without a need for another moment more in your presence, Thomas Shelby surprises you once more.

"Have her saddled and your boots ready tomorrow morning, nine o'clock!" His voice is far down the path and yet, it carries through the air to you with such ease, it sounds like he's standing right beside you.

Turning sharply on your heel, spinning against the hay, your eyes fall upon the man in black retreating down the path without a single effort to look back. Filled to the brim with confusion and surprise, you find yourself rushing to the threshold of the stable and calling out just as Thomas had.

"Might I ask what for, Mr. Shelby?"

The splinters in the wooden post scrape against the skin of your palm, but in that moment, you hardly register the prickling sensation. For cupping your other hand over your eyes, as the sun begins to shine brighter in the height of the morning sky, you blink furiously watching him become smaller and smaller, a spec of dark black out amongst a blooming stretch of spring kissed land.

"I'm taking you out for a ride," Thomas calls over his shoulder, never once turning on his heel to look your way. "And call me Thomas, ey?"

A/N: I've had this plot planned out for quite some time now, I was just waiting for the right moment to sit down and try and write it. It was one of those pieces that I knew exactly how I wanted it to look and had most of it plotted out, but for some reason, struggled when it came to getting the words to come together the way I wanted them to.

This piece is different than some I've written in the past. For starters, it's a different dynamic with Thomas, not an already confirmed relationship but rather that of strangers. I wanted to capture that although they had never met, that there are things about Thomas that are simply known and I wanted to build a bridge between the first encounter and what would already be whispered around about Thomas. This piece gave me an opportunity to kind of capture another side of Thomas and can only hope that I've done it some justice.

I faced a lot of self doubt and second guessing while writing this piece, but I'm proud of myself for continuing on with it, not simply giving it up and being able to find a spark of something beautiful even in the struggle!❤