Small Heath, Birmingham, 1919
The rain had started before dawn — a thin, persistent drizzle that dragged the soot off the factory roof and smeared it down the brick like charcoal tears. Inside Whitaker & Sons, the air was thick with the smells of metal dust, ink, and damp wool — scents Cassie Whitlow was still learning not to flinch at.
Her first week as clerk had already taught her three truths: men rarely read the notices she typed, they never remembered her name, and when they came in spoiling for an argument, they aimed it at the nearest woman.
Today, that woman was her.
“Mr. Whitaker said he’d see me today!” Mr. Shaw barked, slamming a soggy hat onto the counter.
“He’s in meetings all morning, Mr. Shaw,” Cassie replied, keeping her voice steady and her hands politely folded. “He asked me to let you know he’ll send for you next week.”
Shaw’s face mottled red. He reeked faintly of gin, coat dripping onto the floorboards.
“Next week, is it?” His palm hit the counter again, papers shivering beneath the blow. “You tell him I’ve given fifteen years to this place! Fifteen!”
Cassie breathed evenly. “I’ll let him know you came by.”
“You’ll tell him now, girl.”
The room changed then — the way rooms do when something ugly starts to coil in the air. A couple of clerks glanced up, then ducked their heads as though the ledger books had suddenly become fascinating.
“Mr. Whitaker is busy,” Cassie said quietly, “and I’m not your girl.”
Shaw stepped forward. Cassie’s spine snapped straight, but she didn’t retreat. She understood bluster; Small Heath raised you on it. Still, her heartbeat thudded a warning.
And then a voice — low, unhurried, edged with something that made the hairs along her arms rise — cut in from behind her.
“You’ve had your say, mate. Time you were on your way.”
Cassie turned.
John Shelby stood just inside the doorway, rain glittering on the shoulders of his coat. His cap cast a shadow over eyes that missed nothing. He held himself with an easy sort of danger — relaxed enough to seem casual, but every line of him coiled with the promise of trouble if trouble was wanted.
Behind him, Arthur Shelby leaned on the wall, cigarette slung between two fingers, watching with a kind of amused patience — as though scenes like this were as ordinary as tea breaks.
“No call to speak to the lady like that,” John went on, stepping closer in a way that made the space feel suddenly smaller. “Factory’s full o’ men. Pick one of them if you’re lookin’ for a row.”
Shaw’s bluster deflated so fast it almost whistled. He muttered something about “bloody Peaky boys” and stumbled out into the rain.
The door shut. Quiet returned.
Cassie didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until John looked at her — properly looked — and something warm flickered in his gaze, half concern, half mischief.
“All right, miss?”
“Quite,” she said, collecting herself. “Thank you, Mr…?”
“Shelby.” A small curve lifted one corner of his mouth. “John Shelby. This is my brother, Arthur.”
“Mr. Whitaker’s expectin’ us,” Arthur added. “Told us to wait.”
Cassie nodded. “Would you like some tea while you do?”
“Wouldn’t say no,” John replied. “Strong, if you can spare it.”
She turned to the pot kept warm beside the ledgers, willing her cheeks not to betray her. Hands precise, she poured. Proper clerk. Proper professionalism.
John leaned his elbows on the counter, watching her with a kind of lazy interest — as if he had all afternoon.
“First week, is it?”
“Yes,” she admitted, passing him the cup. “Does it show?”
“A bit.” His grin deepened. “Don’t worry. You’ll find your feet. Or you’ll learn to shout louder than they do.”
Arthur chuckled. “She don’t look the shoutin’ type, John.”
“No,” John said softly, still looking at her. “But I reckon she could surprise a man.”
Cassie forced her attention back to the papers. His fingers brushed hers as he took the tea — an accidental touch, or perhaps not — and then he nodded once and followed Arthur toward the office.
At the threshold, he paused. Looked back. Winked.
Ridiculous behavior. Absolutely ridiculous.
Cassie had never been the sort of girl who fluttered over men — not the factory lads with their rough jokes, not the soldiers returned with haunted eyes, not the polite doctor her father kept hinting at.
But as John Shelby disappeared into Mr. Whitaker’s office, something quick and sharp unfolded beneath her ribs — the unmistakable flutter of butterflies she’d always sworn she was immune to.
And she knew, with a certainty that made her pulse trip, that nothing good had ever come from a man like that.
Nothing good at all.
// AN: Is this a one-shot? A multi-chapter slow burn? Who knows.