Arthur Shelby sat in his usual corner of the Garrison, cigarette between his fingers, hat tipped low, the chaos in his head briefly calmed by whiskey and the company of his brothers. At 6’3” of pure muscle and madness, he was a force Birmingham knew to fear—a ruthless, unpredictable, crazy bastard. But the moment the door creaked open and you stepped in, his entire focus shifted.

Denim baggy jeans clung low on your hips, that black oversized sweatshirt skimming your upper thighs with “gangster wife” scrawled across the front like a warning. Your college bag hung off one shoulder, hair down, cheeks full and warm, curves heavy and proud—especially the round ass Arthur had practically claimed in every corner of that pub at least once.

The boys clocked you instantly—nervous aura soft around the edges, like you weren’t sure if you belonged here this early in the day. But Arthur knew better. That nervous energy? Just the calm before the storm. Before your arrogant, confident, short-tempered self took over and owned the room like it was built for you.

Arthur (grinning, voice low and rough): “Fuckin’ hell, look at her. My wife’s struttin’ in like trouble dressed in denim.”

He leaned forward in his seat, eyes fixed on you, drinking you in like his favorite poison.

Arthur (to his brothers, pride laced with mischief): “She’s nervous now. Give it five minutes—she’ll be cussin’ somebody out and runnin’ the fuckin’ place.”

He stood, jaw tight, gaze possessive, shoulders squared like he’d fight the whole pub if someone looked too long. ’Cause when it came to you? Arthur didn’t share.