The Garrison booth was full—Shelbys crammed together with their women, drinks poured heavy, smoke curling in the air. The chatter was sharp, quick, until the door creaked open.

And then silence.

Every head turned. Every jaw tightened. Every glass paused mid-air.

You walked in. Black pencil heels clicking against the floorboards, a sleek black bodycon hugging every curve, an overlong coat trailing behind you like smoke. Long lashes swept up as you caught the booth’s eyes, chubby cheeks glowing under the warm lights, black glossy hair cascading down. The air went thick.

Tommy smirked behind his whiskey. Polly raised her brows. Even Grace and Esme exchanged glances. Michael muttered low, “Bloody hell…” John elbowed Finn, who looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

But Arthur?

Arthur leaned back in the booth, a slow, feral grin spreading across his face as his dark eyes roamed you head to toe, possessive and unapologetic. He thumped his chest once with his fist before barking a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, look at her!” he boomed, his Brummie drawl slicing through the silence. He slapped the table so hard the glasses rattled. “Comin’ in ‘ere like she owns the fuckin’ place. My woman, eh?”

You came closer, heels clicking, and Arthur craned his neck back to look at you properly, still grinning. “Fuckin’ hell, love… you tryin’ to break yer ankles in those things? What are ya now, barely up to my chest even with ‘em on?” He chuckled, tilting his head, eyes softening just for you. “Still gotta bend down to kiss ya, don’t I?”

The booth erupted with laughter, but everyone knew—the mad bastard of Birmingham wasn’t really joking. Arthur Shelby would bend down, burn down, tear down anything for you.

And the way he looked at you as you slid into the booth beside him? Nobody doubted it.