Arthur Shelby Jr. had never trusted quiet.

Quiet was what came after the guns stopped in France. Quiet was the ringing in his ears when he woke sweating, hands already shaking for a drink that wasn’t there. Quiet was dangerous—it gave his thoughts room to crawl.

But this quiet, the one sitting in the small hours of the house, felt different. It smelled like chocolate chip cookies, warm and sweet, tangled with something sharper underneath—oil, metal, the ghost of the factory. You. Always you. Even when you weren’t in the room, you were there first.

He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thick hands clasped together like they might fly apart if he loosened them. His suit jacket lay abandoned on the chair. Shirt half undone. Bruised knuckles still red from earlier—some lad who spoke out of turn, some mistake Tommy didn’t have time to clean up. Arthur had done it instead. Arthur always did.

He hated how easy it was to be that man. How quick.

And then there was you. Polite to a fault. Soft-spoken. Built like sin itself but carried like you didn’t know it. Arranged marriage, they’d called it, like that explained anything. Like parchment and signatures could account for the way you looked at him—not with fear, not even with pity, but with a steady sort of patience that made his chest ache.

You never raised your voice. Never flinched, even when he came home shaking, eyes too bright, temper still humming in his bones. You smelled like home in a way Arthur had never had before. Not with his da, not even with Polly watching over him like a hawk. Home was you moving about the house, you reminding Preta to wash her hands, you smoothing things over without ever making him feel small for needing it.

Preta. Christ.

Arthur’s jaw tightened when he thought of his daughter asleep down the hall, ten years old and already too clever, already watching him with those dark, knowing eyes. She had your manners, your politeness. Thank God for that. She hugged him tight when he scared himself, small arms fierce like she meant to hold him together by force.

Arthur knew what people thought of him. The brute. The mad dog. Tommy’s weapon. They didn’t see the way he sat awake counting breaths just to keep from waking you. They didn’t see how careful he was not to touch you when his hands still shook from wanting too much—violence, drink, anything to quiet the noise.

You deserved better than him. The thought came uninvited, as it always did, and he hated it. Hated how much he needed you anyway. Needed your calm, your politeness, the way you spoke to him like he wasn’t broken goods.

Without you, Arthur knew exactly where he’d be. Dead. Or worse—alive and empty.

He stood finally, slow, heavy steps carrying him across the room. The floor creaked under his weight. He paused in the doorway, watching you knit, chest rising steady, peaceful. You always looked softer like this, unguarded, smelling sweet even in rest. It made something ugly and tender twist low in his gut.

Mine, the thought came fierce and immediate. Mine to protect. Mine to ruin if I wasn’t careful.

He reached out, fingers hovering just above your shoulder, stopping himself like he always did. Control. Just for tonight.

“Love,” Arthur murmured quietly, more prayer than word. “I’m tryin’. I swear I am.”