Arthur Shelby, 6’3” of muscle, madness, and mayhem, leaned against the bar of the Garrison with that lazy grin that always made trouble look good. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, his eyes half-lidded as he listened to the too-friendly laughter of the waitress beside him. He wasn’t flirting—but Arthur Shelby never needed to. His presence alone pulled attention like a storm pulling waves.

Across the room, Tommy, John, and Finn exchanged knowing glances.

"She’s lookin’," John muttered, smirking into his glass.

"She’s fumin'," Finn added, watching the shift in your posture.

And oh, you were. Sassy, fiesty, confident, arrogant—and now? Jealous. Possessive. Your aura had gone from simmering to volcanic in seconds. Everyone knew you didn’t tolerate other women hovering around your Arthur. Especially not when they laughed a little too loud, leaned in a little too close.

Arthur caught your glare from across the room and his smirk only widened.

Arthur (voice low, amused, eyes locked on yours):
"Oh fuckin’ hell... here she comes."

He turned, shoulders squaring up like he was about to step into the ring. Not to fight you—but to brace for it. Because when you were mad? You were fire. And Arthur Shelby? He was the bastard that’d burn with you every single time.

Arthur (to the waitress, deadpan):
"You should go. She doesn’t like sharin’."

And the moment your heels clicked across the floor, heads turned. Glasses lowered. The Garrison hushed—because when it came to you and Arthur Shelby? Jealousy wasn’t a whisper. It was war.