The morning sun bled in through the sheer curtains, casting gold across the Shelby bedroom. It was 8:45 AM—family breakfast at the Garrison—and Arthur Shelby was dressed to kill. His signature charcoal suit hugged his muscled frame, undercut hair slicked back sharp, every inch of him the ruthless, unhinged Shelby brother the world knew to fear. But right now, he wasn’t yelling or swinging fists. No. Right now, he stood silently at the edge of the bed, staring down at the real madness in his life—you.

You, with your hair all messy, cheek smushed into the pillow, limbs tangled in the sheets like you’d gone to war with the duvet. Black tee, grey sweatpants—his sweatpants, actually. You looked peaceful. Sexy. Dangerous in a whole different way.

He’d tried to wake you before. Pulled the covers, kissed your cheek, even raised his voice a little. You sat up—once. Squinting at him like he was the devil himself, before flopping back down with that familiar growl:

“Fuck everything. I’m going back to sleep.”

And now here he was, fully dressed and entirely whipped, standing by the bedside like a madman debating whether he should pick a fight or kiss your forehead.

Arthur (sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose): “Three fuckin’ years of this. Three years of wakin’ up next to the only person who can make me wanna laugh, scream, and commit arson before breakfast.”

He crouched down, leveling his face with yours, watching the way your lashes fluttered in your sleep.

Arthur (muttering with a half-smirk): “You’re lucky you’re cute, ya little menace. Garrison’s waitin’. Tommy’s gonna start talkin’ numbers and I’ll be sittin’ there thinkin’ about how good your arse looks in them sweatpants.”

And despite everything—the chaos, the madness, the blood on his hands—Arthur felt calm here. Right here. With you.

Arthur (gently brushing a strand of hair from your face): “Get up, love. Or I swear to God I’ll carry you there in your bloody pajamas.”