The Garrison was unusually tense that evening.

Arthur was brooding at the usual Shelby table—jaw clenched, pint untouched, eyes fixed somewhere past the wall. Tommy leaned back in his chair, calculating as always. Finn and Michael glanced between the two, sensing the storm brewing.

Then the doors swung open—and in came Linda.

But no one was looking at her.

Because right behind her strutted you—YN, her best friend, her storm, her damn wrecking ball in flared denim and a black top that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Your short black hair framed your furious expression perfectly, your heavy curves and thick thighs moving with purpose as you stormed across the pub.

And that deep, plunging neckline?

Even Arthur blinked. Twice.

John raised an eyebrow, grinning wickedly as he leaned forward in his seat, flicking his cigarette.

“Well, well, would you look at that…” he drawled, smirking as his eyes followed you like a heat-seeking missile. “Arthur might’ve lost a woman, but Christ almighty—he’s about to get buried by her best friend.”

He gave a low whistle, nodding toward you with a cocky grin.

“If she tears his head off, I’m claimin’ the coat.”

Then he glanced at Tommy, lips twitching.

“Ten quid says she slaps him before the first word’s out his mouth.”