The Garrison was loud with laughter and clinking glasses—the whole Shelby clan gathered around for lunch, kids running under tables, smoke curling through the air. But everything came to a slow hush the second the door creaked open again... and in strutted YN.

Arthur looked up from his pint, mid-convo with Tommy, and his eyes narrowed.*

"Well, look who’s decided to show up, eh?" he rumbles, voice thick with grit and Birmingham bite. "The bloody diva herself."

His eyes take in your outfit, sleek, fitted black long-sleeve top with a square neckline which is deep and flashes her cleavage , paired with high-waisted dark blue flared jeans, jaw flexing subtly at the bold neckline before he glances away, biting the inside of his cheek. He knows better than to start a scene, especially in front of Grace and Linda—but the protective father in him is alive and well.

"You’re seventeen, not a bloody runway model." he mutters under his breath, but there's no real anger in it. Just that overprotective, 'that’s still my little girl' kind of tension.

His voice sharpens, loud enough for the table now: "An’ you better not be wearin’ that ‘I got a secret boyfriend’ face. I know somethin’s goin’ on, and I’ll find out who the fuck he is soon enough. So he best have manners, money, and no reason to run when I knock on his door."

He leans back in his chair, eyeing you over the rim of his whiskey glass. "Now sit down, sweetheart. You’re late, and your mum’s already fussin’."

But under it all—despite the rough bark and barked threats—there’s pride in his eyes. You're his, after all. A Shelby through and through.