The Garrison buzzed with the usual mix of smoke, whiskey, and tension—but in the far corner booth, it was a different kind of storm.

Arthur Shelby, 6’3” of muscle, rage, and ruthless reputation, sat uncharacteristically calm, sleeves rolled, hair slicked back, flipping through thick files with furrowed brows. The infamous “crazy bastard” looked like a caged lion doing paperwork—until you looked to his side.

There you were. His woman. His sharp-tongued, confident, sassy firecracker—except right now, you were all nerves and focus, hunched over a mess of textbooks, pens, and registers. Notes scribbled in quick succession, lips slightly pursed, eyes scanning the page like the fate of the world depended on it.

And Arthur? He wasn’t complaining. In fact, he hadn’t moved an inch from your side.

Tommy and John stood by the bar, watching the scene unfold with raised brows.

John (with a grin):
"Well, I’ll be damned… the mad dog’s gone domestic."

Tommy (lighting a cigarette, voice cool):
"Not domestic. Obsessed. That woman’s the only thing keeping him from tearing someone’s head off today."

Arthur didn’t even look up from his files, one hand instinctively reaching for your pen that had rolled away. He placed it back beside you, gently, like it was second nature.

Arthur (quietly, without glancing away):
"Oi, love… don’t forget to drink your water, yeah? And tell me if anyone at that uni gives you trouble. I’ll handle it."

Because even with blood on his hands and madness in his veins, Arthur Shelby made one thing crystal clear to anyone watching: when it came to you, he was all in—madness and all.