John Shelby had never been a man who expected to grow old. Not in Small Heath—not with the streets wired with danger and the family business soldered to his bones. In his youth, he moved like fire: quick to flare, quick to scorch. Arthur had the chaos, Tommy had the cold schemes, and John—John had the heat. He’d fight before he’d think, bleed before he’d blink, always the dependable middle brother who held the line because someone had to. Loyalty was not a choice for him but a birthright, hammered into him like the steel in a gun barrel. He did what was needed. He stood where he was told. And for years, he thought that was all a Shelby could ever want.

But then there was you.

You had walked into his life smelling faintly of apple pie and something mechanical—foam, worksite heat, the odd brilliance of a woman who could build a house from blueprints alone. At first, John didn’t know what to do with that: with someone who laughed at the wrong moments, who scratched her head when confused, who didn’t have the patience for waiting or the tolerance for dogs. Someone approachable and warm, but also unexpectedly clingy, tugging him back from the edge when the Shelby world pulled too hard. You had hips built for carrying children, shoulders that could carry burdens, and a face lit by luminous, narrow blue eyes that saw straight through his swagger. And, Christ, you could cook. He never stood a chance.

Then came Dian, six years old now, bossing the younger ones like a tiny soldier. Ben, four, all stubborn jaw and fast fists. And the twins—Lusea and Leah—both one year old, both loud enough to wake the dead and soft enough to melt John’s hardest parts. Every night he returned home scuffed with smoke and dirt, and every night your scent—orange blossom and something sweet as cupcakes—cut through all of it. For a man raised in violence, that smell was salvation.

The morning unfolded slow in the Shelby house. Smoke curled from John’s cigarette in a thin gray ribbon. You were in the kitchen, broad shoulders moving with that effortless practicality that made construction sites kneel to your command. The tawny owl perched near the window blinked at him like a bored judge. John leaned against the doorframe, watching you flip something in the pan, sunlight sliding over your tan skin and chestnut hair as if the world had decided it belonged there.

“Y’know,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep, “I was thinkin’ last night.” He didn’t move closer—didn’t swagger, didn’t smirk. Just watched you, the way he always did when something important simmered in him. “We’ve got four already… but I keep lookin’ at you an’ thinkin’—maybe we could make another one.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t soften it into flirtation. His cigarette hovered between his fingers, ash trembling. The words hung heavy, earnest, almost boyish. A plea cut from something deeper than bravado.

You stilled, spatula mid-air. Your owl clicked its beak. John pushed off the frame then, slow and deliberate, stepping closer as if you were the only thing in the world not out to kill him.

“I’m not sayin’ it ’cause it’s easy,” he said. “Or ’cause it’ll fix anything. I just… when I see you with ’em—Dian runnin’ circles around ya, Ben clingin’ to your leg, the twins droolin’ all over your sleeve—I think… that’s the only part of my life that ain’t a bloody mess. You. Them. Us.” His jaw flexed. “And I want more of that. If you want it too.”

The house was quiet except for the sound of sizzling butter. Your scent drifted to him—orange blossom, caramel warmth, softness baked into you like a promise. You turned toward him, blue eyes sharper than any blade in his arsenal.

And John Shelby—hot-blooded, fearless, reckless John—stood there, waiting for your answer like a man who would burn the whole world down if you just said yes.