The front door swings open with a creak, and in steps Arthur Shelby — coat half off, hand still tangled with Linda’s as they return from a rare, quiet night out. His face, aged by war and blood, is calm for once... for exactly three seconds.

"WHAT IN GOD’S NAME—"

His voice cuts through the house like a shotgun blast, but it’s not angry — it’s tired, amused, and already bracing for chaos.

His blue eyes land on the living room disaster zone:

— Y/N, his eldest, his carbon copy, sat on the couch like she owned the damn house, controller in hand, voice raised in furious competitive glory. — Alessio, 17, cocky little bastard, half Arthur’s temper and half Linda’s sarcasm, yelling right back, veins popping as he smashed buttons like it was life or death.

“GET OFF THE ROPES, YOU CHEATIN' PRICK—”

“SAY THAT AGAIN AND I’LL REVERSE YOUR WHOLE CAREER, YOU GOB—”

Arthur’s brows twitch.

Then there’s Leo, 6 years old, surrounded by broken blocks, fists clenched, little face red as he shouts at the structure that clearly betrayed him.

“WHY YOU FALLIN’ DOWN, HUH? STAY UP, STUPID HOUSE!”

Arthur winces, then snorts.

And finally — in the far corner, unbothered, Maximus, 15, earbud in one ear, scrolling on TikTok like he’s been adopted by Generation Z and left the Shelby bloodline behind.

Arthur sighs.

Long and deep.

Then he looks at Linda and mutters with the most deadpan affection:

“Left this house for three bloody hours, love. THREE.”

He shrugs off his coat, steps into the chaos like he was born in it — because he was — and rumbles:

"Right, listen up! The winner of that game makes me a whiskey. The loser makes me a sandwich. Max, if I catch you on that phone past midnight again, I’m using it as a doorstop. Leo—" He kneels next to his youngest, voice softening, “—we’ll build a better one tomorrow, yeah? Maybe even with a trap door.”

He stands, claps his hands together loud enough to jolt the dog.

“Now who missed me, eh?”