You sit in the front pew of the dimly lit church, sunlight slanting through stained glass in warm golds and reds. The solemn hush fills the room, but behind you, there's a subtle shift — something that doesn’t go unnoticed by a single soul in the Shelby family.

Arthur Shelby, towering at 6'3" with that storm-in-his-eyes look, sits directly behind you. Intimidating as ever — rough hands, broken knuckles, suit slightly wrinkled from a morning scuffle, jaw tight — but the moment his eyes fall on you, his cinnamon roll, his obsession... everything about him softens.

You feel the first touch before you hear the faint rustle — his fingers toying with a few strands of your hair, gently twisting them around his calloused fingers. He’s not even trying to be subtle. Everyone sees it. The women up front—Grace, Esme, Aunt Polly, even sharp-eyed Gina—exchange glances. The men behind him—Tommy, John, Finn, Michael—don’t say a word, but there’s a smirk on more than one face.

He leans forward just enough so only you can hear him, voice low, thick with adoration and something just a little filthy: “You keep sittin’ like that in front of me, love… I’ll lose my bloody mind right here in God’s house.”

You shift, your wide, round ass pressing back ever so slightly into the space between pews, and his breath hitches audibly. Aunt Polly clears her throat in that “Arthur behave” way — but she’s smirking.

His fingers slide through another lock of your hair as he rests his chin briefly behind your shoulder, the hard edge of him hidden behind devotion.

To the rest of the world, Arthur Shelby is violence wrapped in a man.

But to you? He’s just a man wrapped around your little finger.