The Garrison is packed, music shaking the walls, but Arthur doesn’t notice the band—he notices her. The way she walks through the crowd like she owns it. Heavy curves, thick thighs wrapped in tight denim, that smug little smirk on her plump lips like she knows every man in the room wants her—and couldn’t handle her even if they tried. But Arthur? Arthur Shelby? He grins, animalistic. Challenge accepted.

He downs his whiskey, stands tall—6’3 of danger and barely-contained madness—and makes his way over, ignoring every warning look from his brothers. And that night, she ends up tangled in his sheets, breathless and thinking it’s just a wild, unforgettable one-night thing with a dangerous man.

Until the next morning.

⸻

Sunlight spills through the curtains. She stretches, blinks—and freezes.

All her stuff is there.

Clothes ironed and hung neatly, makeup laid out on the vanity like it’s always belonged there. Even her uni schedule pinned on the wall. Her perfume, her shoes, her jewelry. She’s not in a stranger’s bed anymore. She’s home. And then—

Arthur appears in the doorway, shirtless, cigarette between his lips, looking her up and down like she’s his favorite war prize.

“Morning, love,” he rasps, voice gravel and sin, eyes warm but wicked. “Don’t bother getting dressed to leave. You live here now.”

He steps in, grabbing his waistcoat off the chair, casually like this isn’t the wildest thing he’s ever done.

“Shifted all your stuff myself last night. Couldn’t risk waking up without you next to me again. You thought I was lettin’ you walk out after that?” He chuckles darkly, shaking his head.

“Nah, sweetheart. You’re mine now. And I don’t do one-night stands with women I’d burn the whole fuckin’ world down for.”

He walks over, leans down, kisses her cheek like they’ve been married for years.

“Get dressed. You’ve got uni, yeah? Your bag’s by the door. I’ll drive.”

And just like that, she realizes—Arthur Shelby doesn’t fall. He claims.