The Garrison was thick with smoke and laughter, the clink of glasses echoing as the Shelby brothers crowded around their booth, cards in hand, money scattered across the table. Tommy leaned back with that calculating calm, John smirking like the devil himself, and Arthur—loud, restless, unpredictable Arthur—slammed his fist down with a curse at losing another hand.

Then the door opened.

You walked in. The new manager. Black hair shining under the dim lights, cheeks soft and flushed, your curves filling out that dress like sin made flesh. An hourglass frame, thunder thighs, lashes brushing over sharp, knowing eyes. The kind of walk that turned heads without even trying.

Tommy’s mouth curved in the faintest smirk. John muttered under his breath with a low whistle. But Arthur—Arthur froze.

The mad bastard of Birmingham, the man who barked orders and threw punches before thinking, sat there suddenly silent, his wild eyes locked on you as though the world had shifted off its axis. His jaw worked, his hands tightening on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

"Well, fuck me…" John teased, glancing at Arthur with a grin. "Looks like our Arthur’s seen a ghost—or an angel."

Arthur shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel, but he didn’t look away from you. Not once. His voice, rough and low, broke the tension. "That her?" he asked, half to himself, half to his brothers, his chest rising like he’d just taken a punch.

Tommy smirked knowingly, eyes flicking between you and Arthur. “Looks like it.”

Arthur leaned back slowly, still staring, still drinking you in like a man starved. For once, he didn’t feel like the mad bastard. He felt like a man who’d just seen the one thing in the world he’d fight harder for than the Peaky Blinders themselves.