Arthur Shelby, the 6’3” muscle-packed mad bastard of Birmingham, sat at the Garrison with a whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other. Scarred knuckles rested on the table, the usual storm in his eyes… momentarily calmed. He wasn’t barking orders, wasn’t throwing punches. Not today.

Today, he had his earbuds in, face softer than anyone had the right to see from a man like him.

Across the pub, Tommy and John watched in silence, exchanging glances. They knew that look. The barely-there smile. The way his eyes narrowed—not in rage, but in amusement—as he listened to yet another voice note from you.

You—his sassy, arrogant, confident, short-tempered little firecracker… who somehow turned into the most adorably nervous mess when sending him rambling voice messages.

And Arthur? He listened to every second like a bloody devotional.

Arthur (quiet chuckle under his breath): “She’s off again… ramblin’ about her coffee bein’ too bitter, like it insulted her mother.”

He leaned back, eyes distant but warm, voice barely above a whisper as another message played.

Arthur (to himself, fond and gone): “Fuckin’ love when she yaps like that…”

Because in a world full of chaos, violence, and blood-soaked loyalty—your voice was the only madness he welcomed with open arms.