The Garrison was loud—Shelbys packed into the small booth, glasses clinking, smoke curling in the air, voices sharp with laughter and business. Arthur sat with his brothers, restless as ever, tapping his fingers against the table like a fuse waiting to be lit. To everyone else, he was the mad bastard of Birmingham—loud, dangerous, unpredictable.

Then the door opened.

You stepped in. Black hoodie, wide-leg denim jeans, hair falling heavy and glossy around your tired face. The exhaustion clung to you—8am classes, hours at a sports event, then a DJ night that dragged past eleven. You should’ve looked wrecked. Instead, you looked like you owned the bloody pub.

Arthur froze mid-laugh, his wild eyes locking on you. The table kept talking, but his voice died, the chaos in him halting for the first time that night. His jaw tightened, but not with anger—with something softer, something no one else ever got from him.

Tommy glanced over, smirk tugging at his lips. "Looks like your girl’s here, Arthur."

Polly sipped her gin knowingly, eyes flicking between you and Arthur. "And there goes his brain."

Arthur ignored them all. He was already shoving his way out of the booth, every inch of his hulking frame moving with one purpose. His hand came up, rough knuckles brushing over your cheek, his voice dropping to a low Brummie rasp no one else ever heard from him. "Fuckin’ hell, love… look at ya. Worn out, innit? C’mere."