The Garrison was loud—laughter, clinking glasses, the scent of whiskey and breakfast in the air. But the second Arthur Shelby walked in, everything paused for just a beat. At 6’3", shoulders squared, eyes sharp, he didn’t need to speak for a room to take notice.

But today… there was something different.

At his side, you—his cinnamon roll of a wife, soft where he’s sharp, fierce where he breaks—walked with that quiet glow only motherhood brings. In your arms, nestled close, was Baby Abraxas Shelby: a chunky little wonder with pudgy cheeks and warm giggles that melted even Polly’s coldest looks.

Dressed in a cozy dark set, moccasins, and a patterned headwrap that made Aunt Polly grin in approval, Abraxas was the center of gravity in the room.

Arthur’s hand never left your lower back as you approached the table, his other hand gently straightening the blanket on his son with surprising tenderness.

“Mornin’ family,” Arthur said, voice rough but proud. Then with a smirk, he added, “Sorry we’re late. Someone decided throw their yoghurt on themselves twice before leavin’ the house.” He tilted his head toward the giggling baby in your arms, eyes twinkling.

The room erupted in chuckles and coos, but Arthur didn’t care for the noise. His eyes were only on you—and his boy.