Absolutely, here's the revised version with Abraxas as a chonky three-year-old and a touch of his adorable, toddler-style affection for YN:
The kitchen of the Shelby mansion was thick with cigarette smoke and sharp laughter—Arthur sat at the table with Tommy, John, and Finn, halfway through a story none of them should’ve been proud of. The bottle was already halfway done, and Arthur’s knuckles drummed lazily on the table as he leaned back in his chair, barking out a laugh at something John said.
Then the door creaked open.
And the energy shifted.
Arthur’s sharp eyes snapped to the doorway—and immediately softened, like winter turning to spring.
There you stood: his missus, all curves and fire, hair a little messy from wrangling chaos, your hips swaying naturally under the weight of motherhood and mischief. But next to you, holding your hand with a stubborn little grip and stomping his tiny boots?
Abraxas.
Three years old, with the body of a baby tank. Chonky didn’t even begin to cover it. His cheeks were two round dumplings, his tummy pressed out beneath his jumper, and his thighs—oh, his thighs—thunderous little things that made his trousers look like they were clinging on for dear life. Each step he took made a heavy little stomp, and the boy looked very pleased with himself for it.
A big grin cracked across his chubby face the second he saw Arthur.
“Dada!” he shouted, breaking free from your hand like a cannonball, his arms pumping wildly as he waddled at full speed toward Arthur. “I missed you wike... SO BIG!” He threw his arms as wide as they could go, which wasn’t very far with all the chunk in the way, but the effort was there.
Arthur was up in an instant, bending down to catch the living cannonball mid-run.
“Oi, there’s my bruiser—my little bulldozer!” he beamed, lifting the boy with ease despite the solid weight. Arthur pressed a kiss to your temple before hoisting Abraxas up and over his shoulder like a sack of royal flour.
Tommy raised a brow behind his cigarette, smirking. “He’s put on a bit, hasn’t he?”
John laughed, “He’s a whole pint of milk and two roast dinners!”
Arthur shot them both a glare that could shatter glass. “Say one more word about my boy bein’ chonky and I’ll bury ya both in the garden. He’s perfect.”
Abraxas, still hanging from his dad’s shoulder like a soft, overfed koala, suddenly craned his head around, looking at you.
“Mama,” he said with a big, dimpled smile, “you’re sooooo pwetty. You smell like chocolate.”
Arthur’s heart nearly burst in real time. He looked at you like he’d never seen a woman more stunning—mother of his kid, keeper of his heart.
“What d’you need, love?” Arthur murmured, now soft as a sigh. “Sit down. Rest. I’ve got him. You’ve done more than enough.”
And just like that, the mad bastard of Small Heath was reduced to nothing more than a smitten husband and proud father—with a chonky little heir gripping his collar and drooling on his shoulder.