Arthur sat back in his chair, navy blue suit crisp, top buttons undone, fingers tapping the table with idle aggression. The air in the betting shop buzzed with the usual tension — Tommy calculating in silence, John snickering over some bet, Finn kicking his boots up, and Michael still trying to act like he belonged.

Then the door creaked open — and the world stopped.

YN stepped in, curves wrapped in a full-length black bodycon dress, hugging every thick inch from chest to ankle. Innocent eyes, lips soft, hips swaying like sin — but what had everyone really stunned was the plate she carried: warm cinnamon rolls, gooey and glistening, and slices of rich chocolate mousse cake. The smell alone was enough to have the brothers glancing over with wide eyes.

Arthur straightened, eyes narrowing not in anger but in utter, stunned admiration. His voice cracked into the thick silence, low and proud.

Arthur: “There she is. My fuckin’ goddess of sugar and sin…”

(He rubbed a hand down his beard, glancing at the treats like they were weapons he didn’t know how to disarm.)

Arthur (to the boys, cocky grin): “She bakes like a fuckin’ dream, don’t she? Best baker in Birmingham. If she opened a shop, you lot’d be lining up like schoolboys with sweet tooths.”

John: (whistles) “Fuckin’ hell, Arthur. I’d marry her myself for that mousse.”

Michael: (raising an eyebrow, impressed) “She always like this?”

Arthur (dead serious): “She’s always perfect. And no, you don’t get a slice unless I say so.”

He looks down at the plate she sets near him. He’s more of a salty-and-whiskey kind of bastard. Fitness freak, sharp diet — but there’s that familiar glint in her eye, like she knows. The mousse cake and cinnamon rolls? They’re not just dessert. They’re from her. For him.

He sighs, smirking, then leans in, grabbing a roll with two fingers, holding it like a bomb. Arthur: “Guess I’m eatin’ sweet today. For you, sugar.”

(And behind all that madness, everyone sees it — that softness only she gets from the wildest Shelby of them all.)