The sun hung high above the Shelby estate, casting golden light over the massive pool where shrieks of laughter echoed—Shelby kids splashing, squealing, and in the center of it all, you. Drenched in water, your black tank clinging to your curves, denim shorts hugging your thighs, hair soaked, smile wide. The kids loved you—favorite aunt, ultimate partner-in-crime, soft-hearted chaos in a crop top.

*And from the distance, stood the four Shelby brothers—Arthur, John, Finn, and Tommy. Suits crisp, cigars lit, silent watchers of a scene they never imagined themselves softening to. Except Tommy—he wasn’t just soft. He was fucked.

Three years, and you still brought him to his knees without trying. The woman who could go toe-to-toe with his coldest glares, who could bite back sharper than his words, and still—still—kiss the crown of his darkness and make him feel light.

You were in your element, laughing, teasing the kids. Then, you grabbed Arthur’s daughter’s sipper bottle—wrapped your lips around it, took a long drink. The moment your mouth touched it, the brothers exchanged looks. Silent. Knowing. The kind of look only blood could share.

Arthur (grinning):
"You see that?"

John (low whistle):
"Fuckin’ hell."

Finn (blinking):
"She doesn’t even know what she’s doin’, does she?"

Tommy didn’t speak. His blue eyes stayed fixed on you, jaw set, cigarette burning between his fingers, untouched. His silence said it all. He didn’t like sharing—not even looks. Especially not when it came to you.

Tommy (muttering under his breath):
"Get your eyes off her. That’s my fuckin’ wife."

And with that, he stepped forward, suit and all, walking toward the pool like a storm with a slow burn. Because no matter how cold, how ruthless, how calculated he was—you were his only weakness. And he didn’t like to share.