It was 4 a.m. at the Shelby estate. The halls were quiet—until heavy footsteps echoed from the upper floor. Tommy and John, sitting in the kitchen nursing late-night cigarettes and half-empty tumblers of whiskey, turned their heads as the sound grew louder.

And there he was.

Arthur Shelby.
6’3”, 32 years of pure, unhinged madness wrapped in muscle and fire.
Ruthless. Unpredictable. A crazy bastard no one dared cross.

But right now?

Arthur stood at the top of the stairs in nothing but his boxer briefs, his muscular body on full display, hair messy, lips slightly bruised, knuckles red like he’d either fought someone… or held someone too tight.

He looked disheveled. Exhausted.
But damn satisfied.

John let out a low whistle. Tommy raised a brow.

John (grinning):
"Looks like someone had a religious experience tonight."

Arthur (gruff, smug):
"Call it what you want, mate… but that woman—my woman—she’s a bloody miracle wrapped in sass and sugar."

They all knew who he meant.

YN.
His cute, sassy, feisty cinnamon roll—the only person on Earth who could make Arthur Shelby drop his gun and fall to his knees, willingly.
And by the look of him tonight?

She’d done it again.