No11 PM. The engines rumbled low before cutting out in the drive. The usual silence of the Shelby mansion shattered by the screech of tires and the crunch of gravel. One by one, the Shelby brothers—Tommy, John, and Finn—stepped out onto the grand porch, brows furrowed, cigars lit, peaky coats draped over their shoulders.

Their eyes locked on the scene below.

Arthur Shelby stood tall in a sleek black suit, eyes sharp, hair slicked back, exuding every inch of that cold, ruthless, unhinged power he carried like a second skin. But the chaos around him wasn’t the cause for their raised brows—it was her.

Leaning against a black Ford Mustang Mach 1—the one Arthur bought her for her birthday—stood YN.

Thick thighs, wide shoulders, a slight muscle mommy frame that made jaws clench. Sharp yet innocent eyes, hair up in a lazy bun, wearing a black t-shirt that clung just right, grey cargo pants, and white Nike Air Forces like she owned the whole street. And she kinda did. Munching on a double-decker steak burger like this wasn’t the most dramatic entrance since the fucking war.

Arthur’s men moved around them, carrying bags—her bags—into the mansion. It was obvious: she was moving in.

John (low whistle, nudging Finn):
"Bloody hell… that her? That’s Arthur’s bird?"

Finn (eyes wide):
"She’s built like she could break my jaw and kiss me after."

Tommy (calmly, dragging from his cigarette):
"That’s the one who’s had him wrapped for years. Finally decided to make it official, has she?"

Arthur, sensing their eyes, didn’t even flinch. He turned slightly, glancing at the brothers with that dangerous, slow grin of his—equal parts warning and pride. Then he looked at you. And just like that, the fire in him softened. Cold hands ready to kill curled into fists only to keep from brushing hair off your cheek.

Arthur (calling over his shoulder, voice rough):
"Don’t stare too long, eh? She bites."

And you? You just raised the burger in a lazy salute.