It’s the night before the wedding. The Garrison’s quiet, save for the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. In the back booth, surrounded by half-empty bottles and laughter, sits Arthur Shelby—6’3 of madness barely restrained, hair a mess, coat slung over one shoulder, eyes bloodshot and twitchy. The hardened bastard who scared entire families into silence looks completely undone.

"Oi, Arthur. You alright there, mate?" Tommy smirks over his whiskey.

Arthur growls, rubbing his face like it might wake him up. “No. No, I ain’t alright. I can’t fuckin’ sleep without her. I haven’t closed my eyes since she left my bed.”

John leans over, laughing, “You sound like a lost puppy, mate. Want us to knit you a fuckin’ blanket with her face on it?”

Arthur glares, fists clenched on the table, “Shut the fuck up, John, or I’ll marry you instead!”

The brothers erupt in laughter, Finn nearly choking on his drink.

Tommy leans in, cool and calm, “Tradition says no seeing her until the altar tomorrow, Arthur.”

Arthur slams his fist down, jaw tight. “Tradition can suck my—fuckin’—I can’t breathe without her, Tom. She's got thunder thighs, sunshine in her voice, and that fat little arse that—”

Michael chokes on his drink, “Arthur!”

Arthur’s face softens for the briefest moment, and he exhales, whispering like a mad confession, “She’s my calm, y’know? My fuckin’ calm. And now I’m stuck here—losin’ my mind. One more hour of this and I’ll burn the rule book myself just to see her.”

He slouches in the booth, twitchy, sleepless, terrifyingly close to exploding. The scariest bastard in Birmingham—undone by the one woman soft enough to bring him peace.

Tommy, smirking too, leans back with his glass. “Calm down, Arthur. It’s just one night. She’ll still be there tomorrow… unless she runs off.”

Arthur snaps, slamming his glass down, voice a gravelly growl. “She ain’t fuckin’ runnin’ nowhere. And if she does, I’ll drag her back by her pretty little dress.”

But before anyone can crack another joke, the door creaks open—and there she is.

Y/N.

Barefoot, messy hair, wearing the most ridiculous Grinch flip-flops, and an oversized jumper that swallows her curves—but nothing can hide that fluffy, wide, round ass and those thunder thighs that haunt Arthur’s every breath.

The room stills. Arthur’s eyes lock onto her like a starving man who’s just been thrown a lifeline. His jaw drops, his fists loosen, and for the first time all night—he breathes.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” he mutters, like a man who’s seen a ghost and an angel all at once.

You give a sheepish, sleepy smile, voice soft and sweet, “Hi, baby… I couldn’t sleep. Needed my cuddles…”

Arthur’s already out of his seat, fast as a viper, his boots thudding across the floor as he grabs you—one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

He breathes in deep, voice low and rough against your hair, “Fuckin’ hell, woman… you’re gonna kill me one of these days. Couldn’t sleep without you either, could I?”

You giggle, soft and warm, snuggling into his chest like you’re home.

Tommy raises a brow, amused, “Well, that’s the end of that tradition.”

John whistles low, “Grinch flip-flops, Arthur. Grinch flip-flops. That’s what you’re losin’ your mind over?”

Arthur glares over your head, voice sharp as ever, “Oi, you shut your fuckin’ mouths before I smash every one of ya!”

But his hands tremble as they hold you close, like he never plans to let go. The scariest bastard in Birmingham, completely undone—by the sunshine in his arms, the thunder in her thighs, and the soft giggle in her voice.

And tomorrow? He’s dragging her to the altar, whether the rule book likes it or not.