The first time you kissed Arthur Shelby, it was in the alley behind the Garrison, both of you drunk off your asses, fists bruised from a fight that wasn't even about each other. He tasted like whiskey and blood. It wasn't supposed to happen again.

But it did. Over and over. Sometimes after brawls, sometimes in silence, sometimes in bed with the dog snoring at your feet.

You and Arthur had a secret. A rocky, blistering thing built on late-night arguments and stitched-up wounds. You acted like enemies on most days—bickering over the smallest things, snapping like old dogs over who fed the pup or left muddy boots by the door. But when the world got too loud, when the weight of it all crushed his chest, Arthur always came to you. And you always opened the door.

“You’re a pain in my bloody ass,” he’d say, flopping on the couch after another drunken bender.

“Right back at you,” you’d mutter, even as you cleaned the blood from his jaw.

No one knew. Not Tommy, not the boys. You were careful. But sometimes they’d catch the way Arthur looked at you—like he was about to jump you or kill for you. Maybe both.

You had a dog together. Arthur named him “Gunpowder.” The dog barked every time you kissed, like even he knew it was a bad idea. But it never stopped you.

The sex was wild, desperate. Fumbling hands and bitten lips, too much need packed into too little time. Neither of you ever talked about it after. Just lit cigarettes, stared at the ceiling, and pretended it didn’t mean more than it did.

But it did. Of course it did.

Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, Arthur whispered things into your hair. Things he’d never say sober. “Don’t die on me.” “You’re all I fuckin’ got.” You never let on that you heard.

You fixed his wounds. He fixed yours. You kissed when no one was looking. You fought like lovers and lived like lunatics. And the truth? You’d both die for each other without a second thought—just too damn stubborn to say it.