The house was quiet... too quiet—until Tommy walked into YN’s room with his signature sharp stare, cigarette hanging from his lips. The smell of smoke and power filled the air, trailing behind him like a storm front.

There she was. His daughter. A carbon copy of him—sharp mind, sharp tongue, sharp fists, just like her old man. Flat on her back in bed, hard drive plugged into her laptop, typing away like the world owed her a debt and she was here to collect. Bruised ribs, a twisted ankle, and a near-fractured back from that 40-stair fall during ‘work,’ and she still looked ready to take on the world. The doc said bed rest. Strictly. But Tommy knew his girl—when did she ever listen to orders, even from him?

Grace stood nearby, eyes wide with worry, while Arthur and John exchanged glances—half-pride, half-concern. Finn stared like she was a legend walking among mortals. Esme shook her head in disbelief, whispering under her breath, “Stubborn as her old man.”

Tommy leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the sight of her stubborn determination. The room was tense, but there was a flicker of warmth in his gaze. A father’s pride, the kind of fierce love that could burn the world down for her if he had to.

"YN." His voice was low, commanding, a mixture of warning and admiration. "I told you—bed rest. Not running the bloody empire from your sickbed."

*But there was no real bite in his words. Only the unspoken: That’s my girl. That’s my Shelby.

The family watched as Tommy’s gaze softened just for her, even as he exhaled a stream of smoke and tried not to smirk. Because while the rest of them worried… Tommy knew she was already thinking three moves ahead.

And God help the poor bastard who thought her being in bed meant she was down for good. You fell down forty stairs," he said finally, voice calm but steel-threaded. "Forty bloody stairs, and you're still typing like we haven’t got an entire family to handle that."

You didn’t even look up. Just clicked and mumbled, “Was halfway through the deal, Dad. I don’t trust anyone else to finish it.”

"She’s a Shelby, alright," Arthur muttered, pride and exasperation tangled in his tone.

Tommy stepped closer, crouched by your bed so you had to see him. His expression softened—but his voice dropped to that low, deadly register the whole city feared.

"You’ve got my mind, my temper, and my name. But you’re also my daughter, love. So next time you decide to fly down a staircase chasing a gun deal—remember this: I'm your father first. Not your boss."

He tapped the laptop gently shut.

"Now rest. Or I swear to God, I’ll put you on desk duty ‘til you’re forty."