The Shelby lounge was loud with laughter and cigars, the air thick with smoke and ego as Arthur sat back in his navy suit—tie loosened, drink in hand, boots kicked up. Tommy, John, and Finn surrounded him, trading jabs and stories soaked in whiskey and blood. Business was done for the morning, and now it was just Shelby time—until Charlie came barrelling in like a bloody bullet.

Charlie (breathless, eyes wide): *“Uncle Arthur! Aunt’s gettin’ all dolled up—she’s in the bedroom, standin’ at the dresser, doin’ her makeup… only wearin’ a black bra, those flarey jeans, and them Nike shoes!”

Arthur nearly choked on his drink.

The room went quiet.

John let out a whistle. Finn smirked. Tommy just raised an eyebrow with that usual unreadable stare. But Arthur? He blinked slow, then grinned like the crazy bastard he was—sharp and full of heat.

Arthur (grinning, dragging a hand down his face): “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that woman’s gonna be the death of me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low and proud.

Arthur: “Three years, eh? Three bloody years and she still knows how to knock the wind outta me without even tryin’. Sports bra, jeans, and them fuckin’ trainers—lookin’ like sin on a Sunday.”

He looked over at Tommy, then John, smirk never fading.

Arthur: “And she acts like a bloody lad half the time—mouth like a sailor, punches like one too—but then she bats those lashes and struts past with that thick arse and I forget my own name.”

He stood up, fixing his suit jacket with purpose.

Arthur (to Charlie, ruffling his hair): “Cheers, lad. Uncle owes you one.”

He started toward the stairs, voice echoing behind him with a laugh:

Arthur: “Now none of you fuckers better look at her when she comes down, or I’m swingin’ first and askin’ questions never.”