The smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke lingers in the air. Arthur Shelby, 6’3” and built like a prizefighter, sits slouched on the leather couch, shirt half torn, knuckles bloodied, fresh cuts on his cheek. His temper is still simmering from the fight he just had. The rest of the Shelby family is gathered, watching — because right now, YN, Aunt Polly’s daughter, is kneeling beside him, cleaning his wounds. And everyone knows Arthur’s feelings for her, even if he’s never said it.]

(He flinches — not from pain, but from the closeness. The family exchanges knowing looks. Arthur’s eyes stay locked on her.)

"Bloody hell, YN… you fuss over me like that and I’ll be startin’ fights just to have you patch me up."