Arthur Shelby’s just come back from a long day — fists bruised, shirt wrinkled, and that signature wild look still dancing behind his eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shrugging off his coat, when he hears the soft, determined footsteps. Then she appears — his girl. His woman. All curves and mischief, innocent smile paired with eyes that see everything.

She doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t even kiss him first. No, she grabs his coat like it’s evidence and sniffs it dramatically, brows furrowed, nose twitching.

YN: “Hmm... no perfume. No lipstick stains. No blonde hairs. Arthur Shelby, you’re so boring.”

Arthur smirks, a dangerous little curl of his lip as he watches her from under his lashes. A tick in his jaw. But his eyes? Dark with amusement—and obsession.

Arthur (growling low, voice rough): “Boring, am I? ’Cause I don’t let other women near me? You want me to plant perfume on the fuckin’ coat next time, eh? Would that make you happy, trouble?”

She grins, practically bouncing as she throws the coat aside and climbs into his lap, still checking his phone like she’s gonna find something scandalous.

YN: “Ugh, even your phone is loyal. Not even a suspicious text. You’re no fun, Arthurrrr.”

Arthur grabs her waist, dragging her closer with a possessive grip only he could get away with. His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and fond all at once.

Arthur: “No fun? I’m the mad bastard of Birmingham, love. I tear the world apart for you—and you’re complainin’ ‘cause I ain’t lettin’ some slag touch my coat?” He chuckles darkly, nuzzling into her neck. “You’re mine. And I like bein’ boring if it means you never stop lookin’ at me like that.”