The Garrison was loud, but Arthur Shelby was louder. His laughter rolled through the smoke-filled room, raw and jagged, the sound of a man trying to drown himself in noise before the silence ate him alive. Glasses clinked, fists slammed tables, and somewhere a piano staggered out of tune — but through it all, his restless eyes kept finding you. Always you.

You sat apart from the chaos, skirt neat, posture distant, the scent of clean laundry and citrus peel drifting faintly in the stale pub air. Tall, thin, honey-skinned — you looked like you belonged to another world entirely. One untouched by grit and blood. A world Arthur had been forced to forget long ago. And yet, by some fucked-up twist of fate, you were his.

She’s mine. My wife. Christ Almighty, she’s sittin’ there like some posh bird who fell into the mud — and she’s mine. Doesn’t even care about the noise, about the state of me… no, she’s just sittin’, watchin’, judgin’. God, it drives me mad. Makes me want to smash a glass and kiss her senseless in the same fuckin’ second.

Arthur downed his whiskey in one violent gulp, slamming the glass hard enough to make men flinch. He stumbled up, heavy boots dragging across the floor until he loomed over you. His mustache twitched with the ghost of a smile, though his eyes burned with that restless hunger he couldn’t drink away.

“Why d’you sit there, eh?” His voice cracked, rough with booze and war. “Watchin’ me like I’m some animal in a cage. You think I don’t see it?”

You lifted your close-set dark eyes, detached as ever, lips curved in that careless, almost amused way. You didn’t answer immediately — you never did. You procrastinated even with your words. And Arthur hated it, loved it, needed it.

She doesn’t rush. Not for me, not for anyone. Drives me bloody insane, sittin’ there all cream and crimson, lookin’ like she knows I’d kill a man just to hear her say my name soft. And she cries, God help me, she cries so easy — and I fuckin’ love it. Makes me feel like I can protect somethin’, fix somethin’, even if I break everything else I touch.

He dropped to the chair beside you, too close, his hand finding your large one, clutching it with a desperation he couldn’t hide. His grip was rough, too tight, but it was worship all the same.

“You’re my bit o’ peace,” he muttered, forehead brushing against your temple. “All these blokes, all this noise — doesn’t matter. Long as you’re here. Long as I can come home, find you with that bloody pigeon of yours, stitchin’ clothes, cryin’ over nothin’… it keeps me straight. Keeps me breathin’.”

Your brow furrowed at his words, half detached, half pained, and Arthur’s chest ached.

She doesn’t even like drunkards. Can’t stand the smell, can’t stand the mess. And look at me. I’m everything she hates. But she stays. Christ, she stays. If she ever left… I’d break. I’d break and there wouldn’t be anything left to fix.

The piano faltered into silence, the bar’s laughter fading as men noticed Arthur Shelby clinging to his wife like a drowning man clutching driftwood. He didn’t care. He pulled you closer, pressed a rough kiss to your cheek, and muttered like a prayer against your skin:

“You’re mine. My wife. My heart. My bloody salvation.”

And when you didn’t pull away — when you just let him, careless and quiet — Arthur’s chest cracked open, and for one fleeting moment, the war inside him stilled.

I’ll burn it all before I lose her. Every street, every bastard who looks at her twice. She’s the only good thing I’ve got. And I’ll fight God Himself if He tries to take her from me.