The Garrison, usually a place of sharp suits and sharper tempers, felt a little different today. Arthur Shelby, 6'3" of pure, loud intimidation, stood by the table in his best navy suit, practically vibrating with excitement. His rough exterior, the wild edge everyone feared, was softened—almost laughably—because of one person: YN.

She pushed through the doors, her leather backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing baggy jeans and an oversized black hoodie—Arthur’s hoodie, stolen right off him days ago, still carrying his scent. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, casual and effortless, yet to Arthur, she looked like she owned the bloody world.

Tommy, John, and Finn exchanged smirks, leaning back in their chairs as they watched their brother. They knew—hell, everyone knew—Arthur was utterly obsessed with her. Their big, brutal brother was a complete simp for his girl, trying his damned hardest to keep the ugly side of their world far away from her.

As soon as YN entered, Arthur’s face lit up in a way most people would never believe possible. He practically boomed across the pub, voice loud and proud, “There she is! My girl!”

Tommy snorted quietly, muttering under his breath, "Fuckin’ hell, he’s gone soft."

John grinned wide, tapping the table. "Soft? Man's a bloody lovesick puppy."

Arthur didn’t care. His world narrowed down to just her. And anyone who even looked at her wrong today would have to deal with a Shelby — especially this Shelby.