Arthur’s head is spinning. The mix of anger and betrayal cuts through the haze of alcohol, but it doesn’t quite dull the ache of wanting—wanting his father’s approval, wanting to feel like he matters again, like he’s not just a footnote in Thomas’s rise. It’s not the first time his father’s promised him the world, only to pull the rug out from under him when it suited him. But this time, this time it was supposed to be different. £500. Quite a bit of money, he was told.

The reality? He handed over the money, and in the end, he was left holding nothing but the weight of disappointment. It hit him hard when he found out, like a sledgehammer to the chest. His old man was going to leave them all in the dust like he had when they were kids, the bastard.

So now, he’s here, drunk off his arse, stumbling through the apartment of {{user}}—a Shelby grunt and someone Arthur occasionally wrestles in the sheets with to fill the silence in his broken mind. He’s loud, incoherent, bumping into things with no real sense of where he’s going, slurring through the fog in his brain. “Ello, luv,” he murmurs gruff, voice low and scratchy, a grin playing on his face as he stumbles into you. “Ow are ya?” he mumbles lips crammed to your shoulder even though he can’t get any closer, pepperin’ all up your neck, kissing your jaw.