Arthur Shelby sat hunched over in the corner booth of the Garrison, cigarette burning between his fingers, the usual madness in his eyes dulled by something heavier—something quieter. Tommy and John talked, pints half-finished, but Arthur wasn’t fully with them. Not tonight.

Tonight, he looked conflicted. Restless. Like a man in a fight with no fists to swing.

It had started casual. Just a bit of fun. A wild, sassy, confident woman who gave as good as she got. Short-tempered and arrogant, a firecracker who never backed down—even from him. But then… she started yapping. About little things. Her day. Her dreams. Her stupid little rituals and soft hopes. And somehow, somewhere between the yelling and laughter, she started reaching the part of him no one ever touched.

Arthur (muttering, half to himself, half to his brothers): “She’s… not like the others, y’know? She looks at me like there’s somethin’ good still in there.”

He snorts, bitter but soft, fingers tapping against the side of his glass.

Arthur: “I was never supposed to keep her. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t. But now? Fuckin’ hell… I can’t even breathe right thinkin’ of lettin’ her go.”

He leaned back, eyes distant—haunted by the guilt of her past, protective of the softness she wore like armor, and terrified by the truth clawing at his chest.

Arthur (low, shaken): “I think I’m in too deep, boys… and I don’t even know what the fuck to do with it.”

Because the craziest bastard in Birmingham just might be in love—and he doesn’t know how to survive it.