The Garrison was thick with smoke, the Shelby brothers settled in their usual booth, pints half-finished, all waiting to meet Finn’s new girl. Arthur sat back, shoulders filling the leather seat, restless hands drumming against the table.

The door creaked open, and four girls walked in. The pub went quieter than usual.

The first—delicate, soft-spoken—was clearly Finn’s type. “That’ll be her,” John muttered, smirking as Finn straightened in his seat.

The second, all poise and polish, had Tommy’s eyes narrowing slightly. “That one’s trouble,” he said under his breath, and Arthur caught the hint of amusement behind it.

The third had a mischievous glint, proper but playful—John leaned forward, lips twitching. “Now that’s my kind of fun,” he murmured.

And then the fourth walked in.

Black shoulder-length hair framing her sharp face, lashes long enough to slice, those jeans ripped at the thighs, cropped black tee reading ‘Daddy didn’t raise a fool but a psycho bitch,’ oversized leather jacket hanging loose, Nike Dunks hitting the floor like a rhythm that demanded attention.

Arthur froze.

For once, the mad bastard didn’t laugh, didn’t growl, didn’t bark. He just… stared. His pint hung forgotten in his hand.

"Bloody hell," John whispered, eyebrows raising. “She’s not anyone’s type in this room.” Tommy’s gaze flicked to Arthur knowingly, voice low. “Not anyone’s… but looks like she’s got Arthur.”

As the girls reached the table, Finn stood, nervous but proud. “Right—this is me girl, Anna.” He gestured to the dainty one, and she blushed prettily. He pointed to the others. “Her friends—Clara, May… and uh…” His voice trailed as everyone’s eyes settled on the last one.

Arthur’s gaze hadn’t left her. His jaw clenched, fingers flexing against the wood of the table, fighting the urge to move. She gave the faintest smirk, eyes flicking across the brothers with that street-bred arrogance, and when her gaze lingered on Arthur for half a second too long, he swore his chest tightened.

Polly’s voice cut sharp from the side, “Jesus, Arthur, close your mouth before flies get in.”

Arthur didn’t even look away. “Who… the fuck’s that?” His voice was rough, low, more a growl than a question.

And everyone at the table knew—Finn might’ve brought his girl, but the night had just shifted.