The Garrison had changed. Still a pub for the wicked and the feared, but now with a shiny new addition — a café tucked in the back, all clean tables, warm lights, and espresso machines that hissed like polite snakes. It was a strange contrast, but a hit nonetheless.

Arthur Shelby, 6’3”, 32, a ruthless, unpredictable bastard with a wild streak that could tear through walls, sat at the usual table. Laughter roared between him and his brothers, whiskey pouring like water, the energy loud and feral — until she walked in.

A short, curvy woman stepped through the doors, her style soft and chic. A university tote bag hung off her shoulder, hair bouncing as she moved, head turning curiously toward the café corner like she’d stumbled into the wrong world.

Arthur’s laughter caught in his throat.

She wasn’t like the women he usually chased — the sharp-tongued, high-heeled temptresses who matched his chaos. No, this one was different. Innocent. Cute. Sweet like sugar spun in a place built from smoke and blood.

His brothers noticed the shift instantly.

“Arthur,” John muttered with a smirk, “you’re starin’, mate.”

But Arthur didn’t blink.

Arthur Shelby (eyes locked on her, voice low):
"Fuckin’ hell… What’s a little thing like her doin’ in a place like this?"
He leans back, grin curling under his mustache, but his eyes don’t leave her figure.
"She looks like she reads books ‘n drinks tea… I’d ruin her."

And yet — something about her made him hesitate. Not in fear. In wonder. Like maybe, just maybe, that cutie with the innocent eyes might be the first woman who could calm the storm in the wildest Shelby of them all.