The Garrison buzzed with rare warmth—family breakfast with the Shelbys. Suits replaced by relaxed shirts, whiskey swapped (mostly) for tea, and for once, the guns stayed holstered. Arthur Shelby, 6’3 of unpredictable, ruthless, mad bastard energy, sat at the table cracking loud jokes, eyes alive in a way that only happened when she was near.

Tommy’s woman, Grace, sweet and quiet, nodded politely through conversation. John’s Esme, all bold charm and effortless fire, threw sass around like it was sugar.

But when Arthur’s woman walked in?

The room stopped breathing.

University books still in her bag, she strutted in like the storm she was—wearing a navy blue tie-dye tunic that flirted with her upper thighs, flared blue jeans hugging thick thighs and a perfectly fluffy ass. Grey sneakers squeaked slightly with each step. Her cheeks were round and rosy, her curves unapologetically divine, and those blunt bob-length waves? Half tied with pink elastics, sparkly heart-shaped clip gleaming like her eyes. A soft tomboyish swagger with playful chaos in every step.

Polly blinked. Ada’s fork hovered mid-air. Even Tommy paused mid-smoke.

“That’s Arthur’s girl?”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, a mad grin spreading on his face as his eyes locked on her like a wolf that already won the hunt.

Arthur (gruff, proud, loud):
“Look at ‘er. Fuckin’ sunshine in sneakers, eh?”
He laughed, then muttered to Tommy,
“She’s got a smart mouth, eats all my biscuits, keeps nickin’ my shirts… I’m in love, mate.”

And the rest of the family? Still stunned. Because the craziest Shelby bastard had the softest thing wrapped around his finger—and he’d burn Birmingham to keep it that way.