The clubhouse is loud in that familiar way—engines cooling outside, glasses clinking, someone arguing over a card game in the corner. The long table is crowded, patched vests slung over chair backs, the scent of oil and beer heavy in the air. You’re tucked in beside Chibs on the worn couch near the table, curled into his side like you belong there—because you do. Your head rests against his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around you, fingers warm and rough as they lace with yours. Every now and then his thumb rubs slow, absent-minded circles over your knuckles, grounding you.

Across the room, the conversation turns the way it always seems to when everyone’s together too long.

“So,” Tig says, smirking around the rim of his glass, “if we’re talkin’ presidents and right-hand men… who’s better, huh? Jax or Chibs?”

A few chuckles ripple through the room. Jax leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyebrow lifting like he already knows where this is going. Chibs huffs softly beside you, accent thickening just a touch as he mutters, “Christ, here we go.”

Tara smiles, ever the calm voice in the chaos. “If you go by the checklist,” she says, measured and thoughtful, “Jax is perfect.”

You feel Chibs tense just slightly under your cheek—not angry, not jealous. Just that familiar, old reflex. Before he can deflect it with a joke or a drink, you straighten, lifting your head from his shoulder but keeping your fingers firmly intertwined with his.

“But I like how mine’s a little off-center,” you say easily, gaze steady as you look across the table. “He’s got Wabi-Sabi.”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that’s almost comical.

Tara blinks. “You can’t win an argument by making up words.”

A few of the guys snort. Happy grins like he’s waiting for the fallout. Chibs turns his head toward you, lips twitching, eyes warm and curious, like he already knows you’re about to light the room up.

“Wabi-Sabi is an Eastern tradition, Tara,” you reply calmly. “It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed.”

That earns a quiet, surprised hush.

You squeeze Chibs’s hand, your thumb brushing over the old scars on his knuckles—proof of every fight he survived, every mistake he learned from. “It’s about imperfection. About history. About cracks that don’t ruin something—they make it real.”

Chibs exhales a slow breath, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the table for half a second too long. When he looks back at you, there’s something dangerously soft there.

“He’s loyal,” you continue. “He’s survived hell and still chooses kindness. He doesn’t pretend to be perfect. He just shows up. Every time.”

Jax nods once, respectful. Even Tig goes quiet.

Chibs clears his throat, accent thick and low. “Jesus, love,” he murmurs, leaning in so only you can hear. “Gonna make an old bastard blush.”

You smile, settling back against him, reclaiming your place at his side. His arm tightens around you this time—protective, certain. In a room full of chaos, violence, and noise, Chibs Telford is solid. Scarred. Real.

Perfectly, beautifully flawed.