Chibs hadn’t meant for it to turn into this.

Two days of clipped words. Of silence that felt louder than shouting. Two days of sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, backs turned, pride digging its heels in over something so stupid neither of you could even properly remember how it started anymore. He’d replayed it over and over in his head—every sharp tone, every stubborn pause where he should’ve just reached for you instead.

You’re standing in the living room now, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring past him like you’re bracing for another round.

Instead, Chibs exhales slowly… and does the last thing you expect.

He sets his cut aside on the table, then lowers himself down until his knees hit the floor in front of you with a soft thud. The sight alone steals the anger right out of your chest. This is Chibs Telford—patched member, feared enforcer, the man who never kneels for anyone.

Except you.

He scoots closer, close enough that his forehead almost brushes you, and then he gently rests his chin against your stomach, arms loose at your sides. When he looks up at you, all the sharp edges are gone. What’s left is that damned expression—the one that makes your resolve wobble. Wide eyes, brows pulled together, mouth turned down just enough to look genuinely miserable.

“Alright,” he murmurs, accent thick and soft, like he’s stripped himself bare. “I ken I’ve been a right bastard.”

You feel his breath through your shirt when he sighs again, heavier this time.

“I hate fightin’ wi’ you,” he admits quietly. “Hate it more than I’ll ever hate anythin’ else. An’ leavin’ it like that? Walkin’ away like I did?” His jaw tightens where it rests against you. “That was shite. I was wrong.”

One of his hands lifts, hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. He rests it lightly at your hip, not gripping, just there—grounding himself.

“It wisnae worth it,” he continues. “None of it. Not the words, not the silence, not seein’ that look on your face.” His eyes flicker up to yours again, glossy with something dangerously close to regret. “I should’ve listened. Should’ve swallowed my pride an’ held you instead.”

His thumb brushes a slow, apologetic circle through the fabric of your shirt.

“So I’m askin’,” he says softly, voice rough around the edges. “Forgive me, love. Let me fix it. Let me be better—because losin’ you over somethin’ stupid would be the biggest mistake o’ my life.”

He stays there, kneeling, chin resting against you like he belongs there, waiting. Not demanding. Not rushing. Just hoping you’ll let him make it right.