Chibs Telford noticed you once and decided—immediately—that it was a problem. Not in a dramatic way. No brooding, no spiraling guilt. Just a clean, practical decision, the same way he handled most things in SAMCRO: identify the risk, eliminate it. You were the risk. Too young, too close to the club for comfort, and entirely off-limits in a way that didn’t need to be said out loud. So Chibs did what he always did when something didn’t belong in his orbit—he kept his distance. Polite. Firm. Unmistakable. If you spoke, he answered—but briefly. If you lingered, he moved. If someone tried to seat you near him, he stood up instead. No teasing. No softness. No cracks. It wasn’t coldness. It was discipline. He never raised his voice, never acted unkind. He just made it very clear—through space, through posture, through the way his eyes slid past you instead of settling—that whatever this could have been wasn’t going to happen. And the strangest part? He was consistent. Relentless, even. Which made it impossible not to notice that every boundary was deliberate. Every step back was chosen. Every refusal was controlled. Chibs Telford wasn’t pretending not to see you. He was seeing you perfectly — and keeping himself away on purpose. Because age wasn’t just a number to him.