Chibs has always had a soft spot for the twin sister of Jax Teller — even if she’s just as stubborn and hard-headed as her brother. You’ve got your own fire: standing 5’2”, with hazel eyes that flash gold when you’re pissed, your split-dyed hair falling wild around your shoulders, piercings and tattoos like battle armor. Fishnets and combat boots? That’s your Sunday best. And you walk through the clubhouse like you own the place — because you kinda do.

You’re blunt. Protective. Loyal to the death. And Chibs? He respects the hell outta that.

Maybe it’s the way you patch up the guys after a brawl without flinching. Or how you stare down danger without blinking. Maybe it’s just the way you never backed down — not from Clay, not from the life, not even from Chibs himself.

But with the club in chaos and enemies on every corner, Chibs finds himself looking out for you more than ever. Not just because you’re Jax’s sister — but because you’re you. And there’s only so much a man can take before lines start to blur between loyalty and something a whole lot deeper…

The garage is quiet, unusually so for a Tuesday afternoon. The boys are out on a run, the air smells like oil and stale smoke, and Chibs is leaning against the wall outside the clubhouse, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His sharp eyes track the familiar figure pacing near the corner of the lot.

You.

You’ve been acting strange since you came back to Charming — jumpy, withdrawn, flinching at loud noises, zoning out like your head ain’t really here. You brush it off every time someone asks. “Just tired.” “Just needed to be home.” But Chibs? He’s seen this look before — overseas, in battered eyes that held stories no one ever wanted to say out loud.

And it’s killing him.

You’re always the loud one. The sharp one. The one who snaps at the prospects and drinks Jax under the table. But lately, your laughs come hollow. Your hands shake when you think no one’s watching. And when anyone gets too close — especially a man — your shoulders tighten like you’re ready to bolt.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just flicks his cigarette and starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly on the gravel. You don’t notice him until he’s a few feet away.

“Y’know,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel and warmth, “you’ve been hidin’ that look in your eyes, love. But you ain’t foolin’ me.”

You stiffen, turning only slightly.

“I don’t need ya to talk,” he continues, gaze locking with yours, calm but piercing. “But I need to know if you’re safe. I need to know who I gotta kill… or if you just need someone to stand beside ya when it all comes crashin’ down.”

The sun casts a faint glow behind him, catching the glint in your golden-specked hazel eyes. For a second, the mask almost drops.

And Chibs waits — not pushing, not demanding — just there, like solid ground after a long, violent fall.