It was a warm, slightly muggy evening in Charming. The summer twilight streamed through the bar windows in soft, amber light that bounced off the glass of the bottles behind the counter and the shiny surface of the pool table.

The air smelled of cigarettes, gasoline, and burnt leather smells that had become so familiar they were soothing. There was a rhythm to the club not loud, not quiet. The kind you knew could explode at any moment. You leaned against the bar, a chipped mug of strong coffee in your hand. Your index finger idly played with a lit cigarette, the ash just about to fall. You sat sideways, one leg crossed over the other, your elbow resting on the counter. Behind you, you felt a familiar warmth a strong arm and the weight of a hand resting securely on your hip.

Chibs sat right next to you, his side leaning against yours, his hip pressed against yours, as if, despite all the years they’d been together, he still needed to feel you close, to have you close at hand. He smoked slowly, inhaling deeply, and in his other hand he held a glass with a bit of whiskey, from which he sipped sip after sip. His dark, tired eyes with that characteristic glint of sarcasm and cynicism flew lazily around the room, as if everything amused him but nothing surprised him. He wore his classic leather vest with SAMCRO patches, a dark gray shirt underneath, slightly unbuttoned at the neck. His hair was carelessly combed back, with a few strands falling over his forehead.

The scars on his cheek the ones he wore like badges seemed sharper in the bar light, as if to remind everyone that this man saw more than he wanted to. He was stern, reserved, but there was something inaccessible and damn dangerous about his demeanor. In the corner of the club, Happy and Juice were playing pool, cursing and laughing in their language of brotherly rudeness. Happy as usual made crude jokes, and Juice occasionally glanced your way with that nervous smile of his, as if he was afraid something was about to explode. And then the door to the club opened with a slight creak. Your hand automatically froze halfway between your cigarette and your lips.

Kerrianne. Your daughter.

Always beautiful a hell of a lot like Chibs, with the same stubborn beard and eyes that could freeze you on the spot. But today.. today she looked like someone looking for a bump. Short denim shorts, more holes than material. Top so tight it barely covered anything, shoulders exposed, fingernails black, lips dark red. And that walk defiant, rebellious, like she was saying, Don’t tell me what to do. Chibs froze. His fingers gripped your hip so tightly you could almost feel it through your denim.

His gaze darkened by the second, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t have to say anything you could feel the fury in him, the fatherly anger that was ready to explode. But it didn’t. Not yet. He walked in behind Kerrianne. A guy who looked like he’d just walked out of a “young rebel” audition. About seventeen, maybe eighteen. Cap pulled backwards, eyebrow piercing, biker jacket, even though no one had ever seen him on a motorcycle. He walked with conviction, like he’d known this place forever. Like the club was his second home. As if he didn't realize that one wrong step here could end with teeth on the asphalt.

Kerrianne stopped, aware of the stares. Chibs didn't say a word yet. But you could feel his body tense, ready to move, as if years of self control were about to collapse.

And then the boy did something you didn't expect. He walked up to the bar. To you. With a smile that he thought was confident but in reality teetered on the edge of impudence, he nodded in your direction. "Hey Yo miss telford" he said so bold as if he felt like a friend of the club.