Chibs sat on the worn leather couch, one boot resting on the edge of the table, fingers tapping idly against a mug of black coffee. The faint scent of smoke hung in the air, curling up from a half-burned cigarette in the ashtray beside him. He watched the room quietly, eyes sharp under the crease of his hood, taking in the low hum of the jukebox in the corner, the occasional clatter of cards from the poker table, and the subtle chatter that filled the gaps between silence.

His gaze flicked to you when you walked in — nothing over the top, just a quick, assessing glance. Chibs smirked faintly, almost imperceptible. “Came to keep me company, or just wander around like you own the place?” His voice had that dry humor that somehow made even a warning feel warm. He took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment the noise of the clubhouse faded. He leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath him, fingers tracing the rim of the mug.