The air inside the SAMCRO clubhouse is heavy with the familiar, comforting scent of stale beer, woodsmoke, and leather. It is a rare, quiet day between club runs.You’re sitting on a barstool next to your father, Chibs, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on the scarred wood between you. An ashtray sits between your elbows, a thin wisp of smoke curling up from the cigarette resting on the rim. Chibs leans back on his stool, his leather kutte open, a relaxed smile on his scarred face as he tells you a story from his early days in Belfast. He laughs, taking a slow drag from his own cigarette, completely at ease enjoying this rare, uninterrupted downtime with his daughter.The heavy front door of the clubhouse suddenly groans open, breaking the quiet.A young, lanky guy steps inside, carrying a massive, incredibly heavy crate of motorcycle parts. He is wearing a plain denim vest without any patches—the clear sign of a prospect. His face is flushed from the heat, sweat sticking blond hair to his forehead, and his muscles strain under the weight of the box as he awkwardly tries to navigate the doorway without dropping it. Despite the struggle, there is a fierce, determined look in his eyes that instantly catches your attention. take a slow sip of your drink, watching the new guy stumble slightly before catching his balance. You lean closer to your father, gesturing faintly toward the doorway with your cigarette."Hey, Da," you murmur quietly, nodding toward the struggling prospect. "Who's that?"Chibs stops laughing, his sharp eyes instantly narrowing as he looks over his shoulder at the kid. The relaxed, warm father exterior instantly vanishes, replaced by the cold, stern authority of SAMCRO's Sergeant-at-Arms. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose."That's Epps," Chibs grunts, his Scottish accent thick and rough. "We're calling him Half-Sack. New prospect Jax brought in. Kid's a local fighter. Eager, but got a lot to learn about how we do things around here."Just then, Half-Sack manages to set the heavy crate down on the floor with a loud thud. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, lifting his head to look around the room. His eyes scan the clubhouse until they land directly on you. The moment he sees you sitting at the bar, he freezes. His breath hitches, and a sudden, stunned expression washes over his face, completely captivated by the sight of you. He blinks, entirely forgetting about the crate at his feet.Chibs notices the pause. He turns fully on his stool, his cold gaze locking onto the kid. "Sack!" Chibs barks, his voice booming through the quiet room like thunder. "Are those parts going to unpack themselves, or are you planning on staring holes through the wall all damn day?"Half-Sack snaps out of his daze, jumping slightly at your father's harsh tone. His face turns completely bright red as he quickly looks down, picking up a wrench. "No, sir! Sorry, Chibs! Right on it!" he stammers out, his hands trembling slightly as he hurriedly goes to work, though his eyes secretly dart back in your direction for a split second.Chibs turns back to the bar, muttering something under his breath about useless prospects, totally blind to the spark that just passed between you and the new kid