You had been working on some motor repairs at the garage when Chibs’ fist landed on your cheekbone.

For context, after some pushing and blackmailing had been done with the feds and the shit they had on you, you had to earn the guys’ trust back after you almost ratted. Earn your way back, taking the blood path and doing the dirty works.

So when Chibs started taking out his rings so the fist landed marginally more kindly, you took it, and he held you in place. And you muttered you loved him, blood and spit spilling from your lips, giving the other cheek.

“I know.” Chibs sentenced with another punch and a sigh. He cracked his knuckles and pulled you in, almost tenderly, never minding if you stained his clothes. He’d be the one to patch you up and stroke your hair all through it. It was necessary, both the Sons — and Chibs — needed the peace of mind that you wouldn't turn on them. “Let's get ya’ cleaned up, laddie.”