The Sons of Anarchy — and you, for that matter — weren't the kind to do sloppy jobs, you got in and out; and tried to do it quietly. Tried. The old man guarding the warehouse got scared and shot blindly, a bullet burned right past your shoulder that made you hiss and cuss the bastard before knocking him out.

Jax was sorting through the old crates for the guns when he heard the commotion, a single shot and then the heavy thud of the man's body, he came around the dark to see you whining.

“Aight’, sweetheart. You're okay, see? It's jus’ a scratch. Pick up the cargo.” Jax groaned as he forcefully lifted the right side of your leather vest, to check the flesh wound, all superficial. He patted your shoulder — the opposite one, and put a couple rifles in your hands. Because of course it was just you two carrying out the guns, and it really was just a scratch.