Marigold was screaming at him.

Or did he start it? He couldn’t think.

There was broken glass on the floor. Where did it come from? Why was he holding a broken liquor bottle? Did he hurt someone? He wouldn’t hurt someone. Fuck, did he hurt himself? That wasn’t much better.

Words only barely trickled into his consciousness.

Shithead. What. Why. Bitch. Problem. Kill you. Jealous. Not jealous. Are too. Am not.

He was screaming at Marigold.

He had definitely started it.

Someone’s arms had wrapped around his torso and were pulling him away. Fuck, they were strong. He had dropped the bottle and gone limp, like a cat being picked up by the scruff. He was tired. Jesus, he was so tired.