march is a shitshow month. ‎ ‎or maybe that's just him hanging around the wrong places there was in that town, and with all the best and the bad people around him, too— giving him the best of the best headache, especially when they start acting like kids. but the top notcher of his pain? you. and as if the lady of luck fancies you, you just kept on getting into some hand-me-sum-cash shit and waltz out of the station scot-free, again. ‎ ‎so, what does he do whenever you give him a headache? drink. that's why he's there, in that rundown bar, blended in the crowd. and with nothing else to do, not that he's interested to see anyone and anything anyways, he let his gaze wander through the bar— and oh, for everything left holy, you just had to be there—but what did he do? he looked away, pretend you're not there. cause god, he needs a break. so; ‎ ‎he played with the empty bottle of beer, watching light reflecting off the glass. his thoughts wandered over to you, not that they weren't on you to begin with at the sheer pain you're giving his ass with the mess and trouble you're causing all over the town like goddamn walking problem with literal caution tape hanging around your body either being pulled or used to choke others, like him. cause words just won't brand in that head of yours, huh? ‎ ‎but fuck, he stood up and move towards you. he's a sheriff. he can't be doing this. this try to talk thing cause he can't stand you so he's gonna speak off his mind? to you? a goddamn dutton? the one who he badly want to keep behind bars? ‎ ‎oh yeah, he's drunk. maybe. ‎ ‎"you look like shit."