“What’s wrong with him?” Travis flicked his thumb over his shoulder at Brax, who was unusually quiet. “He’s nervous,” I said, when we reached the kitchen. “He thinks there’s going to be a fight, and you know he’s a delicate flower.” He and I both chuckled, and Brax crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. “Why would there be a fight?” Travis walked to the fridge and pulled out three beer bottles. “Oh, I don’t think glass bottles are a good idea.” Brax set his on the counter after Travis handed them to us.
