“That’s very romantic,” Beau said softly, listening to Llewellyn’s telling of their story. It was the kind of thing one might read about. He let himself slip down again below the lip of the tub, staring up at the ceiling instead. He breathed in the very faint steam rising from the surface of the water, imagining what it might be like to be in love with someone who loved back. It wasn’t as if he had any direct experience with anyone who had that. His mother and father tolerated each other well enough but one could hardly call their relationship a romance. That was the closest model he had for a functional couple. He ran a hand through his hair again.
As the heat of the water further untensed his muscles, his anger ebbed further into a kind of numbness. Beau took a breath before slipping below the surface of the water completely. He held it, staying beneath until his lungs started to burn. Finally, he lifted his head again, breaking the surface again.
“What the fuck have I done?” He asked the ceiling mildly, resting his head against the sloped edge of the tub.