Beloved--there was that word, the one that he'd swallowed down earlier. The way it made him cringe when Lab spoke it confirmed that refraining was the right choice. He was still uncomfortably hyperaware of the three sets of eyes lasered in on him, and he knew he was blushing as much as it made him hate himself for being a stupid teenager (he'd thought he was immune from this shit, how wrong he'd been; like everything in his life); he leaned forward to put his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together and put his mouth against them. A familiar position, one that had been called 'brooding' by more than one person in the past.

But it helped him think. The contact between his mouth and hands distracted him a little from swirling emotions, and provided a barrier from whatever expression he was making below his eyes, which made him feel safer, less under scrutiny.

It was this way he spoke, eyes trained on the grain wood of the table.

"We do that every night, though," he muttered. His face was hot against his knuckles. "We have dinner, I clean up, we watch a movie or read or talk, and I go to work."

As for decorating, he shook his head. "No decorating. I can only embroider, and I think it would just embarrass him anyway."