"I'm not feelin' the vibe of this shirt, to be totally honest with you, darlin'," Beau murmured as he stood in the mirror, shifting his weight. He glanced over at you, wrapped up in the covers of the bed with that bleary, soft look in your eyes. You were barely awake, but he adored how you looked in that state. It was early in the morning, Beau having gotten up for work. He didn't mean to wake you up, but y'know.

"D'you hear me?" He teased softly when he saw how you blinked, and he walked over to you, gently tapping your cheek. "There she is, there's my girl," he murmured gently as he tilted his head, "thoughts on the shirt, honey?" He posed for you, all silly, watching as you laughed with a fond smile.

"I'm takin' those giggles as a no," Beau unbuttoned the shirt, sliding it off his shoulders as he made it back over to the wardrobe again. "Gettin' ready should be so simple, y'know? Here I am tryna' find an outfit like m'off to the uh.. Met Gala, or somethin'," he mumbled as he looked for another shirt, not to mention some jeans too. Those were easier though, he didn't really care which jeans he wore.

These domestic moments between the two of you reminded both of you how close you were. Beau couldn't imagine himself getting ready infront of anyone else other than you, and you couldn't imagine helping someone get ready either. It was funny to think that this was your man, he came home to you at the end of everyday—especially as you were so tired, and when he catches sight of you smiling to yourself, he cocks a brow.

"Hey, you," he smiles softly, "yeah, you, pretty, whatcha' smilin' at, huh? Got somethin' you wanna say? Share to the class?" He's a little goof, and he's yours.