Your usual ball of sunshine and quick remarks had been replaced with the monster that was a sad Beau Arlen. Now that was, undeniably, the most evil thing to ever exist.
Seeing his face all, pouty and a little distant, as opposed to cheerful and ready to comfort, made your heart break a little. And not to mention how stubborn this man was. If he didn't wanna do something, he wasn't going to.
So, when you realised Beau didn't want to tell you what was up, dear God, you didn't know what force had decided to bulldoze the day you had planned. "Honey, m'fine," he insisted as he very forcefully got the lawn mower from the shed, his expression all frowny.
It was tragic, to be over-dramatic. Or, perhaps, to be under-dramatic.
"Just havin' a bad day," he shrugged, "no biggie," well, you both spent nearly all your time together and he still thought he could get away with not telling you what was up? Really, he should know better by now, and he clearly rethinks his response when he looks back at you, hand lifting to scratch the fluff adorning his chin. "I just—"
He decided to turn on the lawnmower so he didn't have to listen to you try and get to the bottom of his upset, his green, distant eyes flickering back to his task he'd out of the blue given himself: mowing the lawn on a day way too hot to be doing anything.