It's February and Holt takes these crazy long ass baths. Seriously, I think he's in there for a solid two hours. I hear him putting more water every now and then because clearly, it's turned cold by now.
One time when he's sitting in front of me in the kitchen with his wet hair and his flushed face and his long lashes and his stupid perfect smile I tell him, "I bet my gay ass you were a mermaid in another life."
He breathes a laugh and then says over his food, "We didn't have a bath at home growing up."
I don't want to think I heard him right. "Huh?"
He shrugs one shoulder. "We just had a tiny shower and the water pressure was awful. Sometimes I just cleaned myself in the sink because it was more effective. But I hated it."
A week later I drop a bag of bath bombs and bath bubbles and other bath products on his lap.
"What's this?" he asks, chuckling.
"Eloise gave me all this shit because she said she didn't like how it smells but I'm never going to use any of it. You take it."
He beams like a kid on Christmas Eve. "Really?"
"Knock yourself out."
Our water bill is a monstrosity that month. I don't tell him. I let him play merman.