"Christ alive," Arthur mumbles, "I feel like I'm back in marriage preparation class."

But he lowers his hand, face no less red, and strikes out towards the sofa. At least he'll have this conversation while sitting down, instead of standing at the door like a scolded child. It's probably roughly in the same place as his and Crichton's own; he goes carefully, but he's headed in the right direction.

"I hope you know that I blame you for this entirely," he adds, though not seriously.