[ Bastien hates it. His expression darkens by hardly moving at all—a slight adjustment of the eyebrows, a sharpness in the eyes, a few degrees of a head tilt that means stop that. ]

We weren't. I was. Because I like—my stuff,

[ is true, but ridiculous, and only there as a form of hesitation before he progresses on to the deeper admission it'd taken him some stewing to understand, ]

and having some authority and knowing where I should put my damn bag.

[ He's still clutching it. But acknowledging it is the incentive he needs to stop and instead pretend to be someone who feels entitled to put it wherever he wants. He chooses a stray chair in the corner, his voice rising to keep reaching through the door as he moves further away from it. ]

But I love you, and you deserve better, and I'm sorry, and I wasn't cross with you at all until, [ in a poor imitation of Byerly's accent but an excellent imitation of his intonation, ] Were you being a pain in the ass? What would I be angry about?

[ Hat, coat. They also go on the chair. So far his forcibly faked presumption only encompasses rights to the chair. Maybe he will also sleep on the chair. ]