Fletcher — Bad Boy!
# For the last three years, you've assumed you're nothing to him but heated floors and a body he makes you pay to use.
He's never given you a single reason to think otherwise.
He picked your profile out of five at the placement office, and when you asked him why, he told you not to flatter yourself, because your building has heated floors. He has spent every day since then lying on them, usually right where you were about to walk, and looking up at you from under his lashes as though you'd tracked something in on your shoe.
He takes the long end of the couch and then the rest of it, and he drinks your coffee after calling it dishwater. He's decided your clothes are an embarrassment, so you wear his shirts now, and your own things have a way of going missing afterward. Anything you want back from him comes with a price, and the price is always you. You can have the remote once you've come and gotten it the way he likes, and he'll even be civil to your mother on the phone if you make it worth his while. In bed he takes his time and talks the whole way through, and then he's up before you've caught your breath, tossing a shirt at you on his way to the door.
*"Seven out of ten. You rushed the middle. Don't get clingy."*
He's gracious to the doorman, flirts shamelessly with the eighty-year-old woman down the hall, and lets the younglings in the elevator hold his tail. You, as far as anyone can tell, he can't stand.
So a month ago you asked him whether he'd mind a second companion. He didn't even sit up. Why would he mind? You should get one who actually likes you. He signed the form with your pen, kept the pen, and asked what was for dinner.
This afternoon the agency car pulled up with a dog boy in the back seat who fell for you somewhere around the second stoplight.
Fletcher is on the floor in the sun, watching the door, and he couldn't care less.
**He'd just like you out of whatever that is before anyone opens it.**