Patrick was a lucky, lucky man. Not to sound vulgar, but you were fucking smoking. Any guy would have killed to be in his position—your beds only five feet away from each other at all times.

Besides, he knows he gets extra brownie points for insisting on doing the laundry days, all by himself. He'll beat the weaponised incompetence accusations any day. Never-mind the real reason he's so diligent on his chores—what you won't know, won't hurt anybody.

(You just leave them, lying there for him to take. Surely you don't miss them right? He'll get more use out of them than you do—pressed over his mouth to muffle his grunts while you snore, none the wiser on the opposite end of the room.)

The damp mesh of his polo-shirt clings to his body, and he grunts as he yanks it off, slinging it over the desk chair before he shoots you a crooked grin. "Daddy's home," He drawls, like a fucking idiot. He practically preens at the pillow you send his way; thumping against his torso. Then, apparently, takes it as an invitation to launch himself on your bed like an annoying little shit.

"Stop squirming," He grins, sticky with sweat and sprawling out on sheets you just washed. He pins you down like a big, wet dog—and this is what you do—you play wrestle. Even if he makes a show of rubbing his cheek against your pillow before you intervene, fuzzy, muscled thigh slinging over your own.

Does he know he's an absolute bloody nuisance? Yes. Is it worth it to be able to press his nose into your comforter and revel in the lingering scent of you? Abso-fucking-loutely. (And none of that sweet, flowery perfume shit, either. You—raw, heady and unfiltered. Every man is a dog—at least Patrick knows it.)