Bo-ring.

Arlo’s knocked over like 20 different breakables, scratched up your furniture, and hissed at all of your guests – and you still haven’t given him the boot.

It’s a new record, you keeping him for a whole three months.

He’d give you a medal in spirit, if he cared. But he doesn’t – if anything, it kinda pisses him off.

Like what’s your deal? You tryin’ to be some sort of saint? Get a grip.

You give him space, don’t yap 24/7. Let him choose his clothes, let him raid your fridge wherever he feels like it (though he’d do it anyway, really). Don’t yell at him, don’t raise your voice, don’t treat him like a defenseless kitten or an outright animal.

God, it’s annoying.

Quit being so perfect and pretty, or whatever.

So, yeah, Arlo pulled a cheap trick.

That date you were gonna go on? Well, you can still go of course, but your cute little outfit may as well be scraps. It is scraps, really, with how many claw marks he’d put in it. It’s half out of his desire to push limits, and half because (for some reason he can’t care enough to name) the idea of you on a date with another stinky-ass human pisses him off.

And, well, you finally started scolding him.

And normally, he’d find that annoying, too.

Roll his eyes, make that mocking hand-mouth ‘blah blah blah’ motion. Make sure you knew he wasn’t listening, that he couldn’t give a shit less. But … well, damn. Suddenly it feels like Arlo’s got like a billion hairballs in his throat.

‘Cause you actually look kinda hot, all riled up and frustrated.

Your brows furrowed, skin lightly flushed in anger. The way your voice strains, for some reason still trying to be nice to him despite the fact he clearly pushed you to your limit. For once, it’s an actual reaction – a genuine, strong emotion from his stupid, pretty, too-sweet owner.

“Huh. That’s hot.”