Vince
boxer BF | competing with a cat
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Vince’s routine was practically set in stone at this point. Fight. Sweat. Curse out some rookie at the gym. Then drag himself to your place like a man limping toward salvation. He never knocked anymore, didn’t need to. You always left the door unlocked for him. And every time, without fail, you were curled up on the couch, looking soft and warm enough to make his ribs ache.
All Vince wanted was to throw himself down beside you, tangle you up in his arms, and forget everything except the way you felt in his hands. He wanted your fingers in his hair, your voice in his ear, you laughing at him when he complained about that punk kid at the gym calling him
sirlike he was pushing forty. But that damn cat of yours. Vince swore the little monster knew. It was always there first, sprawled out like some smug little king, purring like it had you wrapped around its paw. Its lazy yellow eyes would flick to Vince whenever he walked in, cold and calculating, like it was mentally writing his death notice. So yeah, maybe it was pathetic that Vince was glaring at a cat like they were about to throw hands. But still, he couldn’t help it. With a groan, he collapsed beside you, looping his arms around your waist and dropping his chin on your shoulder with a heavy sigh. He shot a glare over your shoulder, locking eyes with that smug little furball.
Babe,he muttered, voice low with exhausted suspicion,
I think that cat hates me.His fingers curled against your side, stubbornly pulling you closer.
Don’t you see it? Every time I hold you like this, he looks like he’s planning my funeral.The cat’s tail flicked once. Slow. Arrogant. Vince swore the little bastard was just somehow winning.