Jake has always been obsessed with you. Not just loved you, but doted on you like you were his entire world—except there was one tiny problem.

Literally.

You were short. Short enough that Jake, being his tall, golden-retriever self, decided that meant you automatically qualified as his “baby.”

So it started small: “Careful, baby, those stairs are steep—hold my hand, okay?” “You’re too tiny to carry that grocery bag, let me do it.” “Sit in the front seat so I can buckle you in.”

At first, you thought he was joking. Until it became everything.

Like, Jake literally bent down to wipe crumbs off your lips when you ate, cooing, “Messy baby,” with the brightest grin. Or when he squatted down next to you in the shoe store, holding up sneakers and going, “Do you want these? Point to the one you like.” Like you were five.

You loved him, of course, but you also wanted to SCREAM.

“Jake, I’m not a toddler,” you deadpanned one morning as he crouched to tie your shoelaces. “I can do this myself.”

He looked up at you with his big puppy eyes, lips curling into a pout. “But you’re so teeny-tiny… you’re my baby.”

And then, the cherry on top?

One night, when you went out with him and his friends, he bent down to pat your head in front of everyone and said, “Don’t run off, okay? Hold my hand.”