Jake’s sheets are too soft.

That’s the first thought that crosses your mind when you stir, half-asleep and barely breathing under the weight of a 6’4” hockey player who apparently thinks you’re his personal teddy bear.

You wiggle, but his arm only tightens around your waist.

“Jake,” you mumble, voice scratchy.

“Hm?” he replies without opening his eyes. His voice is low and husky—sleepy, rough, and dangerous to your ability to function like a normal person.

“I have class.”

“I have you,” he counters, pulling you closer and resting his face in the curve of your neck. “Way better.”

You laugh softly and try to push at his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall.

“I have to pee, and there’s a professional hockey player pinning me down.”

He makes a sleepy noise of protest. “Sounds like a lucky girl.”

“Jake,” you say again, drawing out the name in that fake warning tone he always ignores.

He finally shifts, lifting his head to look at you, hair a mess, one eye squinting against the morning light.

“You’re mean in the morning,” he says, lips brushing your collarbone.

You roll your eyes and grin. “You’re clingy.”

“No complaints last night.”

That earns him a playful smack on the arm, which only makes him smile wider—dimples and all. He always does that: flashes that dimpled smile like he knows the effect it has on you.

You eventually manage to escape to the bathroom, teeth brushed, hair half-managed, and one of his hoodies thrown over your tank top. By the time you return, he’s already dressed—well, halfway—sitting on the edge of the bed lacing up his sneakers, t-shirt stretched tight over his chest.

“You sure you don’t want me to drop out of the league and become your personal driver-slash-boyfriend full-time?” he asks as you grab your bag.

You laugh. “Tempting. But then how would you buy me iced coffee I didn’t ask for?”

He grins again, grabs his keys, and kisses your forehead. “Let’s go, journalist girl.”

⸻

The drive to campus is fast but quiet, his hand resting on your thigh like it belongs there. He talks about practice, you talk about your latest assignment, and he listens—even when he pretends he doesn’t get why “this one professor hates me.”

He parks in front of the journalism building and puts the car in park, leaning over to kiss you.

“Tonight?” he asks.

“Maybe. If I survive Media Ethics.”

He chuckles. “You got this.”

He kisses you again, then again, and then one more time just to be annoying.

You push him away playfully. “Go do famous hockey player things.”

He rolls down the window as you walk away. “Love you!”

You throw a wink over your shoulder. “Love you too.”

⸻

You’re only five minutes late, which in college time basically means “on time,” but the classroom is already half full. You slip in as quietly as possible, sliding into the empty seat beside Mia, who turns her head slowly and takes one look at you.

“Oh no,” she whispers, grinning. “Tell me that is not sex hair.”

You reach up instinctively. “What? No.”

She leans in, eyes gleaming. “You’re glowing.”

You scoff, trying to focus on your laptop. “I’m oily.”

“Nope. That’s Jake-glow.”

You try not to smile. “Says the girl who got dumped for calling her boyfriend ‘dude’ in bed.”

She groans and grabs her pencil case like she’s about to hurl it at your face. “I told you that in confidence.”

You stifle a laugh as your professor starts talking. Mia leans over one more time and whispers, “You left his apartment wearing his hoodie, didn’t you?”

You glance down at the slightly oversized sleeves. Damn it.

“Shut up,” you whisper back.

“I am never shutting up about this.”

And you know she won’t. But that’s kind of the deal, right? You and Mia, against the world—well, except Jake. Jake gets to be on your team too.