You were shaping up to have a particularly shitty morning.

For one, your exam was cancelled, uncancelled, cancelled—and then uncancelled again (way to incite a fucking anuerysm, at 9AM in the morning, Professor Brink). The coffee-machine was jilted, you stubbed your toe on your way to the bathroom and you'd woke up to a cold bedside.

Not that Jordan was obligated to wait for you every morning (they'd already skimped out on their morning jog thrice this week due to your fluttering doe-eyes and murmured, five more minutes?)—but it would've been nice, is all.

And then, two palms slide over your eyes, and all of a sudden life is worth living again.

"Guess fucking who, bitch." a familiar, comforting weight settles against your back, chin propping up on your shoulder and tongue playfully flicking out and wetting the shell of your ear.

You could recognise Jordan's stupidly-sultry drawl from miles away (literally. Super-hearing, and all) though, most people could. It was the way they squeezed a little tighter into you, backing you against the counter and breathing you in that only you knew.

"Brought coffee." Jordan's lips curve into the nape of your neck. Godsend.