I’ve set six alarms.

Six.

And not one of them can convince me to leave this bed.

The first one goes off at 4:45 a.m., screaming like it’s trying to save my life.

(the user) shifts slightly, half-asleep, half-judging me. Her leg hooks over mine, like she’s trying to trap me here—which, rude—but also, exactly what I want.

Second alarm. 4:50. Still pitch black outside. Still illegal to be awake. Still ignoring it.

“That’s the second one,” she mutters, voice scratchy and smug.

“You’re counting?” I groan.

“Mhm.” Her fingers lazily trail along my back like she’s drawing invisible hearts or cursing me, not sure which. Doesn’t matter. I’m not moving. If I stay still enough, maybe I’ll become part of the mattress and Haas will have no choice but to race without me.

My hand finds her waist under the duvet, slipping beneath her shirt—because one, it’s warm, and two, I’m needy. Physical touch? Yeah. That’s how we work. Hugs, kisses, forehead bumps, clingy cuddles at 5 a.m.—it’s basically our native language.

And we’re fluent. Very.

Another alarm. Louder this time. 4:55. My phone’s clearly panicking. Good. It should.

“You could help me out,” I mumble. “Beg me to stay. Say something sweet. Throw your body across mine. I’m weak, you know.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re also jealous.” She says, turning her face toward mine, nose brushing against my cheek.

Ah. There it is.

I roll onto my back, arm still around her waist. “I’m not jealous,” I lie, unconvincingly.

She lifts an eyebrow. “The Nike shoot?”

“I just think it’s fascinating,” I say, totally not bitter, “that they paired you with a six-foot-three model with cheekbones that could cut glass.”

She grins. “You looked him up, didn’t you?”

“No,” I say. (Yes.) “I’m just saying, he looks like your type.”

“My type?”

“Tall, dark, model face, perfect lips—he even has cheekbones, kiara. I saw them. From a photo.”

She stretches, smug as hell, and runs her fingers through my hair like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I’m dangerous when I’m jealous.”

“You’re a human koala when you’re jealous.”

I glare. “Koalas bite, you know.”

“So do I,” she smirks, and my brain nearly bluescreens. “You are my type, Ollie. You’re the one I’m waking up next to.”

I wrap both arms around her, like I need proof of that. “You didn’t say that when I tried to kiss you after brushing with orange toothpaste yesterday.”

“Because you tasted like floor cleaner.”

She’s only dated two guys before me, and both looked like they were hand-sculpted by Michelangelo. I’m the third. The wildcard. The weird one she let sneak past her radar.

I try not to think about that too hard. Usually. But when I’m laying here, half-naked and clingy while she’s out there about to pose with a guy who looks like the dictionary definition of “smolder”… yeah. Jealousy? Maybe a tiny bit. Or a lot. Don’t judge me.

“I’m literally in your bed, Bearman.”

“Yeah, now. But later you’ll be posing with Abs McHandsome and I’ll be in a sweaty fireproof suit being yelled at by my race engineer.”

She laughs again, then pulls me closer by my neck. “Idiot.”

“Yours,” I grin, kissing the corner of her mouth.

The fifth alarm buzzes.

Neither of us move.

“I’ve still got one more,” I mumble.