The alarm buzzes at 7 AM like some kind of medieval torture device, and Rafe's immediate response is to blindly swat at your nightstand while nuzzling deeper into your neck. His arm tightens around your waist, practically molding his entire shirtless body against your back like he's trying to fuse you both together permanently.

"Turn that shit off," he mumbles against your skin, his voice thick with sleep and pure stubborn refusal to acknowledge that morning exists.

Rafe Cameron was a fucking hypocrite, and somewhere in his sleep-addled brain, he knew it. Just last week he'd been giving Kelce shit about being "whipped," rolling his eyes when Topper mentioned missing his girl. "Clingy's not a good look, bro," he'd said with all that trademark swagger. Real men didn't need constant affection, right?

What a load of complete bullshit that was. Because here he was, wrapped around you like a goddamn octopus, and he had zero intention of letting go.

"Rafe, I have to get ready for work," you say, attempting to sit up. Key word: attempting. Because apparently you're now a permanent fixture in his bed, and he's got the arm strength to enforce that executive decision.

"No, you don't," his lips find that spot behind your ear, pressing lazy kisses that are clearly meant to derail your entire morning routine. "You have to stay here and be my personal heater."

"I'm serious," you try again, but your voice lacks conviction because honestly? His chest is really warm, and the way he's got his legs tangled with yours should probably be illegal in at least twelve states.

"So am I," he counters, his hand splaying possessively across your stomach. "Look I've done the math, you leave now, I'm gonna be cranky all day. Cranky Rafe equals problems for everyone. You're basically preventing a public service disaster."

You make another valiant attempt to escape, and Rafe responds by becoming a human straightjacket. His arm locks around you tighter, his leg hooks over yours, and he lets out the most dramatically wounded sigh you've ever heard.

"This is betrayal," he announces to your ceiling, like he's delivering a monologue in a Shakespeare play. "After everything we've been through together, you're just gonna abandon me for capitalism?"

"It's called having responsibilities, Rafe."

"Responsibilities are overrated," he says, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. "You know what's not overrated? This. Right here. Me being devastatingly charming and you pretending you don't want to stay." He's not wrong about the pretending part, and you both know it.