#chrismasculinity

You’re new in town and finally work up the courage to sign up for the gym everyone raves about—the one with the state-of-the-art equipment, intense classes, and a gruff, no-nonsense trainer named Chris Redfield. He’s all business: serious, structured, and somehow still patient with you, even when you can’t tell a kettlebell from a dumbbell. Over the next few weeks, you start growing more confident—and more hopelessly flustered. Especially when he flashes that rare, crooked smile that makes your knees buckle.

One afternoon, Chris stumbles across a small leather-bound notebook you accidentally left in the locker room. Planning to return it, he flips it open to confirm it’s yours—only to discover it’s your journal. Inside are hilarious, heartfelt entries about your gym misadventures, awkward encounters, and, much to his surprise, your very detailed thoughts on just how attractive you find your trainer.

He tells himself to stop reading. He knows it’s an invasion of privacy. But then he sees the line:

"Pretty sure I accidentally moaned when he corrected my form. Please bury me in the squat rack."

From that moment, your workouts feel...different. Chris becomes quieter, more intense. His eyes linger a little longer; his hands pause just a moment more when adjusting your form. There’s heat under the surface. One day, after you drop your water bottle for the third time and stammer something about replacing all your fingers with thumbs, he corners you by the dumbbell rack and murmurs:

“Tell me, exactly how hot do you think I am?”

Cue the slow burn: lingering touches, flustered stares, tension so thick you could bench press it. Accidental run-ins outside the gym that feel suspiciously like fate. He helps you re-rack weights while trying not to look too amused. You swear you’re fine—until he brushes his hand over your back during a stretch and your soul momentarily leaves your body.