[cl #84] your hands on his body
you’re drowning in anatomy notes and desperate to pass your exam when colston offers his body as a “study aid.” your stressful study session turns into a dangerously flirtatious, hands-on lesson.
you’re going to fail this exam.
you’ve accepted it. you’ve made peace with it as the clock ticks past midnight.
you’ve already imagined yourself dramatically telling colston you’re dropping out to become a barista with a mysterious past. with your eyes wide and hair wild, you have become the tragic hero of your own life story.
which is ironic, considering you’ve spent the last three years fighting your way through an athletic training major, surviving taping labs at 7am and clinical rotations that left you smelling like icy hot and turf. you didn’t come this far to quit over one anatomy exam. but right now? dramatics feel justified.
your anatomy textbook is sprawled across your coffee table. the pages are full of labeled muscle diagrams that now look like abstract art. highlighters bleed neon across the pages. your notes are color-coded. flashcards are stacked in precarious towers, and your brain is completely fried.
it’s not just anatomy. it’s the foundation for everything you want. injury prevention. rehabilitation. return-to-play protocols. the science that keeps athletes on the field and out of operating rooms. the science that, someday, you hope to practice on the sidelines instead of just reading about in textbooks.
the faint hum of the heater blends with the soft tick of the living room clock, while the television mumbles quietly in the background. distant cars pass outside. tires crunching over the gravel driveway, and somewhere faintly, a dog barks. your highlighter squeaks against paper. the scent of your coffee, which is most definitely now lukewarm, mingles with the lingering smell of your vanilla body wash. it blends subtly with the freshly baked cookies scent that still hangs in the air from earlier. you try to blink the exhaustion away. it doesn’t work.
“if one more tutor says ‘it’s not that hard,’” you mutter, pressing your highlighter into the page a little too aggressively, “i’m going to start swinging.” your fingers clench the pen like it’s a lifeline, knuckles whitening, and the stress makes your chest tighten with every labored breath.
because it is that hard. memorizing origins, insertions, innervations. not just to pass a test, but because one day you’ll be responsible for recognizing when something isn’t right. when a hamstring strain is more than a strain. when swelling means stop, not push through. dating an nfl player has only made that weight heavier in the best and worst ways.
from the couch, colston chuckles. his long legs stretched out with one arm propping up his head. black hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. he looks impossibly relaxed for someone who had just crushed a football game and then still had the energy to lounge around your living room like he owns the place. today’s game ended in a 32–28 bears victory over the rams. somehow, he’s barely winded. he’s just calm, loose, and entirely too comfortable in your space.
you had watched that game differently than most girlfriends probably would. not just the touchdowns. not just the catches. but the way he planted his foot after a cut. the angle of his knee on a tackle. whether he favored one shoulder after contact. you always watch like an athletic training student first, girlfriend second.
he occupies the space like he owns it, being effortless and unhurried. you’re the complete opposite as you've found yourself caught in the storm that comes before an exam. your brain is buzzing with medical terminologies you barely memorize, and the plate of freshly baked cookies near you have remained untouched.
each small motion, including the stretch of his legs and the flick of his fingers, tugs at the edges of your attention refusing to be ignored. the faint scent of his cologne clings to the fabric of his hoodie smelling warm, musky, and familiar. your stomach clenches despite yourself.
“you’re doing great,” he says, voice smooth. cocky, teasing, casual. the warmth in his tone makes your pulse jump.
“i’m not,” you groan. “there are too many muscles. who decided we needed this many?”
“biology?” he offers casually, a smirk tugging at one corner of his lips.
you throw a crumpled-up notecard at him. it bounces harmlessly off his chest. he grins, that infuriating grin. you try so hard not to notice how good he looks in that hoodie. the way the fabric stretches just over his shoulders when he shifts. the faint curve of muscle you can see even through the fabric. the subtle warmth radiating from him that makes your palms itch. the soft swish of fabric draws your attention despite yourself.
you also can’t help automatically identifying structures under the fabric. acromion. deltoid. the clean slope where muscle meets bone. your brain categorizes him clinically even as your heart refuses to cooperate.
he sits up and stretches. his arms reaching high above his head with his fingers interlacing. his back arches slightly. the hoodie rides up just a little, teasing, hinting at the sharp lines of his abs. a strip of warm tan skin appears. all you could see is his lower stomach with hip bones that disappear into the waistband of his sweatpants. the rise and fall of his chest makes your pulse stutter.
rectus abdominis. external oblique. you know these. you do know these.
your eyes flick over. brief. involuntary. you snap them back to your textbook like you’ve just committed a crime. the paper suddenly feels heavy in your hands. your notes blur. highlighter ink smeared from your slightly shaking fingers.
“see something interesting?” he asks, voice low, amused, leaning back on his elbows like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“no,” you reply, too quickly, not even trying to sound convincing. your throat feels tight.
“mhm,” he hums, clearly enjoying this, the smirk tugging wider.
he rises from the couch, rolling his shoulders with effortless ease. each step toward the coffee table makes your heart thump faster, like you’ve been caught in slow motion. the soft swish of his hoodie, the faint scuff of his slippers against the floor, the way his gaze flicks to you like he’s teasing without saying a word. it’s all so dizzying. the room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, and more intimate.
“what’re you stuck on?” he asks, coming up behind you. his chest brushes your back lightly. this sends a ripple of warmth down your spine, and your breath hitches.
“everything,” you sigh. “biceps, triceps… they all blur together.”
especially when you think about how quickly a biceps tendon can rupture. how often triceps strains are mismanaged. your brain won’t stop attaching clinical consequences to every word.
his hand hovers near your shoulder for a second, teasing, the faint warmth of his skin brushing yours. then, he leans over your notes and scans the diagrams. your brain short-circuits. the smell of him, once again, fills your senses. your fingers clench at the edge of the table.
“feel this one contract?” he murmurs, pressing lightly on his bicep.
“i know that,” you reply, sharp.
“and this relax when you stretch?”
“i know.”
he chuckles. “okay… so what’s the problem?”
you turn your head slightly. huge mistake. he’s so close you can see the faint stubble along his jaw. there's a tiny crease between his brows, and the cold from earlier has left his nose and cheeks a faint pink shade. your pulse hammers in your ears, and a soft heat creeps up your body.
“the problem,” you whisper, “is that it’s hard to visualize.”
hard to separate textbook diagrams from real, living tissue. hard to believe that one day you’ll evaluate athletes built exactly like him and be expected to know what to do without hesitation.
he hums thoughtfully. “okay.” he steps back a little. “then use me.”
you stare. blink. “what.”
“you’re studying muscles, right? i have muscles. you can point them out. hands-on learning.” his grin spreads, cocky, teasing, challenging, and your stomach flips at the thought.
“you’re offering to be my anatomy model?”
“i’m offering to help,” he corrects, voice low, teasing, aware. “unless you think you’ll get distracted.”
“i will not get distracted.” you say it too firmly, though your chest tightens.
you’ve taped ankles in chaotic locker rooms. assessed sprains with parents yelling in the background. you can handle this. probably.
he raises an eyebrow, smirk never faltering. “sure.”
you stand, trying to act professional. “fine. stand still.”
he obeys, stepping into the living room space, spreading his arms slightly. you flip your textbook to the upper-body page. with his 6'6" frame and full attention on you, it makes it impossibly hard to concentrate. the soft hum of the fridge suddenly seems louder along with the beating of your heart.
“deltoid,” you murmur, stepping forward and placing your hand on his shoulder. even through the hoodie, you can feel the curve of solid muscle, warm under your fingers. the pulse of his heartbeat vibrates against your palm, and your stomach twists.
you imagine palpating like you would in lab. identify landmarks. assess tone. isolate movement.
he inhales softly. “good start.”
“don’t talk,” you snap, though your voice betrays you.
“yes ma’am,” he teases.
you trace down his arm. “biceps brachii.”
“flex?” he asks, cocky.
“yes.”
he flexes, and you immediately realize how much your brain has short-circuited. your fingers press lightly against the contracting muscle, memorizing the feel. the subtle warmth of his skin, the way the muscle moves beneath your touch, is overwhelming.
you think about muscle fiber recruitment. concentric contraction. how this exact motion wins him games.
“that helps,” you whisper.
“happy to assist,” he murmurs, smirk growing, eyes glinting with playful challenge.
you step closer. “pectoralis major,” your palm brushing his chest through the fabric. his heartbeat quickens under your touch.. so does yours.
“originates from the clavicle and sternum,” you recite softly, following the line with your fingers. they brush against the collar of his hoodie, the fabric soft yet firm, and your pulse jumps.
and inserts along the lateral lip of the bicipital groove. you add it silently in your head, proud that you remember.
a pause.
you look at him. “can i?”
he tilts his head, his brown eyes darkening just slightly. “yeah.”
you hook your fingers into the hem of the hoodie and pull it slowly. he raises his arms to help. the fabric slides over his stomach, over his chest, over his shoulders. it catches slightly when he stretches his arms higher again, teasing you even more, exposing him fully before the hoodie clears his head.
your breath catches. the warmth of his skin, the faint sheen from earlier practice, and the strong line of his abs make your chest tighten. goosebumps rise along your arms.
this is the body you analyze every sunday with quiet professional instinct. now it is inches from you.
he drops his arms. bare chest. broad shoulders. defined lines under the warm kitchen light. your fingers are still tangled in the hoodie before letting it fall onto the couch. the quiet between you is heavy, almost electric, charged enough that even the faint hum of the refrigerator feels amplified.
he doesn’t say anything. just watches, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth, eyes dark and aware.
“latissimus dorsi,” you whisper, stepping closer, brushing your hands along his sides. skin warm. alive. each breath he takes sends subtle vibrations through you.
“external oblique,” you continue, fingertips sliding over his waist. the light friction makes him shift slightly under your touch.
he exhales slowly. “is this helping?”
“yes,” you say honestly, breath hitching slightly.
it’s helping more than you expected. the structures feel real. connected. purposeful. this isn’t just memorization — it’s understanding how a body like his stays resilient through a seventeen-game season.
you crouch slightly. “quadriceps.” hands smoothing over his thighs through sweatpants. muscles tense instinctively, solid and warm.
you think about force production. explosive starts off the line. the way rehab timelines hinge on fibers like these.
“hamstrings,” you murmur, stepping behind briefly, pressing lightly. he lets out a small sound, and you freeze. “sorry.”
“don’t be,” he says, voice low, teasing gone, replaced by something heavier. the heat radiating from him makes your pulse spike.
you step in front, closer now, almost too close. his hands hover at his sides, near enough to brush if he wanted, and the anticipation makes your stomach knot.
“rectus abdominis,” you murmur, palm flat against his stomach. skin shifts under your touch as he breathes. your fingers trail downward before stopping above the waistband. professional. you are being professional.
you also know exactly how crucial core stability is for injury prevention. how everything connects back to this center.
“i think this is actually working,” you whisper.
“yeah?” he murmurs.
“yeah.”
his hands settle on your hips. steadying. not pushing. just… there.
“prove it,” he says, voice low, challenging.
“sternocleidomastoid,” you murmur, brushing fingers along his neck. he tilts into your touch.
“masseter,” you continue, thumb along his jaw.
“orbicularis oris.”
your thumb grazes his bottom lip. he kisses you. slow, testing. your hands slide up his chest, exploring warm skin, pulling him closer by the hips. soft, familiar, but charged.
“still studying?” he murmurs against your mouth.
“hands-on learning,” you whisper.
and maybe, someday, sideline learning. nfl stadium lights. headset on. evaluating athletes with the same calm confidence you’re trying to fake right now.
he huffs, laughs low, and kisses you deeper. hands slide from hips to waist, up under your shirt, warm palms pressing. you gasp softly.
“cutaneous receptors,” you murmur, breath hitching.
“you’re unbelievable,” he murmurs against your jaw.
his lips trail down your neck, deliberate, teasing. your fingers dig into his shoulders. the faint pulse of his skin against your fingertips makes your head spin.
“feel this one?” he murmurs at your pulse point.
you shiver.
“and this?” his hand slides down your spine, resting just above your waistband.
you suck in a sharp breath. his thumb hooks lightly into the elastic — not pulling, just there. asking.
“colston,” you whisper.
“yeah?”
“i have an exam at 9am.”
an exam that gets you one step closer to being the kind of athletic trainer who keeps players like him safe.
“i know.”
his lips brush yours again, slower, deeper. heat radiates between you, body pressed, hands exploring, careful, teasing.
“after your exam,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
“after my exam,” you agree, neither moving. thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband, making your pulse skip.
one last soft, lingering kiss. then he pulls back, bare chest rising and falling, hoodie forgotten on the couch.
“go study,” he says gently, brushing hair from your face. “you’re going to crush it.”
you sit, breathless, warm, memorized in a completely new way.
“best study session i’ve ever had,” you murmur.
“anytime,” he grins.
legs shaky, textbook open, diagrams finally clicking. every muscle, every line, every curve has been etched into your mind.
and maybe that’s the irony of it all. you’re studying how to protect bodies like his, while falling in love with one.
back on the couch, colston pulls his hoodie back on, but not before you steal one last glance just to be certain you have actually learned something.
the fabric slides slowly over his shoulders, over the defined lines you had traced only minutes ago with careful academic focus that had not felt entirely academic. for a brief second you catch the flex of his stomach as he tugs the hem down into place, and warmth blooms low in your chest again. When the hoodie settles against his torso, it feels strangely final, like something private being tucked away.
he catches you looking.. just like earlier.
of course he does.
his mouth curves into that lazy, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip every time. there is no embarrassment in his expression, only quiet amusement and something softer underneath. you turn back to your textbook too quickly, shuffling your notes as though you have not just committed every inch of him to memory.
the room feels warmer than it did before. charged in a subtle way that lingers beneath your skin. The television continues its low recap of the bears’ win, analysts dissecting plays with clinical detachment, but the sound fades into background noise. all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your own pulse and the faint echo of his hands at your waist.
you press your palm flat against the anatomy textbook, grounding yourself. the diagrams no longer look abstract. they look familiar now. tangible.
like future patients. like future athletes. like him.
“you’re blushing,” he says casually from the couch.
“i am not.”
“you are.”
you risk a glance over your shoulder. he is sprawled across the cushions again. his eyes are focused on you in a way that feels deliberate. observant. like he is studying you the same way you were studying him.
“you are such a distraction,” you mutter, turning back to your notes.
“you invited me to help,” he replies, completely unapologetic.
despite yourself, your lips twitch.
the truth is, the information is clicking in a way it was not before. when you read pectoralis major, you remember the warmth under your palm and the steady beat beneath muscle and bone. when you review rectus abdominis, you picture the controlled rise and fall of his breathing. the knowledge feels embodied now instead of theoretical.
and when you think about your future, about standing on a sideline with a credential around your neck. it doesn’t feel impossible. it feels earned.
the couch creaks softly as he stands. you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. instead of standing behind you this time, he pulls out the chair beside yours and sits close enough that your knees brush lightly. the contact is small, almost accidental, but it steadies you more than you expect.
“you’re going to pass,” he says quietly.
the teasing edge is gone. what remains is calm certainty.
you hesitate before answering. “what if i don’t?”
the question slips out more vulnerable than you intend. beneath the flirting and heat, the anxiety is still there. the pressure. the fear of disappointing yourself. the fear of not being good enough for the career you want so badly.
he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “then you take it again.”
“it’s not that simple.”
“it kind of is,” he replies gently. “one exam doesn’t decide who you are.”
he’s right. one exam doesn’t determine whether you’ll be a great athletic trainer. it doesn’t decide your competency, your compassion, your ability to keep someone safe.
you stare at your notes, then at him. “do you ever get scared before games?”
he laughs softly. “every time.”
“you don’t look scared.”
“that’s because i don’t let it run the show,” he says. “preparation does.”
preparation. hours in the training room. film study. reps.
hours in labs. taping drills. flashcards at midnight.
the simplicity of it settles somewhere in your chest. he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple before falling away. the touch is light but grounding.
“you’re allowed to be tired,” he adds.
something about that makes your throat tighten.
the heater hums steadily. the clock ticks past twelve thirty. outside, a car passes slowly, tires crunching over gravel. the world feels small and contained inside your living room.
you close the textbook halfway and look at him fully. “quiz me.”
his eyebrows lift in surprise. “we are serious now?”
“very.”
he picks up a flashcard and deliberately mispronounces the first muscle name. you roll your eyes and correct him automatically. one card becomes five. five become ten. the answers start coming without hesitation. your voice steadies. the information feels solid instead of fragile.
he listens carefully to every response, nodding as if he actually understands more than he lets on.
eventually, a yawn escapes you.
he notices immediately. “bed.”
“one more section.”
“bed,” he repeats, softer but firm.
you close the textbook this time without arguing. he stands and holds out his hand. you take it without thinking. his grip is warm and steady as he pulls you up from the chair. for a moment you are standing close again, close enough to feel the heat of him through the fabric of his hoodie.
the earlier tension flickers between you, but this time he only leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
“go sleep,” he murmurs.
you change into an oversized shirt and slip under the covers. he joins you a minute later, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. when he pulls you back against his chest, your body relaxes instantly. his arm wraps around your waist, palm resting flat against your stomach. protective. steady. familiar.
your breathing gradually syncs.
the exam is still at nine in the morning. the stakes are still real. but the panic has softened into something manageable.
one test closer to clinical rotations. one test closer to earning the right to stand in a training room and matter.
you trace slow patterns along his forearm with sleepy fingers. “thank you,” you whisper.
“for what?”
“for being my anatomy model.”
a quiet laugh vibrates against your shoulder before he presses a kiss into your hair. “anytime.”
and maybe someday, when you’re the one evaluating his ankle after a bad landing or reminding him to actually rest something that hurts, you’ll think back to tonight.. to the first time everything clicked.
the clock ticks past one.
for the first time all night, your mind does not spiral. the muscle groups blur into something coherent. the fear quiets.
you might still be exhausted.
you might still be nervous.
but you are building a future that fits perfectly beside his.
and you are not alone in it.
and that makes all the difference.
well, that's the end of this plot. if you want to read another one of my works, then you can check out my other writing for colston here: click me.
behind the scenes: none for this one
picture credits: pinterest
stripe divider credits: me lol
