this is a smut request to write for colston, where he begs reader to sit on his face…
all mine - colston loveland.
description -> after your boyfriend finds you locked away in your bathroom, his mind wanders what it is you’re up to, that's when he sees the lacy set and requests one of the things he'd been desiring for a while... (tags and warnings; this is pure smut with a sprinkle of fluff! +18 minors dni, f receiving oral, facesitting, mentions of kissing, possesive colston if you squint, talks of insecurity, dirty talk and lots of it ;)), lmk if i missed any! also not proofread im sorryyy!!!)
loveland's navigation
word count; 1,777 words
angie's notes; anon tysm for sending this request, had to write it as it had been plotting my head the whole day!!!! i could've sworn i had seen a similar idea or ceeation, but i'm not sure, if so pls lmk so i can credit author! feedback is always appreciated, mwah enjoy!!! 😽😼
“baby? what are you doing in there?” colston said through the locked door, making you get out of your gaze and stuttering a quick response to not look suspicious, “n-nothing, just getting ready for bed.” he knocked again, slower this time, “can you let me in? i want to get a pair of pj’s,” he asked, leaning his head hearing you shuffle around with what it seemed some sort of package. “o-one second!” you yelled, covering yourself up with the robe you used every night.
“are you okay? why did you lock the door?” he asked, his eyes roaming up and down suspiciously, noticing how your fingers were tugged to keep the robe you had on. “did i? didn’t notice, sorry,” you mumbled a quick lie, removing your excess makeup with a cloth, not daring to make eye contact with him. you seemed flushed, as if you were caught in the act of doing something terrible. he took notice of the discarded white plastic bag, nonchalantly asking you what had come in, “what did your order, baby?”
“oh, nothing! just loungewear!” you offered a flat smile. another lie colston thought.
he retrieved a pair of pj’s quickly changing into them as you continued to brush your hair and finished skincare. he pressed himself behind you, noticing how you didn’t meet his eyes, confused as to why you were hiding something. you never locked the door, let alone be this mysterious. he pressed a kiss to your temples, hands wrapping around your middle, “you would tell me if i did something wrong, right?” he asked carefully, seeing you nod.
he continued to press kisses along your neck, slowly with no rush, your body melting into his, interlocking your hands on top of his. he moved the material, accessing more of your skin across your shoulder, looking in the mirror at how you threw your head back, reacting more and more to his touch. that's when he saw it, the burgundy lace material, stopping his movements.
“what are you wearing, darlin’?”
“it’s silly, really,” you tried to brush it off, turning back, your hands grazing over his large biceps. “i want to see,” he spoke lowly, nudging his head to the side, already untying the tight straps from your waist. colston sucked in a breath, taking a mental picture of your body dressed in the lace. your boobs looked perkier than usual, the bra accentuating the shape more, and the underwear that hugged your curves in all the right places, legs giving a longer impression as they were adorned with garters. he leaned back, eyes roaming every inch of your body.
“do you like it?”
“you look fucking unreal. so beautiful,” he praised, hands reaching over, his finger running over the tiny bow that rested between the middle of the bra. “why were you hiding this from me?” he asked, his kisses continuing across your jaw and over your sweet spot. “just got it in the mail today. washed it earlier in the afternoon, and i was just trying it on before you came in.”
“is that why the door was locked?” he asked, his forehead resting over yours, seeing the small, embarrassed nod.
“don’t hide from me. i want to see all of you,” you let out a small giggle, turning around to give him a show. “gonna dream about this, hope you know,” he laughed, giving you a quick peck before carrying you out of the restroom and to your bed. your pulse spiked, chest filling with relief and frustration, his lips fawning over yours before locking them together, his thumbs drawing circles over your clothed nipples, earning a small whimper from you.
you pull back, staring at him and blinking innocently, colston visibly gulps, still entranced by the surprise. his hands glide from your sides down to your ass, giving it a squeeze and two small slaps. he pushes you onto the duvet, where you sit up with your elbows. “i want you to ride my face,” colston said, giving you another messy kiss, tracing his tongue along with yours, feeling the vibration of your moan on his chest.
“no, i’m too-”
“don’t finish that sentence. i wanna feel you on darlin’. don’t make me ask again. i need you to ride my face,” he said, with no hint of joking around. he untucked your bottom lip that you had been biting, his thumb tracing your lips before he slowly entered it in your mouth, lips sucking tightly around them as you stared intensely into his gaze. “gonna do what i ask?” he asked you, catching how your breathing picked up, the slow nod of consent not holding him back.
he removed his shirt, smirking at how you flushed beneath him before he lays on the bed, his back cold after it hit the duvets. your legs lock him in, your already wet core grinding against the prominent erection that grew. your nails raked softly over his tatted skin to his chest, leaning down to press a wet, sloppy kiss. “don’t get shy with me, come up here, you’re not gonna hurt me,” your trail up, hips grazing over him as you looked down and saw him with hunger, a desire.
he presses kisses on the insides of your thighs, hands wrapped over them as he holds you in place. colston pushes upward, moving your underwear to the side, having access to your glistening core, daring to look up as he sees you already breathless even without doing anything. you were so wet, and he had to taste you before he lost it. he pressed a small kiss on your clit, before dulging right in, a low groan escaping him as he begins to get lost in you.
his tongue trailed up and down, his nose hitting your bundle of nerves, adding more to the effect and simulation. you tasted so fucking sweet, he swore he’d never had enough. especially after seeing you in this lacy set. who knew it would have such a deep impact on him? seeing you stand there, gawking at him for approval, who was he kidding? you could wear a sack of something and still look sexy.
he gradually builds your orgasm, taking small movements, not rushing this. he had been wanting to do this forever, and took tonight as the opportunity. your cries of pleasure as he graciously moved his tongue over and over, tracing his name against your slit, your hips buckling, not wanting to crush him. “fucking sit on me, baby. i want it,” he urged, his cock sensitive and hard.
the sight of you alone was making him grind in the air, trying to relieve some sort of the pressureure built up. your hard nipples pressed over the lacy, bouncing as you began to grind over him. “that’s it, baby. i got you, i fucking got you,” he moaned, diving right in, his hands tightening their hold against you to press you down even more. “been wanting to do this forever, being such a good girl for me…” he praised, earning a loud whine from you, your hands tugging the short strands of his hair.
“it feels so good colston,” you cried out, your eyes flickering down to see him determined, that same look he had on when he was out and giving it his all on the field. “yeah you like that? want more?” it was muffled, yet you understood, begging him not to stop. not when you were this close to unraveling. colston kept moving as his life depended on it, his nose bumping your clip, making your back arch every time. your legs were caging him, not showing any signs to stop as you began to grind on him at a fast pace.
“what do you want for me, darlin’, darlin'? tell me, and i’ll do just that.”
“i want you to make me cum, please, please don’t stop,” you moaned, biting your bottom lip as it was becoming too much. you felt your legs go numb, yet you couldn't care less, not when he looked this sexy underneath you, at your mercy, at your pleas, at your movements. his eyes were dark, filled with fixation, his nails scratching crecents on your skin, his tongue pressing into you, fucking you with it, “oh my gosh, holy shit colston.”
you’re not sure he can even breathe, your hand still tugging his locks as you pant and gasp, feeling the familiar bubble and sensation stretch over you. “so fuckin sweet, was made just for me, only me. say it,” he demanded, placing wet kisses over your clit, waiting to catch your response. “was made just for you, only you colston,” the way you said his name was enough to make him want to ease himself.
“you look so beautiful like this, y/n,” he says, sensing how you were close. you were sensitive, it only took so little before he was guiding and slowing his movements as you came on him, his pj’s showing a small wet indent as his release also overcame. “cum for me, cum all over me,” you black out for a second, screaming his name like a devotion, that swell once inside you bursting as you slow your hips and let yourself relax to the fullest.
you got yourself off of him, the two of you breathless, catching your breath as you stared with playful grins. “you’re going to buy this set in every color, hell, i’ll even buy them myself,” he hailed, pulling you closer, the taste of you still prominent on his taste buds. “was that too much?” he asked, your head shaking, “no, it was absolutely perfect.”
“made me cum in my pants, that's the hottest thing i’ve ever witnessed,” he chuckled, watching how your eyes diverted down to his bulge. his finger wrapped around your chin, forcing him to look at you, “don’t ever feel self-conscious with me, okay? you’re breathtaking in every shape and form. can’t believe i’m this lucky to have you,” colston said, seeing how you processed his words, acknowledging him.
“i love you,” the words made his heart race every time. he wasn’t used to it yet, and he never complained because he was so blessed to be with you. for you to love him, to stand with him during his best and worst moments, to see a side of you only he got to see, to spend each day knowing that this was his forever. “and i love you,” he said it back; it was an unspoken rule, and he made sure you heard it.
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.
A fic about yn faking an orgasm and colston finds out about it. The plot is all up to you.
pairings: colston loveland x reader 🏈🎬
wc: about 6.6k
warnings: sexual content/references
an: i made myself laugh writing this so take that as you will 🎬
You didn’t hear the front door.
In your defense, you were two glasses of wine into a FaceTime call with your best friend, and she’d just told you—in graphic, devastating detail—about the time her boyfriend tried to finger her like he was checking for a lost contact lens, and you were laughing so hard your ribs hurt. The kind of laughter that makes you deaf to everything else. The kind where you’re wheezing and she’s wheezing, and neither of you can get a full sentence out.
“I just—” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “The enthusiasm was there. The technique was not.”
“STOP.” You pressed your hand over your mouth, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of your glass. “Stop, I can’t breathe.”
“And then he pulled his hand back like he’d just performed surgery and goes, ‘Did you come?’”
You lost it. That full body, head-back, silent-scream laughter that leaves your stomach cramping. She was cackling on the other end, mascara smudged and hair in her face, both of you completely gone.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, catching your breath. “What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? I said yes! I panicked!”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I literally did. I nodded and said Yeah, that was great’ and then I went to the bathroom and finished the job myself.”
“You are not serious.”
“Girl, I literally deserve an Oscar.”
And that’s where it went wrong. You were relaxed, the warmth of alcohol softening your edges, your thoughts fuzzy. The words just tumbled out before you realized you’d said them.
“No, I deserve an Oscar. Like, I should be nominated.”
The laughter stopped. Your friend’s face shifted—still grinning, but her eyes narrowed with curiosity. The tone shifted: interested. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” She leaned closer to her screen, eyebrows raised. “You’ve faked it? With Colston?”
You should’ve backtracked. Should’ve said you were kidding. Should’ve done literally anything other than what you did, which was shrug, take another sip of wine, and say:
“Only like... twice. Maybe three times. It’s not a big deal.”
You didn’t hear the front door open.
You didn’t hear it because Colston Loveland—six foot six and two hundred forty-one pounds of professional football player—stood frozen in the hallway, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, smoothie hovering, breath tight in his chest. Everything about him stilled, like someone had hit pause. His eyes were wide, shock flickering across his face as he processed something he absolutely was not meant to hear.
He stood there for exactly four seconds. Which doesn’t sound like a long time until you’re standing in your girlfriend’s hallway holding a smoothie and learning that your sexual performance has been, on occasion, fictional.
Then—quietly, carefully, with the kind of deliberate stealth that should not be possible for a man his size—he stepped backward. One step. Two. His hand found the door handle behind him. He turned it slowly, eased it open without a sound, and slipped back into the hallway as if he’d never been there at all.
The door clicked shut so softly that even he barely heard it.
On the couch, your friend’s mouth was still hanging open. “Only three times?”
“It’s really not that deep,” you said, waving her off. “It’s just, like, sometimes my body’s not cooperating, and he’s trying so hard, and I don’t want to make it a whole thing, you know?”
“Girl.”
“What? It’s not like he’s bad at it. He’s good. He’s really good. It’s a me thing.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Oh my god, shut up.”
She was laughing again, and you were laughing, and it was fine. It was just girl talk. No big deal. You reached for your wine. Your friend was saying something about her boyfriend’s “signature move.” You were definitely going to need details on that.
You had no idea.
Outside, Colston stood in the hallway of his apartment building, gym bag still on his shoulder, smoothie still in his hand, staring at the wall across from his door like it had personally wronged him.
He blinked once. Twice.
Then he turned and walked to his truck.
─────
Colston sat in his truck.
Engine off. Smoothie warming in the cupholder. Staring at the parking garage wall like it owed him money.
Only like... twice. Maybe three times.
He replayed it. Then replayed it again. Tried to figure out which times. Which specific ones? Now, every time they’d had sex in the last few months was under review. His brain ran through them like game film, isolating the plays where he’d missed something.
I should be nominated.
Nominated. For an Oscar. For faking an orgasm. With him.
He pressed his palms into his eyes and exhaled through his nose.
He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Opened his messages, scrolled to Cooper’s name, and typed:
Colston: hypothetically
He stared at it for ten seconds. Then hit send.
Cooper responded in under a minute. Because Cooper always responded in under a minute. The man had never not been on his phone.
Cooper: hypothetically what
Colston: if someone said something about you that was bad and you weren’t supposed to hear it what would you do
Cooper: depends. how bad
Colston: bad
Cooper: like you’re ugly bad or you’re bad at something bad
Colston stared at the screen. Chewed the inside of his cheek.
Colston: second one
Cooper: what are you bad at
Colston didn’t answer. He locked his phone and set it face down on his thigh, and looked out the windshield at the parking garage wall. A pipe was leaking somewhere. He could hear it dripping.
His phone buzzed.
Cooper: hello??
Buzz.
Cooper: dude what are you bad at
Buzz.
Cooper: did you get cut
Buzz.
Cooper: are you dying
Buzz.
Cooper: is it a sex thing
Colston closed his eyes.
His phone rang. Cooper’s name, incoming call. He stared at it for two full rings, then declined.
Cooper: WOW
Cooper called again. Colston declined again.
Cooper: COLSTON LOVELAND
Cooper: PICK UP THE PHONE
It rang a third time. Colston pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a long breath, and answered.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? You can’t text a man, hypothetically, someone said something bad about me, and then ghost. What happened? Are you okay? Did someone say something online? Did a coach—”
“She faked it.”
Silence.
Colston could hear wind on Cooper’s end. Maybe he was outside. Maybe he was standing in a field somewhere in Idaho, which was a very real possibility.
“...faked what?”
Colston didn’t say anything.
“Oh.” A pause. “Oh.” Another pause. “How many times?”
“Why is that everyone’s first question?”
“Who else have you told?”
“No one. I’m saying—she told her friend, and the first thing her friend asked was how many times too.”
“Okay, well, it’s a relevant question, Colston. How many times?”
“Like two or three.”
“Or three? There’s a big difference between two and three. That’s a fifty percent increase.”
“Thank you for the math, Cooper.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Heard her telling her friend on the phone. I came home early. She didn’t know I was there.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“Left.”
“You left?”
“I’m in my truck.”
“You’re in your TRUCK? Like right now? In the parking lot?”
“Yes.”
“Dude, you gotta go back inside.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just sit in your truck.”
“I know.”
“What are you gonna say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I’m not bringing this up tonight. I need to think.”
“About WHAT?”
“I don’t know. Everything. I don’t know.”
A long pause. Colston could hear Cooper breathing. Processing. Doing his best, which was never great, but at least he was trying.
“Okay, honestly? It’s probably not that deep. Girls fake it sometimes. It doesn’t mean you’re bad.”
“She said she deserved an Oscar, Coop.”
“...”
“Yeah.”
“Like an Oscar Oscar? Or like a Golden Globe situation?”
“Goodbye, Cooper.”
“WAIT. Wait. Just—go inside. Act normal. Don’t be weird about it. Figure it out tomorrow.”
“How am I supposed to act normal?”
“I don’t know, man, you play football in front of sixty thousand people. Pretend it’s that.”
“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”
“It’s performing under pressure. Same skill set.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Just don’t be weird! Don’t be weird about it!”
“Bye, Cooper.”
He hung up. Sat there for another minute. Then he grabbed his smoothie—warm now, basically ruined—his gym bag, and got out of the truck.
He stood outside his apartment door. Rolled his neck. Cracked his knuckles. Took a breath.
Then he opened the door like he was making an entrance at an away game. Keys jangling, bag swinging, door hitting the wall with a thud that could’ve registered on a seismograph.
“BABE?” He was already halfway down the hall, voice pitched loud enough to give her plenty of warning. “I’M HOME.”
You flinched so hard you almost knocked your wine over. “Jesus Christ, Cole. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” He was not sorry. He needed you to know he was here. Needed you to have heard him arrive. There needed to be zero ambiguity about the fact that Colston Loveland had just now walked through this door and had not, at any point prior to this moment, been standing in the hallway listening to anything.
“You’re home early,” you said, hand on your chest, heart still recovering.
“Yeah. Practice got cut short.”
He dropped his bag. Kicked off his shoes. Walked into the living room where you were still on the couch, phone in your lap, wine glass mostly empty, looking at him with that smile that usually made everything in his chest go soft.
It still did. That was the worst part.
“How was your day?” you asked.
Colston looked at you. At the wine. At the phone where, not long ago, you’d been laughing about your performance being award-worthy.
“Good,” he said. “Yeah. It was good.”
He kissed the top of your head on the way to the kitchen. He poured the smoothie down the sink, his shoulders tight, and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing for a second longer than necessary.
“You hungry?” he called over his shoulder.
“Starving. Wanna order something?”
“Sure.”
He pulled out his phone and saw some new texts from Cooper.
Cooper: honestly I think you’re probably fine in bed
Cooper: not that I would know
Cooper: that came out weird
Cooper: good luck tonight champ
Colston turned his phone face-down on the counter and opened DoorDash.
─────
Something was off.
You couldn’t pinpoint it. It wasn’t obvious—he wasn’t being cold, wasn’t being short with you, wasn’t doing anything wrong, exactly. He ordered food. He ate on the couch next to you. He watched whatever you put on TV without complaining. Normal Tuesday night stuff.
But he wasn’t looking at you.
Not the way he usually did, anyway. Usually, Colston looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in any room, even when you were just sitting there doing nothing. Not in a creepy way—just present. Aware. Like keeping track of you was background software that never turned off. Tonight, his eyes kept drifting. To the TV. To his phone. To a spot on the wall just slightly to the left of your face.
And when you leaned into him on the couch—your usual move, tucking yourself under his arm—he let you. But his arm stayed stiff for a second before it settled around your shoulders. Just a second. Just enough for you to notice.
“You okay?” you asked, glancing up at him.
“Yeah, for sure.” He didn’t look down at you when he said it.
“You seem kinda quiet.”
“Just tired. Practice was long.”
“I thought you said practice got cut short.”
Silence. Barely a full second. But you felt it.
“It did. It was just intense while it lasted.”
“Ah.” You turned back to the TV. Let it go. Because he said he was fine, and you had no reason not to believe him, and sometimes he just got quiet. That was Colston. He processed internally. You knew this about him.
But when you kissed him later—just a casual thing, passing him in the kitchen while he refilled his water—he barely kissed you back. Just a tight press of his lips against yours, and then he was already turning away.
You stood there in the kitchen watching him go, water glass in hand, a crease forming between your eyebrows.
Weird.
Later, in bed, he stayed on his side. He didn’t turn his back to you or build a pillow wall down the middle. He just... didn’t reach for you. Usually, the second the lights went off, his hand found your hip, or your waist, or he pulled you back into his chest and buried his face in your hair. Tonight he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
You waited. Thirty seconds. A full minute.
Nothing.
“Cole.”
“Hm?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m good, baby.” Said to the ceiling. Not to you.
You rolled onto your side, facing him. Studied his profile in the dark—the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too evenly, like he was concentrating on his breathing. Like he was trying very hard to seem relaxed.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
He turned his head. Looked at you for the first time in what felt like hours. And for a split second, you saw something flicker across his face—something raw and unfinished and a little bit hurt—before he blinked and it was gone.
“Yeah,” he said. “’Course.”
He leaned over and kissed your forehead. Quick. Functional. Then rolled onto his side, facing away.
“Night.”
“...night.”
You lay there in the dark, staring at the back of his head, trying to figure out what the hell had shifted between 3 PM and now. You’d been fine. Everything had been fine. You ran through the day—work, errands, the FaceTime with your friend, wine—
Nothing. Nothing weird. Nothing that would explain why your boyfriend was lying next to you like a stranger on a connecting flight.
You fell asleep still trying to figure it out.
Colston did not fall asleep. Colston lay there for another forty-five minutes, staring at the wall, thinking about Oscars.
─────
The next day wasn’t better.
He went to the facility early—earlier than usual—and texted you once around noon. Just a “hey” with no follow-up. You stared at it for a while. Colston didn’t text “hey.” Colston sent voice memos about birds he saw in the parking lot and which Cheerios he should buy. “Hey” was not in his vocabulary.
You texted back: everything good?
Colston: yeah just busy
You almost typed, " You sure? But you stopped yourself. You weren’t going to be that girlfriend. If something was wrong, he’d tell you. He always told you. Eventually.
He came home at his normal time. Kissed your cheek. Asked about your day. Made himself a protein shake. All the right motions, all the right words, but performed with the enthusiasm of someone filling out a tax return.
By the time you were both in bed that night, you were determined to fix whatever this was. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Maybe practice was rough. Maybe he just needed to get out of his head.
You knew how to get him out of his head.
You rolled toward him, slid your hand across his stomach, pressed your lips to the side of his neck. The move that always worked. The one that made his breath catch and his hand find your hip and everything else fall away.
Nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just lay there breathing like you were applying a blood pressure cuff.
You tried harder. Kissed his jaw. Let your hand drift lower. Swung your leg over his hips and settled on top of him, hands on his chest, looking down at him with clear intent.
“Hi,” you said.
“Hey.” He said it to the ceiling. His hands landed on your thighs, but they just... sat there. Like he’d forgotten what they were for.
You leaned down and kissed him. Slow, deliberate, the kind that was supposed to flip the switch. You felt his mouth move against yours—barely—and then his hands came up to your waist. But not to pull you closer. To hold you still.
“I’m, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Pretty tired tonight.”
You pulled back. Looked at him. He was staring up at you with an expression you could not read, and you were literally sitting on top of him.
“You’re tired,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
“Cole, I’m on you right now.”
“I can see that.”
“And you’re... tired.”
“Mentally.”
You stared at him. He stared somewhere around your collarbone. Something was very, very wrong, and the not-knowing was starting to eat a hole through your patience.
“Okay. Seriously. What is going on with you? You’ve been weird for two days. You won’t look at me. You barely kissed me yesterday. You texted me, " Hey. And now I am literally on top of you, and you’re telling me you’re mentally tired, so either something’s wrong or—”
“So... how many Oscars are we talking about?”
You went still.
Completely, totally, full-body still. Like someone had yanked the power cord out of you. You were still sitting on his hips, hands still on his chest, and every single drop of blood in your body was rushing to your face.
“What?” you whispered.
He finally looked at you. Right at you. And there it was—hurt and embarrassment and something else fighting for space on his face.
“Oscars,” he repeated. “You said you should be nominated.”
You rolled off of him so fast you nearly fell off the bed. Caught yourself on the edge of the mattress with one hand, legs tangled in the sheets, and sat there with your back to him while your brain went through every stage of grief simultaneously.
No, I deserve an Oscar. Like, I should be nominated.
You’ve faked it? With Colston?
Only like... twice. Maybe three times. It’s not a big deal.
Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“You—” Your voice cracked. “How did you—”
“Came home early yesterday.” He said it evenly, like he was giving a post-game interview. Like he’d rehearsed this part. “Walked in during your FaceTime.”
“Oh my god.”
“Heard some stuff.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah.”
You pressed both hands over your face. Held them there. Considered the possibility of simply never removing them. You could live like this. Hands over face, forever. It would be fine.
“How much did you hear?” The question came out muffled against your palms.
“Enough.”
“Cole, how much?”
“The Oscar part. Your friend asking if it was with me. You saying two, maybe three times.” He paused. “The ‘it’s not a big deal’ part.”
You made a sound. Not a word. Just a sound. The kind of sound a person makes when they realize they have said the worst possible thing in the worst possible context, and the one person who was never supposed to hear it was standing in the hallway absorbing every word.
“I can explain,” you said, hands still over your face.
“I’d love that, actually.”
“It’s not—it wasn’t—” You pulled your hands away. Looked at him. He was sitting up now, back against the headboard, arms crossed, and his face was doing that thing where he was trying very hard to look neutral, but his jaw was giving him away.
“It was only twice,” you said.
“You said maybe three.”
“One of those was borderline! It was like... almost real but then I just... helped it along at the end.”
“Helped it along?”
“Like—I was close! I was basically there. I just... sped up the ending a little.”
“Sped up the—” He stopped. Ran his hand over his mouth. Looked at the ceiling. “So you’re saying one of the three was like... a real orgasm with a fake finish?”
“Yes! See? So really it’s more like two and a half.”
“Two and a half?” He looked at you like you’d just tried to explain that the Earth was flat. “How do you fake half an orgasm?”
“I just told you how.”
“That’s not—you can’t just round down.”
“I think I can, actually, because I was there and you were—” You stopped. Realized what you were about to say. Closed your mouth.
“I was what?” He was looking at you now. Really looking. “Finish that sentence.”
“You were... also there.”
“Yeah. Apparently not doing a great job.”
“That is NOT what I said.”
“You said you deserved an Oscar. For faking it. With me. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Okay, first of all, that was girl talk. That was private. You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” you agreed, because what else could you say? He heard it. It was out there. No amount of explaining was going to stuff it back in.
You sat there looking at each other. The TV was still on in the other room, faint laugh track bleeding through the walls. Someone’s phone buzzed on the nightstand—his, probably Cooper, because Cooper had the worst timing of any human alive—and neither of you reached for it.
“No. That’s not—Cole, you’re good at it. That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what’s it about? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like I’ve been putting in work and you’ve been acting.”
“It’s not about—” You groaned, pressing your hands into your face again. This was going so badly. Every sentence was making it worse. “Can I just explain? Without you making Oscar jokes for like two minutes?”
He uncrossed his arms. Leaned back against the headboard. Gestured for you to go ahead. The gesture was generous, but his jaw was still tight.
─────
You took a breath. Then another. Tried to figure out where to start.
“Okay. So. You know how, like... right before my period, I get kind of...”
He blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting you to say, it wasn’t that.
“...crampy? And tired? And just, like, not super in my body?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. Like he was waiting for the trap.
“Okay. So. Both times—the real two times, not the half—it was right before my period. Like a day or two out. And I just...” You pulled at a thread on the comforter. Couldn’t look at him. “I wasn’t really in the mood. For sex. Specifically.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?”
“Because I was in the mood for you.”
“What?”
“I wanted—” God, why was this so hard to say? You’d had his entire body on top of yours more times than you could count, and you couldn’t get this one sentence out. “I wanted to be close to you. I wanted your hands on me and your body next to me and I wanted to feel like... yours. I just didn’t want it to go all the way there. And I didn’t know how to say ‘hey, can you just hold me and touch me without it turning into sex’ because that felt like—I don’t know. Weird. Like I was rejecting you.”
He was quiet. Processing. You could practically hear the gears turning.
“So you let it happen,” he said. “Even though you didn’t want to.”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to—”
“You just said you weren’t in the mood.”
“I wasn’t in the mood for an orgasm! I was in the mood for you! Those are two different things, and I didn’t know how to explain that without it sounding like—” You waved your hand in the air, gesturing at nothing. “Like I didn’t want you. Because I did want you. Just... differently.”
He went quiet again. Longer this time. You watched him stare at the far wall, brow furrowed, working through it the way he worked through a new play—turning it over, looking at it from every angle.
“So let me get this straight,” he said finally. “You wanted to be close to me. But not have sex.”
“Yes.”
“And instead of telling me that, you had sex anyway and then faked an orgasm.”
Hearing it out loud like that made you want to crawl under the bed. “When you put it like that, it sounds really bad.”
“How would you put it?”
“I panicked! Both times! You started kissing me, and it felt good, and I didn’t want you to stop touching me, and then things escalated and I didn’t know how to hit the brakes without making it weird, and then it was happening and my body just was not going to get there, and you were so into it, Cole, you were so—” You gestured at him. All of him. “You were doing everything right. My body just wasn’t cooperating. And you were trying so hard, and I could see how much you wanted me to feel good, and I just... couldn’t stand the idea of you thinking you’d failed. So I faked it. And then we cuddled after, which was all I wanted in the first place.”
You ran out of air. Sat there, chest heaving slightly, feeling like you’d just sprinted a mile.
Colston was looking at you with an expression you’d never seen before. Not angry. Not hurt, exactly. More like someone had just told him something that rearranged a piece of furniture in his brain, and he was still adjusting to the new layout.
“You...” He started, stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “You could’ve just said that.”
“I know.”
“Like, I would’ve been fine with that.”
“I know.”
“I would’ve just held you. That’s not—I’m not gonna be mad about holding you.”
“I KNOW, Colston.”
“Then why didn’t you just—”
“Because I didn’t know how to ask my boyfriend to touch me without fucking me! Okay? Because every time we’re in bed and things start happening, it goes to the same place, and I didn’t have the words for ‘I want everything leading up to it but not the actual thing’ without it sounding like I was cutting you off!”
That landed. You could see it hit him—the way his shoulders dropped, the way his expression shifted from confused to something softer. Something that looked a lot like oh.
You pressed your fingers to your temples. “And then the first time, it worked. You were happy. I got my cuddle. And I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. And then the next month it was the same situation, and I did the same thing because I didn’t know how to undo it without admitting I’d lied the first time.”
“So it became a thing.”
“It became a thing.”
Quiet. The apartment hummed around you—fridge, heat, the distant sound of a car alarm outside.
“For the record,” he said, and his voice was different now. Less guarded. Almost careful. “I don’t need sex every time we’re in bed.”
“I know that. Logically. It’s just—”
“No, I mean—” He shifted, turning toward you slightly. “If you just want me to hold you, that’s enough. That’s always been enough. You don’t have to perform for me.”
The word perform hit you somewhere behind your ribs. Because that’s exactly what you’d been doing. Performing. Not because he’d asked you to, but because you’d convinced yourself that was what he needed.
“I didn’t want you to feel rejected,” you said quietly.
“And instead I get to feel like I can’t tell when my girlfriend’s actually enjoying herself. Which is way better.”
“Cole—”
“I’m serious.” He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t making jokes. He was looking at you with those blue eyes that saw everything, and there was something raw in them. “I thought I could read you. I thought I knew when you were—” He stopped. Jaw tight. “I pay attention. I try to pay attention. And now I don’t know what was real.”
That one landed hard. Harder than the embarrassment, harder than the mortification. Because this wasn’t about his ego. This was about the thing he was most proud of—being attentive, being present, being the guy who noticed—and you’d taken that away from him without meaning to.
“Everything else was real,” you said. “Every other time. I swear.”
He looked at you. Searching. Trying to decide if he could trust that.
“...you’re sure?”
“Yes. Colston. I’m sure.”
Longer pause.
“Like, sure sure? Because I need to know that when you—”
“COLSTON. Yes. Every other time has been real. Very real. Extremely, embarrassingly real. The neighbors-can-probably-hear-me kind of real.”
Something twitched at the corner of his mouth. Not a full smile. Not yet. But close.
“The neighbors, huh?”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying, if the neighbors can hear you—”
“Do NOT make this into a compliment for yourself right now.”
“—then at least some of my work is paying off.”
“I will smother you with this pillow.”
He almost smiled. Almost. And then he went quiet again, and you could see him chewing on something else. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.
“What?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“Cole.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Back at you.
“Would you have ever told me? If I hadn’t heard?”
The honest answer sat in your throat like a rock. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say, of course, eventually, when I figured out how. But you’d been lying to him—small lies, kind lies, but lies—and you owed him the truth now.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably not.”
He nodded. Slowly. Like that was the answer he’d expected, but didn’t love hearing.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
“Okay. I’m—” He exhaled. “I’m not mad. I’m just... I need you to talk to me. Even when it’s weird. Especially when it’s weird. Because I can’t fix something I don’t know about.”
“I know.”
“And I need you to stop faking.”
“Obviously.”
“Like, ever. Even the half ones.”
“There’s no such thing as a half one, you just said that yourself.”
“I said you can’t round down. I can call it whatever I want. I’m the victim here.”
You snorted. Loud and graceless and completely involuntary. And once it started, you couldn’t stop it—the absurdity of the whole thing crashing over you, the fact that you were sitting in bed having the most mortifying conversation of your life, and he was calling himself a victim—and you were laughing. Ugly laughing. The kind where no sound comes out, and you’re just shaking.
He watched you fall apart. And slowly, grudgingly, like it was being pulled out of him against his will, he started smiling. The real one. The one that started in one corner of his mouth and spread until his whole face changed.
“It’s not funny,” he said, but he was fighting it.
“It’s a little funny,” you managed.
“It’s really not.”
“You called yourself a victim.”
“I am a victim. Of fraud.”
You were gone. Doubled over, forehead on the mattress, shoulders shaking. And somewhere above you, you heard it—quiet, reluctant, like he was mad at himself for giving in—Colston laughing.
“I hate you,” he said, but there was no heat in it.
“No, you don’t.”
“I might. I’m still deciding.”
You sat up, wiping your eyes, and looked at him. His arms were still crossed, but loosely now. The tension in his jaw had softened. He looked tired—actually tired, not the fake kind—and a little bruised, but the worst of it had passed. You could see it draining out of him, replaced by something warmer. Something that looked like relief.
“So what now?” you asked.
“Now?” He looked at you. Tilted his head. “Now you learn how to use your words like a grown-up.”
“Wow.”
“And next time you want me to just hold you?” He reached over and tugged you toward him—not urgently, not sexually, just a hand on your arm pulling you into his side. You went easily, folding into him, your head finding its usual spot against his chest. “You just say that. Okay? You just say, ‘Cole, I just want this tonight.’ And that’s what we’ll do.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” His chin rested on top of your head. His arm settled around you. Warm and heavy and solid. “This is good. This is always good.”
You pressed your face into his shirt. Let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for two months.
“I’m sorry,” you said into his chest.
“I know.”
“You’re good in bed.”
“I know.”
“The ego recovered fast.”
“Baby, the ego is in critical condition. I’m just hiding it well. I'm faking it till I make it,”
You laughed. Soft, this time. Pressed closer. His hand came up and settled on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and for a minute neither of you said anything. Just lay there. Close. Breathing.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached over and glanced at it.
Cooper: you alive?
Cooper: did you talk to her
Cooper: please tell me you didn’t open with the oscar thing
Colston typed back one-handed, the other arm still around you:
Colston: handled it
Cooper: AND???
Cooper: colston I swear to god
Cooper: DETAILS
Cooper: are you guys good??
Cooper: did she explain??
Cooper: was it a you problem or a her problem
Colston: goodnight Cooper
Cooper: COLSTON
He locked his phone and set it face down on the nightstand.
“Cooper?” you asked.
“Cooper.”
“Does he know?”
“...define ‘know.’”
“Colston.”
“He knows a version of events.”
“Oh my god.”
“He was very supportive. He said I’m probably fine in bed.”
“Probably?”
“His word, not mine.”
“I’m going to die.”
"Hey." He tilted your chin up. Looked at you. Serious again, but warm. "It stays between us. And Cooper. And your friend, I guess, since she started this whole thing. But that's it."
“That’s it,” you agreed.
He kissed your forehead. Long and slow. Then pulled you back into his chest.
“Night,” he murmured.
“Night.”
A pause.
“For the record, I’d give you the Oscar. The performance was very convincing.”
“GOODNIGHT, COLSTON.”
─────
Three weeks later, you felt it coming.
The familiar ache low in your back. The heaviness in your legs. The way your skin felt was too tight and too sensitive and vaguely wrong, like your body was gearing up for something it didn’t bother consulting you about.
One, maybe two days out. You knew the math by now.
Colston got home from the facility around five. You were on the couch in his hoodie and a pair of shorts, half-watching something you’d already forgotten the plot of. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and came around the back of the couch to kiss the top of your head.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He wandered into the kitchen, cracked a Celsius, scrolled his phone for a few minutes, then came back and settled next to you on the couch. Lifted your legs into his lap. His hand landed on your calf—warm, absentminded, already looking at the TV.
“What are we watching?”
“No idea. I stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.”
“Cool.”
Normal evening. Normal routine. His thumb tracing slow circles on your ankle. Not intentional—just something his hands did when they were on you.
Then his hand started moving. Up your calf. Over your knee. Along your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your shorts. Still casual, still easy, but the direction was clear. His eyes stayed on the TV, but his hand was telling a different story.
And there it was. The fork in the road.
His thumb traced the inside of your thigh, and your body did two things at once: leaned into the warmth of his touch, and quietly, firmly, told you it was not interested in where this was going.
You wanted him close. Wanted his hands. Wanted the weight of him next to you. Wanted to press your face into his chest and just exist there for a while.
You did not want to have sex.
This was the moment. The exact moment where, twice before, you’d said nothing. Let it happen. Performed your way through it and collected your cuddle on the other side like a reward you’d paid too much for.
His hand moved higher. His head turned toward you. That look in his eyes—soft, interested, the beginning of something.
“Hey, Cole?”
“Hm?”
Your heart was doing something stupid. Which was ridiculous. This was your boyfriend. On your couch. Touching your leg. There was no reason for this to feel like standing on the edge of a diving board.
“Can we just... do this tonight? Just this?”
His hand stopped. He looked at you—really looked—and you watched the understanding move across his face. Not confusion. Not disappointment. Just recognition.
“Yeah,” he said. Simple. Easy. Like you’d asked him to pass the remote. “’Course.”
That was it. No follow-up questions. No “are you sure?” No flicker of anything other than okay.
His hand slid back down to your calf. Settled there. He shifted on the couch, stretched out on his back along the length of it, one foot on the floor, and opened his arms.
You went without hesitating. Crawled into the space he’d made and settled against his chest, your cheek on the soft cotton of his shirt, one leg slotted between his. His arms closed around you—both of them, solid and warm—and he pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over you without being asked.
His hand found the back of your head. Fingers in your hair. Slow, aimless strokes that made your eyes heavy almost immediately.
“This good?” he asked. Quiet. Close. His voice rumbling through his chest and into yours.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “This is good.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and settled in. The TV murmured on. His heartbeat was slow and even under your ear. His thumb traced lazy lines along your spine.
Nobody was performing anything. Nobody was pretending. It was just this—his body and yours, the couch, the quiet, the feeling of being held by someone who wasn’t asking for anything in return.
You were almost asleep when you felt his chest move under your cheek. A small huff of air. Almost a laugh.
“What?” you murmured.
“Nothing.”
“Cole.”
“It’s nothing. Just—” He paused. You could hear the grin in his voice. “This is way better than an Oscar anyway.”
You pinched his side. He flinched and laughed—quiet, shaking under you—and pulled you tighter against him.
“I’m never living that down, am I?” you said.
“Not a chance.”
“Ever?”
“Baby, I’m bringing that up at our wedding.”
You lifted your head. Looked at him. He was smiling—the real one, the slow one that started in one corner and took over his whole face—and there wasn’t a single trace of hurt left in it. Just warmth. Just him.
“Our wedding?” you said.
He blinked. Realized what he’d said. A flush crept up his neck.
“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Shut up.”
“No, please, tell me more about this wedding.”
“I’m going to sleep.”
“Are there Oscars at the wedding? Is it a themed event?”
“Goodnight.”
“Do I get to give an acceptance speech?”
He grabbed the pillow behind his head and pressed it over your face, and you were laughing so hard you couldn’t fight him off, and his arm was still around you, and the TV was still on, and neither of you was going anywhere.
You fell asleep on the couch. His arms are around you. Your face pressed into his chest. The throw blanket tangled around both of you.
No performance. No pretending. Just this.
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i keep recalling things we never did / messy top-lip kiss, how i long for our trysts ꩜ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃⁸⁴ PART TWO
free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!
PLAYLIST (WILL BE UPDATED AS THE SERIES GOES ON) | PART ONE!
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 older brother’s best friend trope! you’ve known colston forever, or at least long enough to know he’s off-limits: your brother’s teammate, his roommate, the guy who shows up early and leaves last, who watches too closely and says too little. what starts as irritation turns into something unspoken, all sharp glances and loaded silences. boundaries blur, loyalties strain and once you notice the way he looks at you, there’s no pretending you don’t feel it too.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 colston being a dickhead, arguments, descriptions of parties, underage alcohol consumption, descriptions of kissing, feelings of guilt, manhandling, ummm... overall just suggestive + angst?
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 6.4k
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | happy Friday the 13th!
It’s late enough that the apartment feels hollow.
The lights are low, just the kitchen and the muted glow from the TV in the living room, volume barely above a whisper. Outside, campus noise has thinned to the occasional car and distant laughter drifting up from the street.
Colston sits on the floor, back against the couch, stretching out his legs with a groan that he pretends is exaggerated but isn’t. Conditioning kicked his ass today. His shoulders are sore, thighs tight, body humming with that bone-deep exhaustion that makes sleep feel close but not quite reachable yet.
Behind him, Tatum is sprawled across the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, the other dangling uselessly toward the floor with his phone loosely gripped in his hand.
“Remind me,” Tatum says, voice rough with tiredness, “why we decided to peak at 20.”
Colston huffs a laugh. “You’re peaking at 20, I’m just getting started.”
“Shut up,” Tatum mutters. “You say that now. Give it three more years and a knee brace.”
Colston tilts his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Worth it.”
There’s a beat of comfortable silence.
This is how it always is with them. No pressure to fill the space or awkwardness. Just presence, like they’ve synced up somehow, football welding them together in a way that could never loosen.
“You remember the first week of camp?” Tatum says suddenly.
Colston snorts. “Which trauma?”
“The ice baths,” Tatum groans. “I thought I was gonna lose my toes.”
“You almost did,” Colston says. “You wouldn’t stop talking.”
“That’s how I cope.”
“You cope by annoying everyone around you.”
Tatum laughs, a soft, tired sound. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Colston doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reaches for the water bottle by his foot and takes a long drink, throat working as he swallows. When he sets it back down, he shrugs.
“Could be worse places to be.”
Tatum shifts, lowering his arm from his face so he can look down at him properly. Even half-asleep, his expression is open - earnest. It always has been. That’s Tatum’s fatal flaw. He feels everything plainly, without suspicion, without guard.
“Hey,” Tatum says. “Thanks, by the way.”
Colston glances up. “For what?”
“For all of it.” Tatum gestures vaguely at the apartment, the season, the exhaustion, the life they’ve built around this sport. “For sticking it out. For not transferring when you could’ve. For having my back.”
Colston scoffs lightly. “You’re being sentimental. You had a drink without me knowing?”
“I’m being honest, not... drunk.”
That makes Colston still.
Tatum clears his throat, suddenly a little awkward. “I don’t say it enough but I mean it.”
Colston nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah. I know.”
Another pause settles in.
Then Tatum adds, “You’ve been really good with my sister, too.”
Colston’s stomach drops.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling like it hasn’t just cracked open.
“With... her?” he echoes carefully.
“Yeah,” Tatum says, casual as ever. “I know it’s probably annoying having her crash here, but… I appreciate it. Knowing you’re around.”
Colston swallows.
“She’s fine,” he says. “Doesn’t cause trouble.”
Tatum laughs. “That’s because you’d kill anyone who tried.”
The words are meant as a joke. They don’t feel like one.
“I just-” Tatum shifts again, sitting up now, elbows resting on his knees. His tone softens. “I trust you with her, more than anyone else.”
The sentence lands heavy. Colston feels it settle in his chest, dense and suffocating.
“I know how guys are,” Tatum continues. “And I don’t worry when you’re here. I know she’s safe.”
Safe.
Colston forces a breath in through his nose. “Yeah.”
“You’re a good guy,” Tatum says simply.
That’s the one that hurts.
Colston lets out a low breath, more like a sigh. “You give me too much credit.”
Tatum scoffs. “I don’t give you enough.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Charged with things only one of them understands.
Eventually, Tatum yawns and pushes himself up from the couch. “I’m crashing. Early lift tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Colston says. “Same.”
Tatum claps him once on the shoulder as he passes - easy, affectionate. “Night, man.”
“Night.”
When Tatum disappears down the hall, Colston stays where he is.
He stares up at the ceiling long after the apartment goes quiet again.
The words echo in his head, looping, relentless.
I trust you with her.
Colston exhales slowly, eyes burning, not with guilt yet, not fully. Just with the sharp awareness that he’s already crossed a line he hasn’t named.
For the first time, he actually stands and grabs his keys, deciding to sleep at his place tonight.
You get home late.
As soon as you get to your room, you cross your room in seconds, flopping onto your bed on your stomach with a groan that you bite down on halfway through. Your laptop is still open where you left it before work, some half-written paragraph staring back at you like it’s offended you’d dare abandon it. Highlighter uncapped, notebook crooked, pen under your thigh.
You drag the laptop closer anyway.
You are absolutely, catastrophically useless right now because all you can think about is Colston. It’s embarrassing how fast your brain betrays you.
You press your cheek into the mattress and groan, muffling it with your pillow this time.
Get a grip.
You’ve known he was hot. You’re not blind. You knew it the first time you met him when he shook your hand and didn’t let go right away, his grip firm in a way that felt deliberate. You remember thinking, irrationally, that if he ever grabbed you for real, you might actually fold in half.
Which is insane and stupid, and not something you should still be thinking about while trying to finish an assignment due at midnight.
You flip onto your side, then onto your back, then back onto your stomach again, restless. Your legs kick once, like that’ll shake the thoughts loose.
It doesn’t, because then your brain hands you something worse: his tattoos.
You hadn’t meant to stare. You’d told yourself you were just observing, casually, like a normal person but the ink along his forearms is distracting in a way that feels personal, like they weren’t meant for public consumption. Lines disappearing under the sleeves of his shirt, hints of something darker higher up, something you’ve never actually seen but somehow feel familiar with anyway.
You imagine what they’d look like closer, under your hands.
Jesus.
You squeeze your eyes shut, mortified with yourself.
His protectiveness should annoy you. That’s the part you keep circling back to, trying to unpack like it’s a problem you can solve if you just think about it hard enough. He watches too closely, inserts himself too easily, acts like your presence is something he’s responsible for, even when Tatum is right there, even when no one asked him to be.
You should hate it.
But instead, it curls low in your stomach and makes you feel warm in a way you don’t have language for yet.
You roll your face into the pillow again, biting down hard.
You are down bad.
You glance at the time on your laptop. Twenty minutes have passed. You’ve written nothing.
From somewhere outside your room, you hear movement - footsteps, the faint clink of something being set down. The low murmur of Colston’s voice carrying from the living room, probably talking to Tatum, probably about something stupid and unimportant like conditioning or food or whatever else they talk about when they’re not quietly driving you insane.
You try not to imagine him out there. Try not to picture the way he looks stretched out on the couch, all long limbs and relaxed confidence, like he belongs in every room he walks into. Like the house rearranges itself around him.
You fail.
You shove your face into the mattress again and tell yourself - out loud this time, quietly, like a prayer - to focus.
You reach for your pen.
That’s when the knock sounds.
You freeze.
Your first, stupid thought is that it’s Tatum’s. Maybe someone forgot something. Maybe it’s a delivery.
Then you hear Colston’s footsteps.
Colston is in the middle of cooking his teammates.
Not metaphorically. Literally. He’s up eight in the fourth, locked in, thumbs flying, headset snug over his ears as someone on the other end of the mic talks shit they absolutely cannot back up. He’s half-slouched into the couch, one knee bouncing, jaw set in concentration.
“Run it again,” someone barks in his ear.
“I am running it,” Colston mutters, eyes never leaving the screen. “You’re just ass at defense.”
From the corner of his vision, Tatum shifts beside him, legs stretched out, phone in hand. He’s been there the whole time but not there - scrolling, texting, occasionally laughing at something on his screen.
The knock comes sharp and sudden, cutting through the noise in his headset.
Colston freezes mid-dribble.
“Yo,” someone shouts in his ear. “What are you doing-”
He rips the headset off and pauses the game, irritation flashing hot. He hates interruptions, hates breaking focus. Tatum doesn’t even look up.
“Want me to get it?” Tatum asks, thumbs still moving.
“No,” Colston says, already pushing to his feet.
He hands the controller off without asking. Tatum takes it automatically, like muscle memory, finally glancing up.
“Don’t mess this up,” Colston says, a small teasing expression on his face.
Tatum grins. “Relax. I’ve got it.”
Colston doesn’t respond. He’s already walking toward the door, irritation still humming under his skin as he reaches for the handle.
He opens it.
The guy standing on the porch looks… harmless. That’s the first thing Colston notices, and it almost annoys him more. Tall but not filled out. Lanky in that still-growing-into-himself way. Blonde hair, nice enough face, clean-cut. The kind of guy people trust automatically, that gets waved into houses without questions.
“Hey,” the guy says easily, friendly smile already in place. “Is this Tatum’s place?”
Colston doesn’t return the smile.
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe instead, arms crossing slowly over his chest. Sleeveless shirt, ink visible.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”
The guy blinks, clearly not expecting resistance. “Uh... sorry. I’m Evan. I work with Y/N.”
That does something.
“So,” Colston says calmly. “Why are you here?”
Evan shifts his weight, suddenly less relaxed. “She - uh, she left her jacket at the shop. Her favorite one. I figured I’d drop it off since she said she lived here.”
Colston’s eyes flick to the jacket in Evan’s hands. Dark fabric, familiar.
His jaw tightens.
“You just… came by,” Colston says.
“Yeah?” Evan laughs lightly, like this is all very normal. “I hope that’s cool. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”
Colston holds his gaze.
It is a big deal. He just hasn’t decided how much yet.
Before he can respond, your voice comes from down the hall.
“Who is it?”
Colston doesn’t turn right away. He hears your footsteps before he sees you, like you already know something’s off. When he does glance back, it’s brief, just enough to register the way you’re standing there, half-uncertain, eyes darting between him and the guy outside.
Something twists low in his gut.
“Hey,” Evan says, relief flooding his voice. “There you are!”
Evan looks at Colston again, then back at you, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
The word hits.
Boyfriend.
Colston feels it land, heavy and loaded, right in his chest.
You open your mouth. “No-” you start.
Colston cuts in smoothly without raising his voice.
“It’s fine,” he says, already reaching for the jacket.
Evan hands it over without hesitation, clearly relieved to have found the right place. “Yeah, I just didn’t want her to think I forgot. You know how it is.”
Colston takes the jacket, fingers curling into the fabric.
“Got it,” he says.
You step forward. “Colston, wait-”
Evan glances between you, misreading the moment entirely. “Well, I won’t keep you guys. See you tomorrow.”
Colston nods once.
“Have a good one.” He says, then he closes the door.
The lock clicks.
You’re staring at him like you can’t believe what just happened.
“What the fuck was that?” you demand.
Colston walks past you without answering at first, crossing the living room to set the jacket on the back of the couch. He places it carefully, like it matters. Like you matter.
“You didn’t handle it,” you snap. “You completely shut him down. I didn’t even get to talk.”
“You didn’t need to,” Colston replies.
Your brows knit together. “That’s not your call.”
Tatum’s voice suddenly cuts through the tension from the couch. “Oh my God, how did he make that shot-”
You both freeze.
Colston glances over his shoulder. Tatum is fully locked into the game now, headset back on, yelling at someone on the screen like nothing is happening two feet away.
“…did he hear us?” you whisper.
Colston watches Tatum for a beat, then shakes his head slightly. “No.”
Your shoulders relax just a fraction.
You lower your voice anyway. “You can’t do that. You can’t just decide things for me.”
Colston steps closer, dropping his voice to match yours.
“He showed up here,” he says. “Unannounced, thinking he could.”
“Thinking he could what?”
Colston’s eyes flick to your mouth, then to your eyes.
“Thinking he had access,” he says.
You exhale. “He was just being nice.”
“And I was just answering the door.”
You scoff quietly. “You let him call you my boyfriend.”
Colston doesn’t deny it.
“Why?”
The question hangs there, heavy.
Before he can answer, Tatum shouts again. “YES -- COUNT IT, BOYS!”
You both flinch this time.
Colston leans in, lowering his voice further. “Because it shut it down.”
“That wasn’t your place.”
“Someone had to do it.”
Your eyes flash. “Why?”
Because the thought of you with him makes something feral crawl up his spine, because he already knows exactly what your favorite jacket looks like and hates that someone else does too.
“Are you jealous?”
The word lands between you like a match.
Colston lets out a laugh immediately - short, disbelieving, almost offended. He tips his head back like you just said the dumbest thing he’s heard all day.
“Jealous?” he repeats. “Of that guy?”
You don’t look away from Colston.
He shakes his head, still smiling, but there’s something tight under it now. “You’re serious?”
“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you say, stepping even closer, voice low but sharp. “Because that was insane behavior.”
“It really wasn’t.”
“You wouldn’t let me get a word in.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“That’s not your call!”
Colston scoffs. “You’re acting like I dragged him out by the collar.”
“You basically did.”
He laughs again, louder this time, like you’re trying to rewrite history. “You think I’m jealous of some skinny blond kid who drops off lost-and-found like it’s a rom-com?”
Your chest tightens.
“Oh my God,” you say, breathless with it. “You are jealous.”
“You are!” You repeat, almost giddy now, because you’ve hit something. You can feel it. “Wow. Never thought I’d live to see the day Colston Loveland gets jealous.”
He lets out a low sound through his nose. “Jealous of him? That’s insane.”
You tilt your head, eyes flicking over him deliberately. “Is it?”
He gestures vaguely with one hand, irritation bleeding through. “I bench press double his body weight, maybe even triple.”
You blink, then laugh. “You think that matters?”
Colston falters - just for half a second.
“It--yeah,” he says, confused now. “I mean-”
“No,” you cut in. “I don’t care how much Evan weighs.”
His jaw tightens.
“At least he’s nice,” you continue, words tumbling out faster now. “He didn’t interrogate me at the door, didn’t decide who I’m allowed to talk to. He just brought my jacket back like a normal human being.”
Colston’s smile is gone now.
“He’s tall,” you add, shrugging like it’s nothing. “That’s literally all that matters.”
Colston exhales through his nose, annoyed despite himself. “I’m six-five.”
You arch a brow. “Congratulations.”
“And a half,” he adds automatically. “Almost six-six.”
The words come out sharper than he means them to. Defensive, like they matter.
You pause, really looking at him now and for just a second, something in his expression shifts. Not anger or smugness, something closer to irritation mixed with… hurt. Like you poked a bruise instead of a joke.
You seize the moment anyway.
“Wow,” you say lightly. “Did that hurt your feelings?”
“No,” he snaps too quickly.
“Because it kinda seems like it did.”
He steps closer again, voice dropping. “You’re pushing.”
“You pushed first.”
“I answered the door.”
“You claimed me.”
Tatum suddenly shouts, “BRO HOW DID HE BLOCK THAT-”
You both flinch.
Colston glances at Tatum, then back at you, lowering his voice again. “I didn’t claim you.”
“You let him think you were my boyfriend.”
“So?”
“So that’s not nothing!”
He studies you, eyes dark, unreadable. “You didn’t exactly rush to correct him either.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
That pisses you off even more.
You reach past him, grab your jacket off the couch, fingers curling tight around the fabric. “You don’t get to act like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you get a say.”
He steps aside, but barely. “I was looking out for you.”
“No,” you snap. “You were being territorial.”
His lips press together.
“You’re not my keeper,” you add. “Not my boyfriend. You’re not anything.”
That one sticks.
Colston’s jaw flexes, muscles in his neck tightening. For a second, it looks like he might say something he can’t take back.
Instead, he scoffs. “Go.”
You don’t wait for him to change his mind. You turn and walk away, heart pounding, skin buzzing with adrenaline and satisfaction.
You disappear down the hall, jacket clutched to your chest.
And Colston stands there, staring at the closed door, realizing a little too late that for someone who insists he’s not jealous-
He’s never hated a six-foot blond guy more in his life.
The party stopped being fun about twenty minutes ago.
You’re not sure exactly when it tipped. Whether it was the third shot you absolutely didn’t need, or the way the room started to tilt just enough to make your stomach clench, or the sudden awareness that you were too drunk to convincingly pretend you weren’t. All you know is that you’re sitting on the edge of someone’s bed in a room that smells like stale beer and cologne, lights low and music bleeding through the walls, and regret is crawling up your throat like bile.
You’re not blackout drunk. That’s almost worse.
You’re conscious enough to feel everything. The headache forming behind your eyes, the uncomfortable warmth under your skin, the way your limbs feel heavy and disconnected, like they’re operating on a delay. You’re aware enough to know you made a bad call. To know this was stupid, you don’t feel safe staying here, and you don’t feel capable of getting yourself home.
Your phone feels too bright when you pull it out.
Your fingers fumble with the screen, thumbs clumsy, patience nonexistent. You check your location app without really thinking, zooming in on Tatum’s dot.
He’s nowhere near campus.
He’s at her place, the girl who isn’t his girlfriend but absolutely acts like one. The last thing you want to do is call him and interrupt whatever mess he’s in the middle of. He stayed in for you last weekend. He deserves to be selfish for once. You don’t want to be the reason he sighs into his phone and says, “I’ll be there in a bit.”
You check Uber next.
The number makes your stomach drop.
You swipe to your banking app, stare at your balance, and then at your savings. The idea of transferring money feels impossible. Way too many steps.
You exhale shakily, pressing your phone to your forehead.
You don’t want to admit it even to yourself, but there’s only one person you trust to get you home right now.
You scroll to his name, and your thumb hovers.
You already know how this is going to go.
He’s going to be pissed.
You hit call anyway.
It rings once, twice, three times.
“Where are you.”
It’s not a greeting, not even a question.
Your eyes close. “Hey, Colston!”
“No,” Colston says. “Try again.”
You swallow. “I’m fucked up.”
There’s a pause on the other end. You can practically hear his jaw tightening.
“You safe?” he asks.
“I think so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m sitting,” you mumble. “On a bed.”
“Whose bed.”
“Someone’s.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You hear movement. Keys, maybe, rustle of fabric. He doesn’t hang up.
“Where,” he repeats, slower now.
You tell him.
He doesn’t yell. Somehow, that’s worse.
“I’m on my way,” he says. “Do not move.”
“I can’t promise-”
“I’m serious,” he cuts in. “Stay where you are.”
The call ends.
You stare at your phone, guilt washing over you in a wave. You feel small and embarrassed but underneath it all, a flicker of relief so intense it makes your eyes sting.
He’ll come. Of course he will.
It takes him five minutes.
You know because you keep checking your phone, watching the time tick by like it’s taunting you. When you finally step outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. Your outfit - which seemed cute and harmless an hour ago - feels criminally inadequate now. You hug your arms around yourself, swaying slightly as you lean against the railing.
You don’t see him right away.
You do, however, see the guy.
He’s been orbiting you all night. Harmless enough, chatty, too close when he laughs. He steps into your space again, offering you a cigarette you don’t want.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, swaying. “Just waiting.”
“For?”
You shrug. “A ride.”
He smiles. “I can wait with you.”
Before you can answer, a shadow cuts between you.
Colston’s voice is low and sharp. “She’s leaving.”
His hand closes around your wrist. Not hard, but possessive.
You blink, startled. “Hey-”
“We’re done,” Colston says to the guy, not looking at him. “Move.”
There’s something in his tone that brooks no argument. The guy raises his hands, backing off with a muttered “okay, damn.”
Colston doesn’t watch him go.
His attention is entirely on you.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing,” he says, pulling you toward the parking lot.
You stumble a little, laughing breathlessly. “Wow, you’re dramatic.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“You didn’t stay where I told you,” he snaps.
“I was... right there.”
“You were chatting up some random dude.”
“I was being polite.”
“You were drunk.”
You roll your eyes. “I am drunk.”
He stops abruptly, turning to face you. The streetlight catches his expression - jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.
“This is not funny,” he says.
“You’re being bossy,” you shoot back.
His laugh is humorless. “You called me for help.”
“And you came,” you say, smug despite yourself. “Gold star, 10/10. Want a cookie?”
He exhales slowly, clearly trying not to lose his temper.
“You’re freezing,” he says, glancing at your bare legs. “What were you thinking wearing this?”
“I was thinking... I looked hot.”
“You look easy.”
“Ouch.”
He opens the car door and practically shoves you inside. You buckle your seatbelt with exaggerated slowness, glaring at him as he circles around to the driver’s side.
The door slams shut.
The engine starts.
Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.
“You’re being irresponsible,” he says finally.
You scoff. “I’m twenty.”
“You’re drunk at a frat without a ride home.”
“I had a ride,” you argue. “You.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“You came, didn’t you?”
His grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“You can’t do this,” he says.
Your chest tightens. “I didn’t expect-”
“You did,” he cuts in. “You knew I’d come.”
He’s right.
You cross your arms, staring out the window. “Sorry for trusting you.”
The car goes quiet again.
When you pull into the apartment complex, you realize something with a sinking feeling.
“Fuck,” you mutter, patting your pockets. “I lost my key.”
Colston laughs once, short and disbelieving. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
He shuts off the engine and gets out without a word, unlocking the door with his spare.
Inside, the apartment is dark. Tatum’s door is closed, probably still at the girl’s house.
Colston locks the door behind you.
You kick off your shoes, wobbling slightly. He steadies you without thinking, hand firm on your elbow.
The contact sends a jolt through both of you.
He lets go immediately.
“You’re mad at me.”
“Yes.”
“You still came.”
“Yes.”
You smile faintly. “You care.”
The kitchen light is too bright.
That’s the first thing you notice when Colston flicks it on - how it slices straight through your skull. The overhead bulb hums faintly, an irritating, constant buzz, and you wince like it’s loud enough to bruise.
“Sit.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t have to, says it like it’s obvious you will, like this is already decided.
You don’t.
You linger by the counter instead, leaning your hip against it, pretending you’re steady when you’re not, pretending the room isn’t still tilting in slow circles. Your arms cross automatically, jacket still on, fingers digging into your sleeves. Your cheeks are flushed, not just from the cold.
Colston exhales through his nose. He opens the cabinet harder than necessary, the glassware rattling softly in protest.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, filling a glass at the sink. “You need water.”
“I’m fine,” you say immediately, because of course you do.
He turns then, glass in hand, and locks eyes with you. There’s nothing gentle there. Just that flat, assessing look that makes your spine prickle.
“You’re not.”
“I’ve been drunk before,” you snap, rolling your eyes. “This isn’t new.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
He sets the glass down in front of you with a firm thunk, close enough that you have to uncross your arms to keep from knocking it over.
“Drink.”
You glare at the glass like it insulted you.
“No.”
His jaw tightens.
For half a second, you expect him to laugh, or to brush it off, to make some comment about you being stubborn. But he doesn’t. He steps closer instead, crowding your space, one hand bracing on the counter beside the glass.
“You called me,” he says, voice low now. Dangerous in how measured it is. “If you want my help, you drink the water.”
You hesitate just long enough to be irritating, then grab the glass and take a stubborn sip. Barely anything.
He watches you the entire time.
“More.”
You sigh loudly, exaggerated, and take another drink, swallowing more than you want to. Your stomach twists as the alcohol settles in an unpleasant wave. You grimace.
“Happy?”
“Not even a little.”
He takes the glass from you, refills it halfway, sets it back down.
“Again.”
You don’t argue this time.
By the time you finish, the fog in your head has thinned just enough to make everything worse. The room steadies. Your thoughts sharpen. So does your irritation.
Colston leans back against the opposite counter, folding his arms over his chest. He looks big. He always does, but right now it’s unavoidable. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his hoodie, forearms thick and corded, tattoos peeking out where the sleeves ride up.
His eyes drag over you in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Where do you get off,” he starts, voice controlled but tight, “getting that drunk at a frat, dressed like that, with no ride home?”
There it is.
You straighten immediately. “Oh, fuck off.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” you snap. “I asked for a ride.”
“And you got one.”
“Yeah, so congratulations,” you shoot back. “You did your good deed for the night.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?” You step forward, closing the space he created. “Because last time I checked, you’re not my dad.”
His jaw flexes.
“It’s about you being careless,” he says. “It’s about you getting shit-faced and letting random guys get the wrong idea.”
You scoff. “I can handle myself.”
“I watched you,” he fires back. “You couldn’t even stand straight.”
“That doesn’t mean I needed saving.”
“Bullshit.”
The word lands heavy.
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You’re acting like I owe you something.”
“I’m acting like someone who gives a fuck,” he snaps, pushing off the counter.
“And why do you?” you fire back immediately. “Why do you care so much?”
The silence that follows is thick, the kind that feels like it’s waiting to explode.
He stares at you, eyes dark. For a split second, you see something crack. Something raw and too close to the truth.
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” you say flatly. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
Something in him snaps.
It’s subtle, the way his posture shifts, the way the air between you changes temperature. In two strides, he’s in front of you, close enough that the counter presses into your lower back.
You barely have time to inhale.
You’re nose to nose now, breath mingling, your pulse slamming so hard it feels like it might climb out of your throat.
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and rough, “act like it then.”
Your breath stutters.
You can feel him everywhere. The heat of him, the sheer physicality, the way he fills the space like he owns it. Your hands lift instinctively, pressing against your own chest, fingers curling into your shirt like you need something to hold onto.
You try to look away.
He doesn’t let you, his hand comes up fast, gripping your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, fingers firm. He tilts your face up until you have no choice but to look at him.
“You don’t get to push me like that,” he says quietly. “I did you a fucking favor. Act like it.”
Your lips part. A breath slips out that you don’t mean to give him.
For a split second, he hesitates.
You see it - the war on his face, restraint fraying at the edges. His grip tightens just slightly, like he’s bracing himself.
You lean in first, barely an inch. Maybe less. But it’s enough.
Enough that his breath catches, that his thumb digs into your cheek. Enough that when he kisses you, it’s like something he’s been holding back for far too long finally detonates.
It’s not soft or careful.
His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and heat and frustration, the kiss rough and unrestrained. There’s nothing tentative about it, just pent-up want snapping free. It feels like a release, like he finally stopped fighting something that’s been clawing at him for months, maybe even years.
You gasp against his mouth, hands flying up to his chest, fingers splaying over solid muscle.
He kisses you harder, grip shifting, one hand sliding from your jaw to your hip, the other bracing on the counter beside your head. He leans into you, weight pinning you back until the edge digs into you sharply.
You don’t care.
You lean into it, into him, kissing him back with the same reckless heat. Your teeth catch his top lip. He groans and pushes you harder into the counter.
Something crashes.
Glass shatters on tile, water spilling everywhere but neither of you reacts.
You’re dimly aware of it - the broken glass near your feet, the water soaking into your socks but it barely registers. The only thing that exists is him. The way his mouth moves against yours like he’s starving, the way his control is gone, replaced by something raw and unfiltered.
For a fleeting, dizzying second, you’re grateful.
Grateful Tatum isn’t home, that the apartment is quiet. Grateful no one is here to see this line being crossed so completely.
Colston pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead dropping to yours. You’re both breathing hard now, chests rising and falling too fast.
“It’s three in the fucking morning,” he murmurs, voice strained. “I’ve got practice in three hours.”
Your lips feel swollen. Your head is spinning again but not from the alcohol this time.
“So don’t kiss me,” you whisper, defiant even now.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“Too late,” he says and kisses you again.
After a few seconds, he pulls away like he’s been burned.
Not fast but with a sharp inhale, a sudden stillness, like his body catches up to his brain all at once. His forehead drops to yours for half a second, then lifts. His hand slips from your hip. The warmth vanishes so quickly it almost makes you dizzy.
The guilt hits him visibly.
You see it in the way his jaw tightens, how his eyes flick away from your mouth like looking at it might actually hurt. He takes a step back, then another, palms flattening briefly against the counter behind him like he needs something solid to ground himself.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
You’re still pressed against the counter, heart racing, lips buzzing, chest rising too fast. The room feels colder without him so close.
“That’s it?” you say.
Your voice comes out sharper than you expect, cutting through the hum of the overhead light, through the quiet that’s settled like a held breath.
He looks back at you.
“What?”
“That’s all you’ve got?” you push, eyes narrowing. “You kiss me like that and then you just… what? Feel bad and decide you’re done?”
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once - two steps across the kitchen, then back, like a caged animal.
“You’re drunk,” he says. “I shouldn’t have-”
“You didn’t seem too worried about ‘shouldn’t’ thirty seconds ago.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” you fire back, pushing off the counter. The floor tilts slightly under your feet but you steady yourself. “You’re the one who started yelling at me, who put your hands on me first.”
He stops moving, turning to face you fully. His expression hardens, walls slamming back into place.
“You leaned in,” he says.
“And you didn’t stop me.”
Silence stretches between you, suffocating.
Your chest tightens. Not just with anger, but something uglier. Something closer to embarrassment. You hate that he can pull that out of you so easily.
“So what,” you say, voice dropping, laced with challenge. “Now you’re gonna walk away and pretend this didn’t happen?”
His shoulders tense.
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
The words are out before you can stop them.
His jaw clenches. He looks past you, toward the hallway. Toward the front door. You can practically see him making the decision to leave, to be the bigger person, to do the right thing.
And the thought makes something hot and reckless flare in your chest.
“You don’t get to do that,” you say, stepping closer. “Don’t get to act all high and mighty now.”
He exhales sharply. “I’m trying to do the... right thing.”
“Since when?”
That lands.
He looks back at you, eyes darkening. Something dangerous flickers there - something you recognize now.
“You really want to do this?” he asks quietly.
You tilt your head, defiant. “What... walk away? Yeah. Seems like you’re already halfway there.”
He takes one step toward you, then another.
“I’m serious,” he says, voice low. “Stop pushing me.”
You swallow. Your lips still feel swollen, sensitive.
“Why?” you ask. “Afraid you’ll kiss me again?”
For a split second, he actually looks like he might leave.
He turns away, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair, keys clinking softly as he picks them up. He moves toward the door with controlled steps, jaw set like he’s bracing himself.
You watch him go, chest burning.
“Guess I was wrong about you,” you say, the words slipping out sharper than you intended. “All talk.”
He freezes, turning back slowly, eyes locking onto yours with a look that makes your stomach drop.
You open your mouth - maybe to apologize, maybe to double down but you don’t get the chance.
He crosses the space between you in two strides and grips your face, fingers digging into your jaw just enough to make your breath hitch. There’s no hesitation this time, no restraint.
He kisses you like he’s angry at himself for wanting you.
All teeth and pressure and heat, rougher than before, messier. His mouth crashes into yours, stealing the air from your lungs, his grip tightening as if he needs to remind himself this is real. Your hands fly up automatically, fisting into his hoodie, pulling him closer even as your head spins.
It’s desperate, reckless. It’s over too fast.
He pulls away abruptly, breath ragged, forehead hovering an inch from yours. His grip loosens, hands dropping like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
Your lips tingle, knees feel weak.
He steps back, dragging his hands through his hair again, pacing once like he needs distance before he does something worse.
“I have to go,” he says finally.
He grabs his keys, the metallic jingle sounding too loud in the quiet apartment. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, glancing back at you.
“You need to get some rest,” he adds, voice softer now. “Drink water. Lock the door.”
You just stare at him, words stuck in your throat.
“Goodnight,” he says and then he’s gone.
The door shuts with a solid click.
The silence that follows is deafening.
You stand there for a moment, heart still pounding like it doesn’t know the danger has passed. Your body sways slightly, the adrenaline draining, leaving you lightheaded and shaky.
Slowly, you lift two fingers and press them against your lips.
They’re warm, still buzzing.
You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself, trying to convince your brain that this actually happened. That you didn’t imagine the weight of him, the roughness of his mouth, the way his hands felt so sure on your skin.
Your fingers linger there, as if you’re checking - asking yourself if it was real.
The kitchen light hums overhead.
Somewhere down the hall, your room waits and you’re left standing in the middle of it all, lips tingling, heart racing, wondering how something that felt so inevitable could end so abruptly.
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
A/N: Checking back in with our college sweetheart and Colston! I had SO many requests for some hurt-comfort inspired by the game over the weekend, so I hope this lives up to expectations. I did so much research on concussions and how to look after someone with one. Wasn't quite sure whether to end it in the car or follow them home, so if you guys wanted a follow up of them at home then let me know. Hope you guys enjoy!
WC: 3.6k
Warnings: Nothing major, Colston sustains a concussion, college sweetheart comforts him
Part of the 'You're Still The One' universe - Masterlist | Colston Loveland Masterlist
The Chicago Bears season has been a whirlwind, to say the least. From finishing the previous season five-and-twelve and missing out on the playoffs, to making the playoffs and finishing the season eleven-and-six, you couldn’t really have asked for a smoother start to Colston’s professional football career.
Until now.
Now, you’re stood in the suite, utterly helpless as Colston is led to the medical tent.
How the tables have turned.
Nausea fills your stomach. Blind panic has made your vision hazy from the second he went down and didn’t get up straightaway like he always does after diving for a catch. You’ve been pacing the floor in front of the window.
The hit he took, the way his head hit the ground and the sight of him lying on the turf, not getting up, still replays in your head.
Nobody’s said anything. You know it’s standard procedure. You know that phones aren’t allowed in the medical tent. You know he’s in the best hands possible.
It doesn’t help your anxiety.
You check your phone for what must be the hundredth time since he went down.
Still nothing.
Not even an update from the Bears app.
This has always been your worst fear.
It’s part of the life you’ve chosen.
But when you think back to that night in April last year, when Colston got the call saying that the Bears had drafted him, you’ve had this small hope, this ideal world in which he never has to pay a visit to that dreaded blue tent.
It could happen to any player in any game. It just had to happen to Colston in the last minute of a divisional playoff game.
A text tone coming from your phone nearly makes your heart jump out of your skin. Your hands are so sweaty that they fumble the device as you check it, hoping it’s Colston or one of the staffers on the sidelines giving you an update.
It’s your group chat with your friends, asking for updates.
From: Daisy
Saw Colston go down, he okay?
From: Jay
He’s been in the tent for a while. Hope he’s okay. ❤️
From: Cici
Let us know if you need anything, babe 🫶
There are other messages. Other friends. Family members checking in.
You don’t have the heart to reply. You will, once you know that Colston is okay.
‘Come on, Colst, give me something, babe,’ you mutter more to yourself than anyone around you.
The pacing continues. Your hands rub your face, ignoring the makeup that you put on this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago that you were putting on your LOVELAND 84 jersey on, excited to watch your boyfriend in his first ever NFL divisional game.
Seconds feel like hours. Time seems to crawl forward.
At last, at long, long last, the tent flaps open and Colston shuffles out. There’s a split second where you hope he’s been cleared, but when he passes his helmet to a nearby staffer you recognise as the equipment manager, your heart sinks when you realise the reality.
Almost at the same time, a graphic comes up on the overhead board and the PA system announces:
‘Colston Loveland has been declared out. Concussion.’
Tears spring to your eyes.
You watch on, completely helpless, as Colston is walked off the turf, down the tunnel and towards what you know is the medical room where he’ll be having further assessments. His head is down, gait is awkward and sluggish. One of his hands, huge even from the distance you are away from him, comes up to the point of his head where he made impact. Your heart gives a jolt of something, something like I’m right here, baby.
At that moment, he looks straight up at the suite. His eyes are squinting at the effort of it through the obvious pain in his head, but he does it all the same.
He’s looking straight at you. Then, he gives his chest two taps.
Two taps.
His sign since sophomore year at Michigan that he’s okay and he’ll see you soon.
Your hand reaches up to the glass and you rest a hand on your heart. You don’t know if he can see you, but you do it all the same. It’s for your sake just as much as it is for his.
He disappears into the tunnel and down towards the backrooms of the stadium.
The absence is felt sorely in your body.
There’s still over a minute left on the clock. You know you can’t see him until the game is over.
You hardly focus through any of it. Not the field goal, not through overtime, not even the final whistle blaring out and declaring the game a win for the Rams.
Even though your heart is heavy for the team, all you want is Colston. You need to see him with your own eyes so your body can finally process that he’s going to be okay.
You’re not quite sure what the procedure is from here, but before you can think about it too much, there’s a knock at the door.
‘Miss Y/L/N?’ a voice asks quietly through an opening in the door to the suite.
You turn around to see a woman in her thirties, wearing Bears team gear and a radio, leaning on the door.
‘Y-yes?’
She steps in closer to you.
‘My name is Sheri, I’m with player operations. I wanted to give you an update on Colston. He’s okay, he does have a concussion. It appears to be mild but we will need to do some more checks to be sure.’
Mild.
The word lingers in your brain like a slice of hope.
Sheri continues.
‘Normally, we would wait until after these checks are completed to allow family and partners down, but Colston asked specifically for you. Several times, actually.’ Her mouth quirks into a soft smile. ‘He wanted you to know that he’s okay, and he’s sorry you had to see that.’
A soft sob of relief chokes out of your chest before you can stop it.
‘So, so I can see him? Now?’ You ask through tears.
She nods, almost reassuringly.
‘Yes. I’ve come to take you down.’
Her words release just some of the tension that your body has been holding since the minute Colston went down.
‘Is he okay?’ you ask as Sheri leads you down the corridor and then into a back staircase. You know that this is where fans aren’t allowed, and you’re grateful that you won’t be asked questions by fans. As well-meaning as they may be, you just don’t have the energy for it.
Sheri pauses to consider her words, but keeps walking. She knows how to handle things like this by now, knows how to talk to partners who are scared and saw their boyfriends or husbands go down the way Colston did. It never makes it easier, though.
‘He’s going to be okay,’ she begins. Your heart loosens. ‘The initial checks weren’t overly worrying. He knew his name, knew where he was and what quarter the game was in. What concerned the med team was some slightly delayed processing, slurred speech and slowed eye movement. It was enough to rule him out there and then.’
Delayed processing.
Slurred speech.
Slowed eye movement.
Even from your limited medical knowledge, the clear signs of concussion were enough to make your heart rate spike once again.
‘Okay. And… when I see him, what should I expect?’
‘He’ll probably apologise. He’s been apologising to everyone since he got to the tent. He feels guilty, responsible for the way the game ended.’
You can’t help but smile, despite the situation.
‘Sounds like Colston.’
‘Agreed. In terms of immediate and longer term aftercare, no screens, no driving and no bright lights. He also shouldn’t be left alone.’
You nod, mentally noting down her words and already making adjustments in the house.
‘And warning signs to be aware of?’
She falls in step with you, looking at you with a small smile on her face again.
‘Not many are this… involved in the care of their partners, you know.’
You shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
‘We’re in this together.’
‘That’s a nice thing to hear. Refreshing.’ She draws herself back up, all business once again. ‘If he starts to get confused, if his headache gets worse or nausea sets in, you call.’ Panic flares in your stomach. As if she can feel it, she steps closer. ‘But right now, this is manageable. I’ve seen far worse, and I know that doesn’t seem like much right now. But Colston’s tough, and he’s got you by his side. Having someone like you with him is a lot more than many NFL players can honestly say they have.’
The rest of the walk passes by in companionable silence. You’re internally preparing yourself for what lies ahead, for how to act around Colston, to bring up your walls so you can be the tough one.
At last, you reach a door that says MEDICAL ROOM A.
‘He’s in here. Hugging is fine, just don’t pull him too hard. Don’t speak too loudly. Just remember that his brain’s taken a bit of a hit, so he might be a little emotional. Not quite the Colston you’re used to. He’ll come back, though.’ She pauses to allow you to prepare yourself. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yeah,’ you say softly. ‘Just want to see him.’
‘Okay. You can knock, let him know it’s you. I’ll be back in ten minutes to take you to the locker room to collect his personal belongings. Equipment team have already taken his pads and helmet up to the storage. You’re doing really well.’
Sheri reaches out to squeeze your hand, and then walks off.
Your hand raises and pauses by the door as the last of your resolve builds up. Then, you knock twice, softly.
‘Colst? It’s me.’
The answer comes a second later than it should.
‘Come in, baby.’
When you turn the handle and open the door, the first thing you see is the sterility of the room. It’s white. Too white. The lights are too bright despite the injury sustained by the patient in the room.
Colston is sat on the training table. His shoulders are slightly hunched and he’s too still, as if he’s been told not to move too much and is obeying that instruction to the letter.
He blinks up at you, eyes not quite focusing on you, and your heart shatters when he squints at you through the headache. Then he bows his head again as the light becomes too much for him to process. His body language alone screams guilt; slumped shoulders, hands fidgeting in his lap and posture weak, not the strong, statuesque stance you’re so used to.
For a second, you just stand and look at him.
‘Oh, baby,’ you whisper. Tears are already threatening, but you know you have to keep strong.
‘I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry.’ It comes out softer than usual, even though his voice is wrecked from being on the field for nearly a full game.
You cross the small room in just a few short strides and stop in front of him, thighs brushing his knees. He leans into your touch when you cradle his face in your hands, his hands reaching up to hold your forearms to anchor himself on you.
The two of you are silent for a few moments. He still smells of turf, sweat and grime. He’s yet to shower, which you’ll no doubt help with once you’re home. His eye black is mostly wiped off but a few patches remain. Your thumb absently swipes away at them, trying to rid his face of what’s left of the game.
He’s the first to wrap you up in a hug, pulling you closer to him as if he’s trying to assure you that he’s real, he’s there.
You take that as permission to wind your arms around his neck.
‘I’m okay,’ he repeats in a murmur into your ear. ‘Took a bit of a hit, I know that, but they said it’s a mild concussion.’ His eyes lock on yours, wanting you to believe his next words. ‘Should be just fine in a few days.’
You hold his gaze for another second, before you rest your head on his broad shoulder, exhale into his neck and press a kiss to the damp skin there.
‘You scared me.’
He tightens his grip on you, reassuring but gentle.
‘I know,’ he sighs heavily. ‘‘M sorry, love bug.’
You pull back from him just slightly and hold his face again.
‘Just glad you’re alive. You’re here.’
He leans up to kiss your forehead.
‘We both are, sweetheart.’
You step back into him. You’re holding him just as much as he’s holding you.
Not many words are exchanged after that. You just hold each other. Colston’s heart is still thrumming in his chest, but the more you hold onto him, the slower it gets. His huge hand rubs up and down your back in soothing strokes, while your thumbs brush gentle circles into his shoulder blades.
It’s only when your shoulders gently heave with a sob that he taps you on the back.
‘Hey,’ he says softly. ‘Look at me.’
His eyes are still slightly out of focus when you look at him, but you know he’s lucid and meaning what he says. It’s his turn to cup your cheek in his large hands. One of his thumbs brushes away a stray tear that’s fallen down your cheek.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry, I just…’ Your shoulders shake as another sob bursts out of your chest before you can stop it. Colston’s hand immediately rubs soothing circles into your back. ‘I feel bad for crying, you’re the one with the concussion, but I… I saw you go down, you didn’t get up, Colston, I was… I was so scared, nobody told me what was happening… I’m sorry…’
He pulls you closer so your faces are inches apart and his hands cradle both sides of your face, thumbs brushing away tears as they fall.
‘Darlin’, I need you to look at me when I say this. Don’t ever apologise for feelin’, baby. Especially when it comes to things like this.’ His hands that are resting on your hips tighten their grip just slightly. The tone is firm, but the words are said quietly, reverently. ‘I went down, it wasn’t pretty. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to be scared.’
You nod weakly. It will take a while for the words to become true in your heart, even though your head realises it now. Being scared is normal. You saw the love of your life go down and not get back up straightaway. That will mess with anyone’s head.
He kisses you gently, unhurriedly, to bring you back to him. Colston can always tell when your head is running away with you. He’s getting quicker at catching you before you disappear.
The kiss continues in that sweet, gentle way it always does when either of you need to remember that you’re here, you’re with him, you’re where you’re meant to be right now. You’re stood so close to him that your chests are touching.
His lips pull away from yours and trace gentle kisses to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your forehead and then your temple.
He takes your hand and brings up to his chest where you can feel his heart beating. It’s slower, now that the adrenaline and shock have both worn off.
‘Feel that, sweetheart?’ You nod again. ‘See, I’m right here, my girl. Right here. Not goin’ anywhere, promise. Neither are you.’
You shuffle closer to him again, not wanting to stray more than a foot away from him. Both of you are going to be clingy tonight, you know that much. He chuckles softly and winds his arms around your waist.
‘I love you, baby. Thank you for being here.’
You kiss his cheek.
‘Nowhere else I’d rather be, Col. I love you more than anything.’
The moment is broken by a knock on the door, and you automatically step back from Colston, suddenly very aware that you’re still in his place of work. He keeps your hand in his, craving physical contact, like always.
One of the medical team steps in, followed closely by Sheri.
‘We just need to do a few more tests before he can go home,’ the med staffer explains quietly.
‘Y/N, I’ll take you to the locker room to collect the last of his belongings, like we talked about.’
You turn back to Colston, suddenly not wanting to leave his side. He nods encouragingly at you, a small smile flickering across his face, and squeezes your hand.
‘I’ll be okay, baby, go.’
You hesitate a moment longer, enough time for him to pull you back in for a sweet kiss, making both staff in the room look away pointedly, before he murmurs, ‘go, honey, I’ll be just fine, I promise’ against your lips.
Finally, with one last squeeze of his enormous hand, you extricate yourself from his arms and exit the room, but not without a glance over your shoulder as the medical staffer holds a light out in front of Colston’s eye.
It’s another quiet walk to the locker room.
‘Here’s his locker,’ Sheri announces when you arrive at the locker bearing his number and team photo above the cubby hole. ‘Like I said before, the equipment team took all his pads, helmet and mouthguard back to Halas Hall. All that’s left is his duffle and backpack.’
You nod and busy yourself collecting everything to go into his backpack.
It’s a backpack you’ve seen probably hundreds of times, but it still feels strange in your hands. It feels like you’re handling something that doesn’t belong to you. Colston makes everything look tiny, and this bag is no exception.
His phone is beeping with messages, lighting up every few seconds. You recognise a few names; JJ McCarthy, a few friends from Gooding, coaches… He’ll respond to them eventually, when the concussion has eased. For now, though, you pocket his phone and shoulder his bag, carrying his duffle in your other hand.
‘I’m ready,’ you say when Sheri comes back in.
‘Okay. They’re still doing the last of the tests, but you’re welcome to wait outside. They won’t be long.’
The wait outside the room while they complete the last of the checks seems just as long as the wait for the game to finish.
You can hear muffled voices from inside the room, Colston’s low timbre rumbling through the walls right to your bones. There are chairs for you to sit, but you don’t. That anxious energy is back again, worrying that they’ll find something, worrying that he’ll take a turn for the worse…
But then the door opens and he’s there. Tired eyes and shoulders still slightly lower than usual, but he’s there. His huge frame fills the entire doorframe, broad shoulders almost touching either sides of it.
He reaches out a hand towards you the second he sees you.
‘All good to go home, babe,’ he smiles gently, as if he could sense that a spiral was imminent. ‘Long as you’re drivin’.’
You return his smile, relief finally flooding your body for the first time since seeing him go down, and cross the distance to him once more. When you stand close enough to him, he immediately pulls you in for a hug, holding you so close it’s like he’s scared you’ll float away if he loosens his grip even slightly. He kisses you again, softly and reassuringly, huge hands cupping your face to keep you close.
‘Let’s take you home, superstar,’ you mumble against his lips.
The two of you walk towards his car, keys in your hand because there’s simply no way he’s driving for at least a few days. It’s quiet, peaceful and reflective.
Even with a concussion, Colston opens the door for you and holds out his hand to help you in. He leans in to press a fleeting kiss to your cheek as you pass him. You pretend not to notice, but your flaming red cheeks betray you.
‘So this is it? No games until September?’ You ask as you buckle up inside the car.
‘Yeah. Feels weird.’
‘Good weird or bad weird?’
He tilts his head in thought.
‘Weird in a way that will take a while to get used to, but will be nice once I’m used to it.’
You giggle and lean across the centre console to kiss him, wanting to be close to him.
‘Look at you, all mature after your first proper NFL season.’ He laughs back at you, then winces when his head pangs. ‘Okay, no laughing for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘Kind of impossible with you around, darlin’.’
You scoff, laughing, and shove his chest playfully.
‘Charmer.’
He doesn’t back down. He looks across at you, still slow in his movement but determined, even now, to make you blush as he fires a wink over at you.
‘How do you think I pulled you, sweetheart?’
You look across at him after pulling out of the parking lot, wiggling your eyebrows playfully.
‘The half a bottle of vodka I’d had when we met certainly helped.’
It’s his turn to scoff and laugh, the first slice of normality returning.
And you know from the second he reaches across to kiss your cheek, you know he’s going to be just fine.
He’s got you. You’ve got him. You’ve got each other.
And that’s enough.
COLSTON LOVELAND TAGLIST (message or ask to be added!): @vroomvroombtch @mrs-delaney @cozygirljay @nngkay @patosduck @harryweeniee @junovee @snoopyhughes @ivy-34 @holidaycashton
summary ₊ ⊹ he’s a rising star. she’s a cheerleader for his team. for the past year, they’ve been secretly dating — what happens when there’s a secret that can’t be kept?
pairing ₊ ⊹ colston loveland x cheerleader!reader
warnings ₊ ⊹ mentions of sex and pregnancy. past pregnancy scares. established relationship, suggestive, height difference (colston is 6’6”, reader is 5’5”), one use of Y/N. written in third person. also i realized while writing this that the bears don’t have cheerleaders (oops) so just imagine that they still do.
a/n ₊ ⊹ please keep in mind that i am an asian woman and will primarily write for asian women. all are welcome, but my works are created with an eastern asian woman in mind.
Everyone, at some point in their life, will have a pregnancy scare. Some are in high school. Some in college. Some are forty years old, with a paid-off mortgage, and three adult children.
But they’re never a 20-year-old NFL cheerleader with a secret NFL boyfriend, who’s only a rookie. Her heart feels like it’s about to rip out of her chest as she watches the timer tick down, slowly, like it’s taunting her. Colston stands next to her, a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles against the fabric of her baby tee. “Whatever it says, mama,” he hums, voice hoarse with a Southern drawl, “we’ll figure it out.”
She huffs out a laugh, eyes brimming with tears, “Easy for you to say. I can’t hide my pregnancy, Cole — but you can. You don’t even have to tell anybody, you can ignore me at practice and at games and pretend like you don’f know, but I’ll be the one fired—" she’s cut off by Colston’s hand moving from her back to her cheek, stroking the skin softly as he tilts her head up to look at him. “Hey, hey, take a breath. We don’t even know if you’re pregnant, okay? Look—stop that. Look at me, mama. We’ll be alright.”
She takes a deep breath and nods, becoming hyper-aware of the way Colston’s calloused fingers feel against her cheek. The timer beeps with increasing urgency. “On three, okay? One, two, three.” Both pairs of eyes flicker to the white stick on the bathroom counter, and she lets out a soft laugh, “I’m not pregnant.”
“You’re not pregnant,” Colston echoes, his voice a soft murmur as he pulls her in for an embrace, his chin resting on top of her head. “Wanna go fuck as a way to celebrate?” he smirks, and she pulls away from the hug, smacking his chest. “You’re so fucking perverted,”
“That’s not a no, mama.” he licks his lips and taps her ass, “Come on, you’ve been teasing me all day with these fuckin’ shorts.” With a heavy, dramatic sigh, she turns on her heel, places a hand on the doorway, and looks back over her shoulder, “You comin’?”
That was three months ago.
And now, she’s back in the same situation. A missed period. Increasing nausea. Tender boobs, and increased agitation from simple things, like Colston leaving his size 12 football cleats in the doorway—enough for her to be irritated over as she trips over them, but not enough for her to give him the silent treatment for the rest of the night.
The next day, she’s dressed in her practice uniform — white spandex shorts and a matching top, with the Bears logo printed on her left thigh. The sound of pom poms fluttering around fills her ears, along with the occasional laughter after a failed high kick or jump split. If she looks behind her, she knows she’ll see Colston looking at her—he’s always been horrible at hiding his staring.
Coach Riley tells the girls to take a break and begin their stretches, so they do, dropping their pom poms onto the grass and obeying their coach. As she does so, one of her teammates, Jess, lets out a soft giggle, “Girl, Colston cannot stop staring at you. I think he has a crush,” the redhead sings, stretching out her calves.
Winona chimes in, nodding her head in agreement, “Seriously. He stares at her everyday,” she laughs, “go get your man, girl!” Y/N shakes her head, “He doesn’t want me. Trust me. And even if he did—it can’t happen. I signed a contract, remember? No fraternization between cheerleaders and players, or else we’ll be reprimanded and I’ll probably be fired.”
Jess waves her off, “Whatever, girl. He wants you bad and you know it.” She’s about to say something else, but is cut off by Coach Riley’s whistle, signaling the girls to get back to work. As she stands up from her stretch, she spares a glance backwards, seeing Colston already looking at her with a mix of fondness and hunger in his eyes.
Fuck, she thinks to herself, How am I supposed to explain I think I’m pregnant?
After practice, she had gone straight to Colston’s house—which was basically hers, too, but he hadn’t asked her to move in yet. She’s in the master bathroom—the lights feel too bright as she tilts her head up to the ceiling, trying her best to not let tears fall as the result pops up on the tiny digital screen.
Pregnant.
At 20 years old, she’s pregnant. With her boyfriend’s baby. She blinks rapidly like the result will go away—like it’s all a dream. A horrible, nightmare of a dream, filled with the smell of baby poop and postpartum struggles and the fact that the baby will grow up. And Colston—oh God, Colston.
Her eyes widen as she realizes the front door downstairs has been unlocked. Quickly, she hides the test in the back of a sink drawer, throws the box away in the bathroom trash, and tugs the fabric of her (Colston’s) Bears athletic long-sleeve away from her stomach, the material feeling unbearable against her now clammy skin.
“Mama, I’m here!” Colston calls out, putting his truck keys in a wooden dish by the door, kicking his shoes off before sitting on the couch with a heavy sigh, his arms slung beside him on the back of the couch. She makes her way downstairs with a soft smile, trying to not let her anxiousness peak through her expression as she straddles his lap and presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Mm, this is a view I could get behind,” he mutters, biting his bottom lip as he instinctively places his large hands on her waist, rubbing his thumbs over the fabric of her his shirt. She flinches but covers it up, giving the excuse that she’s cold. “I have a way to warm you up,” the brunette purrs, leaning forward to nip at his girlfriend’s ear. “Cole…” she whines, her hand going to his hair, “Hm? Use your words, mama.”
“You have to stop staring at me at practice,” she sighs, a sliver of a moan creeping through her parted lips, “people are starting to catch on.” His lips move from her ear to her neck, sucking bruises into the thin skin there. “Jus’ wanna look at my girl, is that a crime?” he chuckles deeply, the pads of his fingers sneaking under the athletic top.
“Cole,” she warns, her tone irritated, “are you trying to get both of us fired?” With a heavy exhale, she switches positions, moving from his lap to the other end of the couch. She crosses her arms over her chest, not making eye contact with the rookie as she sulks.
Colston tries to protest her movement, but the words die in his throat. Then, he speaks up again, “Baby, what’s goin’ on with you? Talk to me. It’s like—it’s like you don’t want me anymore. Did I do somethin’? Is that it?” he asks tentatively, his brows furrowed with slight confusion.
Tears brim in her eyes for the umpteenth time as she shakes her head. “No,” she sniffles, wiping at a stray tear, “I’m just—I’m scared. I don’t want to lose this job, you—any of it.”
Now he’s just even more confused. “Mama, why would you lose me? What’s goin’ on? Hey—where’re you goin’?” She gets up from the couch, feet padding against the wooden flooring as she makes her way upstairs.
After a few moments, she comes back down to the living room, hands shaking around the plastic pregnancy test, which feels like the weight of an anvil in her hands. She clears her throat as she walks closer to the couch, placing it on Colston’s thigh before crossing her arms back over her chest like a comfort.
He stares at it for a moment before it clicks in his brain, his lips parted and eyes slightly widened. “Mama, are you ser—" And then comes a sob. A loud sob, straight from her lips, that turns into a wail. Immediately, he shoots up from the couch, his own tears starting to form as he cradles her head to his chest. “Shhh…you’re alright, honey, you’re alright.”
She sobs sentences into his chest, but all he can make out is I’m sorry and I’m ruining your life from her rant. That makes him pause—but he doesn’t say anything, just lets her get her emotions out as he strokes the tears away from her skin. After she’s calmed down for the most part, he guides the two of them to sit down on the couch, pulling her into his lap.
“You don’t have to decide right now, okay? But whatever you choose, I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’ll support you no matter what, baby.” he whispers, feathering kisses against her temple. “I’m gonna keep it,” she mumbles, her head against his chest, manicured fingers stroking his bicep as a way to soothe herself.
He exhales, but nods, “Okay. We’re in this together, mama. Don’t shut me out, okay?” She sniffles, “Okay.”
The two sit together in silence, her zoned out and staring at the floor, him staring at her—the soft pout of her lips, the slight droopiness of her eyes as she tries to not fall asleep, the rise and fall of her chest.
“Guess me callin’ you mama has a whole other meanin’ now, doesn’t it?” he chuckles lowly, stroking her back.
pairing⠀⁎⠀colston loveland x graduate student!reader.
word count⠀⁎⠀9.2k.
summary⠀⁎⠀michigan is as much an academic powerhouse as it is an athletic one, which makes for an interesting campus environment; something she experiences firsthand when the very determined freshman starting tight end strolls into her office hours with a plan.
author's note⠀⁎⠀the first fic of the something, somehow, someday series! this will have a second part, maybe within the next two weeks. starts very, very slow, i promise the second part is faster. i owe my entire life to twin who helped me develop this over the last few months. if you're a michigan student and see inaccuracies, use your imagination or look away please, i took several creative liberties.
warnings⠀⁎⠀3rd person [she/her], fluff, reader is explicitly a black woman who is around a year older than colston.
Summer coming to an end brought a chill to the air that whisked tens of thousands of students back to the gorgeous grounds of Ann Arbor. The sidewalks were crowded with students hauling boxes and parents snapping pictures as she made her way through the throngs with practiced ease. She didn’t have much to carry, just her leather bag over her shoulder and her phone in one hand, but she moved with purpose, dodging slow-moving families and weaving between clusters of wide-eyed freshmen.
She, and her roommates, had moved into their apartment building a handful of days prior, eager to beat the crowds. She didn’t have to deal with the horrors of dorm life anymore, which was a relief. There were no more communal bathrooms, no RA breathing down her neck, and definitely no awkwardly small twin-sized beds.
Her freshman year at Michigan passed with a slow dip of her toe in the Fall that ended with a full dive into the deep end by the Spring. When she turned down the long list of colleges that accepted her in favor of Michigan, she didn’t think twice. Michigan felt like home immediately. It was easy to build community. It made her proud to carve out pockets of belonging in a place where everyone was searching for their own.
The lecture hall smelled of industrial cleaning products. She took a seat next to a dark-haired girl she vaguely recognized from a study group she floated in and out of last Spring. The pink-colored scheduling block on her calendar told her this pre-semester meeting was due to last 30 minutes at most before she had to attend another meeting with the Black Student Union’s executive board.
The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly as she tapped her pen against her notebook, half-listening to the psychology department coordinator drone on about undergraduate assistant protocols.
“In the Psychology Department, it is our policy that LAs are required to attend all lectures. No exceptions,” the coordinator continued, bringing her attention back to the front of the room. She glanced at the clock to see there were eight minutes left. The dark-haired girl beside her stifled a yawn, and she offered a sympathetic smile before flipping her notebook shut.
The coordinator dismissed them with a final reminder about the meeting days and times for each class the assistants were assigned to. She gathered her things quickly, eager to escape the stale air of the lecture hall. As she stood, the dark-haired girl—Nina, she recalled now—caught her eye again.
“Psych 112, right?” Nina asked, falling into step beside her as they exited.
She nodded, adjusting the strap of her backpack. “Yeah. You too?”
Nina grinned. “I was hoping I would end up with someone I knew. Maybe we can grab lunch before the first lecture?”
The lecture hall doors swung shut behind them with a soft thud, and she inhaled the last August air like it was her first real breath in hours. Nina chatted animatedly about her summer internship and they agreed to meet for lunch at noon before lecture.
[ . . . ]
The first week of classes blurred past her in a haze of syllabus reviews and caffeine-fueled adjustments to her new schedule. On Tuesday afternoon, she nursed a fountain drink, taking a seat next to Nina in the back of Psych 112’s cavernous lecture hall.
The agenda for the first class didn’t deviate from those of her other courses, introductions, expectations, and an overview of the syllabus, but she still took diligent notes, knowing that they would be useful when the students taking the class needed clarifications. Halfway through the professor’s introduction of himself, the lecture hall doors groaned open. Heads turned toward the interruption, and she glanced up just as a tall, broad-framed figure slipped inside with an apologetic grimace.
The latecomer moved with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to taking up space, his shoulders nearly brushing the sides as he ducked inside. She noticed the way sunlight from the high windows caught the buzzed-dark strands of his hair before the door swung shut behind him. He scanned the room with a quick tilt of his head, bending his body slightly to avoid obscuring the view of the students he passed, ironically worsening the issue due to his size. His gaze snagged on the empty seat directly in front of her, and she watched—oddly transfixed—as he folded himself into the chair with a soft grunt.
His shoulders were wide enough that she had to angle her head to see the professor. The scent of fresh-cut grass and the combination of something woodsy yet clean like fresh laundry drifted over her. She inhaled without meaning to, then spent the next few seconds trying to put her finger on what it was.
The professor continued his introduction, but her attention kept drifting to the back of the guy’s head in front of her. There was the sharp taper of his fade, his neck curving into his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline from whatever he’d been doing before rushing here. When he shifted, pulling a laptop from his backpack, he turned slightly, murmuring a quiet, “Sorry,” when the zipper grew louder than he anticipated. His voice was low, her ears picked up an accent she couldn’t quite place but noted its warm unhurriedness.
“We have a group of undergrads who took this class recently who will be assisting with the class; answering questions and helping out here and there,” the professor announced, gesturing toward the side of the lecture hall where she and the other LAs sat. “Feel free to approach them after class if you need help navigating Canvas or have any initial questions. If you all could come up and introduce yourselves?”
She stood with the other LAs, smoothing her palms against her thighs as they filed toward the front of the lecture hall. The latecomer, now she could see his full profile, tilted his head back slightly to watch them approach, his brown eyes tracking her as the group of six LAs stood in front of the class. They each introduced themselves to the class; name, year, major, their career interest, and a fun fact.
Her turn came third. She stepped forward, acutely aware of the way the latecomer’s attention seemed to be absorbed by her. She began her introduction with her first name, her voice steady despite the sudden dryness in her throat. “I’m a sophomore, double majoring in business and psychology. I’m interested in doing a PHD in organizational psychology, and...” She hesitated, then smiled. “Fun fact, I’ve never lost a game of Battleship.”
The latecomer laughed at her fun fact, a slow, crooked grin crossing his face that made the dimple in his left cheek appear, an unexpected detail she catalogued subconsciously. His hands, large enough to palm a basketball without effort, clapped together in quiet applause as she stepped back into line. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too much.
She tried to look elsewhere, intentionally avoiding the intense gaze of the latecomer as she returned to her seat once the introductions ended and the lecture resumed. But the weight of his attention lingered like sunlight warming her skin, as if undeniable but yet also shared by everyone else in a way that provided a paradoxical personal deniability.
She managed to shake off the fluster through the rest of the lecture, quickly shuffling to the front for the sake of troubleshooting Canvas questions, keeping herself busy to avoid acknowledging the way he lingered at the back of the line. Out of the corner of her eye she just barely registered him checking his phone, shifting his weight in thought, then turning over his shoulder to leave, seemingly deciding he didn’t have time to wait. Her shoulders relaxed, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed.
The last thing she needed for herself was to get distracted in the middle of her first week of classes, she reasoned. She didn’t even know his name. Not that it mattered. Football season hadn’t even started yet, but she could already spot an athlete from a mile away. They had a way of moving, of dressing, of carrying themselves, like they knew exactly how much space they were entitled to take up in the world.
Situationships and toxic men weren’t on her agenda this semester, so she tucked the memory of that crooked grin into the mental drawer that she hid her distractions and clicked it shut.
Or at least she would try to.
[ . . . ]
If there was one thing Colston Loveland was more grateful for than he anticipated, it was being able to enroll at Michigan a semester early. At the time, he had taken that chance for granted. He was just happy to escape the oppressive small-town Idaho monotony, but now having to juggle the first week of classes with the lead-up to their first game, he was glad he had gotten the opportunity to learn the ins-and-outs of Ann Arbor’s sprawling campus before navigating it while exhausted from practice.
He figured he would be running late everywhere, constantly but the exhaustion from practice didn’t stop him from noticing the undergraduate assistant the second he walked into Psych 112. Her name stuck in his head like an earworm he couldn’t shake. She had this effortless presence, like she didn’t realize how brightly she burned in a room full of people trying to dim themselves to fit in. Colston wasn’t usually one to get distracted, but the way she’d smiled softly at her own Battleship fact, made his head spin almost as if he’d taken a hit during practice.
There was no shame in his decision to pull up the psych class’ Canvas page the second he got back to his dorm. Colston’s thumbs moved before his brain could catch up, scrolling past syllabus links and lecture slides straight to the ‘Meet Your LAs’ section. He lingered on her bio longer than necessary, committing her major (business and psych, like she’d said), her hometown, and most importantly, her office hours (Wednesday, 3-5pm in East Hall).
There was no shame in his decision to use the one sure gap in his Wednesday schedule between meetings, practice, and classes to loiter inside East Hall for an hour and a half. Colston found a quiet place to sit inside, pretending to scroll through his phone while he counted down the minutes until her office hours began. The plan was simple: walk in casually, ask something vaguely syllabus-related, and make her laugh at least once. He wasn’t sure that he would call it shooting his shot quite yet, but he certainly wasn’t here just for academic clarification either.
Colston checked his reflection in his phone screen one last time before pushing himself off the bench with a quiet exhale. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, rolling his shoulders back as he approached the open door where he knew she would be waiting. The moment he stepped inside, her head lifted from the notebook she’d been scribbling in, her dark eyes flickering with surprise before settling into something warmer, amused.
Her pen hovered mid-sentence as Colston filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, his head ducking as he entered. She hadn’t expected anyone to show up this early, let alone him, but there he was, all six-foot-something of him, smelling faintly of detergent and that warm woodsy scent she remembered noticing in lecture.
“Oh, hey,” she said, her voice dipping into something softer than she intended. She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter as she gestured to the chair across from her. “You can—uh—have a seat if you want.”
Colston grinned at her hesitation, his dimples appearing like a punctuation mark on his confidence. He slid into the chair across from her with the kind of ease that suggested he’d spent his whole life folding his large frame into spaces never meant to contain him. His knee bumped the underside of the table, jostling her water bottle. He caught it before it tipped, steadying it with an apology leaving his lips before she could even react.
She cleared her throat, bringing her eyes to the laptop screen in front of her to avoid having to look at him. “You’re early. We haven’t even covered any material yet.”
Colston shrugged, leaning back in the chair, making her acutely aware of how small the space between them was. His fingers drummed lightly against the tabletop; long, calloused fingers that flexed absently as if he were thinking about reaching for something. “Figured I’d get a head start,” he said, his deep voice curling around the words with that slow, country cadence. “You never lose at Battleship, but I bet you’re even better at explaining syllabus policies.”
Her eyes narrowed at that comment, slowly licking her lips as she tried to read the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You came all the way here,” she said slowly, tapping her pen against the desk, “to ask about policies you can read in the syllabus?”
Colston’s smirk deepened into a full grin, the dimple in his left cheek carving itself deeper as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Isn’t that what the professor said you were here for?” he countered, voice dipping into playful mock-seriousness. “Helping us navigate Canvas and answer initial questions?”
She exhaled through her nose, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes as she reached for her printed syllabus. “Fine,” she relented, sliding the paper toward him with another pointed clearing of her throat. “Which policies did you need clarified, Mr...?” Her voice trailed off expectantly, finally lifting her eyes to meet his.
“Loveland,” he supplied easily, fingers brushing against hers as he took the syllabus. “Colston Loveland.” His grin widened, like he knew exactly how much his presence disrupted the quiet of the empty office hours space. “But you can call me whatever you want.”
She pulled her hand back, trying to ignore the way her fingertips tingled where his calloused fingers had brushed against them. She leaned her head onto one hand, watching as Colston pretended to study the syllabus with an exaggerated furrow of his brow. His dark lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones, and she noticed how long they appeared, thanks to the contrast from his skin.
“Right... Colston...” she echoed, dragging the syllables out like she was testing the weight of his name on her tongue. The corner of his mouth twitched at the sound, and she caught the way his eyebrows raised for just a moment before falling back into place. “So, clarifications? Questions? Or did you just want me to say your name?”
Colston’s laugh was deep and unhurried, the sound filling the small room the way morning sunlight spilled through a window. He leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight, and tossed the syllabus onto the table between them with deliberate nonchalance.
“You caught me,” he admitted, the dimple reappearing as his thumb brushed absently over the edge of the paper. “But I do have a question about the grading scale.”
His tone was teasing, but there was something earnest beneath it. Like he wanted her to know he wasn’t entirely full of it.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers reaching for her pen, looking for something fidget while she fought the upward tug at the corners of her lips.
“The grading scale,” she repeated, leaning forward slightly to tap the relevant section with the tip of her pen. “Letter grades are assigned in increments of 10%, with the first three percentages being minus grades and the last three being plus grades. So, for example, 90 to 93 is an A-, 97 to 100 is an A+, anything in between is an A.”
She glanced up to find Colston watching her with the quiet intensity of someone who was absorbing more than just mere percentages. His gaze flickered down to her lips when she paused to wet them, and she quickly pressed on. “Any other burning syllabus questions?”
Colston tilted his head slightly, lips pouting in thought. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “What’s your policy on students who show up to office hours just to bother you?”
Her pen stilled mid-air. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, betraying the composure she was clinging to. Colston’s eyes held hers with an ease that made her want to both squirm and lean in closer. She exhaled, slow and measured, before twirling the pen between her fingers.
“Policy’s simple,” she started, tapping the pen against her palm. “First offense, you get a polite but firm reminder that office hours are for academic purposes.” She leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under her shift. “Second offense, I start assigning pop quizzes.”
Colston’s laugh rumbled through his chest. He rested his chin in his palm, fingers drumming lightly against his cheekbone. “And what’s the penalty for flirting?” he asked, the words rolling off his tongue like he’d been waiting all afternoon to say them.
Her eyes narrowed again, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she fought the traitorous twitch at the corner of her lips.
“Flirting?” She repeated, dragging the word out like she was testing its weight.
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table, and tilted her head in mock consideration. “You play football, don’t you?”
Colston’s eyebrows shot up, his lips parting slightly in surprise before curling into another grin. “What gave it away?” he drawled, stretching his arms behind his head in a way that made his t-shirt pull taut across his chest.
She kept her eyes fixed on his face, but the flicker of controlled panic in them betrayed her. “Be serious,” she said dryly.
She could hear the grin in his voice before she even saw it.
“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Colston said, lowering his arms and leaning forward again. “I’m just trying to figure out how many penalties I can rack up before you throw a flag on me.”
There was that lift of his eyebrows accompanied by the quick tilt of his head. She was beginning to see that it was a tell-tale sign that he was flirting; saying something dumb enough to make her roll her eyes but charming enough to make her want to bite back.
She managed to keep her tone measured as she responded. “The football metaphors are not cute.”
Colston’s grin didn’t falter. “Noted,” he said, tapping his temple like he was committing her words to memory. His fingers moved again, this time playing with the edge of the syllabus still lying between them. “Can I ask you something?”
Her fingers curled around her pen a little tighter. The air between them felt charged suddenly, like the moment before a summer storm breaks when all the humidity in the air is just minutes from breaking into physical, liquid rain. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that she hoped looked more nonchalant than she felt. “You’ve been asking me questions this entire time,” she pointed out, tilting her head. “What’s one more?”
Colston’s fingers stilled on the syllabus edge, his thumb pressing into the paper with hesitation. The silence stretched just long enough for her to notice the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.
“Professionally speaking...”
“Of course.”
Colston exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb still pressing into the syllabus edge. “Professionally speaking,” he repeated. “If someone were to... try to...” he took in an audible breath through his teeth, “sit in on your office hours for reasons that aren’t strictly academic, would there be some guy... or girl, you never know, who might feel some type—”
Her shoulders shook with laughter as she leaned back in her chair, covering her mouth with one hand to stifle the sound. Colston’s lips pursed in mock offense, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his amusement. “That’s not an answer,” he protested.
“Professionally speaking,” she echoed, mimicking his deep drawl, “if someone were to waste my office hours trying to... flirt, I’d tell them that as long as they’re enrolled in the course, they’re entitled to my time.” She twirled her pen between her fingers, watching his reaction closely. “But unofficially? I’d tell them to at least pretend to care about the course content.”
He hummed, nodding slowly as if processing her words. “So if I care about the course content...” His fingers drummed against the table again. “Hypothetically, of course.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the upward tug of her lips. “Hypothetically,” she echoed. “Then I’d say you’re entitled to my time.”
The silence between them stretched with so much left unspoken until he inhaled and exhaled through his nose and leaned back with a grin that felt suspiciously satisfied. “Good to know, good to know,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that low, unhurried drawl that she was beginning to really enjoy hearing. “Because I do care. About the course content.”
The way his gaze lingered on her face suggested he cared about more than just psych theories, but she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She nodded, looking away from him to check the time on her laptop screen. Office hours were nearly over, and yet no other students had wandered in. It was just Colston, taking up space in the quietest, most inconveniently charming way possible.
“Well,” she said, tapping her pen against her notebook as she glanced back at him, “since you care so much about the course content, I’ll expect to see you at the next lecture. Taking notes.” The challenge in her voice was light but a challenge nonetheless. “On time.”
Colston grinned, stretching his arms behind his head again. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he promised. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall before returning to her face. “Guess I should let you pack up.”
He didn’t move.
She arched her brow, waiting for him to stand, but Colston remained seated. The late afternoon sunlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and she found herself distracted by the way his lashes fanned against his cheekbones when he blinked slowly, like he was savoring the last few moments.
She decided to turn to her belongings, reaching for her bag, deliberately avoiding eye contact. She could feel Colston’s gaze lingering on her fingers as she tucked her notebook inside. She hesitated for a breath before zipping it shut and standing up, bracing herself for the football player to mirror her action.
Colston unfolded himself from the chair with the unhurried grace of someone who had all the time in the world, his broad shoulders rolling back as he stood. She knew he was large. She had clocked his height the moment he walked into lecture, but up close, the sheer magnitude of him was almost comical. She had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes, and for a fleeting second, she caught the flicker of amusement in them as he registered the movement and the look she was trying, and failing, to hide.
She averted her eyes, shifting her bag strap higher onto her shoulder as she stepped around the table. Colston didn’t move, forcing her to brush past him, close enough that he caught a whiff of her floral, summery, fruit-scented perfume following her wake.
“So,” he said, falling into step beside her as she headed toward the door, his stride effortlessly slowed to match hers despite their height difference. “Next lecture. Taking notes. On time.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “Anything else, Miss?”
She could feel Colston’s amused gaze burning into the side of her face as she locked the office door behind them, her fingers fumbling slightly with the keys. “Don’t call me Miss,” she muttered, finally slotting the key into place with a satisfying twist. “I’m nineteen.”
The hallway stretched long and empty before them, the late afternoon sun casting honeyed stripes across the linoleum from the tall windows. She adjusted her bag strap again, hyper-aware of Colston’s presence beside her.
“Nineteen,” Colston repeated, drawing the word out as if savoring it. He tilted his head down toward her, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “When do you turn twenty?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “Do you get tired? Asking so many questions?” She pivoted to face him, the golden light from the hallway windows catching the warmth in her eyes.
Colston’s lips curved into that slow grin. “Why? You tired of answering?”
“I’m tired of you,” she shot back, the lie obvious in the upward tilt of her voice.
Colston’s laughter filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the lockers lining the walls as they walked side by side. He nudged her elbow lightly with his own, a touch so casual it shouldn’t have sent her pulse skittering, but did anyway. “You’re not tired of me,” he said, voice dipping into that low, teasing register she was learning to recognize. “You like the company.”
“I like peace and quiet,” she countered, silently relieved at the sight of the doors at the end of the hallway. He was too at ease here, too comfortable walking beside her like this wasn’t his first time trailing her out of a building.
Colston hummed, glancing down at her. “I can be quiet. Whatever you need.” The words lingered between them, weighted with promise. His grin widened as he reached past her to push open the exit door, holding it with a theatrical flourish. “After you.”
She rolled her eyes but stepped through, the crisp air immediately kissing her cheeks. “So, lecture, tomorrow,” she said, pivoting to face him as he followed her out. “Notes, on time. And don’t think I won’t check.”
Colston’s grin widened as he rocked back on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets in a way that made his shoulders look even broader. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, dragging out the syllables just to watch her hide another scoff, turning her head to the side to cast her eyes downward at the sneakers on her feet.
She would be lying if she tried to say she disliked that. Just like she would be lying if she said she didn’t find him unfairly attractive and annoyingly charming.
She felt the weight of his gaze before she even lifted her eyes, the warmth of it prickling along her skin. Colston hadn’t moved, he hadn’t even blinked. He just stood there with that infuriating grin, hands still in his pockets, like he could read her thoughts. Like he knew exactly how much she was starting to like the way he looked at her.
“Bye, Colston,” she said, stepping back with a finality, and beginning to turn over her heel toward the parking garage.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, the words slow and syrup-thick with intention. His eyes drifted over her body, taking in her patterned maxi skirt, the solid colored boat neck sleeveless top, and the jewelry layered at her wrists, neck, and fingers, all of it deliberate choices she’d made that morning without knowing she’d be caught in the crosshairs of his attention. She felt the heat crawl up her neck as she turned away, her low-profile sneakers scuffing against the pavement.
She didn’t look back. But halfway to her apartment, she still felt giddy.
[ . . . ]
One thing she was learning about Colston Loveland was that he meant the things he said, especially when he said them in that slow, syrup-thick voice that she grew to learn was a small-town accent from southern Idaho, just an hour and a half outside of Boise. True to his word, he showed up to the next lecture exactly on time, sliding into the seat directly in front of her but not before catching her eye with the raise of his brows and a small grin.
He took notes. Actual, meticulous notes. She peeked over his shoulder once, only to find his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone who spent most of their time at the football facility, the margins dotted with little stars next to concepts he’d circled as if marking them for later. For her she realized, when he strolled into her office hours that next Wednesday asking for some clarification on the different neurotransmitters.
He was just as smart as he was charming, though she could acknowledge how abundantly clear it was that football was the priority. Through their conversations she gathered a few key facts about him.
One, he was the middle child. The second of three boys, all of whom played football. His oldest brother also played college football his freshman year, but he was now a senior at the University of Idaho majoring in Business Administration. His younger brother was in middle school and already had dreams of playing college football.
Two, he was classified as a freshman but was in his second semester at Michigan. He managed to meet all of his graduation requirements early back in Idaho, skipping his senior year of high school and enrolling in Michigan at seventeen.
Three, he was very persistent. Sure, maybe she should have recognized his persistence from the mere fact that he was fighting to step up, hoping to secure the starting tight end position by the end of the season as a true freshman, but it became abundantly clear when he started showing up to her office hours religiously.
Every Wednesday at 3:15 PM, without fail, Colston Loveland would stroll in. Sometimes with his backpack slung over one shoulder, sometimes with a customized fruit bowl he snagged from the team’s dining facility just for her loaded with her favorites after he managed to pull her preferences out of her, and twice with a slight limp that he waved off as nothing.
“He is your type, I’ll give you that...” Jeremy muttered from where he squinted at the laptop screen, elbow propped on the couch armrest.
She felt her entire apartment vibrating with the collective energy of her friends, all crowded around the athletic profile displaying some of the most important information about Colston Loveland, freshman tight end for the University of Michigan football team.
Her head turned at that comment, “What does that mean?”
Jeremy grinned, shrugging with a nod toward where Colston’s stats glowed—6’5”, 245 lbs, 4 receptions for 33 yards over the last three games. “Don’t do that. You know what I mean.”
She moved the laptop from Jeremy’s grasp, glaring as Fareed chuckled into his burrito. “He’s not all that,” she lied, clicking through Colston’s high school highlight reel. The screen filled with footage of him effortlessly snagging passes over defenders half his size, his massive frame cutting through defenders like they weren’t even there.
Aditi nudged her knee with a socked foot. “Girl, you are so full of shit.”
The video rolled on. Colston stiff-arming a linebacker, spinning free with a grin before launching himself into the endzone. “He comes in every week?” Fareed asked through a mouthful of tortilla, eyes flicking between her face and the screen. “Just to ask you about psych stuff?”
“He’s enrolled in the class,” she said evenly. “It’s literally my job. I can’t tell him no.” The excuse sounded half-assed even to her own ears, and Fareed and Aditi’s perfectly mirrored raised eyebrows confirmed it. She clicked away from the highlight reel, trying to shake off the fact that she was affected by this football player loitering around her at every opportunity.
“This man has never needed academic help in his life,” Aditi scoffed, her eyes darting between the laptop screen and her phone, where she’d pulled up Colston’s Instagram.
She watched her best friend’s thumb pause on a photo from last season’s spring game, Colston mid-catch, muscles taut under his jersey, his grin electric even through the pixelated screen. She swallowed, turning away just as Fareed leaned over to tap the photo with a knowing smile.
“Kid’s got hands,” he mused. “But I don’t think he needs your notes.”
“No? Really?” Aditi gasped, shoving at her cousin’s head. “Why are you here?”
Fareed grumbled, taking a swipe at Aditi’s hand. “I live here,” he shot back, rubbing his temple. “Lived here before any of you.”
She rolled her eyes, shutting the laptop with a decisive click. “He can flirt all he wants,” she said, tossing a throw pillow at Fareed’s head. “It’s not going anywhere.”
Aditi snorted, continuing to scroll through Colston’s Instagram. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m being for real.” She tucked her legs beneath her on the couch, biting the inside of her cheek.
“He’s 6’5”, you don’t have to lie to us,” Jeremy expressed through a yawn, stretching his arms behind his head. She glared at him, taking a pillow to his arm with a muffled smack.
[ . . . ]
It wasn’t like she didn’t know Colston was flirting. He made sure she knew that much. The little voice in his head reasoned that if she really didn’t want him around, she’d say so. But she never did. In his head, she even flirted back sometimes, even if she didn’t realize it herself.
Colston was used to being one of, if not the tallest, guy in the room, used to the way people looked up at him, both literally and figuratively. But she never seemed intimidated by his height, by the breadth of his shoulders, or the way his voice carried when he spoke. She just met his gaze, chin tilted up, eyes bright with amusement, or irritation, depending on the day.
He liked that. Liked it a little too much.
He wasn’t quite sure what the policy was on learning assistants dating students, though he figured there probably wasn’t one. He hoped there wasn’t.
“When’s the midterm for this class?” he asked. His eyes watched as she took a sip of the crisp soda through a white straw, her throat moving as she swallowed before answering. The question was innocuous. But the way he stared at her, waiting for the answer told her it was anything but.
“Week seven,” she answered eventually. “Why?”
“Week seven,” he repeated, like the date held some cosmic significance. His straw scraped the bottom of his cup, and he shook the ice absentmindedly. “Do you ever study on your own? Outside office hours?”
She swirled her drink, listening to the ice cubes clink. “Sometimes at Dude,” she replied.
“By yourself?”
She nodded, wary.
“If I stopped by, would you kick me out?” Colston asked, tilting his head slightly, a habit she noticed he had when he wanted to seem more approachable.
She studied him for a beat. “Depends,” she said slowly, “on whether you’re actually studying.”
“Oh, I study for sure,” Colston said, nodding as if this were a serious academic discussion and not thinly veiled scheming. His knee nudged hers under the small table. “Just might need a little...motivation for midterms.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t scoot away. “Motivation,” she repeated flatly. “You mean like how these snacks you bring are supposed to be motivation.”
He didn’t reply beyond a low chuckle to himself. Her eyes tracked the movement of his hands as he reached for his phone lying face down on the table. Silently, he unlocked his phone, then swiped a few times before landing on something that made his smirk deepen. She watched him, eyebrows raised, until he turned the screen toward her, setting the phone on the table between them. The search function on Instagram stared back at her, the blinking cursor awaiting her username.
“What am I looking at, Colston?” she deadpanned, making no effort to move closer despite the way he looked at her expectantly.
His grin didn’t falter. “Your user,” he said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request and not outright outrageousness. “Unless you wanna give me your Snap instead.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, the ghost of a laugh escaping despite her best efforts to keep her expression neutral. She pushed the phone back toward Colston with one fingertip, her nails painted a soft, dusty rose tapping against the screen. “You’re really, really brave, Loveland.”
“Brave enough to ask twice,” he murmured, spinning the phone back toward her with a fingertip.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth, lifting her eyes to make contact with his. They remained frozen there, locked in a silent standoff, his fingers still pressed to the phone’s edge, hers still hovering above it.
She exhaled first. “Fine,” she muttered, taking the phone with a pout. Her thumbs moved quickly over the screen, her lips pressed tight as she typed. Colston leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her with a smugness that made her want to toss the phone into the trash to avoid having to admit this plan he seemed to have was actually working on her.
The notification popped up on her phone after she handed his phone back to him. He eagerly pressed the button requesting to follow her, those dark eyebrows inching up again the way she saw him do at least twice every time they found themselves alone in this room, eyes watching her accept the request and follow him back. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the twitch at the corner of her mouth, noticing the time ticking down until she could be set free from this room.
“What are you planning to do with my Instagram?” She asked, flipping her phone facedown as Colston smiled softly triumphant at his screen.
“Plan?” He asked, feigning innocence with a poke of his bottom lip. “Who said anything about plans?” His thumb pressed her profile picture before drifting over to her highlights. “Just wanna see what kinda stuff you post.”
“Oh, we’re playing dumb?” She arched a brow, watching as Colston hesitated long enough to let her know he was formulating an excuse.
Colston’s grin softened into something quieter. “No... nah, I ain’t playin’ dumb.” He tapped her most recent highlight, a compilation of campus sunsets, before locking his phone with a decisive click. “Just wanna know you.” The honesty in his voice shook any edge she thought she had over him.
The silence stretched, thick with something neither dared name, until Colston cleared his throat. “So.” He leaned forward. “You got plans after this?”
The question hung between them casually, but she caught the undercurrent in the way he checked the time on the clock behind her head.
She blinked at him, her straw hovering halfway to her lips. The ice in her cup had melted into a watered down substance. “I’m making dinner tonight. Then I’ll try to finish some stuff that’s due on Friday so I can go out tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly, stubbornly refusing to shift his gaze away from her despite noticing her sudden avoidance of eye contact. “Where you goin’ tomorrow?”
“A Sigma party.” She could see his eyebrows furrow, so she clarified. “Phi Beta Sigma, one of the Divine Nine frats.”
“You got a date or somethin’?”
“Or something,” she echoed, tilting her head just enough to watch his reaction from the corner of her eye. His jaw ticked ever so slightly, his tongue breached his parted lips to lick moisture into them before just barely biting down. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, then twice, then his chest rose with a slow, deep breath.
Colston laughed lowly, finally tearing his eyes away from hers. “Hope you have fun,” he murmured. “I should head out. Got things to take care of.” He stood, towering effortlessly above her even as she straightened her posture, still having to crane her neck just to meet his eyes. “See you in class.”
She hummed, watching him retreat through half-lidded eyes. Only when he disappeared around the corner did she exhale sharply, pressing the back of her hands to her suddenly warm cheeks. “God,” she muttered to herself, gathering her trash with more force than necessary. The crumpled napkin in her fist bore the brunt of her frustration, not at him, but at the way her pulse still hadn’t settled even after weeks of him managing to fluster her.
Her brain was screaming the alarm of jealousy, that he was jealous, but she shoved the thought down with brutal efficiency. It was dumb to assume he was. She barely knew him after all. As much as she told herself that nothing would happen, that nothing could happen between them, it was hard not to imagine that he wanted something to.
[ . . . ]
“That’s her?” Alex Orji all but shrieked when Colston handed over his phone, the screen glowing with her Instagram profile. “That’s the girl?”
“Had to ask twice,” he admitted, rubbing his jaw.
The cereal in front of him had gone soggy, but Colston wasn’t paying attention to anything except Alex’s widening eyes as he scrolled through her feed, past the tailgates and the tropical vacations and the monthly dumps. “Damn. I ain’t know you had that in you, C. Love.”
“Lemme see?” Will Johnson asked through a mouthful of pancake, already reaching for Colston’s phone before Alex handed it over. The dining facility was loud, just as it always was after the early morning lifts were. He had a recovery session in an hour with a series of offensive meetings after, meaning it would be a miracle if he were able to see the sun before it set for the evening.
Will hummed lowly, nodding in approval, scrolling with his thumb. “Lowkey... I think I might know her.”
Colston perked up at that, looking to Alex who cocked his head as he leaned over Will’s shoulder to further scrutinize her face. “From where?” the quarterback asked, swiping through her highlights with exaggerated interest.
“Think she’s one of the BSU chairs...” he murmured, reaching for his own phone to cross reference. Colston stiffened, watching Will scroll through the Black Student Union’s Instagram page, finding their post announcing the executive board and her in the midst of it: Events and Social Engagement Chair, grinning from the center of the fourth picture within the carousel.
“Yeah, that’s her.” Colston’s fingers drummed against the table, watching Will’s reaction with narrowed eyes. “Why?”
Will grinned, locking his phone with a shrug that was far too casual. “No reason.” He popped a grape into his mouth before continuing, “Just funny how small campus is. She bad as hell though, good luck with that.”
Colston retrieved his phone with a grumble. “Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
Alex and Will exchanged a look, resulting in Alex laughing out loud as Will shook his head. “He don’t got a clue in the world,” Will said to Alex, slinging an arm around Colston’s shoulder. “She’s one of those—you know—got her whole life planned, tryna stack her degrees, knows exactly who she is, what she wants, what she doesn’t want.”
Colston shrugged, unfazed. “I know who I am.”
“That’s why he told you ‘good luck with that’, goofy,” Alex snorted.
Will clarified. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ don’t shoot. Just know she’s not some freshman... sorority girl that’s looking for a ring before senior year. She got plans. Don’t take it personally if she ain’t trying to derail them for WAG dreams.”
Colston went quiet, turning his phone over in his hands. The chatter of the dining hall faded into white noise as he tapped the edge of his case against the table before taking in a breath through his nose. “Plans change,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.
Will and Alex exchanged another look, this one loaded with something between amusement and concern. “Just don’t get caught up,” Will said with a shrug. “You been plotting?”
The freshman nodded, biting his bottom lip tentatively before responding. “Kinda... brought her food a couple times. Got her IG. She just told me she’s going to a party today.”
“Where at?” Alex asked.
Colston answered softly. “Sigmas.”
“The black ones?” Alex blurted out loudly, gaining a sharp elbow from Will.
“Yeah,” he muttered, pushing his soggy cereal around the bowl. “Tonight.”
“You don’t need to be plotting shit until you figure out if she likes white boys,” Will muttered, shaking his head at Colston’s stiffened shoulders. The dining hall chatter blurred around them as Colston’s fingers tightened around his spoon. Alex snorted into his orange juice, shaking his head as Will held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying—”
“She likes me,” Colston interrupted, voice low with a certainty that surprised even himself.
The words hung between them, weighted by the unspoken truth that she had never actually confirmed it. But Colston wasn’t blind. He noticed the way she bit her lower lip whenever he leaned into her space and the way her laughter softened whenever he caught her off guard and actually made her laugh.
Will raised an eyebrow, exchanging another glance with Alex before shrugging. “A’ight then, Idaho potatoes. What’s next?”
[ . . . ]
Running his plan by Alex and Will gave Colston the confidence to finally pull the trigger on phase two of his grand scheme. Phase one, getting her to tolerate him enough to exchange social media and eat together, had worked flawlessly. Phase two was trickier, which was why the input of the two upperclassmen he spent nearly every waking moment with was so important.
They confirmed what Colston already knew. She wasn’t just some girl. She wasn’t someone he could just casually wink at, walk up to, and charm into going home with him. She was someone who had to be pursued, someone who wouldn’t give in easily. And, if he was honest with himself, that was what made her all the more enticing.
Phase two started with an observation: she always complained that her Wednesday schedule was too awkward to allow her a genuine chance to stop for a proper meal before her office hours began. He knew she wasn’t opposed to grabbing food with him, the past two weeks had proven that if he paid for it she had no qualms.
So he waited until Tuesday night, right when he knew she’d be scrolling through her phone before bed, and sent her a DM with a proposition.
You mind if I bring you something to eat tomorrow?
Colston’s thumbs hovered over the screen before tapping send, then immediately tossing his phone onto his bed like it had burned him. He paced the length of his dorm room, running a hand over his freshly trimmed hair, cut tight on the sides with just enough length on top to twist between his fingers when he was nervous.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Her reply came through just as he was debating tossing his phone out the window.
Won’t have time to eat before my office hours to be honest.
Colston’s pulse kicked up a notch, but he forced his fingers steady as he typed back.
We could grab something after, if you don’t have anywhere to be.
He held his breath, watching those damn three dots flicker like a faulty neon sign.
The silence stretched long enough that he nearly caved and sent a follow-up insisting that it was purely platonic, just something two friends would do when they have nothing better to do, but then her reply popped up.
Are you paying?
Is that a yes?
Answer the question.
Yes.
Then yeah. Chipotle?
He grinned at his phone like an idiot.
The next afternoon, her office hours passed in a blur, her gaze flicking to the clock every few minutes as if time had slowed just to torment her. When Colston finally appeared in the doorway, all six-feet-and-change of him ducking slightly beneath the frame, her heart quite literally skipped a beat in her chest.
No one else showed up for help, of course. So for the two hours, it was just the two of them, bickering, laughing, she was working on upcoming assignments while Colston reviewed his notes before taking two quizzes due on Friday. The silence that eventually settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable, it never was, but she found herself glancing up far too often, catching him already looking at her with soft, amused eyes, lips curved into the slightest smirk.
“What?” she finally asked, arching a brow, tossing her pencil onto her notebook with a soft clatter.
Colston leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight, arms folded behind his head like he had all the time in the world. She hated when he did that, hated when his shirt strained around his biceps and chest, hated when the azure cotton lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.
He smirked, noticing her eyes drift over his torso and dart back up to his face when she caught herself. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”
“You need to stare at me to think?” She teased, shifting in her chair as she stretched her legs beneath the table.
“Maybe,” he murmured, shifting forward again, the chair creaking as he rested his elbows on the table, crowding her space without touching her. “You can stare at me too if you want. I don’t mind.”
Then there was that eyebrow raise again.
She rolled her eyes, but the warmth creeping up her neck betrayed her. The way his voice dipped into that slow, honeyed drawl never failed to unravel her composure stitch by stitch. “Finish your quiz,” she muttered, nudging his calf with her foot beneath the table. His chuckle rumbled low as he complied, fingers tapping lazily at the keys on his laptop while she pretended not to trace the flex of his forearms with her gaze.
When the clock finally signaled the end of her office hours, she packed her bag slowly, acutely aware of Colston lingering by the door, his shoulder propped against the frame. He closed the door behind her, falling in step with her as they exited the building. She probably should not have been as surprised as she was when he plainly directed her toward his truck, opening the passenger side door and helping her up with a large, warm hand hovering just over her lower back without touching her like it was entirely subconscious; a given, entirely natural, an inevitable gentlemanliness that he refused to turn off.
By the time she actually made it back to her apartment after saying goodnight to Colston about three times, retrieving her car from the empty garage, and making the 5 minute drive, she was in a euphoric mood. She’d been distracted by his eye contact, and his arms, and his voice, but really, mostly, his arms. She felt dazed when she locked the front door behind her, something evident to Aditi who stared at her with crossed arms.
“What is that?”
She blinked, tossing her keys into the bowl by the door. “What is what?”
Aditi’s gaze narrowed. “That,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her face.
She shrugged, choosing that moment to refill her water bottle. The faucet’s rush drowned out Aditi’s exasperated sigh, but not the way her best friend leaned against the counter, arms folded, hip cocked.
“You smell like food,” Aditi said, nose scrunched. She took a slow sip, the cool water doing nothing to douse the heat prickling up her neck.
Her best friend’s eyes widened when she caught the faint glimmer of mischief in her expression, like she knew exactly what she was doing when she let the silence stretch just a beat too long.
“You went out with him?” Aditi hissed, abandoning her spot by the fridge to follow her into her bedroom, passing where Fareed and Jeremy were sprawled across the couch, controllers in hand. “Tell me you did go out with him.”
She set her bag on the floor, leaning it up against the leg of her desk, the corner of her lip twitching as Aditi practically vibrated with impatient energy behind her. “Define ‘went out with him’,” she said, shedding her knit cardigan
Aditi groaned, flopping onto the bed. “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. Did you...” she lowered her voice, glancing toward the cracked door where the faint sounds of Fareed and Jeremy’s video game echoed. “Did you go on a date with that child?”
She turned her back to Aditi, pretending to organize her desk just to hide the way her cheeks rounded around her smile. “It wasn’t a date,” she murmured, tracing her finger along the edge of her planner. “Just... Chipotle after my office hours.”
Aditi laughed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands. “Uh-huh. And did he pay?”
Her fingers stilled on the edge of her planner. She could feel Aditi’s smirk without turning around. “He offered,” she muttered, shrugging one shoulder with feigned nonchalance.
“Oh my god,” Aditi whispered, dragging out each syllable. “You like him.”
She turned sharply, her braids whipping against her shoulders. “You can’t say anything. I don’t know if there’s some girl secretly obsessed with him. I’ve seen how these girls act around athletes.”
Aditi rolled her eyes, kicking her feet behind her. “Oh, please. You’re the one he’s been stalking for like a month now. Did anything happen?”
Aditi’s question hung in the air, sudden and curious. She busied herself with unclipping her earrings, the hoops clinking against her palm, before answering. “Nothing happened,” she said, voice soft. “We just talked. He made me laugh.” She hesitated, then added, “A lot.”
Aditi’s smirk deepened. “And here I was, thinking you would stand on business.”
She finally fell onto the bed next to her best friend with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling fan above them. “I tried so hard not to laugh at his dumb jokes,” she muttered, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “But the way he says everything—like he’s not even trying to be funny—it just—” She groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in the sheets pulled taut over her bed. “He’s so annoying.”
Aditi rubbed her back, grinning at the way her best friend refused to lift her head. “Oh, please. You’re literally glowing.” She paused, then added, “If you like him... and he likes you... what’s the worst that could happen?”
She groaned into the sheets. “He plays football.”
“Okay, true,” Aditi conceded.
She groaned louder, peeling one eye open to peek at her best friend. “I thought you were gonna make me feel better.”
“I was...” Aditi started, shifting onto her side to get a better look at her best friend. “Then you reminded me he plays football.” She sighed. “But—” She nudged the other woman’s shoulder. “He’s actually kinda cute. For a freshman.”
She scoffed, pressing her forehead against the sheets again. “He’s really hot,” she muttered with a self-deprecating smile that slowly overtook her face when Aditi burst into loud, amused laughter.
