Priya
The anatomy session today is torture. We’re in the lab, door open, two other student-model pairs working across the room.
Completely public. Completely professional.
No risk of Jackson trying something, which will take me away from my work.
I need to focus on my work, and this thing I’ve started with Jackson, as much as I’m enjoying it, I know it’s wrong.
But, I’m still trying very hard not to think about what happened in Jackson’s studio two days ago, and how much would love for it to happen again.
“Today I need to map your lower body,” I say, keeping my voice clinical. “Specifically your quadriceps, hamstrings, and gastrocnemius muscles.”
“In English?”
“Your thighs and calves.”
Jackson grins. “So you want me to take off my pants?”
“Just to your shorts. Which I assume you’re wearing under your athletic pants.”
“Maybe I’m not wearing anything under these pants. Guess you’ll have to check.”
I glare at him. “There are other people in this room.”
“So?”
“So be professional,” I snaps.
“I’m being very professional. Professionally imagining what you’re thinking right now.” He winks, and I can’t believe he’s saying this out loud while people are around.
“I’m thinking about your gluteus maximus and semitendinosus.”
“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Will you please just take off your pants?” The words come out louder than intended. Across the room, one of the other anatomy students looks over with raised eyebrows.
Jackson’s smirk is infuriating, and I hate how sexy he looks. He removes his athletic pants to reveal compression shorts, and I try very hard to focus on the academic purpose of this session and not on the fact that his legs are as impressive as the rest of him.
I’ve never been particularly attracted to legs before. Never understood the appeal.
But Jackson’s legs are powerful, muscular, covered in the same smooth skin as his torso. His quadriceps are clearly defined, his calves strong from years of skating.
“Where do you want me?” he asks.
“On the table. Sitting first, then we’ll do standing measurements.”
He hops up on the examination table, and I approach with my measuring tape and clipboard, hyper-aware of the other people in the room. Of the need to be professional. Of the way Jackson is watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
“Thigh circumference,” I murmur, kneeling in front of him to measure. The tape goes around his quad, and I try to ignore how close my face is to his dick, how I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“You’re blushing,” he says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are. It’s cute.”
“Stop talking.”
“Make me.”
I glance up at him, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip. We’re in public, surrounded by other students, completely unable to act on the tension crackling between us. I want to, but I can’t.
I finish the thigh measurement and move to his calf. This requires me to touch his leg, feel the gastrocnemius muscle, assess its development and tone.
“Your lower body development is consistent with your sport,” I say, keeping my voice professional. “Hockey requires significant leg strength and power.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Sharma?”
“I’m not a doctor yet.”
“But you will be and when you are, I hope you remember your first anatomy subject with fondness.”
“I’ll remember you were difficult.”
“Difficult. That’s one word for it.” He jokes, and I shake my head.
I finish measuring, record my data, and step back. “I need to palpate your major muscle groups now. For mapping purposes.”
“Go ahead.”
This is the part I’ve been dreading.
I place my hands on his quadriceps, feeling the muscle fibers beneath the skin. His muscles are warm, firm, and I’m trying very hard to focus on the anatomical structure instead of the fact that I’m touching him.
“Your rectus femoris is well-developed,” I murmur. “And your vastus lateralis shows significant hypertrophy.”
“Keep talking medical to me. It’s hot.”
“Jackson—”
“What? I like it when you get all technical.”
My hands move to his hamstrings, and I have to step between his legs to properly access the back of his thigh. We’re very close now, and I’m acutely aware of his breathing, the way his muscles tense slightly under my touch.
“This is professional,” I remind him. Remind myself.
“I know. Doesn’t make it less hot.”
I shoot him a warning look, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
“Your biceps femoris is impressive,” I continue, trying to stay clinical. “As is your semitendinosus. The kind of development that suggests explosive power training.”
“Lots of sprints and squats.”
“It shows.”
I move to his calves next, kneeling again to examine his lower legs. The gastrocnemius muscle is well-defined, the soleus underneath it providing the strength he needs for skating.
“All done?” he asks when I stand.
“For today. Same time next week.”
“And tutoring later?”
“Yes. My room this time. I need to get some of my own studying done, and your studio is too distracting.”
“I’m distracting?”
“You know you are.”
He starts laughing, putting his pants back on, then turns to me before leaving, and whispers. “I’m sure I can distract you, in your room too.”
There is a knock, and my stomach lets out a cage of butterflies, excited to see Jackson. This is becoming a lot more than I want it to be, but I can’t help being happy when I’m with him.
Opening the door I smile seeing how sexy he looks right now.
“You didn’t have to bring me coffee,” I say, letting him in.
“I know. But you look tired and I figured you could use the caffeine.” He hands me the cup, and I press my lips together to stop the smile.
He’s right. I am tired. I’ve been up since five this morning for clinical rotations, had three classes, the anatomy session with Jackson, and still need to study for my own exams.
My roommate, thankfully, is gone for the weekend. Which means we’re alone. Which is also dangerous with how I’ve been feeling about him lately.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the coffee. “We should really focus tonight. You have that exam Monday and I need to review pharmacology.”
“I know. I’m being good.”
We set up at my desk, textbooks spread between us, and for a while we actually studied. Jackson works through practice problems while I quiz myself on drug classifications and mechanisms of action.
But the room feels smaller with him in it. More intimate. I’m hyper-aware of every movement, every time our arms brush, every time he shifts in his chair. I’m starting to notice all the small things about him, and I’m liking it.
“Question,” he says after an hour. “Why pharmacology? That’s pretty advanced for undergrad.”
“I’m taking graduate-level courses. Medical schools like seeing advanced coursework.” I look back down at my notebook, but he asks another question.
“Do you ever take a class just because it interests you?”
“All my classes interest me.” I’m not lying, I love all of them.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I set down my flashcards. “What do you want me to say? That I wish I was taking art history instead of pharmacology? That I sometimes fantasize about majoring in literature or philosophy or something completely impractical?”
“Do you?”
“It doesn’t matter. This is the path. This is what’s expected.”
“Fuck expectations.” He turns his chair to face me. “What do you want, Priya? Not what your parents want. Not what looks good on applications. What do you actually want?”
No one’s ever asked me that. Not like this. Not like my answer actually matters.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never let myself think about it.”
“Then think about it now.” I feel his hands on my thighs, rubbing them to calm me down. He must feel I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable with this.
“Jackson…”
“Humor me.” He cuts me off before I can tell him I don’t want this conversation.
I close my eyes, trying to imagine a life that’s not pre-med, not hospital rotations, not the endless pressure to be perfect.
“Sometimes,” I say quietly, “I think about traveling. Taking a year off before medical school. Seeing the world before I’m trapped in residency for the next decade.
I think about photography, I used to love it in high school, but I had to give it up because it wasn’t ‘practical.’ I think about having time to read books that aren’t textbooks.
About sleeping past five in the morning, about having friends who don’t only talk about med school applications. ”
When I open my eyes, Jackson is watching me with an intensity that makes my heart race.
“You should do those things,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have responsibilities. Expectations. A plan.”
“Plans can change.”
“Not mine.”
He cups my face, and leans in closer. “Priya. You’re allowed to want things. To change your mind. To choose yourself.”
“I am choosing myself. Medicine is what I want.”
“Is it? Or is it just what you’ve been told to want for so long that you’ve convinced yourself it’s true?” The question hits too close to something I’ve been avoiding. Maybe it’s something I’ve locked away, so I never have to think about it.
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Okay.” He kisses my forehead gently. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Good. Because we should be studying.” I go to pick up my flashcards again.
“Should be. But are we going to?”
I look at him smiling at me. “No,” I say. “We’re not going to study.”
“No?”
“No.” I stand, closing the distance between us. “Lock the door.”
Heat flares in his eyes. “Priya—”
“Lock. The door.”
He does, and then his mouth is on mine, hungry and demanding, and I’m kissing him back with all the want I’ve been suppressing. We stumble backward toward my bed, hands roaming, pulling at clothes, desperate for more contact.
“We should slow down,” Jackson murmurs against my lips even as his hands slide under my shirt.
“We should.”
Neither of us slows down.
We fall onto my bed in a tangle of limbs, and for the first time in my life, I let myself stop planning, stop thinking about consequences, and just feel.
The kissing intensifies, becomes more urgent. His hands are everywhere, in my hair, on my waist, sliding beneath fabric. I arch into his touch, wanting more, and when he pulls back to look at me, his eyes are dark with desire.
“You’re sure?” he asks, breathless.
“I’m sure.”
What follows is heated and passionate and everything I didn’t know I needed. Jackson is attentive, making sure I’m okay with everything, and when I pull him closer, urging him on, he doesn’t hold back.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in my narrow dorm bed, both catching our breath, both knowing something has shifted between us.
“That was…” I start.
“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “It was.”
“We probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“Probably not.”
“But I’m not sorry.”
He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with a soft expression I’ve never seen before. “Good. Because I’m not sorry either.”
“Jackson…”
“I’m falling for you, Priya. I know we said this was casual, but I’m falling for you anyway.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. “You can’t.”
“Too late.”
“This was supposed to be simple.” I try to fight this, not wanting him to know I feel the same, because this can’t be more.
“It’s never been simple. Not since the first anatomy session when you tried so hard to be professional and I could see you blushing.”
“I wasn’t blushing—”
He kisses me, cutting off the lie. When we break apart, I’m breathless.
“Tell me you don’t feel this too,” he says. “Tell me you’re not falling.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t tell you I’m not falling. Because I am. God help me, I am.”
“Then let yourself fall. Stop fighting it.” I feel his finger softly move across my jaw.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is if you let it be.” He whispers against my lips.
We lie there, hands intertwined, both knowing we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross. This isn’t casual anymore. These aren't just stolen moments.
This is something real.
And terrifying.
And absolutely worth it.