I never thought I’d be the type to confess something like this, but here I am. Maybe I’m just trying to get this off my chest, or maybe a part of me wants someone to understand how impossible and electric it felt. It started simple: my roommate, Sam, brought her fiancé Daniel over to stay with us for a couple weeks while his new place was getting sorted. Sam and I have lived together since sophomore year at NYU—we’re pretty close, but not best friends. Enough for late-night movies and shared groceries and the occasional drunken spill-all, but not enough for her to have guessed how Daniel would make me feel.
It was supposed to just be two weeks. Daniel with his bags in our tiny living room, apologizing profusely, all broad shoulders and laughing green eyes. He had a British accent I didn’t expect, and his quiet confidence contrasted Sam’s chaos. “This’ll only be for a bit, Jess. Swear I won’t take up too much space.”
The first few days, I convinced myself I barely noticed him. He’d be gone in the mornings before I left for my teaching assistant job, back for dinner making tea for everyone. I’d walk out in my pajamas, thinking nothing of it, and sometimes catch him glancing quickly away from my legs. Sam was always touching him—her hands on his arms, a lingering brush at his waist. Honestly, that just made me more aware. Sometimes I wondered if he noticed me, if I felt like a third wheel or if he saw something more.
One evening I came home early. Sam hadn’t left work yet. Daniel was sprawled on the couch fiddling with his laptop. “Hey, Jess. Want a drink? I’m trying to make proper gin and tonics. Don’t judge, it might be awful.”
We hung out, half-watching an old sitcom. The gin was actually pretty strong. I realized I was nervous around him; I kept checking myself, making sure my legs weren’t tucked up too close, laughing a bit too loudly. When Sam got home, the tension evaporated. It became their space. I heard them through the thin walls later—her giggling, the low rumble of his voice, sometimes even the creak of the old bed slats. I shouldn’t have cared, but sometimes I pressed my knees together and waited for the urge to pass. It never did.
The next weekend, Sam went away on a last-minute work thing. “You and Daniel can survive a night alone, right?” she joked, winking. “Don’t kill each other.” Daniel smirked, “I’ll be the perfect guest, promise.”
I ran into him in the kitchen later, hair still wet from my shower and towel barely above my thighs. I blushed, tried to make a joke, but his eyes lingered just a second too long. I heard the hitch in his breath before he looked away. That was the first time I thought: Maybe he feels it too.
That night, we sat opposite each other, wine between us. He asked me about grad school. I told him about my thesis, loving the way he leaned in with interest that felt genuine—not just “supportive fiancé” vibes. Gradually, questions got more personal: what made you move to New York? Was Sam your first roommate? What’s your worst habit? I told him I bite my nails. He grinned, “I noticed. Cute, actually.”
I felt something shift. The room got smaller. Our knees touched under the table—I pulled back, he apologized, I laughed it off, but I swear his whole focus was on me. There was a silence that wasn’t awkward, just thick.
I excused myself to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, hands shaking a little. What was I doing? Sam was my friend—okay, not my absolute best, but still. Daniel was hers. I could tell myself nothing was happening, but my pulse said otherwise.
I splashed water on my face and stared into the mirror. Did I look different? Did he notice? My body was already humming with something dangerous. I made up my mind: No. No, Jess, don’t do this. Just be normal, just get through the night.
Only, when I came out, Daniel was standing closer than before—too close. He reached out to steady the glass in my hand, his fingers grazing mine. “Sorry,” he said quietly, “I think I might be a bit tipsy.”
“You’re fine,” I managed.
The look in his eyes wasn’t moving anywhere. His chest rose and fell sharply. “Jess…”
I should have walked away. Instead, I said: “What?”
He took a step closer and stopped. “I don’t want to make things weird. But if I’m honest, this whole week… I keep thinking I shouldn’t look at you the way I do.”
My mouth went dry. I said, “You look at me?”
He laughed, sort of desperate. “Yeah. A lot. I try not to.”
I could have stopped there. Could have said, “Let’s not,” or “Sam wouldn’t like this.” Instead I reached out and touched his wrist, electricity snapping through me. “Why?”
His hand closed over mine, gripping tighter. “Fuck, Jess…” He leaned in and kissed me—soft at first, testing, like he almost wanted me to stop him. But I didn’t. I pulled him closer, his mouth urgent, tongue pushing to taste me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, suppressing a gasp as his hands slid to the back of my thighs, lifting, pressing me against the kitchen wall. The shock of it made me shiver, but I was soaked through already, every nerve burning.
He muttered, “We should stop. We should stop right now.” But his hips pressed into me and all I could do was say his name.
“We can’t,” I whispered, but it came out as a plea, not a protest.
He tugged at my towel, letting it fall, his eyes going wide as he took in my body. “God, Jess… You’re beautiful.” He palmed my breast, thumb brushing my nipple until I whimpered, arching toward him. His mouth descended, hungry, as my legs tightened around his waist. I fumbled with his belt, desperate, pulling, finally freeing him so I could feel the hard, needy length of him against my thigh.
He pressed into me, slow at first, face inches from mine. “You sure?”
I nodded, unable to find words.
He thrust inside, filling me, and I gasped—half in shock, half in craving. It was fast then, bodies tangled, rough kisses and bitten lips as we moved together, every thrust an admission of what we couldn’t say out loud. His hands slid under my ass, holding me up, as I clung to him, my nails digging into his back.
“Jess—fuck—you feel so good,” he moaned, voice ragged. I moved with him, wanting more, wanting to come undone.
I came first, clenching around him as he shuddered, whispering my name over and over. His own release followed hard, desperate, as he buried his face in my neck.
We stayed tangled for a long moment, breathing each other in, panic finally mixing with satisfaction. He kissed me again, softer this time.
Afterwards, I slipped away first, wrapping my towel back around me, shaking. “We shouldn’t have—”
He shook his head, regret shadowing his expression. “I know.”
We never talked about it again. A few days later, Sam was back, bright and oblivious, Daniel holding her hand every chance he got. But sometimes, at night, I lay awake remembering the way his hands gripped me, the way he said my name like it was a secret.
I know I’ll regret it forever.