I never thought I’d end up alone in the city after college, sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn with Emily. She was my closest friend from university: the sort of girl who borrowed my shirts without asking, left bobby pins everywhere, and would drag me out for coffee at 8pm because “she needed caffeine for her latest Netflix binge.”
We’d been roommates for almost a year, watching each other muddle through new jobs, failed dates, and the general chaos of adulting. I always thought of her as just Emily—messy, stubborn, the one person who always called me out on my shit. But about six months in, one after-midnight glance at her in the kitchen, tousled and braless in a giant t-shirt, something inside me changed. It felt dangerous to notice those little details: how her laugh reached her eyes, the way her bottom lip curled when she was concentrating, how she suddenly looked… different. I tried to ignore it. Telling myself, “She’s your friend, your roommate, don’t fuck this up,” became my new nightly mantra.
But the attraction only grew, slow and steady, as I watched her dance around the living room or curl on the couch reading. There were moments when I’d catch myself staring—her bare legs drawn up beneath her, the soft curve of her neck as she leaned over her laptop, that little glint of mischief when she flicked her hair and glanced my way. I told myself to forget it, that there was no way she could ever look at me “that” way. So I swallowed my feelings in silence.
Our friends teased us about our “married couple” dynamic, but we both just laughed it off. “Roomies forever, right?” she’d say, grinning at me as she handed me a beer. I always joined in, trying to ignore the little twist of longing in my chest, thinking that if I didn’t risk anything, nothing would ever change.
Then came that July night. Hot, airless, with a faint smell of pizza drifting from the boxes on our coffee table as thunderstorms flickered outside. We’d gone out with friends and come back tipsy, dripping with sweat, our laughter echoing up the stairs. Emily flopped onto the couch, legs spread wide, and started playing with the loose hem of her shorts. She reached for the remote but I grabbed it first, teasing, “I get to pick the next show, you stole last time.”
We bickered for a while before finally agreeing on something stupid and trashy on Netflix. She groaned and slid closer, so close her thigh pressed against mine. I tried to stay focused on the TV but her bare skin was right there under my palm and I could smell her shampoo—apples and something sweet. I could barely breathe.
She nudged me. “You’re quiet. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, avoiding her eyes.
“Bullshit.” She leaned closer, searching my face.
I shrugged, hoping she’d drop it, but she didn’t. We sat like that for a whole minute, the only sound the flicker of the show in the background. I could hear her breathing, feel the tension in my own chest. She reached over suddenly and poked my arm. “Did you ever hook up with anyone in college and never tell me about it?”
The question caught me off guard. I laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Uh, I mean… maybe?”
“Come on! Spill. It’s only fair, I told you everything.” Her eyes locked with mine, and I got lost in them for a second.
“I don’t know… not much you don’t know.” I forced a joke. “Unless you count that time I accidentally made out with Mark at that Halloween party.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning now. “You told me about that like a hundred times, you dork.”
There was a silence, longer this time. She ran her hand through her hair. “Do you ever think about… I don’t know. Us?”
I froze. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “Us? What do you mean?”
She smirked. “Don’t act dumb. You know, if we ever, like… hooked up. Wouldn’t it be weird?”
I swallowed hard, heat rising up my neck. “Would it?”
She shrugged, biting her bottom lip. God, I always lost my mind over that. “I mean, maybe. But maybe not.”
An electric crackle settled between us. I didn’t know what to say so I just looked at her, and realized my thumb was unconsciously stroking the soft skin of her thigh. Neither of us moved away. I felt her shiver, just slightly, then she shifted, her knees tucking beneath her.
“I bet you’ve thought about it,” she whispered, barely audible.
I laughed nervously. “Yeah? What makes you so sure?”
She moved even closer, so close I could feel her breath on my cheek. “Because I have.”
My heart thumped so loud I thought she’d hear it. I kept my eyes fixed on her face, terrified of making the wrong move, but unable to look away. She leaned in—just a little—and stopped. Waiting. Daring me.
Everything flashed through my mind at once: the risk, the aftermath, the chance of ruining everything. What if it didn’t work and we couldn’t go back? But her eyes were open, wide and blazing, and I wanted her so fucking badly.
So I kissed her.
She laughed against my mouth, soft and shaky, then pressed herself into me. Our lips moved clumsily at first, like neither of us could believe it was real. But then her hands found my hair, her tongue slid softly against mine, and I was lost. The world shrank to just us—her skin, her gasps, the taste of beer and lip balm.
We barely made it to my bedroom. She tugged at my shirt, muttering, “Off, want it off.” I fumbled with her shorts, caught on the button and we both laughed, nerves crackling beneath the heat. I slid her shirt up, inch by inch, exposing soft, pale skin, nipples already hard and begging for my mouth.
She arched into me as I sucked gently, her sounds needy and breathless. My hands wandered everywhere—hips, belly, thighs—memorizing every part of her. She shoved me down onto the bed, straddling me, her hair wild and eyes hungry. She ground against me, panties soaked, damp heat pressing into my thigh. I slid my hand between us, feeling her slick and throbbing for me.
“God, you’re so wet,” I whispered, unable to stop myself.
She moaned, rolling her hips into my fingers. “Please, I need it. I’ve wanted this so fucking long.”
I pushed her panties aside and slid my fingers deep inside her. She gasped, grabbing my wrist, riding my hand, whispering my name like a secret. Her hips rocked faster, grinding down. I used my thumb to circle her clit, feeling her tense, then shudder and gasp. She clenched around me, her nails digging red lines into my shoulders as she came, her whole body shaking.
When her breathing slowed, she grinned—wicked, satisfied—and shoved me onto my back. “Your turn,” she said, crawling down, dragging my boxers off clumsily, lips trailing over my stomach.
She took me in her mouth, slow and teasing, swirling her tongue. Heat spiraled up my spine. “God, Em,” I groaned, grabbing fists of the sheet. She sucked me deep, gagging a little, then laughing, making me even harder.
She climbed back up, straddling me again, staring down, eyes dark with need. She guided me to her entrance, sinking down slow. The first stretch of her was electric—hot, tight, fucking perfect. I gasped, grabbing her hips, holding her steady as she started to move.
We found a ragged, frantic rhythm. I rolled us so she was on her back, pushing deeper, faster, feeling her legs wrap tight around me. She clawed at my back, pulling me close as we both built toward the edge. I kissed her, desperate and messy, tasting her moans. The room blurred—the crash of thunder outside, her breath in my ear, her nails raking my skin—and I came, sudden and blinding, buried as deep inside her as I could get.
After, we lay tangled together, sweaty and dazed. She traced circles on my chest. “Well, shit. That was better than half my Tinder dates.”
I laughed, nuzzling her hair. “More than half?”
She bit my shoulder, grinning. “Way more than half, idiot.”
I knew things would change, maybe even get messy, but right then, with her curled against me, all I could think was finally.