I’m going to be reckless for once and just say it: I never saw it coming with Emily. Trust me, I know how it sounds—your best friend from college, and one stupid, rainy night—but sometimes things happen so slowly you don’t realize you’re slipping until you’re already falling.
Emily and I had been inseparable since freshman year at University of Manchester. She moved into the flat across from mine that September and, well, the rest is blurry nights out, hungover brunches, and library study marathons. We grew together through internships, flings that didn’t last, and that general messy confusion of our early twenties. If you asked, I’d swear up and down Emily was like family—a sister, but funnier.
That’s why what happened last spring still spins me out. It started with something so regular, so perfectly us—just a night in, two bottles of wine, rain slapping the window, laughter echoing off the bare kitchen tiles.
I’d just broken up with Mark two weeks before. Emily showed up around 8, a pile of snacks and that nervous look she always got when she was trying to act cool about checking in on me.
“Truth or dare,” she said a couple hours in, waggling her eyebrows at me after I’d polished off my glass.
“You wish. You know you make up fake dares,” I shot back. She grinned, the side of her mouth quirking in that sly way.
“Fine. Truth, then. Would you ever sleep with a friend?” she asked. Her voice was even, but something zinged in the air between us.
The wine decided to take over my mouth: “If it was the right friend, maybe.”
She held my eyes with hers; pale, a little tired but sparking in the lamplight. “Would you ever sleep with me?” she pressed, less like a joke than I expected.
For a moment I just stared at her. Anyone else and I’d have laughed it off and made a joke. With Emily, I froze. Suddenly, every blurry college memory—dorm-room cuddles, hand-holding at gigs, late-night whispers—looped back. Had we always been this close, or was something always humming underneath that I’d ignored?
We pretended to let it drop. The rain hammered harder, and we got drunker. At midnight, she rolled onto her side of my narrow couch, chin propped on her palm, eyes searching me. I could barely breathe.
Another hour, and I was acutely aware of how her thigh pressed against mine, how she absent-mindedly played with the loose threads near my knee. The air thickened, the kind of tension that made my scalp prickle, but I was chicken. I kept thinking, This can’t happen. She’s my best friend; I won’t risk it. I can’t.
“I should crash here,” she mumbled, voice a little slurred, a little hopeful. “It’s pissing it down.”
“Of course,” I said, suddenly aware of exactly how far my bedroom was from the couch.
We both lay awake for what felt like hours, bodies angled away but perfectly aware of every small movement. I could hear her breathing, quiet but not deep—she was awake.
“Hey,” she whispered, almost scaring me. I turned on my side, met her eyes, and the room changed. “I meant it earlier,” she said. “About wanting you.”
My heart rammed up to my throat. I swallowed. “Emily—”
She reached for my hand. My skin shivered with electricity. “Just tell me to stop,” she breathed.
For half a second—maybe longer—I hesitated. My mind spun with reasons to call it off: our friendship, the weight of every year behind us, the sharp risk of fucking it up forever. But her hand squeezed mine, thumb brushing my wrist, soft, unmoored. Something in her face told me she needed this as much as I did—for reasons I’d only guess at.
I leaned in. She tasted like cheap wine and something distinctly Emily—sweet, warm, electric. My hand threaded through her hair, and she climbed over me, thigh sliding between mine. Her mouth was urgent, hungry, our teeth clashing, laughter mixing with little gasps.
“You sure?” she murmured. I nodded so fiercely my hair tumbled into my eyes.
After that, it was a blur. Clothes peeled away in the half-light: my shirt caught over my head; hers sliding from her shoulders, freckles stark against pale skin. Her breasts pressed into mine, skin hot and slick. Hands skidding over hips, nails digging into backs, lips tracing necks and collarbones. She bit my ear and giggled, tongue hot and messy at my jaw. I bucked up against her, desperate for friction.
“Oh fuck, Em—” I gasped, as her fingers found me, slick and needy already. I grabbed her face with both hands, pulled her down into a kiss so filthy we both moaned. I barely remembered how to breathe.
She trailed kisses down my neck, over my chest, sucking at a nipple until I arched up, panting. “You taste so good,” she whispered, fingers slick, circling my clit with practiced, maddening care. I was half-mad with want, hips hitching up, needing her.
I pushed her hand away and rolled us over, pinning her wrists above her head. She grinned, wild and beautiful, and spread her legs for me. I settled between her thighs, tongue tasting her, making her writhe and beg, her hands tangled in my hair. Her moans went straight through me. I gripped her hips, tasting her until she shook against my mouth, trembling, cursing my name.
Then we tumbled breathless together, tangled in sheets, hands roaming, each of us taking what we wanted with greedy mouths and gasping need. When she finally pushed into me with her fingers, hard and deep, I came so hard everything blurred.
Afterwards was the scariest part. We lay tangled in sweat and laughter, eyes wide with what we’d done, hands still curled like we couldn’t let go.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, brushing hair off my forehead.
I nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah. You?”
“I think I am,” she said, lips grazing mine. “Don’t leave me, okay?”
“Never,” I promised, and meant it.
Truth? That night didn’t ruin us. It made us real, even if the morning after was awkward and shy and a little terrifying. For once, I stopped overthinking. I let myself want her, to touch and be touched in return—not just by a friend but by someone I trusted not to break me.
Sometimes, just sometimes, crossing the line is exactly what saves you.