I never thought moving in with Heather would turn into one of those stories you hear about, the kind that you’re never really sure are true. If you met us at the start, you’d have said there was nothing between us—just two friends house-sharing to save on rent in Boston. We met through a mutual friend the summer before graduation, neither of us wanting to go back home. Heather was a bit reserved, had a dry sense of humor, strawberry blonde hair that she left messy, and lips I noticed way too much.
Maybe this sounds like denial, but I swear I didn’t think about her that way at first. I had just gotten out of a relationship. She was dating someone long distance. We got on well—shared beers, watched dumb sitcom re-runs, argued about what takeout to order—but there wasn’t anything else. That changed slowly, and then all at once.
The first thing I remember noticing was how much I paid attention to her coming and going. I became aware of the way she’d throw herself onto the couch next to me, pulling her knees up, leaning over laugh so her hair brushed my arm. I’d find myself thinking about that touch hours after she was gone.
One Friday night, late September, we decided to stay in together. Heather’s boyfriend had cancelled his visit. I’d planned to see some friends, but I bailed, claiming I was tired, when really I just didn’t want to leave her alone.
“Wanna order pizza and drink this shitty cheap wine I found in the back of the fridge?” I offered, tossing the bottle onto the coffee table.
She grinned, rolling her eyes. “As long as you’re not picking pineapple again.”
It was the first time I noticed how pretty her eyes were when she teased me like that. And how she didn’t text him all night. We stayed up talking, music playing quietly in the background, sitting closer and closer until our knees were touching and we were both a little tipsy.
At one point, she reached for the bottle and her thigh slid against mine. We both froze. I looked at her, and she met my gaze for a second longer than necessary. Something shifted; our laughter slowed, our movements felt heavier.
I tried to keep it casual, but I kept stealing glances at her mouth as she spoke. My thoughts started wandering, and I caught her staring back at me once or twice. It was nothing, but it was something.
The next morning, I woke up thinking about it. About her hand brushing my arm and the electricity I felt from the minor, accidental contact. I needed a cold shower. I blamed the wine. I blamed my imagination. At breakfast, neither of us brought it up, but there was a tension: quick glances, shy half-smiles, and the feeling that we were tiptoeing around something much bigger.
The weird thing was, for a few days, we barely spoke outside the basics. It felt like we were both trying to avoid whatever was building between us. I tried to convince myself it hadn’t been anything. That I didn’t want her, that she had a boyfriend, that we were just two friends who partied too hard.
But every night, I found myself hearing her shower run late, imagining her naked a few rooms away, my body reacting in ways I tried to ignore. When her laughter carried down the hall, I wanted to follow it. I started testing myself—leaving the bathroom door open a crack, wearing just a towel to the kitchen, just to see if she’d look. She did, but never said a word. I questioned what the hell I was doing.
A week later, everything broke open. I came home late from work to find Heather curled up on the couch, reading. She was wearing one of my old t-shirts—god knows when I gave her that, or if I had. Her legs were bare, and my mouth went dry.
“Oh, hey,” she said, barely looking up.
“Hey,” I managed, trying not to stare. “Good book?”
“Mhm,” she said, stretching out. “But I could use a distraction.”
It was the most loaded thing she’d ever said to me. My heart pounded. I sat at the far end of the couch, but she scooted closer, her thigh pressing into mine, both of us pretending nothing was happening.
Neither of us moved for too long. The electricity between us was like a live wire. I couldn’t take it anymore. I blurted, “Heather, are we… is this getting weird?”
She looked at me, really looked at me, and set her book down. “Yeah,” she admitted, voice small. “It’s kind of weird.”
We were quiet. I waited for her to say more, or for the world to right itself. Instead, Heather reached over, touched my hand. I froze, every nerve on edge. She closed the distance, lips brushing mine—a lightning strike—and I didn’t pull back.
Nothing in my life has ever felt as intense as the way her mouth moved slowly over mine, both of us tentative, testing, wanting but not sure if we should. My hands found her waist under the t-shirt, her skin hot and soft. When she slid into my lap, her hips pressing down against me, neither of us said a word.
Finally, Heather hesitated, her mouth hovering near my ear. “Should we stop?” she whispered, voice trembling. Her breath was hot on my neck. I could feel her heart smashing against her chest.
I hesitated. This should be easier, I thought. Just say yes or no. But it wasn’t. I reminded myself about her boyfriend—Nathan, or whatever his name was. That we lived together. That this would change everything.
But Heather looked at me with this aching need in her eyes, biting her lip, and suddenly I didn’t care. “No,” I whispered.
She grinned, her mouth crashing into mine as if she’d been holding back for years. Our kisses grew desperate, needier, and I tugged her t-shirt up, exposing her bare stomach, her breasts pressed against me as I slid my hands along her skin. Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging, and she arched into me with a soft moan that made me dizzy.
I pushed the shirt off her shoulders, tasting her neck, her collarbone, moving my hands over every inch of her. She squirmed, grinding against my lap until I was hard, desperate, almost losing control.
“Fuck,” she gasped, pulling away enough to look into my eyes, her pupils blown wide. “I’ve thought about this way too much.”
I shivered, pulling her back against me, our bodies sliding together as I unbuttoned my jeans, her hands greedily finding their way inside. Her skin was feverish, slick, and when she finally shifted her hips just right, sliding down onto me with a gasp, I thought I was going to lose it.
We moved together, sloppy and hungry, the rush of it making me forget everyone and everything else. We fucked right there on the couch, bodies tangled, her thighs clenching around me as she moaned my name, nails digging into my back as I whispered hers. There was a sweetness to it, the way she kissed and bit at my lips, pulling me deeper with each thrust, hearts racing, both of us trembling as we came together, louder than we should have, not caring who might hear.
After, our breathing slowed. Heather lay across my chest, tracing circles on my skin. Neither of us said a word. Whatever came next—the questions, the mess, the wanting more—we’d deal with it later. For that one night, it was just us, alone in the apartment, finally letting go of everything we’d tried to ignore.
And yeah, I guess I always knew it was going to happen. I just didn’t know how good it would feel to finally give in.