I still remember the day Molly moved into the apartment. At first it was just two bedrooms, one crappy bathroom, and not enough space for either of us—but it was affordable, safe, and only a 15-minute train ride from downtown. We met through Facebook Marketplace, actually; she needed a place, I needed help with rent. She had a heap of curly brown hair and eyes that crinkled at the edges when she laughed, which she did—a lot. We clicked right away, in that easy way you sometimes click with people you’re meant to meet.
I was 24, fresh out of college, with a marketing gig that was slowly eating my soul. Molly was twenty-six, finishing grad school, bartending at a spot near the river. She was always running late, always somehow put together, always leaving a lingering trail of perfume that I eventually started to recognize as “her.” But it never felt like anything more than friendship—until, honestly, it did.
For months, our lives more or less just orbited around each other. She’d make pancakes at 2 AM when she got home, and I’d wander out half-asleep and join her. Or we’d both collapse on the sofa, order take-out, and binge trashy reality TV. It’s funny to look back and realize I spent so much time telling myself she was just my roommate.
Things started shifting the winter that the heat in our building went out for a week. I’d come home to find Molly bundled on the sofa under five blankets, socks over her pajama pants, mug of tea clutched in both hands.
“You look like the abominable snowman,” I teased her the first night. She stuck out her tongue.
“Come here, you can be my hot water bottle,” she joked, patting the cushion next to her.
And, God help me, I went. From that night on, we both gravitated toward the warmth of each other. The lines started to blur—a leg draped over mine, her hand brushing my hair when she thought I was asleep, my hand lingering on her knee as we shared a blanket watching TV late into the night. It was subtle, but I started to notice everything about her. The way her laugh would echo through the apartment. The little scar above her eyebrow. The faint birthmark on her neck that looked, if you squinted, a bit like a crescent moon.
But it was just flirting, wasn’t it? Roomie banter. For weeks, maybe months, I told myself that.
Then, one Friday night, she came home from the bar way later than usual. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyeliner a little smudged. She kicked her shoes off, flopped beside me on the couch, and let out this long, satisfied sigh.
“What’s up?” I asked, closing my laptop.
“Nothing. Just glad to be home. My feet are killing me, I’m starving, and Brad hit on me for the fiftieth time this week.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d met Brad. He was the definition of “walking red flag.”
“You want me to beat him up for you?” I grinned, flexing the tiny muscles in my arms. She laughed, swatting me with a pillow.
“Nah, I’d rather just steal your fries.” She grabbed the leftover takeout container from the table and nestled against me, her thigh pressed flush to mine.
Something skipped in my chest. Maybe it was the fact we were both buzzing from the comfort of old routines, or maybe it was the acrylic nails she’d just gotten that week, but when her hand brushed my leg, my whole body tensed. For a second, neither of us spoke. The air between us thickened.
She must’ve felt it too, because she suddenly looked at me, eyes lingering on my lips.
“I—um—sorry. I should probably—” she started, but I don’t even know what she was going to say, because I panicked and stood up too fast, stumbling into the coffee table.
“Nah, it’s—it’s fine. I’m, uh, tired,” I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burning. “Goodnight, Molly.”
I basically fled to my room, heart pounding. Something had changed, and I had no idea what to do about it.
Over the next week, we danced around each other; polite in the kitchen, overly casual, both pretending not to notice when our hands brushed. There were many nights when I lay awake staring at my bedroom ceiling, asking myself what I wanted—why I kept replaying the feeling of Molly’s thigh against mine, her soft laugh in my ear. I realized, slowly and with a kind of dread-laced excitement, that what I wanted was her. But wanting her—and telling her that—felt like jumping off a ledge.
The tension only grew. The next Thursday, she asked me if I wanted to grab a drink at her bar after her shift.
“It’ll be dead after midnight. I’ll buy you a beer, roomie. For old time’s sake.”
“Sure.” My voice almost cracked.
I sat in the corner booth, nursing a pint, watching her work. She was so at ease behind the bar, tossing out quips, flipping her hair back, collecting tips with that killer grin. When her shift ended, she slipped into the booth beside me, closer than necessary.
“Miss me?” she asked, hand on my thigh under the table. It was casual—except it wasn’t, not anymore.
I looked at her. The lines of her face, lips slightly parted, eyes dark from mascara and something else.
“Yeah,” I said softly, every nerve ending alive.
She leaned in. “Do you want to make out with me?”
It was so blunt, so Molly, that I laughed. Then, before I could second-guess, I grabbed her face and kissed her, hard.
Everything after that felt different—like unlocking a door I hadn’t realized was even closed. Kissing Molly was messy, hungry, all tongue and teeth and stolen breaths. Her hands slid under my shirt, nails scraping lightly up my back. My own hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer as her knee slid between my thighs under the sticky bar table.
We pulled apart, laughing, breathless, aware we were still in public.
“Let’s go home,” she whispered, her voice low and promising.
The subway ride was a blur. Our hands were entwined, her thumb tracing circles where our skin touched. Back at our apartment, the sexual tension that had been simmering for months exploded. As soon as the door closed, Molly shoved me against the wall, kissing me deeper, her whole body pressed to mine.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” she muttered, her lips hot at my neck.
“Try me,” I breathed, tugging her shirt off. Her skin was so soft, and when she pressed herself against me—barely any space left between us—I felt her breasts against mine, her hips grinding urgently.
Clothes came off in a blur of laughing and gasps—her nails trailing down my back, my hand tangled in her hair. She pinned me to the sofa, straddling my lap, her hands sliding between my legs.
“God, you’re so fucking hot,” she growled, dipping her head to suck a mark on my neck. I whimpered, rocking up against her thigh. The wetness gathering between my legs was almost embarrassing. Almost.
Her fingers slid into my underwear, teasing, circling until I was half out of my mind.
“Beg me,” she whispered, voice rough with need.
“Please, Molly. Please.”
That’s when she pushed two fingers inside me, her thumb circling my clit with practiced skill. I moaned, hips chasing her touch, breath hot against her shoulder.
“Fuck, just like that,” I gasped, grabbing at her arms.
She fucked me good—slow at first, driving me crazy with how controlled she was, then harder, faster, like she was determined to wring every ounce of pleasure out of me. I came hard, shuddering against her, my nails leaving crescent shaped marks in her skin.
She watched me fall apart, a victorious smirk on her lips, and then she leaned in, kissing me breathless. I flipped her over, desperate to return the favor. Her thighs spread so easily for me, her head tipped back, mouth open in a silent moan as my tongue found her clit. I wanted to taste her, feel her fall apart just like I had.
Molly’s hands tangled in my hair, her hips rolling up to meet my mouth.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” she moaned, and I didn’t. Not until she was shaking, her whole body tensed and trembling beneath my hands, her gasps echoing around the apartment.
That night, we fell asleep tangled up together, skin on skin, sheets a mess around us. The next morning, I woke to her grinning at me, sleepy and perfect.
“Guess it’s official,” she teased. “Roommates. And now… whatever this is.”
I laughed, reaching over to kiss her again, already hungry for more. Whatever it was, it felt fucking right.