There’s something about the way Emily laughs when she’s tipsy that makes me think about kissing her. I probably shouldn’t say that, because you’re supposed to keep things uncomplicated with your roommate, right? But that’s not how things have been working out for us—and definitely not the way that night unfolded.
When Emily first moved in, everything felt so normal. We were both in our mid-20s, scraping by in an overpriced Boston apartment, trying to make adulthood work. She had a job at a downtown design firm; I was grinding out my law school final papers. “We’ll get along,” she’d said, setting down her suitcase in the room across from mine. Emily was effortlessly pretty, with messy chestnut hair and green eyes, never trying too hard and somehow always looking like she belonged in whatever room she entered. We kept things casual. There was no reason to expect anything else.
The first few months blurred by. We fell into a rhythm of shared responsibilities—splitting bills, buying groceries, watching trashy reality shows on sleepless nights. There was the comfort of mutual chaos, the unspoken bond of two people figuring things out at the same time. We never crossed any lines. Until we did.
It started one Saturday night, after a long, exhausting week for both of us. Emily wandered into the living room in a faded Harvard hoodie and shorts, wine bottle in hand, cheeks flushed pink. “You look like you need a drink,” she said, filling my glass before collapsing next to me on the couch.
We’d been growing closer, swapping stories that edged a little deeper each time. That night, the words got looser as the wine flowed. Emily told me about her ex, who’d broken up with her back in New York. Her voice got quiet. “I thought I’d be over it by now,” she said. “But sometimes I miss the feeling… of being wanted, I guess.”
I didn’t know what to say. I kept my focus on the TV, feeling the bond grow between us, a different kind of tension filling the space. Her leg brushed mine. I kept my hands tightly gripping my glass, knowing if I let go, I might say or do something I shouldn’t.
After an awkward silence, Emily yawned, stretching so her fingers brushed my thigh. “I’m beat,” she said, but she didn’t move. “What about you?”
“I should probably get some sleep too,” I replied, hoping she’d take the hint. I needed to keep things platonic. This was dangerous territory, and I knew it. She looked at me a little too long before standing up.
“Night, Jake,” she said softly, disappearing into her room with a gentle click behind her.
I lay awake for ages, my thoughts spinning. Was she waiting for me to do something? When her laughter lingered in my brain, it burned at me—the possibility of what could happen if I crossed the line.
The next day, there was an unspoken change between us, but neither of us said anything. Over the next few days, we tiptoed around our routines. I kept replaying that night on the couch, the warmth of her body near mine, thinking too long about what her skin would feel like under my fingers.
A few nights later, I was at my desk proofreading a paper when Emily poked her head in, her hair loose and messy from a shower, skin still damp. “Hey,” she said, “can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” I said, noticing she looked nervous.
She stepped in, closing the door behind her. “Do you think things would be weird if… like, if something happened between us?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
My throat went dry. I swallowed, then asked, “You mean, like—sex?”
She blushed but nodded. “Is it crazy to think about? I keep wondering if it would be stupid. Or if it’d ruin things.”
There was a long, loaded pause. My mind raced. I shouldn’t say yes. But I couldn’t say no.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, “but it’s not just you. I’ve been thinking about it too.”
The tension surged between us, electric and unspoken. Emily laughed shakily, eyes meeting mine. “I guess it’s out there now.” She bit her lip. “Maybe it’s not the worst idea.”
After she left the room, I sat in the quiet, the memory of her voice playing in my head. I wanted her. I wanted her bad enough that I could barely hide it anymore. It wasn’t just a crush; it was full-body yearning, an itch under my skin I couldn’t scratch alone.
The next evening, the air between us crackled. We ordered pizza, watched stupid movies, but the small talk was loaded. I caught her glancing at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I saw the flush rising on her throat every time our knees touched. She started avoiding my eyes.
After midnight, the pizza box sat empty on the coffee table. Emily yawned, her eyes lingering on mine.
“I’m gonna brush my teeth,” she said. “Don’t fall asleep yet.”
I didn’t.
When she came back, she sat next to me—close, thighs pressed against mine, the TV now forgotten. Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Then, finally, she slid her hand over mine, squeezing once.
“So… are we going to talk ourselves out of this again?” she whispered.
I stared at her, heart thrumming in my chest. My mouth felt dry. “Do you want me to?”
She shook her head, suddenly bold. “No. I want you to come to my room.”
The words sent a thrill down my spine. I nodded, standing up. We walked down the hall together, everything suddenly urgent. Her hand grazed my lower back as we slipped into her room, the door snicking shut behind us.
The light spilled in from the hallway, soft and golden. Emily stood in front of me, searching my face for objections. I stepped closer, brushing unruly strands of hair behind her ear. “Are you sure?” I murmured.
She rolled her eyes, breath hitching as my fingers skimmed her jaw. “Yes, Jake. Stop asking, just kiss me.”
So I did—slowly at first, letting her warmth press into me. Her lips were plush and hungry, tasting of toothpaste and unspoken confessions. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as she pressed her body against me, her hands pushing under my t-shirt, cool palms resting on bare skin.
Her nails scraped up my sides and I groaned into her mouth. I found the curve of her waist, pulling her closer, grinding our hips together. We stumbled to the bed, still kissing, frantic now. I couldn’t get enough of her—my hands tugged at the waistband of her shorts, slipping them down. She gasped, pulling my shirt off in one swift movement, her fingers tracing the lines of my stomach.
“God, I’ve wanted you for weeks,” she whispered, mouth hot against my neck. Her thighs parted under my hands, her breath ragged. I pushed her panties aside, feeling the warmth of her soaking through, fingers teasing until she arched against me.
I knelt over her, my cock already hard and aching. “Tell me you want it,” I choked, needing to hear.
“I want you so fucking bad,” she groaned, wrapping her legs around my waist.
I slid into her, slow and deep. Her breath hitched, back arching until her chest pressed to mine. We moved together, bodies tangled, sweat-slick. Her nails bit my skin, breathy moans filling the dark. Every thrust drew us tighter, closer, hips slapping, her hands gripping my shoulders as she rocked against me.
“Fuck—Jake—harder—” she gasped. I obeyed, hips snapping faster, loving the way she whimpered my name, her whole body shuddering under me.
Emily’s legs tightened, pulling me deeper, her voice breaking as she came, clenching around me. I lost control then, following her over the edge, coming with her name on my lips, everything spilling out at once.
We lay tangled in the dark for ages, sweat cooling and breaths steadying. Her fingers traced lazy circles on my chest. She kissed me softly, sleepily.
“Come to bed with me tomorrow, too,” she mumbled.
I smiled into her hair. “Yeah. I want to.”
Guess being roommates doesn’t have to be complicated after all.