I’ve been living with Greg for almost a year now, ever since I moved to Boston for grad school. Of course I knew sharing an apartment with someone I barely knew could be risky, but after some awkward first weeks, our routine settled in. Greg’s this big, friendly guy—built like a football player but always smiling. He works in finance, likes cooking on weekends, and every Sunday insists we watch whatever “classic” movie he thinks I missed. Our friendship is easy, uncomplicated—at least it was, until that one weekend.
Looking back, I probably always found him attractive, but I never let my mind go there. He’s straight, or so I thought. And I have a habit of overanalyzing everything until there’s nothing left to act on. But that Friday, after both our weekend plans fell through, something shifted between us.
Greg barged into the kitchen while I was microwaving leftover pizza. “You realize we’ve never actually, like, hung out—just us? No work, no parties, no school crap.”
I shrugged. “I guess not.”
He grinned, pulling two beers from the fridge. “Then we’re overdue. Tonight’s for bad movies and drunk pizza. Your pick!”
We ended up on the couch, the pizza box between us, laughing at some terrible eighties action movie. At some point, Greg moved closer, enough for our knees to brush every time either of us shifted. I didn’t really notice at first. I’ve always been anxious about reading too much into things—but after our third beer, I realized I was hyper-aware of the heat from his body, the way his thigh pressed into mine. My heart started thudding, and I cautiously glanced at him.
“Dude, you’re weirdly quiet,” Greg teased, poking my side.
I snorted. “Maybe I’m just buzzed.”
“It’s not the beer,” he said, eyes flicking down my face, then back to the screen. “Is something up?”
I shook my head quickly, a lie on my lips. “No, everything’s good.”
But I could tell he wasn’t buying it. He let it go, for then.
The next morning, I woke up to banging pans and the smell of eggs. Greg was already in the kitchen, shirtless, tattoos on display. I tried not to stare. He smirked when he saw me.
“Feel like shit yet?” He handed me coffee, and our fingers touched, lingering for a second too long.
“Nah, I’m good,” I lied, though my insides felt tangled.
We ate in companionable silence, but something was tense between us. I kept catching him looking at me, and when he did, he didn’t look away.
Around noon, it started raining, and Greg suggested we marathon all the old Bond films. By the third movie, I’d convinced myself I was just being weird. There’s no way Greg—six-foot-two, confident, straight—was thinking what I was thinking.
After dinner, the tension boiled over. I was loading dishes in the sink, hands wet and soapy, when Greg stood behind me, closer than usual.
“You’re different lately,” he said, voice quiet. “Like you’re in your head.”
I froze. “I guess… I just—”
He put his hand gently on my shoulder, turning me toward him. “You can tell me anything.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. His brown eyes were steady. For a second, I wanted to tell him everything: that every time his thigh touched mine, I wanted to run my hand up his jeans, that I’d imagined what he looked like under that towel he always paraded around in after the shower.
Instead, I said, “It’s nothing.”
Greg shook his head. “I’m not an idiot. Is it… is it me?”
The question hung in the air. We stood so close I could see the freckles on his nose. I swallowed hard. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me,” he said, his voice deepening.
The silence stretched. I felt my face getting hot; my heart pounded so loud I worried he could hear it. Finally, I exhaled. “Sometimes I just… I wonder if it ever feels different—to you. Between us.”
Greg’s eyes searched mine. A second passed, then another. He took a shaky breath. “I think about it. More than you know.”
I didn’t realize I was shaking until he put his hand on my cheek, thumb brushing my beard. “If you want me to back off—”
But my body answered before my mouth did. I closed the distance, pressing my lips to his. For a split second, he froze. Then his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, mouth opening under mine. His tongue was soft, tentative, tasting of beer and toothpaste.
We broke apart, both of us wide-eyed. “Holy shit,” I whispered, heart racing.
He grinned, breathless. “Yeah, holy shit.”
Greg pressed his forehead to mine. “Been wanting to do that for months,” he murmured. His hand ran up the back of my neck and into my hair, tugging gently.
I slid my hands under his T-shirt, tracing the hard lines of his back. He shivered. “You okay?” I whispered.
“I’m fucking great,” he said, and then he was kissing me again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue. I walked us backward toward the living room couch, falling onto it—Greg on top of me, legs tangled, both of us laughing, breathless.
He pulled his shirt off, throwing it aside. His skin was warm beneath my hands, muscles flexing as he leaned in to kiss my throat, biting down gently before moving back to my lips. I could feel the bulge in his jeans pressing against my thigh, and suddenly my own cock was aching for friction.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” he murmured, running his hand under my shirt, up my chest, fingers tracing every line.
I tugged my shirt off and he groaned, dipping his head to bite my nipple, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin. I gasped, hips bucking into his. The sound that escaped him was downright filthy.
He grinned, unbuttoning my jeans. “You sure?”
I nodded, barely able to breathe, and he slid my jeans down, coaxing my boxers off. His hand closed around my cock, the heat of his palm almost too much. My breath caught in my throat as his thumb traced my tip, spreading the slick pre-cum.
“God, you make the hottest sounds,” he muttered, kissing his way down my stomach. A wild, desperate anticipation surged through me. When his mouth closed over my cock, I almost lost it. The heat, the wet suction—fuck. I threaded my hands through his hair, holding him there, hips jerked up off the couch.
He bobbed his head slowly, tongue tracing the underside, then glanced up with a wicked grin. “Next round, you’re doing this to me.”
That thought spurred something reckless in me. He pulled off his jeans, his cock heavy, leaking. I reached over, wrapping my hand around him, stroking—slow at first, then faster. Greg was louder than I’d imagined, panting, swearing, hand tight on my thigh.
I climbed into his lap, our cocks sliding together, heat and skin and slick, grinding. His hands gripped my ass, fingers digging in, pulling me closer, rocking our bodies in perfect rhythm. He thrust against me, cock rubbing against mine, until neither of us could hold back.
“Gonna come,” he gasped, burying his face in my neck.
“Me too,” I groaned.
We crashed together, spilled hot and sticky between us, clinging to each other as the aftershocks rolled through. For a moment, we just breathed—Greg holding me, his lips pressed to my shoulder.
After, he looked at me, eyes softer. “Hope we didn’t ruin anything.”
I shook my head, grinning, and kissed him again. “Only made it better.”
We spent the night tangled up together on the couch, drifting between laughter, whispered confessions, and touches that promised more. And for the first time in months, my head felt clear—a line crossed, but no regrets. Just him and me, finally, exactly where we’d wanted to be.