When I moved into our tiny off-campus apartment in Boston, I didn’t think I’d be telling this story one day — especially about Erin. Erin and I had picked each other off a campus Facebook group in July. She seemed normal, smart, with a slightly sarcastic edge that set my nerves at ease. Neither of us was a party girl, and we both shared a preference for living in sweats. Classic “instant friends,” everyone thought. But there was more to it. She’s definitely pretty — soft waves of auburn hair, brown eyes that could pin a lie right to the wall, and a laugh that gets right under your skin. Still, when I met her, I figured we’d just be friends, maybe best friends, but never anything else.
That changed gradually, in this slowburn way I never saw coming. By the fourth week of September, we already had routines. She’d make tea at 11 PM every night, and I’d shamelessly steal half the kettle. Our rooms were right across the hall, and most nights, we’d end up sprawled across her unmade bed, talking about classes, shitty dates, or weirdos at the dining hall.
It got more flirty in the smallest ways — like, after a night of Netflix, I’d notice her stretching her bare legs out next to me, toes almost brushing my thigh. She didn’t move them. One time, I was in the kitchen hunting for chocolate, and she came up behind me to reach for a mug. I felt her chest press against my back just a second longer than necessary. My stomach flipped, but I told myself not to overthink. We were friends, right? She was probably just comfortable with me.
But some nights, lying in the dark, I’d replay the way her lips curled into a smile when she caught me staring. We definitely had this… charge. I couldn’t ignore it, though part of me tried so hard. I wanted her, but she’d never said a thing. I kept telling myself not to risk ruining the friendship over something that maybe only I was feeling.
So that night, the story really starts. It was a Thursday in October. Our neighbor’s party droned on through the wall, leaking bass into our living room. She came out of the shower, hair wet, in loose shorts and a worn Harvard tee that used to be her ex’s. Neither of us had any plans. I had my knees tucked under me on the couch, trying to read, but I kept giving up after every other paragraph.
She stood in the doorway, towel-drying her hair. “I’m actually desperate for chocolate. Want to go halves on ice cream?”
I grinned. “You read my mind. I’ll get the spoons.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting cross-legged on the couch with a single pint between us, taste-testing from opposite sides. Erin reached for another spoonful, her bare thigh grazing mine as she shifted, not bothering to move away. “You ever think about just running out of here some night and driving to Canada?” she asked, mouth full.
I snorted. “Only when midterms hit. I’d be on the first bus.” Her pinky hooked under my knee as she laughed, absentminded and electric. I felt the prickle dance up my spine. I decided to test it.
“Do you ever think people can just… change, out of nowhere?” I asked, a little quieter than I meant to.
She paused. “Like how?”
I shrugged, licking melted chocolate from my spoon. “Like you wake up and your feelings for someone are just… different. More intense. Or you see them differently.”
Her eyes caught mine, a glimmer in the low light. “Yeah, I think that can happen.” She looked away, playing with the drawstring of her shorts. “Why, has it happened to you?”
I sensed the shift then — the way her voice dropped, that tiny invitation. My heart pounded so hard I almost lost my nerve. But I wanted to push.
“Maybe,” I admitted, my voice unsteady. “I’m just not sure if it’s worth it to actually do something about it. Sometimes you ruin things.”
She put her spoon down, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, and turned to face me fully. “I’d rather know than never know.” She tucked her damp hair behind her ear. “Are we talking about the same thing?”
My breath stuttered. “Are we?”
For a moment, we just looked at each other, this wild, unspoken current flickering between us. Her face was so close. The TV made flickering shadows on her cheekbones. She reached out, running the tips of her fingers down my forearm. I froze at her touch, warmth spreading between us, my skin tingling.
“I think I want you to kiss me,” she whispered, eyes on my lips.
I didn’t wait. I leaned in, pretty sure my hands were shaking, and pressed my mouth to hers — gentle at first, testing. Her lips were impossibly soft, honeyed with chocolate, parting easily for mine. When her hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, I let myself melt into it.
Every nerve ending went live. We shifted, side by side, legs tangled. I ran my palm beneath her tee, tracing the soft curve of her waist, feeling her shiver.
“Is this okay?” I murmured, my forehead against hers, needing confirmation, needing to know she wanted this as badly as I did.
She nodded, hungry. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Her hand slipped under my shirt, cold fingers against my stomach making me gasp. We laughed, breathless and caught between nerves and desire. She kissed me again, deeper this time. My hands moved up, finding the thin band of her bra, thumb caressing the edge before she arched into me.
We pulled at each other’s shirts, urgent and clumsy. Her hair was still damp under my hands. I pushed the tee up, lips tracing from her collarbone down, drinking in the sound she made, so raw and desperate. My mind spun: this is happening, it’s real, no going back now.
Her hands skimmed my sides, fumbling with my bra strap. She stared into my eyes, searching, waiting for any sign I wanted to stop, but all I could do was nod, biting my lower lip.
“God, you’re beautiful,” she growled, surprising herself and me. I laughed, nerves shooting off as her mouth traced fire down my neck, her teeth grazing just above my pulse.
We made our way backward, nearly knocking ice cream to the floor, until we were stretched across the couch. Her thighs were on either side of me, grinding down, and I arched up, desperate for more friction. Our kisses got messier, hungrier. When her fingers slipped under my waistband, I shuddered, my hips rolling up to meet her touch.
“Fuck, Erin,” I moaned, nails biting her shoulders. She laughed, low and wicked, her mouth kissing down my chest, teasing my nipples until I couldn’t keep quiet. She worked my shorts down, tossing them aside, hot breath against the inside of my thigh. My legs parted on instinct, no nerves left, as she brushed her lips where I ached for her most.
She took her time, slow at first, tongue flicking, fingers spreading me open, making me gasp, whimper, beg. Each soft moan drove her faster. My hands wound in her hair, back arching, desperate for her, for anything she wanted to do to me. She knew exactly how to push me right to the edge, pulling me apart until all I knew was her mouth, her hands, her breath on my skin.
When I finally came, it hit hard and fast, a sob breaking from my lips, her name carved out in a gasp. She kissed her way back up my body, mouth warm and smiling, our foreheads pressed together as we tried to catch our breath.
After, I nestled into her arms, the TV forgotten. We were sweat-slicked and grinning, uncertain but closer than ever. Erin ran her fingers up and down my side.
“So,” she murmured, kissing my forehead. “That awkward tension’s gone.”
I laughed. “Yeah, but good luck getting rid of me now. I’m kind of obsessed.”
She smirked, stroking my thigh. “Good. Because now that I’ve finally kissed you, I’m not letting go.”
I turned onto my side, tucking my face into her shoulder, heart pounding out a new rhythm. Our friendship, our want — everything was tangled together now, but for once, I stopped caring about the risk. I just wanted her, in every way friends could turn into something much, much more.