If you’d told me three months ago that my summer would end like this, I would’ve laughed in your face. Everything about how I felt about Emma at the beginning was a mess—confusing, awkward, way too intense—and yet, the more I remember it now, the more it all makes some insane kind of sense.
When I first moved into the apartment, I thought I’d be living alone. The Craigslist ad said “spacious, minimal, perfect for a single guy,” and honestly, I was just happy to get something in Boston for less than a thousand a month. It wasn’t until move-in day, sweaty and annoyed with my boxes, that I saw Emma in her tiny cutoff shorts, haunching over a plant on the kitchen windowsill.
She looked up. “Hey! I’m Emma. You must be Will?”
She was exactly my type—she had that messy brown hair, a tattoo curling from her bicep, dark eyes, and this half-guarded smile that stung with a weird kind of intelligence. I tried to play it cool, mumbling some awkward hello, focusing on my boxes instead of the way her tank top curved over her chest.
The first week was polite, impersonal. We did the usual roommate dance, talking about dishes, the AC, what time we shower; she worked at a local bookstore, I was interning at a tech office downtown. But there was something about the way her laugh echoed from the shower, or the way she’d walk barefoot into the kitchen at midnight, yawning in nothing but a faded T-shirt. I spent way too long thinking about her when I should’ve been working, tried not to feel too obvious about it.
One night, my laptop crashed. I wandered into the living room where Emma was sprawled on the couch, book on her knees, hair in a wild topknot.
“You okay?”
“Fucking thing froze again,” I said, running my hand through my hair.
“Come here. I’m a genius with computers.” She grinned, patting the seat beside her. It was the first time she’d ever invited me in like that.
She smelled faintly of coconut conditioner, her leg just touching mine on the couch. Her fingers hovered above my keyboard, and I tried not to notice how close her lips were, or the mischievous tilt in her smile. The laptop started working again; I barely noticed. We sat in silence for a minute, both aware of something thicker in the air.
“Did you ever think sharing an apartment would feel like this?” I asked, feeling bolder. “Like—so intimate, but also, not?”
She shot me a look, searching. “With the right person, maybe.” Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard. “Is it weird for you?”
“No. Just… new.” My heart hammered. I wanted to touch her, badly, but I didn’t know what she wanted. She closed the laptop and let her hand fall on my thigh, fingers light, as if uncertain.
I froze, lost somewhere between panic and something else—raw want. She pulled her hand away, nerves passing over her face. “Sorry. I thought…” She shook her head and laughed. “Never mind. God, I’m being dumb.”
But I couldn’t let her retreat. I laid my palm over hers, holding it in place against me. “Emma,” I said, “I think about you all the time.” Yeah, it sounded stupid out loud, but it was the only thing that made sense.
She stared at me, searching, her thumb moving tentatively over my thigh. “You sure? Because I don’t want things to get weird.”
“Things are already weird.” I grinned, leaning just a little closer.
She met me halfway—her lips brushing mine, soft at first, then firmer. I could feel something electric rush through me, all the weeks of quiet longing crashing between us. She let out a short, eager sigh as my tongue slid against hers.
After that, it was like trying to fight the tide. We kept finding excuses to get close during the day—brushing shoulders in the kitchen, lingering at the doorway to her room. She’d tease me relentlessly, leaving the bathroom door open just far enough for me to catch glimpses of her skin through the steam, or sliding by in short shorts, smirking, saying nothing. At night I’d lie awake, desperate, her scent clinging to the hallway. But I didn’t want to push her. I could see hints of hesitation in her eyes—like she wanted this as much as I did, but something kept her from crossing the line for real.
It almost became a game between us—a test of patience, of endurance. She’d say my name while pouring coffee, hold eye contact a second too long, then back away. She never brought anyone home, and I—well, I stopped even caring about anyone else. All I wanted was her.
One Saturday evening, rain streaking down the windows, Emma was curled up watching a trashy reality show, blanketed in oversize sweats. I sat beside her, tension crawling under my skin. My mind replayed every touch, glance, mistake—wondering if she’d ever drop her guard for good.
“Will,” she whispered during a commercial, turning to me. “Why haven’t you…you know. Tried anything?”
I could barely look at her. “I don’t want to fuck this up. Living together—what if it goes bad?”
She put her hand on my jaw, tugging my face up so I would see her. “I want you to try. I want you.” Her voice quivered.
I kissed her then, reckless, desperate, hands tangling in her hair as she pulled me closer with a gasp. The blanket fell away. I was half-hoping she’d stop me, that she’d say “wait” or “maybe this is a bad idea.” But she just climbed into my lap, straddling me, grinding her hips lazily, her mouth hungry, her breath salty against my skin. I could feel her heartbeat pounding as she slipped her hands under my shirt.
She yanked my shirt off, laughing at how fast I complied. “Couldn’t wait, huh?”
“Been waiting all summer.” I breathed against her neck. My hands slid under her hoodie, tracing the soft, warm skin of her waist. She gasped, rolling her hips against my hard-on—god, just that and I nearly lost it. I wanted to memorize the way her skin felt, the breathy sounds she made as my lips grazed her collarbone. She ground harder, grabbing my wrists and pinning my hands above my head against the couch.
“You like when I take control?” she whispered with a dirty little smirk. Before I could answer she shoved my sweatpants down, fingers curling around my length. I bucked into her hand, groaning as she stroked me, slow at first, then faster, until I grabbed her hips, needing her.
“Emma—”
“What?” she teased, shifting so the fabric of her shorts dragged against me in just the right way.
“Lose the shorts.” My voice was hardly mine.
She hooked her thumbs under the waistband, wiggling out of them so slowly I nearly groaned in frustration. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Her skin was gloriously bare, and she straddled me again, taking my cock in her hand and guiding me to her entrance. There was this moment where our eyes met—God, maybe I’ll never forget it—and then she lowered herself onto me with a gasp. Hot, tight, fucking perfect.
The sound that ripped from my chest surprised both of us. She moved slowly at first, rolling her hips, digging her nails into my shoulders, her head thrown back. I found her clit with my thumb and pressed, grinning at the way her breath hitched. She rode me harder, sweat slicking our bodies together as the rain crashed harder on the window. The world narrowed to the rhythm of her hips, the pressure building with every moan, every filthy word she whispered in my ear. She clenched around me, shuddering as she came, and I followed, everything going white behind my eyes.
After, as we collapsed together, limbs tangled, hearts hammering, she kissed me softly. “We’re totally fucking this up, you know that?”
“Maybe. But it’s the best mistake I’ve ever made.”
She laughed, curling into me as the rain let up, and for the first time in months, I knew what it meant to want something and finally, finally take it.