I never expected moving into a new apartment in London would turn my world upside down. It was meant to be a fresh chapter—a step away from my small American hometown, and the suffocating familiarity that came with it. I started hunting for flats right before my postgraduate studies began, looking for something shared but not quite chaotic. That’s when I came across Hayley’s ad—a well-lit, two-bedroom place with high ceilings and a view of the Thames if you leaned just right out the kitchen window. Her description sounded normal enough, “easy-going, clean, social but values privacy,” so I sent her a message.
When I met Hayley in person to check out the place, I was more than a little surprised. She wasn’t just friendly—she was stunning, with unruly brunette curls, sharp green eyes and the kind of unrushed, confident smile that made you feel exposed, like she saw more than you let on. We talked over instant coffee at her kitchen table, and her laughter rang out so easy, her accent flowing over every word. I fumbled a little explaining my grad program in journalism, but she just nodded appreciatively, teasing me about my Americanisms. “We’ll have to fix your spelling,” she’d joked.
A week later, I moved in. For the first few days, things were completely friendly. We swapped stories in the evenings, watched Netflix together when neither of us was heading out. She had an easy way about her, making scrambled eggs in her knickers at 11am or singing loudly in the shower. Still, I didn’t see her that way, not at the start—the novelty of a new city and routine kept my mind busy.
But slowly, things started to shift. I caught myself watching her move around the lounge, the way her jeans hugged her hips, the subtle arch of her back when she stretched after a long day. It wasn’t like I didn’t date women before; it was just, with Hayley, it felt…complicated. We lived together, we’d just met—sleeping together? What if it blew up? Still, at night, when I lay in bed listening to her laugh echo against the walls, my mind wandered.
The first hint of real tension came about two weeks in. It was a Friday night, after a rough week for both of us. Hayley had come home later than usual, her cheeks flushed from the pub. She’d kicked off her shoes, thrown herself on the sofa, and I ended up offering her leftover pizza.
“Cheers, Liv,” she said, her voice low and tired. “I swear, if my boss emails me tomorrow…”
I laughed, sitting next to her. “You’ll do what? Drag him out in front of a double-decker?”
She grinned, eyes sparkling. “Something like that.”
The conversation slowed, went quiet as we both stared at the TV flickering in the corner. She leaned sideways, her head suddenly against my shoulder. My heart thudded faster, and I tried to focus on the show. Her hair brushed my jaw.
“Is it weird that I want to just…turn my brain off for a while?” she whispered, sounding smaller than usual.
“No, not weird. At all. I want that too.”
She shifted, her thigh pressed against mine now. The air in the room felt tight. I sensed something unspoken rising between us, but I couldn’t read her, and before long we both went to our separate rooms. That night, I touched myself quietly in the dark, thinking of her lips, of the heat of her skin.
The next week, it was me who was flustered. I came home from a long seminar late in the evening, soaked through by the rain. Hayley was in the kitchen, pyjamas hanging loose off her body, her dark hair in a messy bun. She poured me a glass of wine, handing it over without a word.
“Thanks,” I said, warming my hands on the glass. I felt my gaze drifting to her collarbone, the swell of her chest beneath her shirt.
“Long day?” she asked, those green eyes locking onto mine.
I nodded. “Exhausting. I could use a distraction.”
There was a pause that seemed to last forever. Then she smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. “I can help with that.”
I sputtered out an awkward laugh, playing it off, but the truth was I was aroused just by the way she was looking at me. She moved closer, hip brushing mine as she leaned over to grab something from the fridge. My breath caught. Was she flirting, or was that just how comfortable she was? I couldn’t tell.
As days went by, these moments kept piling up—quick glances lingering too long, her hand touching my knee as we watched a film, our shoulders pressed together under a shared blanket. I started thinking about her body at all hours, craving the feel of her hands on my skin. The line between friendship and more was blurring fast, and I was tumbling over the edge.
Still, the hesitation clawed at me. I’d lie awake, heart racing, going over it all. What if I made a move and ruined everything? What if she was just this warm with everyone? But when I caught her looking at my lips, when her texts at work got just a little too playful, some needy part of me begged to find out.
It all came to a head one night—our third weekend together. The city was loud beyond our thin windows, but inside, we’d dimmed the lights, playing our favourite playlist while drinking gin out of mugs. Hayley sat cross-legged on the floor, her foot resting against my knee as she told me about her worst date ever—something about a hedge maze and a guy who wouldn’t stop talking about cryptocurrency.
“So did you at least get a good snog out of it?” I teased, trying not to sound jealous.
She grinned at me, her gaze flicking down to my lips. “No. Too busy plotting my escape. Think I’ll stick to girls from now on—less likely to bore me.”
I felt my pulse throb. I tried to laugh it off, but my throat was dry. Her face was inches from mine.
“Is that your subtle way of coming out to me or asking if I’m into girls, too?” I pushed, feigning lightness.
She raised both brows, mouth curling. “Is it working?”
Instead of answering, I leaned in, her breath warm on my skin. There was a split second where it felt like the universe held its breath—and then we kissed, slow at first, mouths curious and hungry. She tasted like gin and lime, soft and sweet, and quickly, it turned desperate, our tongues tangling as we pressed closer.
Her hands squeezed my hips, tugging me between her legs, and suddenly I was in her lap, grinding down against her. My nerves shot through with adrenaline and lust. I pulled her shirt off, hands finding the soft skin beneath, tracing her waist, feeling her shiver under my touch. She reached up, fingers tangled in my hair, her nails scraping lightly down my back.
“Oh, fuck, Liv,” she whispered, her accent thick with need. “You’re gorgeous.”
We moved to her bedroom, nearly tripping over each other. Clothes fell in a messy trail to the floor. She laid me on the bed and crawled over me, lips hungry, hands everywhere. Our bodies tangled, heat building until I was gasping—every part of me burning to feel her, taste her, come for her. She kissed down my throat, biting gently, then lower, tugging a moan from my lips.
“Tell me what you want,” she breathed, voice dripping with want.
“I want your mouth…” My voice broke as her fingers slid between my legs, teasing, slick and slow.
Hayley’s tongue danced over my skin, slipping lower, tasting me, making my hips buck. I clawed at her shoulders, desperate for more. The room spun as she sucked my clit, gentle, then hard, fingers curling inside me at just the right angle. It didn’t take long—the build-up, the months of want and indecision—everything crashed together as pleasure ripped through me, fierce and bright.
I came, crying out her name, and she didn’t stop, dragging another orgasm out of me until I was shaking. Finally, she crawled up, kissing me, letting me taste myself on her lips. Our bodies fit together like we’d always belonged like this.
We lay tangled, breathless, in the dark.
“Was that enough of a distraction?” she teased, voice rough with laughter.
I just grinned, pulling her even closer. For once, I didn’t overthink it. I just let myself want her.