I never planned for any of it to happen. If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be lying awake at 3AM, my heart pounding and my body aching for Chloe—my new roommate—I probably would’ve laughed. Back then, moving to London for grad school had been all about independence, studies, and maybe hitting a pub or two. It was never about finding myself wanting my flatmate more and more every day.
We met in early September, when the city was frustratingly hot for autumn and the North Circular always smelled of car exhaust and fried food. I’d found the tiny flat on a Facebook group for students. “Furnished, cozy double, flatshare with young professional,” the post had said. When I’d gone to see it, Chloe had greeted me with a big smile, and right away I’d noticed the mess of ginger curls, the tattoo running down her forearm, those green eyes that squinted when she laughed.
I moved in the next weekend. She was funny, easy to talk to, a bit hipster with her vinyl records and Sunday morning oat lattes. And she had a boyfriend. At first, I barely noticed the way she padded around in baggy shirts after her shower, or the way her legs curled under herself on the couch, or the way she’d laugh and touch my arm as we watched true crime on Netflix.
But there was a night in late October, my first real memory of wanting her.
It was Porco Rosso and cheap Pinot Grigio. Her boyfriend, Jamie, was out and we’d drifted from movies to music to telling stories about bad dates and embarrassing moments. I tried not to notice the way her shorts barely covered her thighs. She sat close, and I could smell her perfume—a little spicy, a little earthy.
“You’re easy to talk to, you know?” she said, and nudged my leg. “Makes me forget about all the fucking drama with Jamie.”
I laughed, a little too loud, pretending not to notice the way my skin tingled where she’d touched me. “You’d survive without him. You’re pretty tough.”
She grinned. “Don’t let my chaotic cooking fool you.”
I went to bed buzzing, replaying the conversation, Chloe’s bare legs brushing mine, our glances holding a bit longer than they should have. I tried to convince myself I was reading too much into it, that she was just friendly, touchy, sweet. I ignored how my hand wandered between my legs and how I whispered her name while I came, heat sweeping through me.
I told myself nothing would ever happen, that these things just happened when you spent a lot of time with someone new, someone exciting.
But the next few weeks, I caught her looking at me when I came out of the bathroom in a towel, her gaze dipping quickly away. She asked me to help her zip a dress, her back warm under my hands. I started making excuses to be in the kitchen at the same time as her. Saturday mornings, I watched her stumble out in old band tees, her nipples barely visible under the thin cotton. At night, we lay feet to feet on the sofa, every accidental touch igniting something deeper.
The tension only grew when Jamie started coming over less. Chloe started coming home later, smelling like gin and cigarettes. She confided in me: “God, we barely talk anymore. He’s constantly busy.” I said nothing, only offering an awkward hug, feeling her pressed tight against my body, arms lingered around her for a heartbeat too long.
I tried to fight the urge, telling myself I wasn’t going to be That Roommate. But something changed late one Friday night.
It was almost midnight and I was up, scrolling on my phone, waiting for her to come home. The flat was too quiet, every shadow louder than the last. When she stumbled in, hair wild and cheeks flushed, she looked exhausted.
“Rough night?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chloe kicked off her boots and dropped onto the sofa. “Jamie and I broke up. Well. He broke up with me. For good this time. Some girl from his course.” Her eyes glistened. “Fuck him, though.”
I hesitated, lingering at the door. “Do you want to talk or—?”
She patted the cushion beside her and I sat down, tucking my legs under myself. She hugged her knees, looking so young, so vulnerable for a moment. And for a few breaths, we just listened to London outside, the distant buses, the leaking tap in the kitchen.
Finally, she whispered: “Can I tell you something weird? Promise you won’t hate me.”
I nodded, my heartbeat stuttering. “Of course.”
She was quiet, then let out a deep sigh. “Sometimes, when I was with Jamie, I’d think about… I’d think about kissing you.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second. My whole body stiffened. “I—Chloe…”
“It’s fucked up, right?” she laughed softly, but there was a tremor in her voice. “I just. I don’t know.”
I swallowed, my mouth dry, my head spinning. “That’s not fucked up. I— You’re not the only one.”
She looked up, eyes searching mine. The air sharpened and crackled between us. “Seriously? You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
It was her who leaned in, lips brushing mine so gently I could’ve imagined it. My hands trembled as I cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheek. Her tears tasted salty, her lips hot and insistent on mine.
We broke apart for a second, and I looked at her—really looked, panic flickering behind her eyes. “Are you sure?”
She laughed, a shaky exhale. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have ruined everything by telling you.” She slipped her fingers through my hair and kissed me again, harder. Our tongues slid together and I melted into her.
Clothes came off slowly at first—my t-shirt, her sweatshirt. She pushed me gently back against the sofa, legs straddling me, her hands desperate and shaky as she kissed along my jaw, down my throat. I buried my hands in her hair, gasping as her fingers danced under my bra, pinching my nipples until I whimpered.
We both paused, breathless. She knelt between my legs, green eyes wild, hair clinging to her forehead. “Tell me if you want to stop. Seriously.”
She pushed my underwear aside, fingers slick and sure, teasing me until my hips bucked. “Fuck, Chloe,” I groaned, biting my lip. The shame and the thrill mixed together, electric in my veins. I spread my legs wider, not caring anymore about anything except the way her fingers slid inside me, slow and deep.
“God, you’re so wet,” she whispered, the words sending shivers to my core. Her mouth found my breast, tongue circling my nipple as her fingers moved faster. I clutched at her back, nails digging in, body arching as I broke apart around her.
Then it was my turn. I pulled her on top of me, kissing her greedily, sliding my hand into her panties. She moaned into my mouth as I circled her clit, her breath hot and desperate against my neck. We moved together, fitting and grinding and clutching, everything raw and messy and perfect. She came with a soft cry, clutching my shoulders so tight I thought she might bruise me.
After, we lay tangled on the sofa, not saying much, just breathing, touching, exploring the lines of each other’s collars and hips. She smiled, a little shy, and traced my mouth with her thumb.
“So… now what?” she asked, laughter thick in her voice.
I pulled her close, not caring about tomorrow. “Whatever comes next, I guess.”
And for the first time since moving to London, I felt right where I belonged—with Chloe curled into my side, her breath soft and warm against my skin.