I never thought moving in with someone new at 26 would change everything for me, but it did. When I answered that roommate ad online, it wasn’t even lust on my mind—it was rent prices in West London. But then it was Molly who showed up at the café, tall, red-haired, American, a grin that made me nervous even before I realised why. We both wanted the same room: cheap, not too disgusting, close to the bus. The next week was a blur of WhatsApps, a quick tour of the flat, then us awkwardly dividing kitchen cupboards like it would matter. The first few days, our paths didn’t cross much—she had late shifts at the bar; I was in a haze of grad school deadlines—but I caught glimpses: her in cutoff shorts, headphones low, humming while she cleaned, the curl of her laughter while she FaceTimed her brother. She felt a bit wild, and she started to feel dangerous in a way I hadn’t wanted to notice.
But it crept in—first at night, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, each with a glass of cheap wine, letting stories slip out. She told me about heartbreaks, the boyfriends back home, the reason she moved—“tired of guys with fratboy brains,” she snorted. I told her about my painfully average dates, how everyone seemed rehearsed or just wanted to get laid. Conversations drifted, and one Tuesday in November, with rain on the windows, her bare feet nudged my knee. “Were you ever with a woman?” she asked out of nowhere. I froze, heat rising up my neck.
I just shrugged. “Not really. Not unless you count…whatever messes you make in uni.” She gave me a look, playful, but there was a flicker of something else—hunger, maybe.
After that, the tease was there—her towels left in the bathroom, the hint of perfume in her hair wafting through my doorway, her laughs that always stretched a second too long. The tension wound up slowly. I’d invent reasons to linger near her—helping her cook, watching her paint her nails in the living room, both pretending it was nothing. But I started wearing nicer pyjamas, brushing my hair before I left my bedroom, as if it mattered.
A couple of weeks passed. One Friday night, we had both had drinks, the only two people in the flat, and I noticed: she’d changed into soft grey joggers and a thin, almost see-through tee, nipples obvious. It was like she didn’t care, or wanted me to notice. My stomach twisted every time her eyes met mine. When she laughed at something stupid I said, she put her hand on my forearm and just left it there. I couldn’t tell if I was reading too much into it, and it made me restless.
By Christmas, it was driving me crazy. She seemed just as casual as ever, so I started convincing myself it was all in my head. I was desperate to say something, but terrified she’d laugh or worse: move out, ruin the house, ruin the friendship. When she invited me to her room to “help choose an outfit” before a work party, I knew I was in danger. She held up two skirts and smirked. “What’ll get me the most tips,” she teased. I couldn’t look at her legs for too long, or I’d give everything away.
“It’s just… I dunno, do you not freeze?” I said, changing the subject. She threw herself on the bed and grinned. “Come here, help me decide.” I sat beside her, dangerously close. Our thighs touched. She picked up a tube of lipstick, rolled it thoughtfully, and looked at me through dark lashes. “Can I tell you something?” she murmured, voice softer than I’d ever heard.
“Yeah,” I breathed, hardly moving.
“I kind of wish you’d just make a move already,” she whispered. My heart was pounding so loud, I thought she could hear it.
My hands shook—I was suddenly terrified, all my defenses gone. “I didn’t know what you wanted,” I admitted.
Her reply was almost a whisper. “I want you.”
That was all I needed. I leaned forward. I let my hand fall against the bare skin of her thigh, felt goosebumps rise under my fingers. She was already breathing fast. Then we kissed—awkward at first, then desperate, hungry. My lips pressed into hers, her tongue sliding into my mouth. For a moment I was dizzy with it, the taste of cherry lip balm and cheap white wine. Her hands found my waist, tugging me down on top of her. Suddenly I stopped.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” I said, honestly, forehead pressed to hers.
“You already have,” she laughed, mouth curling, but her hand was sliding under my jumper, fingers splaying hot over my stomach. “Does it bother you?”
Does it bother me. I pushed her hair back, kissed her jaw, then her neck, relishing the shiver that went through her whole body. “Nothing has ever bothered me less.”
The rest was a reckless blur. Shirts off, her breasts against mine, skin everywhere. She was so much warmer than anyone I’d ever been with. My hand explored up her thigh, the soft curve where her hip met her panties. Every inch of skin under my touch felt so new, so forbidden, even if it wasn’t. She guided my hand between her legs, moaning into my neck. Her body arched up to meet me, as if she’d been waiting for this longer than I had.
“Fuck, I want you so bad,” she gasped, clinging to me.
I let myself go—to the thrill of her nails in my back, the sharp gasp when I slid my fingers inside her, the wet heat of her body trembling. She was loud, unashamed, saying my name over and over like a confession. I moved my mouth lower, tongue tracing a line down her stomach, flicking over her nipple until she writhed against me. My own need was unbearable—I pulled her on top, hips grinding, ache growing stronger until all I could see, taste, feel was her—her hands, her scent, her moans. She pulled my panties to the side and her fingers found me, slow at first, then faster, until I cried out, bucking against her, letting her see me come undone.
After we caught our breath, tangled together, she traced circles along my bare hip. “Roommates, huh?” she teased.
I laughed, stroking her cheek. “Didn’t see that in the lease.”
She nipped at my shoulder and rolled on top of me again. “Maybe we should renegotiate.”
That night I realised I had been waiting for this kind of risk, this kind of mess. Our secret, at least for a little while longer, just between the two of us in our shitty flat in London—roommates, lovers, something more. And now, I can only confess: I never want it to end.