I never really expected to have a story like this to confess—one that still makes my face burn just thinking about it. If you’d met me a year ago, you’d see just a regular guy, out of college, new to New York, sharing a small Brooklyn apartment with my friend’s cousin, Emma. She’s two years older, does freelance photography, and the most unfiltered, direct person I’d ever met. We weren’t close at first—just two people desperately clinging to their own spaces, sharing a fridge, and nodding over instant coffee in the mornings. All that changed one rainy Thursday when the power went out.
It was the late fall, and the heating couldn’t keep up. Our tiny place was freezing, rain spattering hard against the thin windows. I remember grumbling, wrapped in a hoodie, when I heard Emma cursing in the dark living room. I came out to see her waving her dead phone like it was a crime scene.
“Every damn time I need to upload something. Every time. These landlords, I swear to god…” She wore worn jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, her hair damp, looking both annoyed and weirdly beautiful in the way people do when they’re completely themselves.
“It’s the whole street,” I said. “Transformer must’ve fried. There’s nothing we can do.”
She snorted. “Old school night, then. You got candles or should we just freeze?”
I managed to find a couple candles under the sink, and Emma rolled her eyes at my “emergency stash.” We ended up lighting them in the living room, scraping together chips and hummus and whiskey for dinner. I don’t know if it was the dimness, her snarky running commentary, or just that everything felt rawer in the dark, but suddenly it wasn’t awkward. We opened up. She told me about her ex, about feeling stuck with work, about how she missed her old city. I confessed to hating my job and how completely unprepared I was for real life.
We talked for hours, the whiskey warming us up. At one point, I realized her feet were propped up next to mine on the old coffee table, and she was close enough that I could see the tiny scar near her eyebrow. She looked over at me, lips curling into a challenge. “You ever play Truth or Dare, Nate?” Her voice was lower, playful. My heart thudded.
We played. At first, it was harmless. Truth: Would I ever go bungee jumping? Dare: Text my mom a kissy face. Things started feeling different when she dared me to take off my hoodie, then asked me to name the hottest person I’d ever lived with. I blushed and looked away, mumbling “you” before I could stop myself.
She laughed—short and rough, not mocking. “About time you admitted it,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I catch you looking, you know.”
I nearly choked. “You’re imagining things,” I lied, my skin prickling all over.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she replied.
We let that hang for a second. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, looking down at her drink. There was a moment, charged and suspicious. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I was scared—scared of ruining the only safe thing I had in the city, scared she’d laugh for real this time.
She must’ve sensed it, because the mood shifted. Things got lighter again, and she yawned, stretching her arms overhead. “I’m crashing,” she said. “Night, Nate.” She padded away, but in the silence afterward, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed listening to the rain, half hoping she’d appear in my doorway, half terrified she actually would.
For the next few weeks, things were weird between us. Not bad-weird, just…intense. Every time I saw her, it felt like electricity was humming between us. She started wearing less around the apartment, lounging in oversized shirts and little else. I started coming home from work earlier, hoping to catch her. Little jokes between us got flirty, then outright suggestive. But every time I thought about making a move, I froze. Were we risking friendship for a stupid hookup? Was it a game for her?
The tension built and built until I thought I’d lose my mind. One night, about a month after the blackout, she came home late with wet hair, her cheeks flushed from the cold. I was in the kitchen, pretending to make tea, but caught myself just staring as she pulled off her scarf.
She caught me. “You ever just going to ask me outright or do I need to take out an ad in the paper?” she said, grinning.
I swallowed. “I don’t want to mess this up, Em,” I admitted. My voice cracked, no matter how hard I tried to play it cool. “If we do this and it gets weird—”
She stepped closer, looking up at me. “You want this to get weird, Nate.” Her hand brushed my arm. I shivered.
“Yeah.” My voice was so quiet. “I really fucking do.”
She reached up to tug me down, kissing me. It was fast and hot, nothing hesitant—her hands threading in my hair, mouths crashing together. She tasted like rain and cinnamon, and I couldn’t stop. I pinned her to the counter, our bodies pressing together, hands roaming, desperate.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Bedroom. Now,” she said, pulling away and heading down the hall. I followed, nearly tripping in my hurry.
Her room was dim, golden from the streetlights outside. She turned, and for a second I hesitated—my brain catching up, anxiety spiking. Emma just tugged at my shirt, pulling it over my head, her eyes raking down my chest like she’d waited all year for this. A laugh bubbled up from her throat, excited, a little nervous.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me down with her. Fingers moved fast—her hands on my jeans, my hands under her shirt, feeling her soft skin, her hips curving into my palms. We made out, rough and hungry, exploring in fits of laughter and whispered “holy shits.” She pushed my pants down, stroking me, her mouth wet and eager. I groaned, more turned on than I’d ever been. When she pulled me onto the bed, thigh sliding between my legs, I felt her heat and couldn’t take it anymore.
“Condom?” she whispered. I fumbled in my wallet, nearly dropping it in my rush. She laughed, stretching out under me and tugging my hand between her legs—it was hot and slick and I forgot every word I knew.
Sliding inside her for the first time was unreal—tight, hot, like something snapping open inside me. She gasped, nails sinking into my back, legs wrapping over mine. We moved together, first slow, hips grinding up to meet mine, then faster, rougher. I watched her face twist with pleasure, the way her mouth dropped open as I fucked her, how she pulled my hair and begged me not to stop.
“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, biting my shoulder. “Give it to me—harder.”
I fucked her hard then, lost in it, loving the way she moaned my name, the dirty things she growled in my ear. When she came, it was loud and wild, her body shaking under mine. I let go a moment later, collapsing into the sheets, both of us sweaty and breathless, grinning like idiots.
Afterwards, we curled together, naked, her head on my chest. I started to ask if this changed things, but she shushed me, pressing a soft kiss to my neck.
“Just admit you wanted me for months,” she teased, and I did. I kissed her again, and it was a while before either of us slipped out of bed.
Now, months later, we joke that the power outage was the best thing that ever happened to us. But the truth is, we were always on a collision course, and that first night—fuck, that night—was worth every awkward morning after.