I never expected my life to shift the day Ethan moved in. That August, Brooklyn was baked in heat, but the brownstone apartment I found on short notice had two tiny bedrooms and rent I could almost afford, if I found a roommate. My last one—a flaky astronomy grad student—had left suddenly, taking both her telescope and most of the dishes. The Craigslist ad I posted got three confused replies and one from Ethan. His photo was a little blurry, but his message was funny. We met at a coffee shop nearby.
Ethan was taller than I expected, with unruly dark hair, wire-frame glasses, and an easy smile. He wore a faded Columbia T-shirt and jeans, looked me right in the eye, and never once made me feel judged. I’d had a few sketchy roommate interviews—one guy tried to pay cash upfront if he could keep “odd hours”—and Ethan just seemed normal. We spent an hour talking about TV, work (he was a copywriter at some hippy skincare startup), and why Brooklyn landlords were basically trolls under bridges.
He moved in three days later. Our schedules lined up weirdly—he worked partly from home, I worked late at the publishing house downtown—so we mostly passed each other in the kitchen, both in need of more coffee. The apartment was small; the walls thin enough that I heard his Spotify playlists in the mornings. We settled into a kind of half-shared existence—occasional takeout dinners together, the perpetual argument over the state of the bathroom, and late night rants about our exes.
The first two weeks passed with hardly a blip, but I started noticing things. Like the way Ethan’s sarcasm was always softened by a slight smile, or the fact that his arms were kind of—unexpectedly—strong, especially when he wrestled with stuck window frames. One night I came home to find him in sweatpants, shirtless, in the living room, doing push-ups. “Sorry,” he said, laughing as I almost tripped, “Gym’s too expensive.”
Embarrassed, I hustled past him to the kitchen. But after that, it was like I couldn’t not notice his body—the curve of his back, how his laugh made his mouth curl up. And then, on a random Thursday night, things started to shift.
It began so simply. Ethan ordered pizza, I brought a bottle of rosé, and we ended up watching some terrible rom-com because nothing else was on. Halfway through, he made some joke about the main character’s sex life, and, before I could stop myself, I said, “I bet he moans way too loud.” Ethan nearly spit out his beer, but then he turned to look straight at me. There was a moment—maybe two seconds—where the air seemed to change; his eyes flickered down to my mouth and then back up.
“Is that a problem for you in the past?” he grinned, nudging me playfully.
I tried to brush it off, but my face betrayed me. “None of your business.”
“Hey, I get it,” he said. “Thin walls and all…”
It was all a joke, but after that, I found myself thinking about Ethan—not just as a roommate, but as someone… else. I started noticing the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, how his voice dropped when we talked late at night. But I kept telling myself—he’s your roommate. A hookup would be a disaster. Things would get complicated. I tried to ignore the little flutter at seeing him wrapped in a towel, or the heat in my stomach when he brushed close in the kitchen.
About a week later, I was working late from home, the whole place quiet except for my fingers on the keyboard. Ethan came out of his room, yawning, in those same sweatpants and a plain white tee. “Still working?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “Deadline tomorrow. Living the dream.”
He winced with sympathy and made himself tea, then flopped into the armchair beside me. “Want me to distract you?”
I snorted. “Is that code for something?”
His mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I tried to play it cool, but my heart beat faster. “You’re such a menace.”
We ended up talking until the clock blinked past 2 a.m. We talked about hookups gone wrong, about shitty tinder dates, about feeling lonely even when you’re surrounded. The soft lamp light made everything feel closer, quieter. He looked at me, eyes soft, and said, “You know, I’m glad I moved in here.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made me pause. The tension—real, throbbing—felt suddenly dangerous. I wanted him. But should I? I’d never slept with a roommate. All the warning bells in my head blared at once. Every bit of me screamed to lean forward, close the distance, but another part hesitated. I could screw this up so easily.
But Ethan’s hand was warm on my knee—just resting there, for a second. Not pushing, not demanding. I looked at his hand, then at him. He waited, letting the silence wrap us up. “If this isn’t something you want, say so,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I leaned in.
His lips met mine, soft but sure. It was a slow burn—his hand slipped up, caressing my thigh, my mouth parting for him. The first kiss was hesitant, like he couldn’t believe I really wanted it. But I knew by the second—by the way his tongue traced my lower lip, by the small, desperate sounds he made.
We broke apart only when I nearly gasped for breath. “We should—,” I stammered.
“Should what,” he murmured, pushing my hair off my neck, “stop?”
My head was spinning, a mess of nerves and want. “We can’t… I mean, we shouldn’t… it’s just—”
He kissed me again, firmer this time. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, tracing his fingers up under my shirt, grazing my hip. My protests melted in my throat. I pressed myself against him, letting him know exactly what I wanted.
When I finally spoke, it came out as a whisper, needy and low. “Don’t stop.”
He picked me up—yes, literally picked me up, laughing as I wrapped my legs around his waist, carrying me past the empty pizza box into his bedroom. He laid me out on his unmade bed, hovering above me, eyes dark and hungry. “You sure about this?”
In answer, I reached for his shirt, pulling it off. He yanked my tee over my head, throwing it aside, hands eager as they explored my skin—tracing the swell of my breasts, lingering over my nipples, making me arch. His mouth followed, hot and wet on my skin, his breath quickening. He pulled my shorts down, kissing along my thighs, teasing me until I couldn’t help it—I moaned, loud and unashamed this time.
He grinned, teasing, “Told you thin walls would be a problem.”
I grabbed his hair, tugging him up so I could kiss him, desperate to feel more. He pressed himself against me, and I could feel him, hard and aching, through his sweats. I reached down, tugging at the waistband, making him suck in a breath. He kicked off his sweatpants and boxers, crawling back between my legs, his cock brushing against my thigh.
He paused, eyes locked to mine. “Condom?”
I nodded, catching my breath. He grabbed one from his drawer, tearing it open, rolling it on, before settling back over me. The first push made me gasp—a slow, stretching ache, his body heavy and solid. He moved slow, deliberate, like he wanted to draw every sound out of me, each thrust deeper, harder. I clung to him, biting his shoulder as my body tightened around him, sparks dancing up my spine.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, voice ragged in my ear.
Our breaths tangled, sweat slicking our skin. He rocked into me, hitting just the right spot over and over until I was almost sobbing, pleading for more. His hand slid down, fingers rubbing circles on my clit, relentless—pushing me over so fast, I shattered, muscles spasming, moaning his name.
He held out, just barely, hips snapping harder, until he came, shuddering, face buried in my neck. We lay there, tangled together, his hand stroking my hair. The room was silent, except for our ragged breathing.
After a while, he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “So… guess roomies with benefits is a thing now.”
I laughed, breathless, happier than I’d been in months. “Let’s just see where it goes.”
Neither of us knew how messy or amazing things would get after that night. All I knew was, for now, I didn’t want him to sleep anywhere but beside me.