I never really thought I’d end up here, confessing the details of my sex life on the internet, but I guess that’s the sort of thing that happens when you find yourself in situations you never expected. So here’s how it happened with me and my roommate, Simon, one of those classic “we said we were just friends” stories that went wildly off-script. If you’d told me when I moved in that I’d end up with his hands all over me, I would’ve laughed. Yet, here we are.
I met Simon through a mutual friend after my last relationship ended poorly and I needed a place to crash, fast. Simon had a spare room, and my friend swore up and down that he was chill. I moved in by the end of the week. He was a year older, worked in graphic design, and loved football, video games, and horror movies. He was tall—like, I always had to look up to see his face—and wore chunky headphones around his neck more often than not.
There was no instant spark. He was polite, sometimes shy, but always respectful. For the first month, our lives just sort of overlapped: casual dinners, Netflix in the living room, a few beers with his friends. No weirdness, no late-night “accidental” nudity, nothing. Just two people sharing rent.
At some point, though, I started to notice little things. The shadow of stubble along his jaw when he got back from the gym, the way his T-shirts hung off his shoulders when he was half-dressed in the hallway, his laugh echoing down the flat after a dumb meme I sent him. And, of course, how my body would suddenly flush when I realized how close we were sitting on the couch, or when his knee would knock against mine.
But I kept it to myself. He’d never given the slightest hint he saw me as anything but a roommate. Plus, I was determined not to make things weird. Our flat was peaceful, and I couldn’t afford to screw up my living situation. I kept my crush buried, convinced myself it’d fade.
And then Sarah, his ex-girlfriend, came over one Friday night.
It was supposed to be a quick exchange—she was picking up an old hoodie. But she stayed for almost two hours, sitting on the arm of our couch, her carefully highlighted hair gleaming in the dim light, legs crossed, nails tapping on her phone. She laughed at all his jokes. She touched his knee. And I realized, with a surge of something hot and ugly, that I hated her.
After she left, Simon disappeared into his room. I cleaned up after the three of us—empty wine glasses, a pizza box—and tried not to think about them together, about her pale hands against his chest. My jealousy stuck with me way longer than it should have.
Over the next week, I started analyzing everything. Every time Simon smiled at me, touched my shoulder in the kitchen, or made breakfast in his boxers, I wondered if there was something there. If he’d ever looked at me the way he looked at Sarah. I started dressing up a little more around the flat, fixing my hair for no reason. I felt ridiculous, but I was hooked: in that uncomfortable, buzzing phase between hope and embarrassment.
One night, it all came to a head. We’d just barely survived a marathon of some terrible reality dating show, half-mocking, half-invested. At midnight, I got up to go to bed, and Simon followed me to the hallway. We stood awkwardly near my bedroom door. He touched my hip, lightly, as he moved past me.
“You know, Rachel, if we’re being honest, you’ve been acting a little… different,” he said, half-grin, half-accusation.
I tried to play it cool, though my heart was pounding. “Different how?”
“You’ve been… I don’t know, dressing up, smiling more. Not that I’m complaining.” He laughed. “It’s cute.”
The room was suddenly too quiet. My cheeks burned. “Maybe I just want to look nice.”
He stepped closer. “Yeah? For who?”
He was close enough to touch now, and the smell of his cologne—clean and woodsy—filled my nose. My tongue felt thick. My pulse went wild. I told myself I could say something flirty, push the moment a little, test him. Or I could back away before anything happened. I hesitated, stuck somewhere between fear and want.
He broke first. “Look, I— You can tell me if I’m reading this wrong. But if I’m not, and you want to try something…”
I stared up at him. This was the moment: all the weeks of tension, the missed glances, the charged silence. My mouth was dry.
I looked into his eyes. “You aren’t reading it wrong.”
That was all he needed. He pressed forward, backing me up against my bedroom door. His lips crashed into mine, rough and soft in the funniest way. His hands found my waist, fingers digging into my skin. Instinct took over; I moaned directly into his mouth, desperate for more of him.
Simon reached behind me, turning the doorknob. My back hit the edge of my bed as we stumbled inside. He shut the door with a soft kick, not even bothering to turn on the light. All I could feel was heat: my skin, his mouth, the sudden hungry urgency in both of us.
He pulled off his shirt, muscles illuminated by the city lights leaking in through my window. I reached for his belt, trembling with anticipation. Our lips never stopped searching, grazing, biting. He grinned against my mouth.
“Been thinking about you for weeks,” he whispered, hands under my shirt, thumbs brushing just beneath my bra. “Would have made a move, but you know, roommates—”
“Screw being roommates,” I whispered back, fingers tracing down his chest.
He lifted me onto the bed, kneeling between my thighs. His hands skimmed my warmth through my panties, teasing, dragging out every moment until I was writhing beneath him. When he finally slid them down, his touch was electric—deliberate, curious, greedy. I could barely breathe for wanting him.
He kissed his way down my neck, lingering at every sensitive spot. His tongue flicked at my nipple, making my back arch. I barely recognized my own voice as I gasped his name.
It was messy, clumsy, impossibly hot. Clothes got tangled up, laughter mixing with moans, the whole room full of our energy. When he finally slid inside me—all thick and needy—I almost sobbed with relief, clutching his shoulders. He moved slow at first, savoring every second. Then faster, deeper, until all I could do was hold on.
We broke the rules that night. Probably ruined the “just roommates” thing forever. But as I lay spent next to him, skin flush against skin, I knew I didn’t regret a second.
That was just the first time. Now, every time we tiptoe around the kitchen in the morning, hiding hickeys under sweatshirts, I remember that anything can change when you least expect it—and sometimes, the best sex really is right under your nose.