I never thought moving to London for grad school would end with me sleeping with my roommate, Jamie. But life has a way, I guess, of catching you off guard. If I’m being honest here, it wasn’t love at first sight or anything ridiculous like that. I didn’t walk into our tiny flat in Islington and think, “Wow, I want him.” In fact, my first thought was, “He’s cute, but my god, he talks a lot.”
Jamie was twenty-three, like me, studying economics, always in track pants, always barefoot in our kitchen making toast at weird hours. I was fresh out of Chicago and the loneliness had hit hard. I missed my weird Midwest routines. In the first few weeks, Jamie felt more like a big golden retriever than a potential crush—loud, messy, always grinning. Sometimes he’d barge into my room unannounced to ask if I wanted tea or to see a meme on his phone. It annoyed me at first. Then I found myself waiting for those interruptions.
It was maybe a month in that things started feeling…different. There was that night after the pub, when we came home drunk, collapsed on the couch, laughing about my terrible attempt at a British accent. He threw his arm across my shoulders, and it stayed there just a beat too long. I could feel his breath on my neck. For the first time, I thought, “Shit. Am I into him?”
I tried not to let it show. I drowned it in my research, brought home more takeout, buried myself in lectures. He never seemed to notice me watching him load laundry or picking out socks while humming out-of-tune to Arctic Monkeys. But something subtle had shifted.
Things escalated on a rainy Friday. I was hating life, missing home, and he threw a movie night to cheer me up. We sat way too close on the couch, sharing a crappy fleece blanket while streaming some vintage horror flick.
He nudged me during a jump scare. “Are you scared, or just pretending to need comfort?” His hand lingered on my knee.
“Annoying,” I grumbled, but I didn’t move away. His palm was heavy and warm. I stared straight ahead at the glowing TV, but I was hyper-aware of how close he was, how our thighs were pressed together, how I could feel his breath again.
He didn’t move his hand this time.
Later that night, I lay in bed, sleepless, replaying how his touch made my skin buzz. My mind spiraled with what-ifs. Was he teasing? Was I reading too much into it? If he made a move, would I stop him? I nearly went to his room, but I chickened out.
Over the next few days, every look, every accidental graze of fingers in the kitchen, felt loaded. Somehow, we’d started orbiting each other, both of us aware, neither willing to say anything. I’d catch him watching me in the morning when he thought I wasn’t looking. Once, he reached over me for the salt and his chest brushed against my back. I swear I stopped breathing.
The tension built until one night, everything kind of burst.
We’d both gotten home late. Jamie was in sweats, hair damp from the rain, pouring whiskey into two mugs.
“Long day?” he asked, passing me a drink.
“Yeah. I think I hate statistics.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ll ace it.” He nudged me playfully. “Or I’ll help. For a fee.”
I rolled my eyes. “What kind of fee?”
He hesitated—just for a second—but his eyes were locked on mine. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
The silence that followed was thick. I drank. He watched me. Then I felt his knee brush against mine under the table. I didn’t move away.
He leaned in. His voice was low, rougher than I’d ever heard it. “You know, you’re a lot of fun to mess with.”
“Yeah?” My pulse was pounding. “You ever plan to do anything about it, or just keep teasing me?”
He froze. A moment stretched out between us. Then he said, barely above a whisper, “Trying to figure out if you want me to.”
Now it was my turn to hesitate. My stomach flipped. My whole body felt stretched taut.
I wanted him. But it was scary—he was my roommate, my friend, the one person I actually felt close to here. If we did this, nothing would be the same. One night could screw up everything.
But I couldn’t walk away.
So I said, “I do.”
In a flash, his mouth was on mine. It was rough, messy, desperate. We stumbled back, knocking the mugs off the table. We didn’t care. His hands were everywhere, tangled in my hair, sliding under my sweatshirt. He pressed me against the kitchen counter, grinding his hips into mine. I could feel how hard he was through his sweats.
“Fuck,” he hissed, tugging my shirt over my head. He stared for a second, hands on my bare waist. “You’re gorgeous.”
I pulled his shirt up, needing to touch him as much as he needed me. Our clothes hit the floor piece by piece as we kissed and fumbled our way down the hall to his room, slamming the door behind us.
He pushed me onto his bed, climbing over me, his lips never leaving my skin. Suddenly, I wasn’t nervous anymore. I wanted more, needed more—everything. He tasted like whiskey and rain, his hands sure and greedy as he kissed a slow line down my body, rough stubble scraping my skin in the best way.
“You okay?” he whispered, his voice husky, mouth hovering above my chest.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “God, yes.”
He grinned against my skin. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them apart. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode. He kissed down my stomach, tongue flicking, slow and teasing. When he slipped his fingers between my legs, I gasped and arched into his touch, shameless and desperate.
“Fuck,” I moaned. “Jamie, please—”
That made him laugh, a low, wicked sound. He slid his fingers inside me, finding a rhythm that made my whole body clench with heat. He rested his forehead against my shoulder, murmuring, “You feel so good.” Then his mouth was on me, licking and sucking until I was shaking, clawing at his hair.
He moved up, not letting go, his hard cock pressed against my thigh. “Condom?” he asked, breathless.
“Top drawer,” I managed.
He rolled one on, hands shaking just a little. He kissed me, slow and deep, as he pushed inside me. I gasped—full, stretched, aching, perfect. He moved slowly at first, giving me time, but it wasn’t enough. I wrapped my legs around him, urging him faster.
Everything became a blur of heat and slick skin and sweat and moans swallowed by greedy kisses. He fucked me deep, hard, faster as our bodies found a frantic, perfect rhythm. Every thrust made me cry out. His hand tangled in my hair, his mouth on my neck, breathing me in.
“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he groaned, hips snapping harder.
I was so close. I clawed at his back, begging—“Jamie, don’t stop, please—”
He snapped, gasping, moving even faster until I tumbled over, coming hard and loud. He followed almost instantly, cursing into my neck as he buried himself deep, shuddering.
For a long while we lay there, tangled together, bodies buzzing. He kissed my forehead, mouth, chin. “You okay?” he murmured again, voice soft.
“Yeah,” I said, dazed and happy. “Really fucking good.”
He laughed, pulling me in tight.
The next morning, I woke up in his bed, his body wrapped around me. And I knew then that maybe I’d found a way to make London feel like home after all.