I never expected my summer to get so out of hand, but that’s how these stories go, right? I was twenty-three, just out of college, and had found a cheap sublet in Boston. My roommate was a friend of a friend, someone named Zoe. All I had was the group chat photo—her smiling in a Red Sox cap, light brown hair tied back. We texted a little, agreed to split utilities, and that was it. I figured we’d just be two adults sharing rent, barely talking.
But Zoe turned out to be nothing like I expected. She opened the door the day I moved in, barefoot in cut-offs and a faded MIT hoodie, and she had this casual ease that made me nervous. I always overthink what shoes to wear to the grocery store, but I don’t think she even owns heels. Her eyes darted over my boxes. “You brought way more than Jeff did,” she said, grinning. “Don’t worry, I won’t use your shampoo.”
The first week was awkward but manageable. We brushed past each other in the narrow kitchen, handed over the remote without making eye contact, split the fridge space by some unspoken agreement. She was up early, running or making smoothies. I worked late shifts bartending, slept in.
I don’t know exactly when things started to change. Maybe it was that Friday night I came back and she was watching The Office on the couch, one leg over the armrest, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in her lap. She patted the seat next to her and, surprising myself, I sat down. Not much was said, just some stupid jokes about Michael Scott, but her bare foot brushed my calf and I couldn’t stop thinking about it after.
After that, I started noticing everything about her—her laugh, the way her tank top clung when she came back sweaty from a run, the curve from her neck to her shoulder when she tied up her hair. It was hard not to. She’d walk around the apartment in nothing but a towel sometimes, humming as she moved between the shower and her room. Once, she caught me looking. I glanced away, embarrassed, but she just smirked.
At first I thought I was imagining things: that lingering look across the kitchen, the way her fingers brushed my hand when we passed each other the dish detergent. Nothing huge, just tension. Still, it felt dangerous. I’d been in relationships before, but never with someone I lived with. Especially not someone who could make the whole thing so impossible to ignore.
One night, she invited me to a bar with her friends, said I needed to “meet real Bostonians.” Zoe pre-gamed in her room with the door open, putting on mascara while drinking tequila from a mug. I watched her change shirts twice, deciding on a thin gray tee that hardly hid the bright pink of her bra. I tried not to stare. She caught me again. “You coming or what?” she teased, grabbing my arm and pulling me along as we left.
At the bar, her friends were loud and hilarious. Zoe kept close, leaning in to talk over the music, her hair brushing my shoulder, her hand on my knee as she whispered a joke. My whole body was tense, breathing in her scent—summer skin and faded perfume. I tried to keep it together, but I could feel myself unspooling every time she leaned in.
After, we walked home together, her hand wrapped loosely around my wrist. “That was fun,” she said softly, and I didn’t know what to say. All I’d been thinking about was kissing her since last Wednesday.
That night, I lay in bed, replaying everything in my mind. I couldn’t sleep and ended up getting water around one in the morning. She was still up, scrolling her phone in the living room, legs tucked under her. She smiled, patted the couch again. I sat, my skin prickling.
Neither of us said anything for a bit. It was late, quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the city outside. She put her phone down and looked over. “You ever think about…” she trailed off, her fingers tracing circles on her knee.
I swallowed. “About what?”
She smiled, slow and teasing. “Come on. Us. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
I was caught, my face burning. I shrugged and tried to laugh it off. “Maybe.”
Zoe shifted, moving closer, her thigh pressed to mine. She was so close I could smell tequila on her breath, see the freckles sprinkled across her nose. My heart pounded. “I’m not looking for anything messy,” I said. “I just—”
She shushed me with a finger to my lips. “Me neither. We don’t have to do anything. I just…” She looked away, suddenly shy. “I keep thinking about you.”
For days after that, tension built in the apartment, thick and electric. We danced around each other, all accidental touches and charged silences. I wanted her—god, I wanted her badly—but I worried about ruining everything. She was my roommate. We had to live together all summer. What if it got weird? What if one of us wanted more, or less?
The night it finally happened, there was a thunderstorm. Power flickered, Netflix cut out. Zoe grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and joined me in my room, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed, her wet hair wild from running in the rain.
We passed the bottle back and forth, talking about stupid stuff—work, the weather, old high school stories. She picked at a hole in her shorts, eyes glancing up at me every so often. I couldn’t focus on anything but the way her lips parted when she laughed, her tongue darting out to wet them. My body felt wound up, every muscle tight. I kept thinking I should leave, go for a walk, do anything to break the tension.
Instead, she scooted closer, one leg draped over mine. She ran her fingers up my arm, slow, teasing. “You’re thinking too much,” she murmured. I couldn’t argue. I watched her mouth as she leaned in. My breath caught as her lips brushed mine, soft at first, just a touch and then more. I kissed her back, hands finding her waist, her hair, pulling her closer.
She tasted like wine, like rain on her skin. Her hands slid under my shirt, nails dragging across my chest, hot and desperate. I let out a low sound, half-laugh, half-moan, and she smiled against my mouth, biting my lip. “You okay?” she whispered.
“Fuck, yeah.”
The bed creaked as she moved over me, straddling my lap. Her mouth traced down my neck, teeth grazing, tongue trailing wet heat over my skin. She pulled my shirt off, tossed it away. My hands slid up her thighs, under her shorts, thumb brushing the damp cotton of her panties. She gasped, rocking her hips forward against me.
“God, I want you,” she muttered, voice shaking. Her hands found my belt, fumbling with the buckle.
We tugged at each other’s clothes, laughing when her hair got caught in my buttons, moaning when my thumb pressed between her legs and her whole body shivered. I sucked bruises along her collarbone, kissed down to the swell of her breasts, tasting sweat and salt. She grabbed my hair, pulled my head up so she could kiss me, hungry and fierce.
I rolled us over, pressed her into the mattress, hands sliding everywhere at once. Her legs wrapped around my waist, guiding me in. She gasped, her voice soft and high, pushing her hips up to meet mine. It was desperate, feverish—two people finally getting what they’d been thinking about for weeks. Her nails dug into my shoulders as I thrust harder, her heels digging into my back. She cursed under her breath, biting her fist to keep quiet as she came, body taut and shivering under me.
I followed a moment later, collapsing onto her, both of us laughing and breathless. She kissed my cheek, still grinning, and whispered, “About damn time.”
After, we lay tangled together, the storm still rumbling outside. I traced lazy circles on her hip. She looked at me, eyes soft in the dark.
“Still thinking too much?” she teased.
I shook my head. “No. Not right now.”
She curled closer, her hand slipping under the sheet, fingers brushing along my thigh. My body answered instantly, hungry again. Neither of us said anything as I slid on top of her, already aching for her mouth, her nails, every part of her.
That’s the thing no one tells you about living with someone you want—you can never get enough.