I never actually planned to sleep with my roommate. If anything, I always felt like that was one of those boundaries you weren’t supposed to cross — everyone had heard horror stories about hook-ups gone wrong that made the apartment hell for months. But in my case, I guess it was a line waiting to be blurred from the very first evening we moved in together.
I’m Jamie. Twenty-four, graphic designer, just moved to a little apartment in Brooklyn to chase some dreams that pay just enough to get me by. I met my roommate, Alex, through a mutual friend, and we hit it off almost instantly. He’s funny in a dry, British way. Tall, with messy brown hair he tries to hide under hoodies, perpetually tired blue eyes and a smile that’s more rare, but genuine. The kind of guy who listens when you talk and knows too much about indie rock. We had this easy, natural rapport from day one; enough that we shared takeout and laughs on our second night together, sprawled out on the beanbag chairs instead of unpacking.
From the beginning, I noticed the way he looked at me sometimes, eyes lingering just a bit too long, like he was curious what would happen if he closed the distance. I’d find myself accidentally brushing past him in the kitchen, heat fizzing under my skin. But I told myself it was just new roommate awkwardness. I had a boyfriend, Matt, back home in Philly. Things were shaky, yeah, but I wasn’t looking to complicate my life.
The first flickers of real tension started a month in, on a rainy Saturday night. It was one of those lazy evenings — we had our playlists on shuffle, the windows fogged up from boiling pasta, cheap red wine on the countertop. My phone buzzed; Matt, again, picking a fight. I tried to brush it off, but Alex caught my mood shifting and poured another glass for me.
“You alright?” he asked, voice softer than usual.
I shrugged. “It’s whatever. Just boyfriend drama.”
He didn’t pry, just handed me my glass. “If you want to talk…”
“Maybe I do. Or maybe I just want to get drunk and listen to sad music?” I joked, desperate to lighten the mood.
He smiled, and we ended up curled together on the sofa, oddly close. Our knees touched, then our thighs. At some point, I realized I was looking at his mouth while I spoke. He noticed too, and there was this pause — half a second too long, electric and loaded — before he cleared his throat.
“We should probably…get some sleep,” he said, voice a little hoarse.
I nodded, heart pounding, and escaped into my room. I lay awake for an hour, tracing the ceiling and very consciously not thinking about how good his arm had felt against mine. Or what might’ve happened if I’d just leaned forward.
The weeks after, things were tense in a way I didn’t know how to describe. I’d catch Alex staring at me over his coffee mug, eyes flickering away when I met his gaze. Our conversations were shorter, more charged, as if there was something growing between us that neither of us wanted to name. I tried to keep things normal — I texted Matt, scrolled through Instagram, convinced myself the tension was in my head. Still, my dreams started to fill with flashes of Alex: his hand on the small of my back, his lips grazing my collarbone, the rough edge of his laugh in the dark.
I almost broke one night after a work party. I’d had too much to drink and stumbled into the apartment, my makeup smudged, shoes in hand, dress riding up my thigh. Alex was waiting up, pretending to watch TV.
“You look like you had a night,” he teased.
I flopped down next to him, feeling reckless. “Can you unzip me?” I blurted before my brain could object. He tensed, but slid his hand down my back anyway, careful but deliberate. When the dress slipped to my waist, I felt his breath on my shoulder and nearly lost it.
The air between us was thick. I thought he’d say something, maybe joke or make it awkward. But he just whispered, “Goodnight, Jamie,” barely above a whisper, and retreated to his room. I lay in bed restless, my skin on fire.
Days passed. I tried to bury the memory. Matt and I had a huge fight over the phone — I ended things, crying quietly in the bathroom so Alex wouldn’t hear. He did, though. The next evening he knocked on my door. He stood there, hesitating, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“I heard you crying last night,” he said, gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head, trying not to let my voice break. “I’m such a fucking mess, Alex.”
He reached for my hand, squeezing it. “You’re not.”
That’s when it happened. I looked up at him, that familiar knot rising in my chest, and before I knew it, I leaned in and kissed him. I barely remember our mouths meeting — just the whiplash of heat, his hands tangling in my hair, the urgent press of his body against mine. He exhaled, a shudder that traveled through both of us, and suddenly we were pressed up against my bedroom wall, all the months of unsaid things tumbling out between ragged breaths.
“God, Jamie,” he muttered into my neck, voice thick. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
I let myself fall into him, the pulse between my legs thrumming. His hands found my waist, then slipped under my shirt, fingers skimming hungry up my ribs. Every time our skin touched, my body lit up. We fumbled out of our clothes, mouths locked, mapping each other like we’d been waiting for years.
He pushed me back onto my bed, his mouth tracing down my body, leaving trails of goosebumps. I gasped as his tongue found my nipple, biting my lip to keep quiet, but he only grinned up at me, eyes dark with want.
“You can be loud, Jamie,” he whispered, voice low and ragged. “No one’s around to hear.”
That’s when I lost it. He slipped his fingers between my thighs, pressing circles that made me writhe beneath him, desperate for more. I reached for him, pulling him up to kiss me again, tasting myself on his mouth. He slid inside with a slow, aching thrust that had me moaning his name, his hips rolling against mine, deeper each time.
Every movement was greedy, frantic — months of tension pouring into each kiss, each stroke. His hands gripped my hair, my hips, holding me right where he wanted as he fucked me, slow at first, then faster, growling into my ear about how good I felt around him, how long he’d imagined this.
“Harder, Alex,” I begged, scratching at his back, barely recognizing my own needy voice.
He responded with a deep, guttural moan, driving into me harder, making the bed creak and bang against the wall. I wanted to disappear inside him, to lose myself in his body. When I finally came, it crashed over me in waves — I cried out, clutching at him, trembling as he followed, spilling into me with a curse and a shudder that sent him collapsing on top of me.
After, we lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless, the city noise humming through the cracked window. He stroked my hair and kissed my forehead, softer now, and I realized the ache between my legs had nothing on the ache in my chest.
“Was that…a mistake?” he asked, quietly.
I kissed him again, laughing, my heart thumping like an idiot’s.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “But it feels fucking worth it.”
It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t simple, and I still don’t know where things will go — but that night, tangled up with Alex, I knew I’d crossed a line I never wanted to uncross.