“Yeah, sorry. Rent’s a bitch here.” I sounded normal. I hoped I sounded normal.

We made small talk while he brought the rest of his stuff up. Two more trips. Each time he came back in, I found myself watching the way his arms flexed when he lifted the boxes. The way his jeans sat low on his hips. I kept telling myself to stop. He was my roommate. Off limits. I didn’t even know him.

But my body didn’t care.

Every time he spoke, something in my chest tightened. When he laughed once—low and short—at something I said about the broken AC, it hit me right between the legs....