I am Eli. Freelance photographer. Twenty seven. I needed a roommate and Zack answered the listing. He showed up with a duffel bag, a body that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover, and the easy confidence of a guy who had never once doubted how he looked in a mirror. Tall. Athletic. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The kind of straight guy who lives in gym shorts and white tees and somehow makes both look intentional.
We got along. We cooked together. We watched games. We talked about nothing important. Then one night he mentioned his dating profile was dead and I offered to shoot him. Professional favor. Nothing more.
The shoot happened two days ago. I posed him in natural light, told him to relax his jaw, told him to look at me like he was thinking about something he should not be thinking about. He listened. He got quiet. The air between us changed. I ended up with shots that made him look like the kind of man people swipe right on without hesitation. Shirtless. Damp from a gym shower. Subtle bulge. Lazy almost smile. He looked fuckable. I made sure of it.
That same night I went down on him. He let me. He came in my mouth with his fingers in my hair and this low broken sound that still lives in my chest. Yesterday he acted like it was normal. He stood behind me while I cooked pasta, tasted the sauce from the spoon, and quietly admitted he had not stopped thinking about what I did. He said it felt different. He said he was confused but not regretting it. Then he pulled away and left me in the kitchen with the truth hanging in the air.
I woke up this morning expecting silence. Distance. Maybe the sound of Zack avoiding the apartment entirely. I kept picturing him waking up and going into full straight boy panic mode. He would stay in his room. He would act weird. He would act like it was totally normal to let your roommate suck your dick and then pretend nothing happened.
I rehearsed neutral expressions in the mirror. Normal smiles. Casual greetings. Anything to keep things from turning into one of those awkward sitcom moments where two guys accidentally ruin a friendship because of one dumb, horny mistake.
I was still running a hand through my hair when his footsteps came down the hallway. Light. Casual. Too early for him. Before I could pull myself together he leaned against my doorway holding two mugs.
One glance at his face told me everything. He was not retreating.
He was bright. Awake. Almost buzzing. He wore those tiny gym shorts that made his legs look like carved marble. He had a tight white tee on, clinging to his chest in a way that definitely counted as a choice.
He held out a mug. “I brewed you some coffee.”
My voice scraped out of my chest. “Thanks. You’re up early.”
Zack shrugged with this light little smile, like he had woken up floating. “Yeah. I am feeling good.”
I swallowed a mouthful of coffee just to buy time. He did not take the chance to leave. He leaned his shoulder into my doorframe and looked at me with that same spark he had last night when he licked the pasta sauce.
He took another slow sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. His eyes kept dropping to my mouth before snapping back up.
I tried stepping around him into the hallway, but he moved a half step in the same direction. Close enough that I could smell him. Close enough that his thigh brushed mine. He did not apologize. He did not move. He just looked amused at how flustered I was.
I walked to the kitchen. He followed.
I sat on the couch. He sat beside me like gravity had dragged him there, not choice.
He chose the middle of the couch instead of the edge. He sat with his usual loose limbed sprawl, but this time he angled toward me. His knee bumped mine every time he shifted. He looked comfortable about it. Too comfortable.
I tried to put on a show of normal. I picked up my phone. I pretended to scroll. But Zack’s eyes kept flicking over to me, scanning my face, dropping to my lips again. Each time he got caught looking, he smiled like he had a secret he was dying to tell but knew he should not.
“Why are you so chirpy today?” I asked.
“Well.” He grinned, then crossed his arms, which did not help because the shirt flexed across his chest. “I uploaded those pictures on the dating app.”
He unlocked his phone. “Check this out.”
He scooted closer to show me his screen, and this time it was not accidental. His entire thigh pressed against mine. His shoulder brushed my upper arm. His breath hit my cheek as he lowered his head next to mine.
He opened his dating app.
He scrolled to his profile. Every picture was from the shoot two days ago. The shirtless shot where he had that lazy almost smile. The one where I told him to relax his jaw. The shower picture from the gym where a subtle hint of his bulge was visible.
Zack gave a soft, embarrassed huff. “Dude, you made me look insane. Look at this. Look. Fuck.”
He flicked through the photos, but he barely looked at the screen. He was mostly watching me.
“If I match with anyone from this, it’s literally because of you. You made me look… I don’t know.” His voice dipped. “Like someone you’d want to touch.”
My breath stalled.
He tapped the screen but his hand drifted. His fingers landed on my shoulder and stayed there. Way too long. Warm. Steady.
Eli. Act normal.
I tried. I really did.
His voice went loose and low. “I’ve never looked this good in a photo. Ever.”
I swallowed again. He watched the movement.
He kept scrolling until a girl’s profile popped up.
“Bro, honest opinion. Cute or not?”
“She’s cute,” I said, because she was, and because my throat was too tight to lie.
He flicked to another girl. He leaned closer with each swipe. His legs pressed fully along mine.
“What about her? She’s gorgeous, right?”
I nodded. He smirked like he was reading a page of my diary.
Then he stopped on one.
“Maya,” he said, with a voice full of interest. “Oh, she is exactly my type.”
He swiped right.
Instant match.
Zack lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Dude. Fuck. She matched with me. Fuck.”
He laughed in disbelief and threw an arm around me in a spontaneous, too hard hug. His chest pressed against my side. His breath hit my neck. He held me tight. So tight that it stopped being just excitement and started being something like need.
I froze.
He did not let go.
When he finally loosened his arm, he did not pull away from me. He slid back onto the couch but stayed in my space. He started typing a message to her. His thumbs moved quick, but his breathing changed. Like he was too aware of me sitting against him.
He read the message under his breath. “You seem like the type I’d get addicted to.”
It was one of Zack’s silly pickup lines.
He looked at me. His face was too open.
“If she responds, I swear to God, it’s only because of you. Like if I end up hooking up with her, dude, I’ll owe you. Anything. Seriously.”
He said the word anything in a shaky little laugh.
A guilty laugh.
He stood up slowly, still smiling, still soft around the edges. He started toward his room, but before he reached the door he turned back.
His face was flushed.
He looked almost shy.
“Seriously. If she ends up fucking me, it’s because you made me look fuckable.”
He said the last word with a quick exhale, like the word itself hit him somewhere unexpected.
He raked a hand through his hair and stepped into his room. The door clicked shut behind him.
I tried to process the mess of feelings clawing up inside me.
Was this supposed to be good news?
Was I supposed to feel proud?
I made my hot roommate look good enough that a girl immediately matched with him. That should have been satisfying. I had done my job. I captured the right angles. The right looks. The right body. Anyone with eyes would swipe on a guy like Zack.
But my chest felt tight.
Was I a good roommate because I helped Zack get laid?
Or was I jealous because I wanted to be the one he was fucking… not Maya.
I heard Zack’s phone buzz from behind his closed door.
Buzz.
Buzz.
His laugh followed. Soft. Giddy. He was already texting her back. Already charming her. Already imagining what would happen if he invited her over.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
I did not know if I was supposed to feel happy for him or jealous.
After a minute, his door opened again. Just an inch. He peeked out. His face was red like he had been thinking too hard.
His cheeks were flushed. His eyes found mine instantly.
He grinned. “Oh, she likes me.”
The way he said it carried this shaky, buzzing mix of excitement and disbelief. He stepped out just enough for me to see his whole face, glowing with adrenaline.
“Eli,” he said, almost breathless, “my man. I love you. Seriously. Fuck, I am definitely getting laid this weekend.”
He laughed, loud and stupidly happy, like a guy who had just won something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
He pointed at me with both hands, still smiling. “All you. Your pictures. You’re the GOAT, dude.”
I swallowed hard, trying to look supportive, trying to look normal, trying not to show that something inside me twisted sharply at his words.
He went back into his room, steps light, humming under his breath.
The door closed with a quiet click.
And I stayed on the couch, staring at the blank air where he had been.
My stomach felt like it was sliding downward, slow and heavy.
He was excited. He was happy. He felt good about himself. That should have been enough.
I was the one who helped him. I was the one he thanked. I was the one who made him look desirable, even though he didn’t need much help.
So why did it feel like my chest was closing up?
Why did it feel like the room had tilted sideways? Why did it feel like I had just helped him slip further away from me without meaning to?
I leaned back against the couch, pressing a hand to my forehead.
“Fuck,” I whispered to myself.
What have I done?
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