We’d been friends for over a year. The kind of friendship with harmless flirting, inside jokes, and late-night texts that occasionally teetered on the edge of something more but never quite crossed the line. I think both of us knew the potential was there, but neither wanted to risk messing up the dynamic.

That night, I invited him over to help me move a few boxes. Nothing major just clearing out a small storage space in my apartment. He showed up with takeout, a bottle of wine, and that familiar grin that always made my stomach do a little flip. We ate, joked around, moved exactly two boxes, and then ended up in the kitchen just chatting.

It was one of those conversations where the rest of the world fades out. We were leaning on opposite sides of the kitchen island, the air between us getting noticeably warmer with every glance. At one point, I made a smartass comment, and he walked around the counter toward me, laughing and then just stopped in front of me.

Close.

Too close.

I expected him to say something clever. Instead, he looked at me, really looked at me, and then kissed me. Hard. No hesitation, no testing the waters. Just full-on heat, like he’d been holding it back for months. Maybe we both had.

I gasped into his mouth, instinctively grabbing at his shirt. My back hit the counter behind me as he pressed forward, his hands roaming like he wasn’t entirely sure whether to be gentle or take what he wanted. I moaned when his thigh nudged between mine, and that was all the invitation he needed.

His hands slid under my dress, fingers gripping the back of my thighs, lifting me just enough to perch me on the edge of the counter. My legs wrapped around him without thinking. There was no slow buildup, no foreplay just pure, urgent desire, crackling between us like it had been waiting for permission.

He pushed my dress up to my waist. I fumbled with his belt. There was no time for finesse. Just need. His mouth never left mine, not even when I whimpered as he slid into me fast, deep, desperate. The cold of the counter against my thighs contrasted sharply with the heat of him moving inside me.

I remember the sound of his breath in my ear, the way he said my name like it was a secret. I remember how we clung to each other like the moment might disappear if we let go. And I remember the shiver that ran through me when he came, buried deep, holding me so tightly I thought we might break the counter.

We stayed like that for a minute. Breathing. Shaking. Silent.

When I finally looked up, he was already smiling. “Should’ve helped you move boxes sooner,” he said.

Now every time I walk into that kitchen, I can still feel the way the tile pressed against my skin… and I still haven’t moved the rest of those boxes.