I Moved In With a Stranger and Woke Up in His Arms

The box in your arms digs into your ribs, its cardboard edges sharp and unforgiving. You shift your weight, trying to find a way to balance it, your laptop bag, and the overflowing tote bag slung over your shoulder without dropping everything in the middle of the hallway. This was it. Apartment 3B. Your new home. A knot of anxiety tightens in your stomach, a familiar companion over the last week of packing and planning. You know next to nothing about Alex, the guy on the other side of this door, other than his prompt email replies and his apparent tolerance for your endless questions about utilities and parking.

You manage to free a hand and knock, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet building. For a second, there’s nothing, and you wonder if he forgot you were coming. Then you hear the distinct click of a deadbolt turning. The door swings inward.

And there he is.

Everything you imagined—some quiet, nerdy guy who kept to himself—evaporates. He’s tall, leaning against the doorframe with an easy confidence that makes you feel instantly clumsy. A plain grey t-shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders, and his dark hair is a little messy, like he just ran his hands through it. But it’s his face that stops you. He has a smile that’s not just polite; it’s genuinely warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes. And those eyes… they’re a deep, startling shade of green, and they land on you with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.

“Lucas?” he asks, his voice lower than you expected.

You nod, suddenly aware of how you must look—sweaty, hair escaping your ponytail, wearing a paint-stained college sweatshirt. A hot flush creeps up your neck. “Hi. Alex.” It comes out as more of a statement than a question.

“The one and only,” he says, that smile widening. He steps forward, easily taking the heavy box from your arms. His fingers brush against yours for a fraction of a second, and a jolt, sharp and unexpected, shoots up your arm. “Here, let me get that. You look like you’re about to lose the battle.”

You can only manage a weak, grateful smile as you follow him inside. The apartment is brighter than the pictures showed, with afternoon light pouring through a large living room window. But you barely notice. All you can focus on is the space he just occupied, the faint, clean scent of his soap, and the undeniable flutter deep in your belly. It’s just the stress of moving, you tell yourself firmly. It’s exhaustion. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that your new roommate looks like he could unravel you with a single glance.

He helps you carry the first few loads, and soon your bedroom is an obstacle course of cardboard and bubble wrap. You thank him, insisting you can handle the rest, needing a moment to yourself to reset your pulse. He just nods, giving you a small smile before disappearing into the living room, leaving you alone with the chaos of your life packed into boxes.

An hour later, you’re on the floor, surrounded by cheap particleboard and a bewildering array of screws and wooden dowels. The instructions for your new bookshelf might as well be written in another language. You let out a frustrated groan, dropping the single, flimsy Allen key onto the floor.

“Problems?”

You jump, looking up to see Alex leaning in the doorway, holding two bottles of water. He gestures with his head toward the mess. “The dreaded flat-pack. Need a hand?”

“I think I need a degree in engineering,” you mutter, pushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “But I can manage.”

He ignores your protest, stepping over a box of clothes to join you on the floor. “I’ve built about a hundred of these. It’s my one useless superpower.” He takes the instruction booklet from you, his fingers brushing yours as he does. Another one of those tiny, insignificant jolts. You clench your fists, telling yourself to get a grip.

He’s surprisingly efficient. Within minutes, he has the frame laid out, and he’s directing you on which pieces to hold where. The only place with enough floor space is a tight corner between your bed and the wall, forcing you both into close proximity. You’re kneeling, holding two shelves in place while he works on the other side. His shoulder is inches from yours, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. You focus on the particleboard, on the pre-drilled holes, on anything but the scent of his cologne and the way the muscles in his back shift under his shirt as he works.

“Okay, can you pass me one of the small screws? The ones in bag C,” he says, his voice low and close to your ear.

You reach for the plastic bag, your fingers fumbling to open it. As you pull one out, he reaches for it at the same time. His arm slides against yours, the bare skin of his forearm pressing against the length of your own.

It’s not a brief brush. It’s a slow, deliberate-feeling contact that lasts a full second too long. A current, hot and sharp, travels straight from that point of contact to the base of your spine. Your breath catches in your lungs. Goosebumps erupt over your skin, a betrayal your mind can’t control.

You pull your arm back as if you’ve been burned, the tiny screw falling from your fingers and pinging against the floor.

You look up at him, and he’s already looking at you. His green eyes are dark, his easy smile gone. The air in the small corner suddenly feels thick, heavy with something unspoken. The sounds of the city outside your window fade into a dull hum. There’s just the space between you, charged and electric. He doesn’t move. He just watches you, his gaze intense, and you realize he felt it, too.

He clears his throat, breaking the spell. The sound is loud in the small room. “Sorry,” he says, finally moving back and rubbing the back of his neck. “Lost my train of thought.” He doesn’t meet your eyes, and the warmth that rushes to your face tells you that you’re probably blushing. You quickly find the screw on the floor, pressing it into his hand without letting your fingers linger this time. The rest of the bookshelf assembly happens in a silence that is somehow both awkward and humming with energy.

Later that evening, the living room is cast in the orange glow of a single lamp. You’re both on the floor, surrounded by a fortress of your half-unpacked boxes, with Chinese takeout containers spread between you on a flattened cardboard box that serves as a makeshift table. The earlier tension has settled into a low, constant thrum beneath the surface of polite conversation.

“Okay, so utilities are split down the middle. Easy enough,” he says, poking at his noodles with a plastic fork. His knee is less than a foot from yours. You’re acutely aware of it, of the worn denim stretched over his thigh and the casual way he sits, so at ease in the space.

“Sounds good,” you reply, focusing on a crack in the wooden floor. You’ve been trying all evening to act normal, to treat him like any other roommate, but it feels like a performance. Every time he moves, your eyes track him. Every time he speaks, you feel the vibration of his voice in your chest.

“Cleaning schedule?” he asks, finally looking up at you. His gaze is direct, and you feel that same jolt from the afternoon, a quiet recognition that something shifted between you today.

“We can alternate weeks for the bathroom and kitchen,” you suggest, your voice steadier than you feel.

He nods, taking a sip of his beer. “Works for me. And… the guest thing.”

Your stomach does a slow, heavy flip. This was the one you were dreading. The practical, necessary conversation that suddenly feels deeply personal.

“Right. Guests.”

“I’m not planning on having parties or anything,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “But for, you know, overnight guests… what do you think is fair? A heads-up?”

Your mind immediately supplies an image of him walking through the door with a woman, of hearing a bedroom door click shut down the hall. A sharp, unpleasant feeling coils in your gut. You hate it. You hate that you’re even feeling it.

“Yeah, a heads-up is good,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Like, 24-hour notice?”

“Perfect.” He holds your gaze, and the air between you thickens again. The simple agreement hangs there, loaded with unspoken implications. The rule isn’t for hypothetical strangers. It feels like it’s for him, for you, a flimsy boundary drawn around the possibility that is sitting right here on the floor between you. He’s so close. All you’d have to do is lean forward, just a few inches, and your knees would touch. The thought sends a wave of heat through your body, pooling low in your abdomen. You wonder what he would do if you did. You wonder if he’s thinking about it, too.