Happy Birthday

The train car hummed with a hollow, rhythmic vibration that seemed to pulse right through the soles of Roxanne’s feet. She sank into the seat, the world performing a slow, sickening tilt the moment she let her eyelids heavy. Across from her, Colton was a blurry silhouette against the harsh fluorescent lights.

“I am so drunk,” she managed, her voice thick and unfamiliar to her own ears. “I feel like I’m going to hurl.”

“Then why are you sitting backwards, birthday girl?” Colton teased. His voice was low, rumbly, and unfairly steady.

Roxanne shrugged, shifting until her forehead pressed against the cool, vibrating glass of the window. “It was a seat. It wasn’t moving. That’s all I cared about.”

Colton chuckled, his eyes roaming over her in a way that made her skin prickle. Her long dark hair was down—a rare surrender. Usually, Roxanne kept it cinched tight in a clip or a ponytail, a shield of order and professionalism. Tonight, it was a wild, dark curtain. She had spent years making sure he only saw the put-together version of her, but turning forty felt like a heavy milestone, and she had let the vodka drown her inhibitions hours ago.

The carriage was silent until a hand settled on her knee—a firm, grounding weight. “Our stop,” he said.

Roxanne followed him off the train, her legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. The early morning air was a sharp, cold slap to the face. She shivered in her thin party dress, cursing herself for not bringing a jacket. She wasn’t a party animal; she’d anticipated a few celebratory drinks, not a seven-hour marathon that left her dragging her tired, intoxicated ass through the dark.

“I am never drinking again,” she muttered, white-knuckling the handrail as they descended the station stairs. Her vision was beginning to blur into watercolour streaks of grey and yellow.

“Sure, Roxy,” Colton laughed, reaching out to catch her elbow as she stumbled over her own feet. He didn't let go, tucking her arm into his side to keep her steady. “Are you going to be okay to walk the rest of the way?”

She nodded, leaning into his warmth more than she probably should have. As they turned toward their street, Colton crinkled his nose, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. “I need to pee,” he announced.

Roxanne bounced off him, her balance a lost cause. “Then pee. Find a tree, whip it out, and make it rain.”

He led her toward a dark alley, turning right toward a weathered fence. Roxanne stood back, swaying slightly as the nausea crept up her throat in waves. She watched the silhouette of his back, the broad shoulders she’d spent years wanting to lean on. When she heard the slide of his zipper and the sound of them moving again, Colton’s hand found the small of her back.

They walked side by side, across the street. Roxanne stopped, her hands on her knees. She felt Colton’s hand on her back. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “If you’re gonna be sick, I’ll hold your hair. I promise.”

“I’ll be okay,” she breathed, glancing up at their street sign. Had they always lived on a hill? She began moving again, slower than before, but determined to make it before she blew her cookies all over the neighbours front yard.

Inside the house, the stillness was a relief. Roxanne leaned against the kitchen counter, the cool stone the only thing keeping her upright. “Chicken nuggets,” she announced to the empty kitchen. “I need nuggets. They’re like sponges for bad decisions.”

Colton didn't even argue. He nudged her toward the living room and set to work, lining up the nuggets on a tray with a precision Roxanne found mesmerizing. “You’re a good roommate, Colt,” she breathed.

“I’m a saint,” he corrected, sliding the tray into the oven. “Go change, Rox. Get out of that dress. I’ll bring the medicine in when they’re done.”

She retreated to her room but emerged minutes later in her softest, oversized pajamas. The coordination required to finish the job had eluded her. She found Colton outside, lighting up a cigarette.

“Mission accomplished?” he asked, his gaze lingering on her.

“Mostly,” she admitted. She turned her back to him, pulling the hem of her top up just enough to expose the clasp of her bra. “I’m still trapped. My fingers aren’t talking to my brain. Help a birthday girl out?”

Colton froze. Had she just asked what he thought she did? He reached for her, making a joke to see if he could snap her bra clasp open with a precision he prided himself on. She felt the heat of him as he moved closer. His fingers were warm, grazing the skin of her back with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her breath hitch. When the clasp finally clicked open, he didn’t pull away immediately. His thumbs traced the line where the elastic had been, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through her.

Roxanne reached up, and without removing her top, pulled the bra free. Colton took it from her. Black, and silver with hints of lace. “Sexy,” he mused.

“I have a matching corset,” Roxanne blurted out. She took her bra from him and turned on her heel, marching back inside and heading to her room to hunt for the matching corset. She would be damned if she was going to put it on, but still, she could show it off.

She returned to find Colton on the couch, nuggets in hand. She showed her lingerie to him. “Sexy,” he repeated, as he took the garment from her, spinning it around in his hands. Roxanne nodded, devouring a nugget in one bite.

They settled back against the couch, eating the nuggets and talking. Colton watched as the light from the lamp washed over Roxanne’s curves. The urge to throw her down on the couch and take her was overwhelming. The conversation moved into something more sexual as he began to pry into her past, finding out what she liked and what she didn’t. She mentioned her ex and how hairy he had been. Colton opened his shirt. A slight smattering of chest hair caught Roxanne’s eye. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him topless before. He had mowed the lawn without a shirt before. The dim light of the lamp danced over Colton’s bare chest, and Roxanne found herself tracking the rise and fall of his breathing. She wanted nothing more than to run her nails over his skin. She bit her lip. Was it her, or was it suddenly very warm in the house.

Colton picked up on her flushed cheeks. “Mind if I just strip out of these jeans?” he asked. Roxanne shook her head. “No, go for it. Get comfortable.”

“Are you sure, Rox? I’ll be in my underwear.”

“So? I’m in pajamas.”

Colton took his shoes off and slipped out of his jeans. Roxanne stifled a moan when she let her eyes roam over him. Every feeling she had ever had for him hit her at once. She clamped her legs together, hoping he couldn’t smell her arousal. He returned from the kitchen with a glass of champagne for her. “For the birthday girl,” he said.

Roxanne swore. “You’re trying to get me drunk!” she accused as she took a sip. “And it’s working!” Colton laughed as he sat next to her, a bit closer than before, his hand resting on her thigh gently. They continued to talk. Every now and then, Roxanne felt Colton’s hand on her skin, teasing her flesh. She knew that if he made a move, she wouldn’t say no. Not when she had been wanting him for years. Eventually, he stood up. “One more smoke before I crash.”

Roxanne followed him onto the back porch. The night air was biting, but she didn't care. She leaned against the railing next to him, watching the glow of his cigarette. The vulnerability of the hour finally broke her filter. She began chatting about nonsense before she glanced down at herself.

“You know,” she said, her voice small, “I’m such a lopsided mess. My left breast is definitely smaller than my right.”

She expected a joke, a tease, or a laugh. Instead, Colton exhaled a long plume of smoke and slowly lowered his eyes. His gaze travelled down, heavy and dark, staying right where she had directed it for a heartbeat too long.

“I don't notice,” he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its playful edge.

Roxanne felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. The way he was looking at her wasn't how a friend looks at a roommate. It was the look of a man who had been waiting for the green light for a very, very long time.

Roxanne let out a breathless, awkward chuckle, the sound fluttering nervously in the space between them. She began to back away toward the door, her movements slow and heavy with the weight of his gaze. When her back finally hit the wall, she let out a small gasp; the world felt like it was shifting beneath her.

"The wall," she whispered, her head lolling back against the plaster. "Colton, the wall is moving."

He didn't laugh this time. He moved toward her, closing the distance in two long, predatory strides. He didn't stop until he was inches away, the heat radiating from his bare chest hitting her like a physical force. He reached out, planting his palm firmly against the wood beside her head to steady her—or perhaps to steady them both.

"It’s not the wall, Rox," he murmured, his voice a low, gritty vibration that she felt in her marrow.

Locked between the wall and his frame, Roxanne felt the air turn thick. The "saintly" roommate was gone, replaced by someone she had only ever met in her dreams. No man had ever looked at her the way he was right now. Colton’s other hand reached up, his fingers sliding into the dark tangle of her hair to cup her jaw. His thumb traced the line of her lower lip, pulling it down just enough to see the hitch in her breath.

He leaned in, his shadow swallowing her whole. When his lips finally met hers, it wasn't the tentative kiss of a friend; it was a deep, hungry claim that had been years in the making. The taste of salt, smoke, and old longing exploded between them, and Roxanne finally stopped trying to find her balance—she simply let herself fall into him.

The shift from the porch to the lounge was a blur of heat and stumbling footsteps. Colton didn’t break the kiss as he steered her back through the door, his hand still anchored in her hair, guiding her through the darkened house with a sudden, predatory focus. Roxanne’s pulse was a frantic rhythm in her throat; the cool night air was forgotten the moment they crossed the threshold into the warmth of the living room.

He didn't slow down. He navigated her backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the sofa—the same sofa where they had spent years watching movies and eating takeout as "just friends." With a firm, decisive shove against her shoulders, he pushed her down into the cushions.

Roxanne sank into the fabric, the room performing a slow, dizzying whirl, but her focus was entirely on the weight of him as he followed her down. He crowded into her space, his knees bracketed on either side of her hips, pinning her beneath the heavy, solid heat of his frame.

The air in the room felt thick enough to burn. Colton’s hands, usually so casual and familiar, were now urgent and demanding. He reached for the hem of her soft pajama top, shoving the fabric up and out of his way with a low, guttural growl that vibrated against her skin. Roxanne let out a sharp, jagged gasp as the cool air hit her chest, followed instantly by the searing heat of his mouth.

He didn't hold back. He buried his face against her, his tongue tracing the curve she had just called "lopsided" before his teeth grazed a nipple, sending a bolt of pure, electric shock straight to her core. He began to suckle with a hungry intensity, his hands roaming over her curves as if he were memorizing her by touch alone.

Roxanne’s fingers dug into the muscles of his bare shoulders, her back arching off the sofa. This wasn't the polite, measured longing she had practiced in her head for years. This was raw and uncoordinated, fuelled by the vodka in their systems and the sudden, violent snapping of the tension that had held them apart.

As Colton moved to rid them both of the rest of their clothes, kicking his pants away and tugging at the elastic of her pajamas, the familiar living room transformed. The shadows on the ceiling stretched and danced in the dim light, and the only sound in the house was the frantic, rhythmic friction of skin against skin and the desperate, messy sounds of two people who had finally stopped pretending.

The air in the living room was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering heat of their skin. As Colton moved over her, the weight of him was a solid, grounding reality that finally silenced the spinning in Roxanne's head.

He didn’t touch her like she was a fragile thing. He moved with a raw, unbridled hunger that made Roxanne feel electric. Every time his hands slid over the soft curves of her hips or pressed into the fullness of her thighs, he did so with a firm, possessive pressure. To Roxanne, who had spent years comparing herself to the lean, athletic women she’d seen Colton bring home, this felt like a revelation. He wasn't just "tolerating" her body; he was devouring it.

The friction of their skin against the sofa was a rhythmic, messy symphony. Roxanne’s hands were everywhere—mapping the hard lines of his back, feeling the sweat slicking his skin, and pulling him closer until there wasn't a single inch of space left between them. The passion was frantic, a desperate release of all those years she’d spent watching him from across the room, wondering what it would feel like to finally be the one he wanted.

His tongue explored her mouth as he kissed her deeply, passionately. She let out a low moan as she felt him inside her. He wrapped his hand around her throat. Her eyes opened wide as she felt the pressure. Her hand wrapped around his wrist.

When the storm finally broke, leaving them tangled and breathless in the dim light, the silence that followed felt heavy.

As the adrenaline began to fade, the old, familiar demons started to creep back into Roxanne’s mind. She was acutely aware of how she looked—flushed, tangled, and completely exposed. She shifted slightly, instinctively trying to pull a discarded pajama top over herself to hide the soft roll of her stomach.

“What are you doing?” Colton’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He was propped up on one elbow, watching her with a steady, unreadable intensity.

Roxanne looked down, her fingers trembling as she gripped the fabric. “I just... I feel vulnerable,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m not like the girls you usually date, Colton. I’m heavier, I’m... I don’t really like myself very much right now.”

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, the dim glow of the lamp flickering across Colton’s face. He reached out, his hand large and warm as he gently but firmly pried the clothing from her grasp and tossed it back onto the floor.

He moved closer, his hand settling on her waist, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip with a slow, deliberate tenderness. He waited until she met his eyes before he spoke.

“Rox,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made her heart ache. “I’ve spent the last three hours looking at you. Really looking at you.”

The shift in the room was palpable, the frantic energy of before smoothing out into something thick, deliberate, and far more dangerous.

Colton leaned in, the heat of his breath ghosting over her skin before he pressed a soft, lingering kiss into the hollow of her shoulder. He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in. “You’re beautiful, Rox,” he murmured against her skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “And God, I’ve been wanting this for a long time.”

Roxanne leaned back against the cushions, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “Was this your plan all along?” she asked, her voice breathless and edged with a shaky laugh. “Take the birthday girl out, get her drunk, and finally pull a move?”

Colton’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. He reached out, his hand sliding through the dark, messy silk of her hair, his fingers grazing her scalp in a way that made her toes curl. “Maybe,” he conceded, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “But I’m a man of my word. You’ve spent years bragging about what your head game is like, Roxy. I think it’s time I see if you can back up the talk.”

The challenge hung in the air, electric and bold. Roxanne felt a flush of heat rise behind her eyes that had nothing to do with the alcohol. She reached for the water bottle on the coffee table, taking a slow, deliberate sip to steady herself and build the saliva she knew she’d need.

Setting the bottle down, she moved with a new sense of purpose. She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around the solid, heavy heat of him. She began to stroke him with a rhythmic, slow pressure, watching the way his jaw tightened. When she finally leaned forward to take him into the heat of her mouth, her tongue teased the tip, savouring the taste and the sharp intake of his breath.

He was a perfect fit. For the first time, an act she had grown to loathe through years of clumsy ex-boyfriends felt entirely different. There was no discomfort, no sense of being overwhelmed. When Colton’s hands found her hair, his grip firm but grounding as he began a slow, rhythmic tilt of his hips, she didn't pull away.

“That’s it, Rox,” he groaned, his voice a ragged whisper of encouragement that spurred her on. “Right there. You’re incredible.”

Hearing him—knowing she was the one making him lose that effortless composure—was a head-rush better than any drink. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the friction and the heat, realizing that the reality of Colton was a thousand times better than the dreams she’d lived in for years.

The tension in the room hadn't broken; it had simply reshaped itself into something deeper and more permanent. As Roxanne pulled back, breathless and flushed from the heat of the moment, Colton didn’t let the distance last for more than a heartbeat. He reached for her, his large hands anchoring on her waist as he guided her back against the cushions.

He moved over her, straddling her hips with a steady, possessive weight that pinned her to the sofa. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing her in, his arms locking around her to pull her flush against his chest. Roxanne could feel the steady, heavy thud of his heart against her own—a rhythmic reminder that this was no longer a dream.

"God, Rox," he exhaled, the warm air of his breath sending a final, decisive shiver down her spine. He shifted, his hips tilting to find her again, entering her with a slow, agonizingly perfect slide that made her eyes flutter shut.

This time, the frantic urgency was gone, replaced by a rhythmic, soul-deep friction. He moved with a deliberate pace, his hands mapping the fullness of her hips and the soft curves he’d just called beautiful, anchoring her to him. It wasn't just about the release anymore; it was about the proximity.

"We're so stupid," Colton murmured, his voice a rough, pained whisper against her ear as he surged forward, filling her completely. He tightened his grip, holding her tight as if trying to fuse their bodies together. "We could have been doing this since the day you moved in. I can't believe we wasted all that time."

Roxanne buried her face in his shoulder, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back as the pleasure began to coil tightly again. Hearing him say it—knowing the longing hadn't been hers alone—was the final tether snapping.

"I thought you didn't want me," she confessed, her voice trembling as his pace picked up, the leather of the sofa creaking beneath them in the quiet of the house.

"I've always wanted you," he groaned, his movements becoming more forceful, more certain. "I was just waiting for you to look at me like that."

The second time was a slow burn that ended in a blinding heat. As they moved together, the house around them—the kitchen with the empty nugget tray, the porch where they’d shared a smoke—felt different. It was no longer just a place they lived; it was theirs.

The heavy, drug-like pull of exhaustion finally began to win out over the adrenaline. The living room, which had felt like the center of a private universe for the last few hours, was starting to feel cold as the sweat dried on their skin.

Colton finally pulled away, his movements slow and slightly unsteady as he gathered his discarded clothes from the floor. He leaned down, pressing one last, lingering kiss to Roxanne’s forehead—a gesture so tender it made her chest ache.

"Get some sleep, birthday girl," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleepiness and sex.

Roxanne nodded, wrapping her pajama top around herself as she stood up. Her legs felt like jelly. They walked down the hallway together, a strange, quiet distance stretching between them that hadn't been there moments ago. When they reached their respective doors, Colton offered a tired, half-smile before disappearing into his room.

Roxanne retreated into her own space, the click of her door shutting echoing in the silence. As she reached for the handle to lock the door—a habit born of years of living as "just roommates"—she stopped. Her hand hovered over the metal, trembling slightly.

She pulled her hand back, leaving the door unlocked.

She stripped off the messy pajamas and climbed under her duvet, the cool sheets a shock against her heated skin.

Staring up at the ceiling, the old, familiar insecurities began to crawl back in, sharper than before. The vodka was wearing off, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity. “We could have been doing this since you moved in,” he had said. But was that Colton talking, or was it the whiskey and the late-night heat? To her, this was the culmination of years of pining; to him, it could have just been a drunken mistake, a milestone celebration that got out of hand.

She lay on her side, facing the door, her ears straining for the sound of a floorboard creaking or a handle turning. She wanted him to walk through that door, to slide under the covers and hold her until the sun came up, proving that the words he’d whispered on the couch were real.

She still loved him—deeply, painfully—but as she drifted toward a fitful sleep, the silence of the house felt deafening. The door remained closed, and the uncertainty of what they would be to each other tomorrow morning was the only thing keeping her awake.