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Introduction
The apartment smelled like fresh paint and possibility when Riley dragged her last box through the door. She'd been dreading this move for weeks—not because she didn't need it (her studio was a glorified closet with a hotplate), but because moving in with your best friend's older sister felt like admitting defeat at twenty-six.
"You can take the bedroom on the left," Sloane called from somewhere deeper in the apartment. "I already cleared out the closet."
Riley had met Sloane exactly three times in the five years she'd known Jamie. Once at Jamie's graduation party, where Sloane had stayed for exactly forty-five minutes before disappearing. Once at a family barbecue where she'd worn noise-canceling headphones the entire time. And once, memorably, when she'd picked Jamie up from a disastrous party and driven Riley home too, saying maybe ten words the entire twenty-minute drive.
"Weird but harmless," Jamie had said when Riley expressed concerns about the living arrangement. "She'll basically be invisible. Works from home, keeps to herself, won't bother you at all."
Riley found Sloane in the kitchen, arranging coffee mugs with the kind of precision that suggested a very particular organizational system. She was tall—Riley had forgotten that—with short dark hair that stuck up in the back like she'd been running her hands through it. She wore an oversized flannel shirt over a sports bra, grey joggers, and was barefoot.
"Hey," Riley said, suddenly aware of how sweaty and disheveled she was. "Thanks again for this. I know having a roommate probably wasn't on your bingo card."
Sloane turned, and Riley caught the full force of her hazel eyes for maybe the first time. They were striking—green with flecks of gold, framed by dark lashes. Her face was angular, almost severe, until she smiled. It was a small smile, tentative, but it transformed her completely.
"It's fine," Sloane said. Her voice was low, a little rough. "House was too quiet anyway. And Jamie said you're not loud or messy, which is basically all I require in a human."
"Low bar," Riley said, trying to match the energy. "I can definitely clear that."
"Then we'll get along fine." Sloane gestured to the coffee maker. "Fair warning—I'm useless before caffeine and I work late, so I sleep late. Kitchen's communal, just... maybe don't cook fish? I have a thing about fish smell."
"Noted. No fish." Riley hesitated, then added, "I should warn you too—I'm pretty newly out. Like, six months newly out. Still figuring things out. Jamie thought I should mention it in case I'm, I don't know, weird about stuff."
Sloane's expression didn't change, but something softened in her eyes. "You don't have to ...
Morgan Chase (they/them) spent a decade as a therapist working with LGBTQ+ youth and adults, witnessing firsthand the lack of authentic queer smut fiction that honored both desire and emotional truth. After years of activism and community work, they began writing the stories the queer community deserved—hot, honest, and unapologetically diverse. From their shared artist loft in Portland, Morgan crafts stories across the spectrum: gay romance, lesbian love, trans experiences, and polyamorous relationships. Their lived experience as a non-binary person brings authenticity and insider perspective that ensures representation isn't performative—it's genuine.
