When I moved into my new apartment a couple months ago, I didn’t expect my new housemate to be so adorably awkward.

Eli was 23, tall, lanky, and just the quiet guy who rented the room down the hall. He wore oversized hoodies, kept his head down, and blushed every time I caught him looking at me in a tank top.

He was sweet, though. Thoughtful in quiet ways. Left a coffee on the counter for me in the morning, offered to carry my laundry upstairs, always cleaned the dishes even when they weren’t his.

But I could tell, he had no idea how attractive he actually was.

One night, it was just the two of us at home. Rain was tapping at the windows, the power flickered, and I was curled up in bed feeling… needy.

The kind of needy I usually took care of myself.

I had a little buzz going from a glass of wine. I lit a candle, slipped into an oversized T-shirt and no panties, and slid under the covers with my fingers already exploring.

I didn’t hear the knock.

Didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t hear Eli call my name softly, until it was too late.

I opened my eyes and he was frozen in my doorway.

Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Face already flushing red.

He saw my hand between my thighs. He saw everything.

“Shit...sorry! I thought you called me,” he stammered, about to back out.

But something about the look on his face, the way he couldn’t stop staring even though he was trying to be polite.

It made me pause.

And then I said it.

“Do you want to watch?”

His entire body locked up like I’d just hit him with a taser.

“I...what?”

I lifted the blanket slowly, revealing the smooth curve of my bare legs, the hem of the shirt pulled up just enough to hint at what he’d already seen.

“I don’t mind,” I said, voice low. “If you want to.”

His eyes dropped immediately, then darted away.

“You don’t have to do that…” he mumbled, almost embarrassed.

“I’m not doing it for you,” I said, leaning back against the pillows, spreading my legs a little wider, “I’m doing it for me. But you can stay if you want.”

He hesitated.

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped inside. Closed the door. Sat down, awkwardly, at the edge of the bed like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

I didn’t tease him. I just slid my fingers back between my thighs and started slow.

Letting my eyes close. Letting my breath hitch. Letting the tension build while I could feel his stare on me.

His breathing got heavier.

I looked at him through my lashes.

“You’ve never done anything like this, have you?” I whispered.

He shook his head.

I sat up, reached out, and gently took his hand.

“Can I show you how to touch me?”

He nodded, eyes burning.

I guided his fingers, showed him how I liked to be touched, slower here, firmer there, until his hands were on me and I was moaning his name.

By the time I pulled his hoodie off, his hands were trembling.

By the time I kissed him, he was aching.

By the time I slid him inside me, his eyes were full of wonder like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

He came fast. But I didn’t mind. I held him close, kissed his cheek, told him he didn’t need to impress me.

We did it again, slower. And again, deeper.

And when I fell asleep tangled with him that night, he held me like I was something fragile and irreplaceable.

A few weeks later, I told him I was moving out.

Not because of him, just personal stuff. A new job, a change of pace, something I needed.

He nodded, quietly.

Said, “I get it.”

But I saw the look in his eyes. That flicker of sadness.

So I leaned in, cupped his face in my hands, and kissed him slow.

Then I said, “You made me feel wanted. Soft. Desired. I hope I made you feel that way too.”

His voice cracked when he whispered, “You did.”

I left a note on his pillow the morning I moved out: "You were never just a housemate. Thank you for letting me be your first. You’ll always be one of my favorite memories."

I still think about Eli sometimes. And I smile. Because I didn’t just teach him how to touch. I taught him how to feel wanted. And I’ll always carry that night with me.