My Roommate’s Only Fan

MM Roommates-to-Lovers Romance
by Jace Wilder

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: MM

Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno

Tropes: Roommates to Lovers, Secret Identity, Anonymous Messages, Bisexual Awakening, Content Creator Romance, Closeted, Forced Proximity, One Bed, Praise Kink, Exhibitionism, He Falls First, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Coming Out, Control/Surrender, Dirty Talk

His favorite subscriber is the man sleeping ten feet away.

When graphic designer Riven March loses his apartment, the only room he can afford is in the warehouse loft of Caspian “Cas” Vale—his former college almost-hookup, current “straight” best friend, and the most maddeningly perfect roommate a man could accidentally want.

What Riven doesn’t know: Cas pays his bills through a masked subscription account called OnlyVale, where he makes anonymous solo content for a devoted audience. What Cas doesn’t know: his most loyal subscriber—the one whose messages he saves in an encrypted folder, the one who makes him hard before the camera is even on—is the man now sleeping ten feet away.

Riven subscribed for design research. He stayed because the creator’s voice made him feel seen in ways no one had since his ex turned their private life into content. He’s been in love with Cas for six years and has never said a word.

Cas built OnlyVale to pay the bills. He didn’t expect his favorite subscriber to become the person he waited for every night. He definitely didn’t expect that person to be the man who kissed him at a college party and then pretended it never happened.

When a power outage exposes Cas’s secret and a “strictly professional” content collaboration goes viral, both men have to decide whether what’s between them is a fantasy they can monetize or a life they’re finally brave enough to claim.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Roommates-to-lovers with years of unspoken pining
✅ Anonymous subscriber × secret content creator (he’s been watching the whole time)
✅ Bisexual awakening that’s emotional, explicit, and earned
✅ Praise kink, body worship, and a calm exterior hiding a filthy interior
✅ Creator-economy setting with real stakes (harassment, privacy, agency exploitation)
✅ Dual first-person POV (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, 14 heat beats)
✅ Found family, a cousin who takes no shit, and a dog named Paywall
✅ HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes including bisexual awakening, praise kink, exhibitionism, and emotionally intense intimacy), strong language, online harassment and stalking (handled through legal process, not violence), a homophobic parent, panic attacks, and references to a past relationship involving non-consensual content sharing. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

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Chapter One: Lease Me Alone

The text from my landlord arrived between a client revision request and a cold cup of coffee, slotted neatly into my Tuesday like a knife between ribs.

Building sold. New owner taking possession. Vacate by the 14th. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Sorry for the inconvenience. Like he’d bumped my elbow at a coffee shop instead of detonating my entire living situation with seventeen words and a period.

I read it three times, standing in the narrow kitchen of my Lawrenceville sublet with paint under my fingernails and a half-finished logo comp glowing on my laptop across the room. The countertop was covered in ink swatches for a nonprofit rebrand. My lease—which I now realized had never been a lease at all, just a handshake and a Venmo arrangement with a guy named Dale who wore socks with sandals to our only in-person meeting—was apparently worth exactly as much as Dale’s fashion sense had suggested.

Ten days. I had ten days to find somewhere to live in a city where every affordable apartment had been converted into a short-term rental or a craft cocktail bar.

I did what any reasonable adult would do. I sat on the floor, ate a sleeve of Oreos, and called Eamon.

“How fucked am I?” I asked.

“On a scale of mildly inconvenienced to sleeping in my office?” Eamon’s voice was flat, pragmatic, and entirely too awake for someone who ran a nonprofit on fumes and optimism. “Depends. What’s your budget?”

I told him.

“You’re sleeping in my office.”

“Helpful.”

“I’m a helpful person, Riv. It’s my tragic flaw.” A pause. “What about Cas?”

The name landed in my chest the way it always did—a dull, familiar ache I’d stopped trying to diagnose years ago. Caspian Vale. College friend. Former almost-something. Current source of a low-grade fever I’d been running since the night he grabbed my shirt at a house party, pulled me in until our mouths were a breath apart, kissed me like he meant it, and then laughed and said dude, I’m so wasted the next morning while he made eggs for a girl named Brianna.

That was six years ago. I still remembered the thread count of his T-shirt collar against my knuckles.

“Cas has a spare room,” I said carefully.

Saturday arrived with the kind of aggressive Pittsburgh sunshine that made the whole city look like it was trying too hard. Cas’s loft was on the third floor of a former textile mill in a stretch of Lawrenceville that was halfway between “up and coming” and “priced out.”

Cas met me at the loading dock. Shirtless. Because of course he was.

“Moving day!” He spread his arms wide, grinning, and the late-morning light caught the black ink sleeve that ran from his left shoulder to his wrist. His dark curls were damp. His gray eyes were doing the thing where they looked silver in direct sunlight.

“You own shirts,” I said, hefting a box of books out of the rental van. “I’ve seen you wear them.”

“It’s eighty-two degrees.”

“It’s Pittsburgh. It’ll be forty by dinner.”

On the way back to the van, I passed a door at the end of the hallway that was closed. Through the gap at the bottom, I caught a sliver of black fabric—heavy, light-blocking, the kind of material I’d used for product photography backdrops.

“What’s in there?” I nodded at the door.

“Storage,” he said. “And, uh, I do some self-portrait stuff sometimes. Photography. Artistic.”

“Artistic self-portraits,” I repeated.

“Lighting experiments, mostly. It’s a whole thing. Very boring.”

I let it go. Not because I believed him, but because I understood the architecture of a person who kept a room behind a closed door.

At midnight, Cas said goodnight and disappeared into his room. I lay in my new bed, in my new room, ten feet from the man I’d been not-in-love-with for six years, and opened my phone.

Not to text Cas. To message someone else.

The username at the top read OnlyVale. No face in the profile photo. Just a jaw, a collarbone, and the edge of black ink disappearing out of frame.

I typed: Moved today. New place. New roommate. Already regretting it.

OnlyVale: Bad roommate or dangerous one?

I typed: The kind you can’t stop looking at.

On the other side of the wall—ten feet away, separated by drywall and six years of silence—Cas read the message, grinned in the dark, and typed back.

OnlyVale: Tell me more.

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