What Happens Next?

Oskar's apartment is clean, plain, and compact. It's clearly not a place where he spends a lot of time, but there are hints of him all around. A guitar leaning against a wall, photos from what seem to be hiking trips framed and hung above the TV, which is unplugged.

He takes a second to glance around, as though recalibrating himself, then shrugs and kicks off his shoes. I do the same and follow him in. He drops both bags in the middle of the living room, which is open plan with the kitchen, and pads through to a tiny hallway. Beyond, there's a bedroom, half visible through an open door, and a bathroom.

"Here," he says, offering me a towel. "Can you shower with that ankle?"

I grin up at him. "I'd rather you were there with me."

He blinks, heat flaring in his eyes. His pupils flare, and there's an answering ache between my legs almost immediately.

Two weeks. I get two weeks of this.

Shit, I need to tell Thomas before he really does tell the cops.

Like he senses my thoughts have moved away from imminent sex, Oskar gives a tiny smile and hangs the towel in the bathroom for me. It's clean, like every other room in this place, but the air is slightly stale. No one has been here for a while, it seems. I guess Oskar came straight from Oslo to his little hiking trip and didn't bother with this place until now. Because of me.

"I need to pick up some stuff from the store," he says. "Take your time showering."

I nod and watch his back as he strides away. Seriously, sex between us is going to be magnificent. Fantastic. Mind-blowingly good. Made better by the fact I'm currently acing my dry-spell streak. Longest I've had since becoming sexually active.

Your late twenties are not always what they're cracked up to be.