"How's it going?"
Rumbling vocals, a stubbled jaw against your temple—Owen. The knowledge of his presence invokes the beginnings of a smile and tension ebbs from your slight frame as you allow yourself to lean back into him, taking comfort in the familiar ridges of hard muscle under his shirt.
You search the air for the undeniable scent of his aftershave and frown slightly to find it absent. Had he forgotten it this morning? Maybe he'd sweated it off, you reason—his job did entail physical labor and quite a bit of it, after all.
A calloused finger taps on your skin and you belatedly realize he's still waiting for an answer. "Everything's running smoothly," you say, refocusing your gaze on the clipboard and its attached reports.
It's the truth. So far, anyway. You can't really complain, after all—with the park's disastrous history, even the "bad" days were okay, because everyone knew it could have been so much worse.
So much worse.
"No." His breath tickles your ear, smelling strangely of .. mint? Owen, since when do you munch on mint? you wonder absently. "I meant how are you?"
Oh. Oh. You blush at first as comprehension dawns, your own breath hitching when you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back against him. And then your smile freezes on your face because you're flashing back to the previous night and the fight you two had had, about the latest velociraptor embryos and how Owen wanted to add them to his little squad when the time came.
You'd argued that you thought he might be spreading himself a little thin—with good reason, too, since he always seemed so stressed despite his obvious love for his job and the raptors. Strapped for time, too, never having enough time for coffee or a stroll—
That's it, isn't it? He'd interrupted you sharply, stepping back out of reach of your outstretched arms to stab an accusatory finger in your direction. You're obsessing again. How many times have we talked about this? How many times do I have to remind you that this is my job, damn it—
You squeeze your eyes closed and inhale deeply, pushing the nasty memory out of your mind. If he'd still been angry with you, he wouldn't have approached, right? This must be his olive branch. A ceasefire.
The stone of worry in your gut gets a little less heavy at that logic and relief is quick to flood your system, because truth be told, you probably wouldn't be able to handle losing Owen.
No Owen would mean so much more than just no boyfriend. It meant you wouldn't have anyone to text you silly things and raptor selfies, no one to randomly kiss you stupid during work hours or slap your ass when you walk by.
No one to wake you up and hold you tight when the nightmares happened. No one to mop the sweat from your brow and whisper sweet, tender nothings in your ear and rock you back to sleep. A peaceful sleep, free of the beastly horrors that had occurred almost an entire year ago in the northernmost regions of the island.
"Are—are we okay?" you whisper almost inaudibly, voice cracking across the words.
"Yeah," he answers, sounding a little confused. "Why wouldn't we be?"
Unwilling to say the words for the fear of breaking the fragile truce, you decide to leave it alone. "No reason. I just .. I miss you."
There's no words then, just the scratchy feel of his bearded jaw as he places a kiss along the sensitive hollow under your throat. You shiver and let your mind and eyes drift shut, forgetting that the two of you are supposed to be working and instead surrendering control over to the way he makes you feel. The way his fingers know just where to press and probe, when to give and when to just fucking take it ..
You don't open your eyes when he turns you around and takes the clipboard from your grasp, setting it aside and drawing you close once more. It's only then that you begin to realize .. Owen doesn't feel like Owen.
His hands are too gentle, almost tentative in their exploration of your body. They fumble, even trembling as they pass over your breasts.
Owen's domineering, no-nonsense attitude almost always bleeds over into his lovemaking. Rough but never rough enough to hurt, simply firm and seasoned. He's never fumbled anything. Fondled, maybe ..
This Owen .. is not your Owen.
A sick feeling replaces the passion and you already know you've fucked up before you open your eyes, but you still can't help but be stunned when you pull away and see who the imposter is.
Holy shit. The new kid?! Freckles?!
I did not just get felt up by fuckin' Freckles. Pubescent-faced awkward fumbling Freckles …
He stares back at you almost sheepishly, watery blue eyes wide and apprehensive, a scarlet flush creeping along his throat. How did I ever think he was Owen? You spend a long moment processing your disbelief and disgust and anger and finally you think you might be able to speak past the bile in your throat, to tell him you're going to forward him the bills for your therapy—
"What in the fuck is going on here?"
Oh, no. No, no. This cannot be happening. Owen's voice. Owen. Pissed Owen.
You turn and sure enough, it's Owen's broad-shouldered silhouette, the one you'd recognize anywhere, filling the doorway. The real Owen, too, in a kind of glory you've never seen before and don't actually want to see because you just know it's going to end violently, just like you know you're going to be sick, you're certain of it and you just barely manage to make it to one of the windows before you begin heaving.