AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Ok. This has been in my drafts since 2017 and until the first JWD trailer just dropped, I didn't touch it. And now, I just watched Dominion and the every fucking Clawen scene was just too good, it's making me want to chew my own arm off.

Special thanks to Sara for being patient with my complex words and late correspondence.

THE TERRIFYING ORDEAL OF BEING

She felt hot.

Vindictive.

Remorseless.

Fucking furious.

Despite the blood rushing to her head, she heard him call out her name.

But she ignored him.

Her four-inch heels made a series of click-clacking sounds on the pavement. The urgent and angry stomps were echoing in the — now empty — street.

Fred, the apartment receptionist, rushed towards the revolving doors to welcome her. She could almost picture the amiable smile that he always seemed to have. Normally, she would say hi and engage in a small talk. And she would have done it this time too, if only hot flaming red wasn't clouding her vision.

The old man's greeting was cut short when she stormed past him. But then she heard Fred timidly greeting the man who had been following her angry strides for two whole blocks.

She stood by the elevator, tapping her foot in an annoyance and impatience she hadn't felt in so long. Her eyes fixated on the orange digits displayed on the board, consciously ignoring the reflected doors where she could make out the man's distorted figure talking to Fred.

The elevator gave a soft ping before the doors parted and she almost crashed into a couple coming out. She entered the lift and turned to press her floor number, but upon doing so, she saw him again: the one and only source of her furor, looking at her.

He was standing with Fred, Justin and Marvin—the couple she bumped into before entering the lift. Even though the men were talking to him, his keen green eyes were on her, cautious, yet the burning and possessive fire in them was still visible.

Claire Dearing narrowed her eyes at him before the doors closed.

A soft ballad played through the speakers. But the respite and the few stabilizing breaths didn't dissuade her anger.

Because she knew.

No matter how many times she told herself that he would leave her alone, he would always end up following her.

Always.

Because it's him.

Owen fucking Grady.

Even after years of knowing each other, Claire still couldn't decide whether it was a good or a bad thing.

She threw the keys on the rack and headed towards the kitchen sink for a glass of water. Back at the hallway, the ping of the elevator signaling that it reached her floor was so loud she almost jumped out of her skin.

Claire took a steadying breath, gauging the distance between her kitchen and her entrance door. Perhaps she could still lock her door, keep him out just as she had done during nights like this— when she wanted to bite his head off.

But she heard it— the creak of the door opening.

She heard him heave a giant sigh. His footsteps were loud in the silence of her apartment. Claire could almost picture him running his hands through his hair in exasperation. She went to the wine rack and grabbed the nearest bottle and corkscrew, becoming painfully aware of two things:

one was how hard she was struggling to pull the cork out. It had been an easy task, one she had done a thousand times before.

And two, his eyes were heavily trained on her. She could feel them burning the exposed skin on her back.

She paid him no mind and concentrated on her task, all too aware that, perhaps, drinking was a bad idea right now.

But screw it.

Most importantly, screw him.

How dare he show up here when she was just starting to accept what had happened between them? Claire had spent enough days and nights burying herself in work to tune him out, to forget he existed in the first place. It had proved to be no mean feat and had been scantly successful.

Three days ago, he'd showed up at the lab,—perfectly tanned, scruffy and rakishly charming. Everyone was so excited to hear about his research project in Santa Maria with Dr. Ellie Sattler.

Claire was getting frustrated, huffing, and placing the bottle by her side as she tried to spin the screw.

"Allow me." Owen uttered in that soothing and heedful tone that never failed to make her melt. Even after all these months.

The act alone threatened to spill her tears.

"Let me help, Claire." He repeated, finally taking a step towards her.

As much as she hated it, he was the only one who could calm her. The only one who could evoke everything warm and pleasant in her. The only one she would never fail to irrevocably miss and crave, always.

But to hell with him.

Claire strengthened her resolve, her mind replaying his little act from earlier.

"Don't." She spat, bitter with every syllable.

He exhaled another sigh and leaned against the sink, a few feet from her, watching. The cork made a popping sound when she finally freed it from the bottle. Claire then reached towards the cupboards and grabbed a wine glass.

Her hand was shaking as she poured the liquid, the lip of the bottle clinking with the glass. Claire hoped, with everything in her, that he didn't notice.

Silence.

She was brimming, on the edge, a slight inch from tipping over. She downed the glass, willing the wine to drown all these resurfaced feelings.

"Claire—" Owen murmured, and she blamed her instincts for quickly turning around to face him this time.

Owen Grady, pride of the NAVY and the better part of Chattanooga, Tennessee, always knew what to say. Even during the most awful situations, one could count on him to quip something totally ballsy.

It was a gift, really. And he was so damn proud of it.

Nevertheless, it had never really been appreciated by the woman in front of him. Which shouldn't have elated him as much as it did.

"What?! What do you want?!" She all but bellowed at him. A triumphant smile broke his face when she finally returned his stare. All big, dazzling, fiery green eyes.

He had almost wanted to answer her with the truth, You, always you.

But he bit his tongue and folded his shoulders in a low shrug.

"If you don't have anything to say, get out." Claire narrowed her eyes at him and glowered: "Get out."

Owen crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. "Nope."

"Go away, Grady."

"Ain't happening." He shook his head at her. "Besides, I live here." He tried to reason, though he knew that statement alone would backfire, sucker punch him right in his face.

"Not for the last six months. And for the record, you live outside the hall. Not here, here. We weren't in that kind of relationship."

His lips twisted into a one-sided smile. "So, you admit that it was a relationship?"

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "No." She replied with the inherent stubbornness that rivaled his own.

He bit his tongue to try and suppress the feelings raging in him.

How could she say that?

For a moment, time stood still between them, the world stopped on its axis. Deep green hazel eyes met sea green ones as he tried to read her. But it proved to be a hard task, because she undoubtedly was (and always would be) the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She was still wearing that floor length backless dress. Her heels were still in place even after their walk out from the Hammond Hall. Her auburn hair was down in light waves tonight instead of the high ponytail she usually wore. And if their late night stroll was an attestation for anything, it was how he was still undeniably and hopelessly under her spell. No matter how angry he had been, no matter how many times they argued and head-butted, Owen knew he would follow her anywhere.

Surely, it was impossible for someone to look like that —glowing, ethereal— even when they wanted to scratch his eyes out. Owen had spent his life studying and understanding animal behavior, and he was familiar with the feeling of powerlessness, of subservience of a prey animal. Right now, he felt like one. He had known Claire long enough to accede to this— his inevitable fate.

But you wouldn't find him complaining any time soon. Or ever.

His brain stuttered under her scrutiny. And for a second he thought he'd seen her indomitable resolve deflate. He should have let her rant and rave all her pent up emotions from where they'd left off all those excruciating months ago. But Owen had never been the kind of guy to live life by the book.

Still, he took a deep breath as he tried to curb the alien feeling that had been bothering him for most of the night; the same feeling that had driven him to claim a possessive, neanderthal-like statement back at the party. The same feeling that had urged him to drag her out of the gala, despite her protests and hisses. But he was a world-class moron, so, of course, he'd failed.

"So, you what? You bring that… that what's-his-face to my party?" He accused, bitter with every syllable.

"Your party?" Claire scoffed. Her nostrils flared, her fingers tightening on the stem of her glass.

Thank God, she didn't notice how jealous he sounded.

"Well, yeah. It was my research we're celebrating. Months of my hard work."

He inwardly cringed, hating how conceited that sounded.

Something glacial crossed her features. "And we are thankful for all that you did."

He noted the malice behind her compliment. But he reined in his own anger. It was not like he wanted to leave her— them. Whatever they were. Owen was perfectly content cooperating with Wu and their slow research developments even if the man was a pain in the ass and a complete villain.

"What are you doing here, Owen?" She asked in an exhausted tone.

He knew how to answer her question, but for the life of him, Owen couldn't bring himself to move his lips.

A tense silence stretched between them like a fiddle string. She wasn't looking at him, which made him even more restless than he already was. His mind went back to the party they'd left and what had prompted him to leave. He had half a mind to, for once, consider what he was about say next.

He should drop it.

It wouldn't do him any good.

He didn't want to make her angrier than she already was.

He should drop it, forget about it, bury it ten feet underground.

Besides, there's a chance he was only overthinking it. Barry had made him aware that even someone as smug and dandy as he was, Owen was still gullible to that reaction.

Because, that guy? What did that shit-head have that he didn't?

A closet full of awfully tight suits, an airline and a chain of hotels and casinos, that's fucking what. A traitorous voice reminded him.

Owen looked at Claire, trying to see if the answer was in her eyes. But she was silent, livid. And his inner debate was clouding his self control and judgment. For his own good, he should drop it.

He fucking should.

Take a deep breath, Grady. Count to ten.

One.

Two.

"Were you going home with that asshole?" He asked before he could stop himself.

Idiot.

And Claire, dear god, she looked apoplectic.

Her pink lips stretched into a horizontal line, her chin jutted forward. Her dazzling green eyes focused on him, like a feline about to pounce.

Owen found himself bracing for the blow. He knew that when Claire was this level of mad, she would be cold, repugnant to the point of unbearable. She would either clap back with the frightening truth or an equally cruel lie. Either way, it would maim him.

"What if I was, Grady?"

There it was.

She was probably lying about that, but still, Owen felt his chest tighten. He couldn't swallow the jealousy raging in his veins at the thought of that sorry of an excuse for a man. He couldn't even bear to say his name lest he be reminded of how the fucker's arm had held her waist. Or how he had whispered in her ear, making her giggle. Owen clenched his fists at the memory.

"Besides, what is it to you?" She added In a patronizing, diminishing tone.

Without hesitation, and with a straight face and the strongest conviction he could ever muster, he said, "Everything."

There was a pause. Owen found himself waiting for a sign- a glare, a twitch, anything- to see if she was affected by his confession. She didn't show it, which made him even more pessimistic.

"You have no damn right to be angry at me, Grady."

"Oh." He derided, "Oh, I have every damn right."

Claire didn't answer, just stared at him with those impossible green eyes of hers. Strands of her fringe had started to fall before her eyes. And Owen's fingers ached to touch them, curl them around his fingers and inhale her scent, make it his drug again.

Needing a distraction, Owen then followed the line of her shoulders. But the tiny freckles peppering them, and most parts of her arms and chest, were too good of a distraction. He was afraid he would lose his mind altogether. But he kept looking, persisted, like a starved man. He was willing to see this through, for them to talk, lay out everything in the open. Claire was so mad at him. So intense, yet so goddamn beautiful he was having trouble remembering who he was and what were they doing in the first place.

"What is your problem?" She interrupted, her inflection was sharper, more accusative.

Right. They were arguing.

She continued, "You punched and disrespected a potential investor. You do know that he could finance your projects for five more years, right?"

He had his grubby paws was all over you! He was bragging about all types of shit that weren't true! He wanted to point out, but opted to say, "I don't fucking care."

"Well, perhaps you should!" She almost screamed, her disappointment clear in her inflection. And Owen felt a strong urge to dent a wall, then deck the dickhead again.

Was Claire really going home with that fucker?

"And what are you doing here so early anyway? The dig won't be finished until next year."

His rationality was slipping.

"Is that it? Is that why you're still angry at me?" He stood straighter now, his insides finally brewing with the same intensity as hers. "You were the one who told me to take that job, Claire."

"Oh, please. You wanted to! I saw the email, Owen!"

He wasn't even surprised or mad that she had read it; the job offer to manage the archaeological dig in Santa Maria. "I said I would think about it. That's entirely different from agreeing—"

"How is that different?!"

Something in him snapped. Owen felt his restraint crumble at her allegation.

What is with this woman that always made him feel defenseless?

Nice job. Jesus-fucking-Christ, Owen. Once again, he'd bitten off more than he could chew. He needed to stop doing that.

"You were the one who kept pushing me away, Claire! The minute someone gets too close, you drive them away. That's what you do!"

She bit back with the same frantic lilt. "That's not—"

"Yes! Don't even try to deny it, Claire. That's what happened with us! What else would it be?!"

"You're way over your head, Grady. It didn't mean anything." Claire snapped, avoiding his eyes and stepping out into the adjacent dining room. He followed her, his blood freezing in his veins.

"Fuck." He shook his head, a derisive laughter coming out of his lips. "I can't believe we're fucking here again."

Suddenly, Claire whipped around to face him. Her countenance dangerous and clouded. "Then leave! No one is telling you to stay!"

"No!" Owen found himself shouting back. He's gonna meet her, ardor for ardor. Even if it's the last thing he'll do. "No, Claire, not this time."

"Leave!" He thought he heard her voice broke, albeit for just a moment. She had an arm outstretched and pointing towards the door. "You did it once. What's one more time for good measure, huh?"

And Owen, for all his control and fortified sense of character, crippled under her reproach. And that was when he knew how bad he had really messed this up. Claire had given him the match, but he'd been the one to light it on fire.

He recalled the argument, right before he left. The hostility and unrelenting exchange of words. He had never felt so drained his entire life. At that time, the only rational thought he had was to leave.

So he did.

The days away from her had been pure torment and torture; Owen still couldn't believe how he had survived. There hadn't been a day where he hadn't thought about calling her. He didn't have to think of her, she was… just there, mercilessly occupying, plaguing his every waking thought.

And seeing her now, the answers sloshed over him like a tsunami:

Maybe he was as terrified as she was. Maybe, at the back of his mind, he wanted her to push him away. That way, he would never have to deal with those perplexing emotions himself. This voluntary relinquish of control, the feeling of defenselessness, the terrifying ordeal of being taken care of, of being loved and loving in return was something Owen never knew would petrify him.

Until now.

Until Claire.

Owen had made a thousand foolish choices. But leaving Claire was definitely the worst one he had ever made in his sorry life. And as soon as he'd figured that out, he had resigned from his post. Dr. Sattler had been more than welcome to accept his decision.

"What took you so long?" The woman had accused, smiling at him . "Go get her."

But as bad as it may have been, the distance and time had put things into perspective.

It was during those crucial months that Owen had finally come to see the thing that made Claire Dearing, Claire Dearing. When he could finally grasp and see past her untouchable persona. Beyond the rage, the hurt and disappointment in her beautiful, beautiful eyes was the same thing he had always wanted. Though they had entirely different ways of expressing it.

Then, amidst the dead silence and the tirade and torrent of emotions, Owen saw the tears haunting her eyes, and he felt his heart drop to his feet, fragmented and pulverized.

It was all coming out now; days of repressed hurt, frustration and yearning finally revealing themselves in all their ugly entirety. This was the conversation they should have had before. The conversation they were both too stubborn and too scared to even think of, let alone tackle.

But he was ready now.

Anger had been ingrained into the human brain to protect us. Studies said that anger was just the secondary emotion to something far greater, far more primitive. People thought that anger was the symptom but it had always been the effect, the outcome and reaction to another emotion.

With that in mind, the real question Claire found herself asking right now was, what am I protecting underneath this anger?

Claire was shaking.

She could feel the burn behind her eyes.

Owen took a step forward just as she retreated. Her back hit the chair. Her hand wiped away the tears she had tried to repress.

"Claire—" he started, his voice quiet and helpless—matching her own.

"No."

"Claire."

She shook her head, allowing more tears to fall. "No! Leave me alone!"

"No." He muttered beneath his breath.

Her knees felt weak. She needed to move, walk, run or else she'd fall down. This was why she had never allowed herself to be alone with him after his arrival. Why she had never talked to him, why she'd avoided being in the same room as him. He mustn't get to see her cry again. He mustn't get to see that vulnerable side of her more than he'd already done.

"I don't have time for this. Please, get out." She pleaded, escaping towards the kitchen again. Her hands still clutched the half-empty glass in a choking and grounding grip.

"I listened to you once, I'm not gonna make the same mistake again."

"What do you want, Owen?" She asked warily, letting the exhaustion reflect her words. "What do you want me to say? How do you want me to respond?"

"With the truth."

"And what's that?"

"That you didn't want me to leave in the first place. That it was easier for you to fight, to push me away, than to be vulnerable for once in your life."

Claire slammed the wine glass down the sink in objection. But once she did, she heard the ceramic broke. For a second, she felt the prick piercing her flesh, then the burning sting as the cold, night air breezed through.

For the first time, Owen's eyes left hers and looked down. She followed suit and saw the long, red gash across her left palm. Blood and alcohol were trickling down the sink and the vessel was broken in serrated pieces.

"Shit." She muttered in disbelief, forgetting herself for a moment and quickly turning on the faucet.

She didn't see him move until he stood next to her. Owen snatched her hand and increased the pressure of the water by turning the dial to its max. They both grabbed the soap at the same time; she withdrew her hand to allow him. The running water offered little relief as he continuously rubbed the spot, examining the depth of her injury. Claire alternated between staring at his hands and face. His features sharp and undeterred. His hands calloused, but tender and comforting. Owen then reached behind his pants and grabbed a handkerchief.

"Keep it there." He ordered in a monotonous voice, dabbing the cloth on the wound, drying it.

Claire, stunned by the sudden shift in him, let him tend to her.

Next, he extended his arm above her again, allowing his scent to waft over her. He opened the cupboard where she always kept her first-aid kit. Grabbing her wrist, Owen led her towards the area in her kitchen with better lighting. He laid out the cotton, gauze, peroxide, scissors, ointment and medical tape.

Owen moved in an ominous silence— the kind that only resurfaced during the rarest of occasions. And Claire could only observe him.

Truth to be told, this side of him had always, always sent her into pure, irrational panic.

He opened the bottle of peroxide and applied pressure on her hand, a little too hard for her liking. Pain shot through her hand. Claire flinched on instinct and jerked her elbow back. Owen balked, his stern and authoritative dark green eyes lifted to meet hers in apology.

Not wanting to break the silence, Claire only nodded in approval and relaxed her hand. Owen poured the peroxide on a ball of cotton and adjusted his hold. He held her, and swabbed the cut with a gentleness that she knew he'd always been capable of.

It was hypnotic, almost meditative.

That moment allowed Claire to calm down, until she could no longer feel the throbbing vein on her temple or her ears palpitating. She took a stabilizing intake of breath. In and out. Although her temper had dissipated, she felt an all-too familiar adrenaline rekindle, coursing through her veins. Claire would then assure herself that the sparks she was experiencing were due to the burning sensation of her injury and the antiseptics, and that the lightheadedness she was feeling was because of the wine she had voraciously ingested in order to avoid looking at Owen. She was so busy convincing herself of this, that that she almost didn't hear him when he said,

"I'm sorry."

She met his eyes, unsurprised to find them concentrating into hers. She could feel his breath on her face, could feel the insane amount of insecurity permeating off him. He dropped her now bandaged hand but kept the proximity. It was starting to make her head spin.

"I'm sorry for not calling you and for leaving you the way I did. I'm sorry for giving up under the first sign of pressure. I truly am, Claire. I was an idiot." He paused before he corrected himself. "I am an idiot… Can you forgive me?"

She steeled herself, fighting the tingling sensation behind her eyes again.

In all seriousness and to the extremest degree, they both know that he was right. All allegations that she drove him away were well founded and accurate. And for him to highlight it for her was unsettling.

Owen had been nothing but chivalrous and thoughtful towards her. He was considerate and sweet. He argued, challenged, goaded her to no end. She had never seen someone work harder to gain her respect and trust. Never seen someone willing to compromise anything for her.

So, naturally, it scared the hell out of her.

Claire thought that once he left, she would feel a great relief. And their years of tip-toeing around each other and the memories of occasional, mind-blowing sex would cease to exist.

And yet, here she was. Claire had never met someone who could effortlessly push her buttons. Never met someone that could summon a million butterflies in her stomach with just a wink or a crooked smile. Never had she met someone so intoxicating that the mere thought of him moving on with his life, without her, was sending her off the cliff.

In retrospect, Owen was the only one that made sense to her. And the only one who could touch her, kiss her, even just look at her, to the point of madness. Everything had always been black and white, superficial, except him. He was every color, so bright, so full and blinding.

She had been holding herself back. Afraid that he wasn't on the same page as she was in terms of her feelings towards him, them. When, in all fairness, they'd both been reading the same book. Owen may have been just a few chapters ahead (as he always was), but he was there with her. And she almost crumbled at the realization.

She knew full well that Owen was the better person. The best listener, the most impulsive, most stubborn yet most generous, most passionate man she would ever have the good fortune of meeting.

So, if there was someone who had to be sorry, it was her. Not this beautiful, strong, smart-ass man in front of her.

Claire felt her walls tumble down. She was over and done with all the pretense that he hadn't affected her. She was beginning to understand that sometimes, life was unpredictable. And maybe that was a great thing. She was finally letting go of the impulsive need to hide and cower when things became unexplainable. She now knew that she didn't need to know every answer, didn't need to categorize every single thing to her favor. Claire never knew that she only needed his distance, his harsh evaluation to see it in its full clarity.

Now, from here on out, Claire could ultimately address it, feel it in the way she had always wanted.

Holding his attention, she stepped closer to him. The mere impact and relief of it all, almost made her fall apart. She heard him take a sharp breath.

"You don't have…" she murmured, gaining courage. "You don't have any idea how being away from you almost killed me."

Claire noted how his crestfallen countenance lit up at her words, so she continued, emboldened; her voice a mere whisper as she inched closer.

Her face tilted towards his towering figure, holding his eyes. "If you didn't it know before, I'm telling you now."

Owen stood frozen on the spot, pupils wide, curious and heavily fixated on her.

And Claire gladly seized this opportunity.

She brushed her lips against his in the softest touch. A long-overdue apology for her cowardice and narcissism. And for all the times they had lost.

Her heart was in her throat when for a few seconds he didn't move. But when he did, Claire all but collapsed against him. Her injured hand prickled when she clutched a handful of his top, dragging him down to her height.

Owen's fingers went to her hair, carding through the strands on her shoulder over to her back. His lips were demanding but delicate, like a butterfly flapping its wings. Overwhelmed by the familiar calmness it evoked, Claire sighed, melting into it.

She pulled away gradually, nudging her nose against his. Owen still had his eyes closed, his fingers twiddling in her hair. Claire cupped his face, caressing him slowly with small quick kisses.

Owen then finally spoke, opening his eyes and scanning every inch of her face. "Why do you always have to drive me crazy?" He then turned his head to kiss her patched hand, igniting something that was once a taboo for her.

A timid smile made it to both their lips before Owen made them collide again. Claire's hands dove into his hair, under his collar before rounding up on his nape.

Claire inclined her head to the side as his tongue probed her territory. She moaned, clutching his ears with both hands. Owen grunted, crushing her body against his until she could feel the yammering of his chest against hers.

Without taking his lips off hers, he lifted her on the counter and stepped between her legs. His hands hiked up her dress, before going underneath it. His digits flitted over her shins, knees and thighs, pulling her closer to the edge, closer to him. Her nails held his broad shoulders, whimpering when he pulled away.

"We should probably continue the conversation." He was panting, eyes blown, lips smudged with her lipstick.

"You wanna talk… right now?" She chuffed, bringing her uninjured palm to his jaw, slanting his head so she could follow the stubble on his neck with her lips. He obliged, chuckling at her devious conquest. His warm and skilled hands gripped her thighs.

Owen shrugged and said in a poor attempt to stop her, "I just love it when you flatter me."

"Why am I not surprised?" She stole a quick kiss before throwing his tie to the ground and biting his lip. He groaned, his hands immediately going to her naked back, crushing her against him. Claire snuck her hand to remove the buttons of his shirt, and he grumbled something animalistic as her fingers met the hot skin on his chest.

"Fine, you want to talk? Let's talk." She teased, tipping her head backwards as his lips followed the décolletage on her dress.

"No. Nu-uh." Owen groaned, clamping his teeth on the fabric on her collarbone. His fingers lingered on her inner thighs, nearer to where he'd been terribly missed. "It was a bad idea. No more talking."

She bit on his earlobe, grinning for all she was worth. "Are you sure?"

He yanked her hips and settled her on his waist. His hands went on her lower back and Claire wrapped her legs around him on instinct.

"We'll have plenty of time to talk about this." He managed to say between kissing her lips and neck. "Tomorrow."

"Hmmm." She agreed, sucking his left earlobe. "Looking forward to it.

His legs moved as they continued their mindless groping, sighing against each other's mouth in relief. They almost toppled over the coffee table and Claire' fallen shoes. She laughed again, locking her arms around Owen's neck and crossing her ankles behind his hips. Owen regained his hold and held her tighter against his torso, cursing.

She laughed. "Some athletic man you are, Grady."

"Oh, shut up." Owen squinted his eyes in an unappreciative gawk.

"Or what?"

He rose to the challenge and unashamedly pressed the hard planes of his body to hers, his hands gripping and squeezing her rear. That made Claire stop squirming. She gaped, her jaw dropping, her breath shortening.

"Good girl." He praised, his voice dropping to the lowest pitch.

Now, there were only a few things Claire found guilty pleasure in. For the sake of saving face, it was not uncommon to want to hide them. Included in the brief list was Mr. Goodbar, the peanut and chocolate combination that had always been her comfort food since she was a kid. Another one was collecting colorful post-its, because why the hell not. And third, and for heaven's sake, that, her secret fetish. One she didn't know she had until him.

And he knew.

The bastard knew.

Because, of course he did.

Owen gave her that cheeky, lopsided smirk and hung his head to the side. His eyebrows rose in his trademark, cocky, come-hither attitude. She didn't say anything but rather pushed her body tighter against his, wiggling as she did so, her covered center rubbing against his abdomen.

She ogled as his eyes dilated before she felt his legs speed up towards the bedroom. He kicked the door with his foot and closed it the same reckless way.

Claire had always been meticulous about what she surround herself with. Especially scents.

The smell of sunlight and sandalwood hovered in the air, overpowering the smell of her clean sheets and marshmallow-scented candles. But she figured that, without a doubt, not only didn't she mind, but she actually preferred the former two.

There was also an overwhelming warmth radiating from behind her. She smiled contentedly, snugging back into it. She heard a gruff rumble of her name before something soft pressed against the back of her head and her ear. Warm breath tickled her hair. Calloused hands and thick legs wove with hers like a vine. A steady thump on her shoulder blade lulled her into the most satisfying sleep she'd ever had in months.

Just as she was contemplating on staying on bed all day, nuzzling close to the heavenly warmth behind her, there was a series of loud knocks at her door. Her sandy eyes blinked open, reacquainting herself with her surroundings. She heard a deep hum behind her, intrepid fingers tightening their hold on her stomach. Another kiss on her hair.

"Claire?" The voice behind her door called again, followed by another knock. "Are you there?"

Her eyes widened in realization, and she bolted upright from the bed. The arm resting on her stomach flung to the side and the sleeping form beside her grumbled in protest.

"Shit!" Claire stood up, clutching her blanket, pulling it from under Owen's snoozing figure. She glanced at the clock on the other side of the bedside table, reading 8:17AM. "SHIT!"

"Claire?" Owen murmured sleepily before turning his head to the other side. She ignored him and practically ran towards her closet, murmuring curses as she did so.

Another loud knock on her door.

"Hang on, hang on!" She murmured, grabbing the first garments she could get her hands on. She then moved closer to the front door, certain her voice would be heard on the other side. "I'm coming!"

Owen suddenly raised his head at her yelling. He was lying on his stomach, a blanket draped over his hips alluringly, hair sticking in every direction. "What?" His body pivoted towards her. Eyes fluttering slowly into focus. His voice still groggy with sleep. "What's happenin'?"

She paused buttoning her pants to throw him a pointed look. Owen squinted his still-sleepy eyes on her, confused. "It's saturday, babe. Where d'you have to go this early on a saturday?"

Owen plopped down on the pillows again, yawning, eyes following her to the ensuite bathroom.

"I have a meeting at 8:30 with those guys from Mercer." She supplied automatically, tucking her blouse and brushing off a smear of toothpaste on her chin. It would have been so much easier if the gash on her palm wasn't sore. She figured she'd change the bandage at the office. "Stay here, stay sleeping okay?"

Owen raised a dismissive hand at her, eyes closed.

"I'm coming!" She shouted, opening her bedroom door.

Claire snatched Owen's tie and shirt strewn on the floor lamp and the dining chair. She took another quick glance at the room to make sure everything was in place and suitable for general audiences before unlocking the latch. She swung the door open to reveal her assistant.

"Hi Claire!" Zara greeted chirpily, despite waiting at her door for almost eight minutes.

"Good morning, Zara. I am so sorry!" She said, opening the door wider for her to come in.

"Don't worry about it. Just thought you forgot that we're having the meeting at the cafe downstairs."

"No, not at all! I just had a crazy night." She said distractedly, kneeling by the couch in search for the heels she was wearing last night.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Though to be honest, Owen was right to knock the bloke out. He was disgusting."

"That's what I was trying to tell her." came Owen's sleepy voice, yawning. "Hey, Zara." Owen's voice emerged from the bedroom.

And for a few excruciating seconds, Claire stood still, praying for everyone's sake that he was decent. She slowly turned around and released a great sigh of relief. He was wearing a blue sweatpants and ratty shirt she had pilfered from him and kept hidden in her bottom drawer.

He walked barefoot towards the kitchen, offering, "I'm making omelet. You ladies want to eat first?

The mortification of getting caught with a man in your apartment in the early hours of the morning finally came forth. Claire blushed, watching Zara's jaw fall lower to the floor.

"No." She squeaked. "No, we're good."

A muffled "Alright." Came above the rattle of cupboards and pans in her kitchen.

"I— wha—" Zara stammered, her eyes following Owen. "Oh my god—"

"Well then." Claire was shoving her towards the door, while her assistant was craning her neck towards her kitchen.

"Bloody hell, that's—" Zara was clearly still in shock.

Claire knew the end of that sentence, so she hastened her reply. "Yes."

"And you guys—"

"Yes. Yes, we did!" Her face, she was sure, was as red as a tomato.

"No, no, no, Claire! Wait,—"

"I'll be there in a minute." And closed the door to her friend's face.

Claire turned on her heel and approached the kitchen where she saw him placing her teabag in a cup of hot water.

"Tea?"

Owen held a mug of hot ginger tea, arm outstretched. A coy smile on his lips that still managed to outshine the golden rays sifting through her curtains.

Their eyes met through the threshold. And Owen stilled, holding his ground.

Despite the candid revelations last night, he still couldn't help but feel anxiety seep into his bones again.

"I… uh… Have to go–" Claire reasoned, looking like she was ready to bolt out the door any moment now.

"Right, yeah, yeah, yeah." he tried to sound not so worried.

"Yeah." Her eyes were downcast, she chewed on her lip, looking lost, which was absurd since she lived here.

A beat of deafening silence fell on them. It wasn't awkward per se but there was tension. And during these anticipated moments of deliberation, Owen had always trusted his gifts to save them. He slanted his head. His tone teasing but wary. "Love 'em and leave 'em, right?"

He didn't know what drove him to look away first. But he had barely started turning when he felt her hands on him, and next thing he knew, he was clutching the handle of the mug, avoiding a spill. And Claire was pressing him against the wall.

She took advantage his moan of surprise to deepen the kiss. And Owen could only retaliate with the same intensity. With slightly open eyes, he placed the mug on the nearest available surface. And pressed himself more persistently against her.

There was something desperate about the way she was kissing him that made his heart explode in places he couldn't have ever imagined. He wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting her up so they were on the same level, while his other hand tangled in her hair.

"I thought you were late." He smirked against her jaw, lowering her back on the ground.

"I am." She giggled heartily, and Owen felt that it was the most glorious sound he had ever heard. "You're such a bad influence, you know that right?"

"You like it though."

"I really do" Claire rested her elbows on his shoulders as he smothered her with kisses.

"Do you really have to go?" He moaned, resting his forehead against hers, pecking her lips every now and then.

She nodded, nudging her nose against his. Her mouth then danced across his stubbled cheeks leaving feather-light kisses.

Owen sighed. "I probably need to go down to the lab anyway."

"Don't forget to wear your lab coat." There was a sultry glint in her eyes. "You know, for safety reasons."

His lips quirked, eyebrows raised suggestively, remembering Claire's impromptu lab visit all those months ago. He had been working late on his case studies. She'd dropped by for the long overdue reports and Owen would have finished them if she hadn't been distracting him by wearing nothing but his lab coat which had gone missing a few days prior. After that night, he hadn't been able to look at his white coat and his desk the same way ever again.

He smiled at her, feeling his heart might burst in his chest. "Oh, I will."

They fell silent for a while, eyes set on each other. Owen could never get tired of gazing at her face, noting the dust of freckles on her nose and cheeks, her luscious lips, elegant nose, the little dimple on her chin and her green eyes that seemed to see right through him. His hands glided across her sides, hers played with the hair on his nape.

He felt the sudden shift in her, even before her countenance betrayed her. Her forehead creased in grave concern, her mouth forming a slight frown, eyes insecure and jaded.

"Hey." He lifted her chin up. His tone soft, calm, patient. "Where did you go?"

"All this time…" Her gaze bore intently into his, making him willing to jump off a cliff for her. Never had Owen been so wrapped up with anybody the way he was with Claire. His focus entirely on her.

"We are in love with each other." Her voice wavered. "Aren't we?"

Owen's chest constricted with such fierce affection for her, it was unnerving. He answered with earnest truth and vehemence. "Yes." His relief must be evident on his face. "Very, very, very much so."

She hummed, staring at his chin before her eyes flitted over his. "Okay."

"Okay?" He never knew he could smile this much.

"Okay." She echoed, crossing her arms around his neck as she pressed herself to him. Her face was radiant. She was so goddamn beautiful, it was borderline illegal.

"Good." Owen's fingers settled on her hips, drawing her even closer. "And just for the record, I'm yours, rain or shine, in any storm, any hellhole or heaven there is."

"You better be." Her eyes crinkled at the corners, her dimples deepened as she tried to hide her grin. "Or else you're a dead man."

"Apparently." Owen replied before touching his lips to hers again, pouring all his love, reverence, passion, that she very much deserved.

Because with Claire, he is safe.

She is his heart.

She is his home.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING! It has been a pretty taxing few months and I just needed an accomplishment to make myself feel better. So, I hope you enjoyed this trash. If you haven't watched Dominion, close this window, get off your butts and watch it now! (but only if you have provisions, of course :)))

PS. I had a smutty scene written for this, (I'm single so forgive me for being a slut) but I wasn't sure if it would fit into this chapter. But if you guys are game to read it, say 'Yes' in your language. :)