#you might not be paving the way but you are adding a nice stable railing to it

[hiraeth-doux]

Untouchable (4/?)

Summary: A fresh-out-of-the-NAVY widower Owen Grady knows everything about the war. His own child? Not so much. He settles in his home town with his 5-year-old daughter in hopes of piecing their shattered lives back together. And then they meet Claire Dearing…

Okay, bad news - this fic might be a bit longer than I planned. I’m trying to fix the last part now and make it less generic and boring (it’ll still be generic and boring though), and it kind of requires a few additional scenes, so we’ll see. Be warned! And thanks for your love, guys :) I hope you’re having fun so far!

Feedback is always much appreciated :)

AO3  | Fanfiction.net 

The day was cold and sunny, the sky bright-blue over their heads when Owen turned his car off the highway and headed south toward the lazy hills rolling in the distance, standing in stark contrast to the flat landscape, and a handful of low structures scattered before them – a small ranch surrounded by dark shapes of the still-bare trees.

Claire’s friend from college, as she had explained to Owen, was running a training program there and kept a couple of his own horses in the stables. He was not working on Sundays, but they were to mention his name to whoever was around today to get a tour and some horseback time for Harper. The girl was giddy with delight, her face pressed to the cool glass, peering out with anxious anticipation at the vast expanse of empty fields on either side of the road.

She’d been up since dawn, Owen told Claire when they picked her up half an hour ago, bouncing off the walls for hours even though she knew they were not leaving before 11 and asking him one question after another despite the fact that he knew about as much as she did. It had been so long since the last time she was this enthusiastic about anything Owen was scared to joke about it up for fear of jinxing it and chasing it away, but he sort of guessed Claire knew it already, his daughter’s excitement palpable and quite infectious, too, filling the space and the pauses between them.

Filled with odd, buzzing energy, Owen kept darting quick sideways looks at Claire, sitting in the passenger seat next to him, her coat unbuttoned and her scarf loosened in the warmth of his car. But their eye contact was fleeting, her attention focused primarily on his daughter, and after a while he started to question whether the small moment in his kitchen happened at all. It was rather tempting to chalk it up to his wishful thinking, or a case of temporary insanity, and for a moment, Owen wanted desperately to jump at the opportunity to do just that. Except it was pretty damn hard to erase the memory of her face so close to his he could feel the warmth of her skin, and the light touch of her mouth to his.

However, if it bothered Claire at all, he could see no sign of it, and by the time they reached their destination, Owen decided to go along with the whole ‘ignoring the elephant in the room’ plan and act like nothing had changed, if that was what she was doing. Not that anything did, he reminded himself. Certainly not that pang of guilt that would jolt through him whenever he’d catch himself wanting more from his life than he already had.

There was no need to make anything unnecessarily awkward. Well, more awkward than it already was.

Owen whistled quietly under his breath when he turned off the paved road and onto the gravel one, splattered with patches of snow, leading toward the main entrance.  

The whole complex was neat and impressive – freshly painted barns and stables, busy on the weekend even despite the chilly weather, and a farmhouse in the back that, according to Claire, housed an office, a vet station, and living quarters for the live-in grooms and guests staying overnight.

In the distance, five bay and black horses roamed lazily around the pasture, ankle-deep in the melting snow, while to the left from them, a teenage girl trotted on a white mare around one of the equestrian arenas, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the afternoon sun. Owen and Harper walked over to it to watch her do basic jumps and practice a fancy-looking prance while Claire talked to a young man in practical knee-high boots and thick jacket covered with dust about their arrangements.

The air smelled faintly of soil, hay, and manure – not an unpleasant combination, albeit an unfamiliar one, that stirred something akin genetic memory in him. A recollection sewn into his DNA. Harper promptly climbed onto the fence, clutching the wood railing tightly with her hands, mesmerized by the dance of the white horse whose mane rippled like waves of the sea in the wind.

“Whatcha think, kiddo?” Owen asked her.

“Can I have one?” She whispered without tearing her gaze away from the girl and the mare.

“Not so fast,” he huffed good-naturedly, and then pried her off the fence when he saw Claire waving at them, motioning for them to come over. “Let’s see what else they’ve got, how ‘bout that?”

From her perch on Owen’s hip, Harper was more than eager to pet a few animals as the three of them took a walk around the farm, stroking their noses and long, soft manes, giggling when they’d snort and sniff at her, probably looking for a treat. However, for her own first experience, she chose a stocky dun pony named Chester with long grey bangs hanging over his eyes, somewhat cautious around the bigger beasts that looked gigantic up close.

“You know this means the world to her, don’t you?” Owen asked Claire as they watched a young groom lead the pony around another outdoor arena with Harper on his back, her hands clasped rightly around the saddle and reigns, her face pinched in concentration.

Leaning against the fence, Claire smiled softly without turning to him, her eyes following the girl. “It’s fun for me, too. The most exciting thing that happened in my life in the past 10 years was battling my mild addiction to painkillers, so this,” she gestured vaguely around them, “is not a bad change of scenery.”

Almost on instinct, Owen looked down at her jeans-clad legs. “Which one was it? Left or right?” He asked.

“Left.”

He nodded. “Does it still hurt?”

She glanced at him quickly and offered him a half-shrug. “Sometimes. If I overwork it.” Then added, “It’s not that bad now. For several years I couldn’t even fly because I had a titanium implant there that would send metal detectors at the airport into a cardiac arrest. That was… interesting.”

“So, you were basically a cyborg?” Owen clarified, also propping his forearms on the fence next to her, making the old wood creak.

Claire laughed, her eyes crinkling, and shook her head. “Where were you, Mr. Grady, when I needed that kind of pep talk?”

“Hm, when was it, 13-14 years ago?” His forehead creased. “Yup, I was shamelessly hitting on my French Lip prof.”

“You?” She eyed him with disbelief. “You took French Lit class?”

“Hey,” he nudged her with his elbow, all righteous indignation, “I have multitudes, too.” A pause. “Besides, it sorta wasn’t a choice. I mean, I thought it would be an easy credit.”

“Was it?” Claire inquired, still chocking on muffled snorts.

He laughed and admitted, “The toughest shit you can imagine.”

Before them, the groom explained something to Harper, showing her how to position her grip on the reigns and what to do with her feet and legs, and then he ran over to the opposite side of the arena, waving at the girl to stir the pony toward him. Slowly, Harper squeezed Chester’s sides, tugging at the reigns until he moved where she wanted him to go, her delight so radiant it threatened to lure early spring out of its hiding.

“She really does like it,” Claire noted, watching the girl navigate her way around the arena, the pony playful beneath her and eager to follow her commands. “I’ll never forgive myself if she ditches my classes for this,” she added half-jokingly.

“Doubt it.” Owen said quietly, his gaze shifting from his daughter to the woman beside him.

She was squinting just a little against the wind, her freckles pale after the long months of little to no sun exposure, her lips parted ever so slightly, curved at the corners without Claire’s knowing it. His heart did a flip, then climbed all the way up to his throat and plunged down into his stomach as an invisible hand squeezed his lungs, rendering him breathless and dizzy and so goddamn terrified he thought he’d black out. Which, admittedly, would make a nice exit.

“Um, you’ve got…” He started.

“Mm?” Claire turned to him just as he reached to brush a strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek and making her skin burn. His face was barely half an inch away from hers – when did this happen? – while their exhales were puffing out in small white clouds that they pushed between each other. His eyes darkened and he swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat as his index finger slipped under her chin, his gaze shifting down to her mouth—

“Daddy!” They jerked away from one another at the sound of Harper’s voice, Claire’s cheeks hot and her breathing shallow. “Look, I’m doing it all by myself!” She waved at him, making her second circle without any assistance from the groom.

Owen smiled and nodded, telling her to keep it up. When Claire moved a step away from him, he chose to pretend he didn’t notice.

On the way back to town, they stopped for a late lunch – or early dinner – at the 50’s-styled diner just outside of the city limits, bustling with other patrons on their way back home after the weekend away. The three of them took a booth by the window closer to the back, and between the slurps of her milkshake and shoving French fries into her mouth, Harper recounted everything she’d seen and done this afternoon, alternating this flow with occasional reminder to Owen that having her own pony would be ‘so awesome’.

“How about you keep your room clean for one week, and then we’ll talk?” Owen suggested, eyebrows raised. Harper’s face fell in defiance instantly, and Claire dove behind her mug of hot chocolate to hide her stifled laughter.

He listened with half an ear, nodding at all the right moments, his own burger hardly touched, as he tried to decide what bothered him more – the fact that Claire would barely look at him or that he had no idea what to say if she did do it. Screwing up twice in two days was somewhat excessive even for him, and something told him that looking the other way twice in row was not an option. Alas, she was focused entirely on his daughter instead, absently tearing pieces off her own turkey sandwich and reminding Harper to breathe as she spoke.

When they dropped Claire off at her house, she slipped out of the car after waving a halfhearted goodbye to Owen and pulled the back door open. “So, you had fun?” She asked Harper, her head tilted quizzically.

“Thank you!” The girl pulled her into a tight hug. “The bestest present ever,” she whispered into Claire’s hair, and Claire squeezed her back, brushing a quick kiss to the top of Harper’s head.

“You’re welcome.”

“Don’t move,” Owen instructed his daughter when Claire started toward her door and hopped out into the cold evening, following her up the narrow path. “Claire.”

She paused, her hand already on the doorknob, her expression puzzled. For a brief moment, her gaze flickered toward the car. “Did I forget something?”

“No…” He hopped up her porch steps two at a time. “I don’t think so.” Winded more from accelerated heartbeat than a 5-second jog, he stopped in front of her, feeling as confused as she looked, his mind empty. “Look, about earlier--” he started and faltered.

“Nothing happened,” she said quietly, never breaking the eye contact.

“I know,” Owen added quickly. “And it’s not that I don’t want it to.” He paused, watching her. From this close, he could feel her, the warmth radiating off of her practically tangible, the green of her eyes pulling him in like gravity. “Because I do, Claire. God help me, I do.” His voice dropped, sounding hoarse somehow, his whole body humming with deep, needy longing. “But it’s too fast, too soon. And Harper… She’s really attached to you and if something doesn’t—I’m sorry.”

This was meant to be an entirely different conversation if he hadn’t talked himself out of it two minutes ago when his guilt kicked in, rendering him paralyzed on the inside. What a moron.

Claire’s lips quirked faintly but the smile never came. “I know. It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize.”

“Okay,” he echoed, not sure what else to say. Not sure if there even was anything he could say.

She pushed the door open. “Thank you for today. I’ll see you later, Owen.”

---

Owen had yet to figure out why some days felt like the whole world belong to him while the others made him wonder if it was falling apart before his eyes. And while the moments of crisis were growing few and far between, he couldn’t help but feel sometime that the entire universe was conspiring against him. Granted, there was no other way to look at it after burning his mouth on his coffee and then promptly spilling said coffee down his shirt, remembering that he definitely needed to take care of their laundry before they ran out of clean clothes altogether.

It did not qualify as a good morning.  

“Harper!” Owen bellowed down the hall for the third time. They were going to be late. Hell, they were late 10 minutes ago.

“I can’t find my bracelet,” she said without looking up when he appeared in the doorway of her room to find her kneeling near her dresser, rummaging through one of the drawers.

Owen ran a hand over his face. “Okay, you’ll have to do without it today then.”

The girl pushed away from the dresser and dove under her desk. “I can’t go without it,” she said with a frown. “Grandma gave it to me!”

He stifled an exasperated sigh. Checked his watch and pursed his lips into a thin line, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “Harper, come on, we have to go.”

“I have to find it,” she repeated stubbornly, her voice breaking. “I can’t go without it.”

“You can and we need to be out the door in two minutes,” he countered, which came out snappier than Owen intended.

The girl looked up at him, “Why does everything always have to be your way?”

“Because I say so, that’s why,” Owen pointed out, feeling like he was starting to lose his patience.

In looks, Harper took largely after her mother – the same curve of her eyebrows, the same slightly upturned nose, the same dark curls, falling nearly to her waist. There was an old photo album with Jenny’s childhood photos that Owen kept in the study and if he put Harper’s picture next to her mother’s when she was her age, they could easily be mistaken for the same person, or twins.

The girl’s stubbornness was all Owen’s, though. She would never leave the house wearing blue sneakers if her heart was set on the red ones, or wear pigtails on a ponytail day, or eat her vegetables if she didn’t feel like it. He had yet to discover a force of nature that could make his daughter do what she didn’t want to do. It was cute when she was little, and one day, he hoped, she would put this trait to good use, but right now it was getting more and more frustrating the older she got, their communication calling for negotiating and compromising, and Owen was starting to suspect that her teenage years would be a nightmare for both of them.

A part of him loved that willfulness in Harper, the determination that pushed her to learn how to walk and read before her peers did, but it also made her withdraw into herself in any situation that was out of her control. This was why she took the loss of her mother so hard – like she was trying to will herself into growing up faster so she could have a better grasp on something that was yet outside of her full comprehension.  He admired her for that, however wistful that admiration was – at times, Owen couldn’t help but think that she was stronger than he’d ever be.

Which was wonderful, all things considered, except they really didn’t have any time for this right now.

Harper’s eyes welled up when she looked up at him. “Why are you so mean?” Her lips began to quiver, and her breaking voice stabbed him right in the heart.

“Harper…” Owen took in a deep breath. “Okay, let’s look for it.”

“Go away!” Angry tears sprung out of her eyes, and she sank onto her bed and gave that knife a twist. “I don’t want you, I want my mommy!”

He exhaled sharply, feeling sick to his stomach.

She wasn’t that far off – if he was in Harper’s place, he’d also want just about anyone else who was more qualified to do the job. He was a joke, and he kept messing everything up. They were constantly late, he was forgetting stuff, mixing up the dates. Half the time, he had no idea what he was doing, and the other half he still wasn’t sure he was getting it right. Owen was trying, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was enough to justify all the mistakes he kept making along the way.

It had been over ten months now, and while they made some progress with their routine, he still felt like a fraud, their lives feeling more like a game, something he could step out of to take a breath and regroup. Particularly, on the moments like this one. A part of him was still clinging to the hope of finding the middle ground, figuring out the balance between having to be two parents at the same time, but even that hope was starting to fade, filling him with dread of being stuck in this uncharted territory for the rest of his life. It was like he couldn’t figure out the right steps, or sometimes the steps were right, but the music had changed.

Owen crouched in front of Harper and reached for his daughter whose shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs, bracing himself for being pushed away, and if she did it, he knew he wouldn’t blame her. However, she leaned into him and pressed her face into his shoulder, her tears soaking Owen’s shirt and her small body trembling.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Owen rubbed Harper’s back gently. “I miss you mom, too. Very, very much. But we have to make it work without her, baby. As a team, remember?” Maybe if he repeated it enough times, he’d learn to believe it.

The girl nodded and wrapped her arms around him, her ragged breathing evening out slowly. “Okay.” She sniffled. “Daddy? Are you going to get sick and die to?” She asked quietly.

“What?” Owen pulled back and wiped away the tears from her cheeks, his forehead creased as he searched her features, his chest tightening at the sight of tired acceptance on her face. “No, honey. Where did you get that?”

She rolled her shoulders in a half-shrug. Her hands dropped in her lap, fingers bunching the fabric of her purple tutu.

“Hey,” Owen tapped her on the chin until Harper was looking at him again. “Never, I swear.” He pulled at her hands until she let go of the starchy fabric – a nervous habit she picked up from Jenny – and clasped them in his palms, their eyes locked together. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” Harper’s eyes narrowed assertively in a cautious hope that she didn’t trust herself with just yet.

He willed himself to offer her a smile, hoping it looked more reassuring than it felt. “Cross my heart.”

At last, the worry lines on her face smoothed out, and she nodded slowly. And then asked, “Can we stay at home and watch cartoons today?”

Owen gave her a look - one eyebrow arched in a silent, Do you need to ask? Harper wrinkled her nose – there was no point in arguing, and they both knew it.

He uncurled from the floor and stood up, and Harper slid off the bed and followed him into the hallway, this time without protest.

Two minutes later, they found her bracelet in the pocket of her coat where she put it the previous evening.

Another thing that Owen discovered after finally dropping his daughter off at school (only 20 minutes late for her first period) was a black cashmere glove wedged between the passenger seat and the center console. He pulled it out and twisted it in his fingers. The fabric was pleasantly soft to the touch, smelling faintly of Claire’s perfume.

---

“I’m just saying – he’s a good guy,” Karen pressed for what felt like a hundredth time.

“I don’t need you setting me up with anyone,” Claire countered with patient tat threated to turn into exasperation any moment now and blew a wisp of hair that kept falling over her forehead off with a huff. “And why would you want to do it, anyway?”

A hand of her hip, Karen regarded her glumly across the room. “My love life is dead in a ditch, Claire. Let me live vicariously through you.”

“Well, thank you, but no, thank you,” Claire snorted. “I can take care of my love life without your help.”

“Right,” Karen snorted, earning an expressive eye-roll from her sister.

After the divorce, she decided to redecorate the house in an attempt to try and erase the presence of her ex-husband from her life to the best of her ability. After living for nearly twenty years surrounded by everything beige and pastel, Karen settled on baby-blue for the living room and mint-green for the kitchen. The hallway was still under consideration.

Currently, she and Claire were halfway into repainting her living room while her sons, Zach and Gray, were sent to clean the garage, the sound of their bickering wafting through the vents as they pushed around the boxes of useless junk no one had the heart to throw out. Claire knew for a fact that they were not likely to make any progress there whatsoever, but at least it kept them out of the way.

However, ending up elbows deep in paint and redecoration supplies was hardly what Claire expected when her sister asked her to ‘come over and help out with something’ on her day off. Apparently, there were two types of people in the world – those who hired professionals for this kind of thing, and those who shamelessly exploited their family.

“You are a professional,” Karen pointed out when Claire brought it up. “And you’re free.”

“Wow, I’ve never felt more appreciate in my life.” She deadpanned.

Claire’s phone dinged, announcing a new text message.

The corner of her mouth curled up at the sight of Owen’s name that popped up on the screen.

Lost anything? it read.

Are we playing 20 questions? She typed back. Should I ask if it’s an animal, a vegetable, or a mineral?

Owen responded promptly, Found your glove.

Claire bit her lip, doing her best to ignore Karen who was making big eyes at her. Thank god, I thought it ran away from me.

The screen came to life almost immediately. Well then, it’s grounded until you’re reunited.

Are you up for the challenge? You saw what it’s capable of. She shook her head, trying not to notice a fluttering in her chest and a soft warm glow in the pit of her stomach.

I have a 6-yr old who’s learning how to make waffles from scratch. I can handle a runaway glove.

You’re a brave man.

Instead of sending another text, Owen called, a picture of him and Harper that Claire took at the girl’s birthday party blinking on the screen – Owen grinning for what he was worth, slightly blurry next to his daughter who was blowing out birthday candles, her party hat slightly askew.

“Hey, um… You need me to bring it over?” Owen asked when she picked up, his voice laced with amusement, and maybe it was the paint fumes, but she almost managed to convince herself that she could no longer hear the notes of tension that seemed to permeate every conversation they had since last Sunday. All one and half of them, and every word they’d exchanged felt like trying too hard.

“No, it’s okay. Believe it or not, I have more than one pair of gloves, Mr. Grady,” she responded.  

He chuckled, and Claire imagined him standing in his kitchen bathed in the morning sunlight tangled in his hair, making it look golden at the ends. Imaged him leaning against the counter with the easy grace he was seemingly unaware of, his cheeks shaded with stubble, probably still sporting a bedhead.

“Yeah, well… I was just worried about your mutual separation anxiety. Wouldn’t want that to happen.”

Claire snorted. “We’ll live.” A pause. “So, waffles, huh?” She could hear the clatter of pots and pans on his end of the line, and Harper’s voice reading from a cookbook or maybe a magazine.

“Stranger things happen.”

They do indeed, she thought.

Like a snowfall in the Sahara Desert.

Or Venus spinning backwards for no particular reason.

Or the fact that practical and level-headed Claire Dearing was grinning uncontrollably like an idiot right now while her logical thinking and pragmatism were having a laughing fit. With a suddenness that left her lightheaded, Claire’s life was spiraling out of control, making her feel like she was balancing on a tightrope – one wrong step, and she’d be flying into the abyss. The only difference between this and a circus trick was that she was blindfolded as well, or at least so it seemed.

God, she was in so much trouble.

“Who was that?” Karen asked as soon as Claire hung up.

“No one.” Claire grabbed her abandoned roller and dipped it into a tray of baby-blue paint, grateful for an excuse to focus on something that wasn’t dealing with the flopping of her heart in her chest. It grew five size too big and couldn’t fit in her ribcage anymore, making her slightly dizzy.  

“Could you be any more obvious?” Karen rolled her eyes. “What’s going on with you two?”

Claire turned away, choosing to concentrate on the task at hand. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sis.”

Karen snorted. “Wanna try that again, but with more feeling?”  

---

There was something soothing about repetitive activities that Owen found particularly comforting. Some people meditated, other knitted, and he loved to run. The simple action of pounding the pavement, one step after another, pushing himself forward helped him clear his mind, set his thoughts straight, or, in most cases, rid him of any altogether. Funny how physical exertion could be so consuming it barely ever left the space for anything else.

A few days after Jenny’s funeral, he woke up completely numb, his mind a black hole, which felt surprisingly refreshing after a long period of agonizing pain over the sickness and the loss of his wife. It was almost like his brain blocked out the whole incident, making Owen believe half the time that Jenny would be in the kitchen or watching cartoons with Harper when he got back home from work. Something like coping mechanism – he was well familiar with the concept in theory after those mandatory therapy sessions that followed one of his NAVY tours.

It was easier that way, too. He could function the way he used to. He could get up in the morning and make breakfast for his daughter and go to work and pick up groceries on his way back. He’d probably lie to himself if he said he wanted it to be any other way. Frozen somehow. Stunned.

It didn’t matter.

At the time, nothing mattered. The woman he loved more than life itself was gone, his whole existence was in ruins – why would he want to feel anything about any of this? A few months ago, he was certain this was how it was going to be until the day he died – going through motions as if on autopilot, sticking to the basics of existence rather than actually living, holding on to the sweet oblivion of dreams that made sense more than his reality.

Not only did it feel better than the alternative, it felt fair. What right did he have to be happy when Jenny was dead? How could he allow himself a sliver of hope for the future when hers was taken from her? He had a clear plan and goal ahead of him – make sure his daughter’s life was better than this. End of story.

And then…

And then he started to thaw, the feelings he never knew he could have again peeking cautiously from their hiding, waking up from a long slumber, shaky and uncertain but eager and willing to overflow him. Of course, he fought them as best he could, shoving them back and burying them deep and shutting them out with persistence and determination. The anticipation of something new and wonderful mixed with guilt and shame, Jenny’s face before his mind’s eye, sobering and grave.

Until the edges of that image began to blur and it cracked and faded like an old photograph, and the heavy black mane Jenny used to wear in sloppy buns on the top of her head and the chocolate softness of her gaze stepped back, giving way to bright-red waves and a dusting of freckles and the sea-green of Claire’s eyes, the sound of her laughter echoing in his head. Until he was going to bed and waking up with her face before his mind’s eye.

In the past decade, Owen Grady had seen enough death, blood and violence to last him a few lifetimes. He’d long lost count of the times when he was half a step away from becoming a memory and never seeing the light of another day again. And yet, it was nothing compared to the animal fear that was clutching him in its sharp claws right now. The fear of taking a leap again and betting on a maybe instead of sticking to a safe no.

Of course, there also was a matter of Harper. Did he have any right to bring another woman into their lives when the memories of her mother were still raw and fresh in his daughter’s mind? No, he did not. It already frightened Owen that she was young, her recollection of Jenny more fleeting than his. In a few years, she would barely remember her at all, the face on the photographs would be a face of a stranger. Was he in a position to speed up this process by bringing another person into their small world after trying so hard and for so long to conserve it the way it had been when the three of them were still together?

But how on earth was he supposed to choose between logic and common sense, and the fact that he was head over heels for Claire?

Owen circled around the park, before slowing down and stopping eventually, breathless. He bent over, hands propped on his knees, gulping hungry for air, his lungs screaming. For once, a 12-mile run left him more agitated than he was when he left the house.

That evening Owen found Harper sitting at the coffee table in the living room after dinner, her school workbook open before her and her crayons strewn all over the place.

“Hey, kiddo? Whatcha you up to?”

“Spelling,” she said when he plopped down next to her.

“Sound like fun,” Owen offered enthusiastically, stretching out on the carpet, but she only shrugged. Then her expression brightened and she peered down at him. “Can we go see the horses again?”

Owen chuckled. “We might have to ask Claire about that.” He made another attempt to gather his thoughts together. Took a steadying. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” The girl reached for a blue crayon and filled the large boxes with shaky P-H-O-N-E.

“What’d you say if Claire started hanging out with us sometimes?” He watched her look for another crayon before diving under the coffee table to retrieve it.

“She’s already hanging out with us,” Harper responded, seemingly more interested in her homework.

Owen cleared his throat. “Maybe more than that,” he said. “Like, maybe we’ll have her over for dinner now and then, or take her to the movies with us, or to the park. Stuff like that. Hypothetically speaking.”

She turned to him with a frown. “What’s a ‘hypoticly’?”

“Hypothetically. It means ‘in theory’,” he explained. “Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. But if she will, would it be okay with you?”

Harper sat back on her heels. “Why won’t she? She likes us.”

He laughed at that. “You think so? Well, I still have to ask her.”  

“It’s okay.” The girl grinned. “Hypo—what was it?”

“Hypothetically.” With a victorious whoop, Owen pulled her down for a vicious tickle attack.

---

“Stop it, man!” Barry demanded from his spot near the workbench where he was scrubbing his hands clean with a solvent the following Friday, its sharp scent hanging in the air.

Elbows deep in the guts of an old Harley Davidson, Owen glanced up at him. “What?”

“You’re humming,” Barry raised his eyebrows. “Why are you humming?”

“I’m not humming,” Owen scoffed.

“You are, too. What is it? Did your daughter get an A or something?” He paused theatrically. “Or is it that hot --”

“Shut up,” Owen told him, his mouth curving into a smile against his will.

“’Cause if you’re not gonna go for it, I might,” Barry warned him, earning a dirty cloth in his face, tossed with surprising precision.

“You need to get a life,” Owen said, pulling away from the motorcycle and standing up, his hands shaking with the nervous energy coursing through him.

“Hey, where are you going?” Barry called after him when he grabbed his jacket and headed for the exit.

“I got a date,” Owen tossed over the shoulder with a short laugh, his insides churning at the sound of his own voice and the idea of… whatever it was he was going to do.

---

It was a little known fact, but her entire life could have easily turned out entirely different.

The first time Claire stepped on the ice, she was 4, and up until this moment, she was living and breathing her dreams about bright, colourful leotards and tight buns and doing gymnastics, like Karen. Yet, when their parents went to sign her up for the lessons, the class was already full, leaving Claire devastated and heart-broken. Her only option was to wait for the next year, or maybe hope that someone would drop out, vacating a spot she could take.

Her mother suggested trying ice-skating to fill the time until Claire could join the next group, and the offer wasn’t met with enthusiasm. Why would she want to do it if it wasn’t gymnastics? But Claire didn’t have much of a choice except to maybe sulk in her room and fell miserable, and at the time, she really, really wanted to have a thing, like her sister. And after her first hour on the skating rink, she never thought about gymnastics ever again.

Push, turn, jump…

Triple flip, her lifelong nemesis.

Claire winced at the mild tug of ache in her leg, caused by an awkward landing. It was all about the setting - knowing what she had to do and seeing it in her mind wasn’t enough. Her body needed to be aligned perfectly and positioned properly for every move. She knew from experience how doing it wrong might end.

All her life, she heard people tell her that her techniques looked effortless and smooth and flawless, not one of them seemingly realizing that there was always fear. The ice was merciless if she allowed it to be, yet it also gave her the freedom like nothing else, and the short moments in the air, mere seconds of floating above the smooth, pale surface were worth it. They were worth every bruise and scratch and all of her tears. There was, after all, nothing quite like flying, like an illusion of breaking the laws of physics and tearing off the ground, escaping the grip of gravity at last, longing for more than she could have.

And at the same time, it kept her grounded and focused, her attention zeroed in on here and now. More whole than ever.

Spin, lunge…

“You really are living here, aren’t you?”

A familiar voice broke through the melodic notes of Across The Universe, nearly throwing her off balance – both literally and figuratively.  

Claire whipped her head around, so engrossed in the moment she thought she might have imagined it. It had been so long since Owen casually dropped by when she wasn’t teaching, she’d forgot to look for him in the bleachers, hidden in the shadows outside the brightly lit arena – a habit she developed briefly after the first few time he’d done it. The one she wasn’t particularly proud of.

She straightened up and pushed the hair that escaped the scrunchie holding it together at the nape of her neck out of her face. “Actually, I am. I sleep on the pallet over there,” she motioned vaguely toward the corner of the auditorium. “And my house is just a decoy to keep my sister off my back.”

He chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”

“What brings you by, Mr. Grady?” She asked, only half-joking.

In the two weeks since Harper’s birthday, Owen made a point of having as little interaction with her as humanly possible. No, he wasn’t rubbing it in her face, but his attempts were undeniable nonetheless. He’d drop Harper off and collect her afterward, not a minute late, always ushering the girl out the second the pulled on her street shoes and avoiding looking at Claire for more than a second at a time like she was contagious with something incurable.

As a result, Claire went out of her way to stick around talking to the other kids or their parents until Owen and Harper were gone, desperate to prove that two could play that game. Which only added to her puzzlement that she was seeing him now, not only here out of the blue, but stepping onto the ice, grey ice-skates on his feet. He clutched the barrier for a second to steady himself, stiff and cautious, and her eyebrows hit the roof at the sight of him.

And then he started toward her, not at all uncertain in his movements – something that undoubtedly came from practice.

“Colour me surprised,” Claire whistled under her breath, and Owen laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls to hang for a moment in the hollow space above their heads.

“I actually played hockey,” he admitted. “A long time ago.”

She arched an eyebrow, allowing him to slide closer to her, trying to guess what was it that caught her attention. In a snug leather jacket and black dress shirt underneath it, he looked different somehow, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on what made her think so. Not his wardrobe choices, she decided in the end. She saw him dressed in grease-stained work clothes as well as in casual and what Owen perceived as ‘business casual’ attire before.

No, there was something about him this time…

“And then what happened?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Middle school. Puberty.” He flinched at the memories. “I stopped being interested in hangin’ out with people that looked like me and got into spending time with people who looked like you.” His gaze traveled up and down Claire’s body, and she raised her chin, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“But girls like jocks,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, and they also like having boyfriends who don’t spend 4 hours a day chasing a plastic puck,” Owen countered.

“Fair enough.” She raised her hands, conceding his point. “So…” In one fluid motion, she slipped away and around him, disappearing in the shadow for a second only to emerge in another spotlight, “do you have any other hidden talents I know nothing about?”

Owen pushed back, making a slow semi-circle on the spot, following her with his gaze.

“Sometime I don’t burn the food to a crisp when I cook,” he responded, watching her face.

A laughter bubbled up in Claire’s chest. “Wow, you’re quite a catch,” she started, and then cut herself off with a wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like—It’s all Karen’s fault.”

“Karen thinks I’m a catch?” Owen specified, making an awkward spin as if to prove a point.

“No! I mean, yes, obviously--” Claire rolled her eyes, “--but it’s not what it was about.” She shook her head, trying not to think of the traitorous colour rising up her cheeks. “My sister got divorced recently and she hates when people treat her like a divorced woman instead of like, you know, a person. And I guess I thought you’d also be sick of being defined by something that happened to you instead of who you are.” After that, she clamped her mouth shut, hoping that one of the overhead lights would maybe fall on her head this very moment. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

Owen stayed quiet for a long moment, before his lips stretched into a rueful half-smile and he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “You know, I’ve heard ‘I’m sorry, my condolences’ so many times in this past year that at some point I almost started to believe it was my name. I actually almost introduced myself as ‘I’m sorry, my condolences’ when I first met you.”

“Shame.” She bit her lip when Owen nearly tripped over himself, trying to keep up with her. “That’d make one hell of a first impression.”

Claire didn’t really notice she was skating away from him while Owen was advancing on her until her sacrum bumped into the barrier, catching her off-guard, and the next moment, he was right in front of her, bracketing her with his arms, his hands gripping the railing on other side of Claire for support. And they were both breathless, and she could feel the pounding of his heart against her chest and his warm breath on her face, and the world was spinning so fast.

“Why are you here, Owen?” Claire repeated softly.

His eyes were deep blue and stormy, making her think of being lost in the sea, and drowning, drowning, drowning.

“Trying to not be defined by something that happened to me,” he murmured, his face so close to Claire’s he could see every golden spec in her eyes, every freckle, every smallest detail already seared into his mind. His nose bumped against hers, his lips hovering over Claire’s for a second before she tilted her face up, pressing her mouth to his, her fingers curled tightly around his jacket.

She smelled of something sweet and tasted of cherries – a mix that left him lightheaded, her lips soft and warm against his. And when she started to pull away, Owen dipped his head, deepening the kiss, his teeth tugging lightly at her bottom lip, his heart suddenly too big for his body, and too hot, and too full…

“So I was hoping,” he began when Claire drew back a little at last, “to maybe take you out for dinner. If you happen to have a couple hours on your hands.”

“I think I could shift some things around,” she whispered, her head swimming. “But what about--”

“It’s okay,” he promised her as his shuddered inhale reverberating through her, no longer able to hold back the words he’d been swallowing for quite a while. “I can’t get you out of my mind for one goddamn moment, Claire. Couldn’t for months now, and it’s driving me insane.”

“And Harper…” Her hand traced the collar of his shirt, his skin rippling and shivering under the touch of her cool fingers.

“Harper’s staying with my mother till tomorrow.”

Feeling her face break into a grin, Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling herself up urgently on tiptoes and closer to him, dizzy and elated. “Tomorrow, huh?” Her lips crashed to his again as Owen’s hand slipped up her back, a guttural moan forming in the back of his throat, and she prayed to god they wouldn’t float away.

To be continued....

PS HCs are welcome!