It had taken a lot for Owen to write those four words. He wasn’t a feelings kind of person — no, he preferred to keep his emotions bottled up inside. Life was easier that way — unfeeling, pretending you didn’t care.
But this was driving him mad. The separation, the uncomfortable tension between them whenever they were working together — he hated it. He hated every bloody second of it.
That was why he’d written the letter in the first place, and why he was practically wearing holes in the floor as he paced up and down the Autopsy Room, hoping she would come.
Yet on the other hand, he was hoping she wouldn’t. If she didn’t turn up he would be forced to ignore what he was feeling and just… get on with life. And he would have tried, at least.
He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Everything he thought up sounded too cheesy. The fact he was thinking of doing it in the first place was bad enough, but going through with it?
He was going mad.
His thoughts were stopped when the corner of his foot caught the trolley next to the autopsy table, and both he and it crashed to the floor with a noise that echoed throughout the hub. Owen swore loudly, and as the clanging and clattering stopped he heard a giggle that melted his heart and forced his head to snap around to look to the stairs.