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He tells her he loves her after only five weeks.
But he knows so much sooner than that. He's known since she ran past him in that ridiculous outfit and those absurd heels, glancing over her shoulder only briefly to see if he was still behind her. (And maybe even before that. She was all sharp angles and harsh lines, but he was good at seeing things that others didn't see, and he knew that there was far more to Claire Dearing than she let most people see.)
Owen wasn't going to tell her so soon. The timing certainly wasn't right. Things were still in such upheaval. They weren't even home. (To be fair, Owen didn't really have a home. His home was on an island that was currently off limits to all humans, and it was looking like it was going to stay that way for awhile.)
But even so, he wasn't settled. They weren't settled. They were staying in a corporate apartment in Houston provided to Claire at the expense of the Masrani Corporation, asked-forcefully- to stay put while the investigation was ongoing. The company was drowning in litigation, and Claire wasn't saying it often, but he knew that she was worried that she would get pulled into it.
(“Think they'll send me to jail?” Claire asked one morning as they lay pressed against each other, his fingers making circles in her bare skin. Her tone was light, but he knew that she was terrified, her body tense in his arms.
“No,” Owen replied, his voice firm. And the alarms go off in his head, because she can't. She can't leave him. He needs her in a way that he's never really needed anyone before, and it would scare the shit out of him if it wasn't so damn wonderful.
“It was my fault,” Claire's voice was muffled as she buried her face in his chest.
“It was not,” Owen said. “No one could have seen that coming.”
“You saw it coming,” Claire's answer was automatic. “You tried to warn us.”
“They withheld information from you, Claire,” he reminded her. “You saved all those people. You risked your life.”
She didn't say anything, and he tightened his grip on her as she trembled.)
The other thing was, he wasn't even sure if she felt the same way about him.
Claire Dearing was a lot of things, including hard to read.
(But he thinks she does. Feels the same way. Because sometimes he'll catch her looking at him, staring at him, her mouth tugging up slightly at the corners, and it does something to him. Makes his heart beat painfully hard against his ribcage. When he turns to look at her, she turns away, but it's there, he knows it's there.)
He hadn't planned on telling her. Not yet. It's too soon. They're coming off an incredibly traumatic event, one where they almost died, where a lot of other people died, and they're not settled, no where near settled, and the last thing he wants to do is heap anything else on her teetering pile. Not when Claire isn't sleeping, between the nightmares and the worrying, she's lucky if she gets even a few hours of sleep a night. If she doesn't feel the same way, if he's misread the situation, if this is just temporary for her, a coping mechanism, then he doesn't want to rock the boat. For his own sake as much as for hers. Because he'll take her any way he can get her. And if they face this thing, talk about it, put into words what they are, and if they aren't on the same page, there's no going back from that. He'll lose her. And he's faced too much loss lately, that one might be his undoing.
But it slips out one night as they lay tangled in a boneless heap in her bed (their bed? Owen came to stay one night and hasn't left, and Claire made space in the closet, and an extra toothbrush appeared, and he's not sure what to think, but he thinks that means that they live together. Officially and all. Even if the apartment is all white walls and cold and mostly bare, and definitely not theirs. It's not an ideal first home, but it'll do).
Claire's sprawled out on top of him, her head tucked under his chin as he cards his fingers through her hair. The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“I love you,” he surprises even himself when he says it, and Claire's head pops up immediately, her eyes wide. Shit.
“What?” She looks stunned, but he can't tell if it's a good stunned or a bad stunned, and he feels his heart start to race, because maybe he has got this all wrong.
He's never been good with people. Animals, sure, animals he understands. But people? People are hard.
Claire Dearing is hard. More complicated than most. Soft lines and hard edges. (But worth it. God, so very much worth it.)
“I...love you?” It's a question this time, only it's not. He loves her. He does. He loves every damn thing about her. So he repeats himself, more firmly this time. “I love you, Claire.”
There's a moment that seems to stretch out endlessly, until Claire's face splits into a wide grin, so wide that he wants to fall into it.
“I love you too,” she replies, and he grabs her and flips her over. She squeals, her smile widening if it's possible, and he fits his mouth against hers.
“Say it again,” he murmurs against her lips. Because he doesn't think he could ever tire of hearing it come out of her mouth.
“I love you,” she breathes out the words as he brushes a kiss to her pulse point.
And it doesn't matter that there are lawsuits pending investigations, or that Claire has a pile of paperwork to get through. Severance packages and wrongful death payouts. That the apartment is all clean lines and impersonal furniture, and not at all them, nothing like a real home where they can stay forever. It doesn't matter that Owen is unemployed and homeless, or that a grainy image of Claire's terrified and desperate face, holding a flare above her head, is all over the media and she's being called a hero by one half of the public, and being vilified by the other half.
None of it matters. Nothing matters outside this bed, and this woman, and the words spilling out of her mouth, lovely rounded words that make him feel warm and full and so fucking loved.
“I love you,” he murmurs into her flushed skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”