“Adding this,” Owen echoed, unimpressed. “That’s what you think you’d be doing.”
“What would you call it?”
“Being honest.” He shrugged. “Letting her know how you feel. Seeing if maybe she feels the same.”
“And if she doesn’t?” The question came out quieter than I meant it to.
“Then at least you stop guessing.”
I stared down into my coffee, the surface reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead, warped and flickering. “She was clear from the start. Separate rooms. No romance. This stays business.”
“That was three months ago.” Owen’s voice softened. “People change.”
“What if she hasn’t?” I swallowed. “What if this is just me catching feelings where I’m not supposed to?”
Owen went quiet. Then he leaned forward, forearms on the table, the way he did when he was about to say something that mattered.
“You remember what you told me after the Garrison Street fire?” he asked.
I did. God, I did.
A family of four. Smoke everywhere. One bedroom too far. We’d pulled three of them out, and Owen had carried the weight of the fourth like it was carved into him. Months of second-guessing. Of what-ifs. Of replaying every decision like there had been a right one we’d missed.
I’d sat across from him in this same station, coffee going cold between us, and told him the thing I’d learned the hard way.
You don’t get to know the outcome before you act. You just do the best you can with what you have—and live with the honesty of it.
Remembering that now felt like being caught in my own words.
And realizing I might be about to ignore them scared me more than the answer ever could.
“You said doubt is part of the job.” Owen didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. “You said the only way through it is forward. Sitting still just lets it rot.”
I shifted in my chair. The metal legs scraped softly against the floor.
“That was about a fire.”
Owen’s head tipped, just slightly. “Was it?”
The answer stayed lodged somewhere behind my ribs.
He stood, crushed his empty cup in one hand, and dropped it into the trash. “So tell her.” A pause at my shoulder. “What’s the worst that happens? She doesn’t feel the same. You finish out the year. You both move on.” He glanced back. “At least you stop wondering.”
“And the best?”
His hand rested on the doorframe. He didn’t answer right away.
“The best,” he said finally, “is she’s lying awake in her room having the exact same argument with herself. And you’re both too stubborn to be the first one to say it.”
I exhaled through my nose. He wasn’t wrong. I hated that part most.
“What about you?” The question slipped out before he could leave. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”
Owen smiled. A real one, not the guarded half-smile he gave most people. “I’m seeing Sarah. You know that.”
Right. Sarah. They’d been together for almost three years now, and Owen was happy. Genuinely happy. It looked good on him.
“Right,” I said. “How’s that going?”
