Owen would be lying if he said he wasn't scared.

Moving from an apartment as cramped as a fishbowl to Owen's Irish grandparents' run-down house was something that was never in his plans.

But here he was, helping you move the wooden shelves into the house. It was an old house. That wasn't a lie to anyone. The Greek statues and the Greco-Roman copies were a big part of the denunciation, the facade traced by the stone path, the square shapes, the barrels and the well that seemed to gush diamond waters, the walls drawn by the green roots of plants , you'd be lying if you said that this wasn't some kind of heaven.

"Gods..there's so much to do and I don't even know what I want for dinner." He said with an amused grin. running his fingers through his blond hair, his eyes that seemed painted with honey shamelessly admired your figure.