“I remember everything important.”
Silence settles, the kind that doesn’t feel like absence but presence. His hand finds another set of sketches—ones I haven’t seen.
“These are... future ideas,” he says. And I hear it—that trace of vulnerability I rarely get from him. “For possible projects.”
He spreads them out.
And I stop breathing.
Treehouse-inspired homes nestled in the canopy. Lakeside designs that mirror the waterline. Geometric marvels that somehow look both modern and mythic. These aren’t just house plans. These are dreams.
“Owen...” I say, stunned. “These are breathtaking. This is exactly what Carver Custom Designs should be doing.”
“Maybe,” he says, watching my reaction. “If people want something this... different.”
“They do. Theywill.” My PR instincts kick in. “This is exactly what the market’s missing—tiny house design with actual soul. Not just scaled-down suburban boxes.”
As I flip through his work, I realize this is more than a portfolio. This is trust. He’s showing me the parts of himself he doesn’t share. The parts he protects. The future he’s been afraid to believe in.
And he’s putting it in my hands.
“We start with consulting,” I say, easing into his language. “We build a portfolio around these sketches. Your work. Your vision. My house is your proof of concept.”
He watches me with that focused stillness that always makes the air feel charged.
“This love is under construction too,” he says quietly.
The words hit like thunder—soft but seismic.
And then, just as the shock registers, he adds, “But I think it’s worth finishing.”
I blink.He saidlove.
Not framed as a question. Not hidden behind sarcasm. Justsaid.
“You’re not just part of this house, Winslow,” he adds, eyes holding mine. “You’re the reason I started dreaming again.”
My breath catches as I realize what he’s really saying—the declaration nestled inside carefully measured words. This isn’t just about business or renovation or some abstract collaboration. This is about us. About what we’re building that has nothing to do with floorplans or finishes.
Without overthinking, I reach out and thread my fingers through his over the blueprints. His hand is warm, calloused from years of work, and it folds around mine with a kind of quiet strength that undoes me.
We don’t speak. We don’t look at each other. Just watch our hands, still and certain, resting atop a plan for a future neither of us expected but both clearly want. His thumb brushes gently over my knuckles—nothing showy, just enough to send heat blooming in my chest.
We might have stayed like that for hours if my phone hadn’t chimed, breaking the silence.
I glance at the screen, heart still in my throat. “It’s Adele Hutchinson,” I say. “Subject line: Revised Proposal – Urgent.”
Owen’s hand tightens briefly, then releases mine. He doesn’t ask for the phone. Just waits as I open the email and skim it, my face apparently saying more than I intend.
“Bad news?” he asks.
“Not exactly.” I reread it to be sure. “They’re offering something different. They want to expand the segment. Instead of just the renovation, they’d feature your design work and the potential business. It’s calledFrom Disaster Purchase to Design Showcase: A Tiny House Transformation.”
Our eyes meet. “They saw your sketches from my posts,” I explain. “They think the story works better if it includes your architectural vision, not just my impulsive auction mistake.”
Owen’s gaze sharpens. “What’s the catch?”
I take a breath. “More filming days. Longer production. And… they want me to stay in Maple Glen. Indefinitely. They’re talking about follow-up episodes. A business launch. Ongoing documentation.”
