The weight of it lands between us. This isn’t just a spotlight. It’s a new chapter. A potential life.
He processes quietly. No panic, no immediate reaction. Just that stillness I’ve come to know so well. “That’s a big shift from what you originally signed up for,” he says at last, his voice careful. “What do you want to do?”
Just that. No pressure. No expectation. He’s not trying to decide for me. Just holding the space while I decide for myself.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “It’s an incredible opportunity, but it’s also pressure. On a business that doesn’t technically exist. On us, when we haven’t even defined what this is.”
Owen nods. No argument. Just quiet understanding. “Whatever you decide, I’m in.”
My throat tightens. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he says, steady as ever. “Some foundations are worth building on, no matter what ends up on top.”
It makes me smile—pure Owen, anchoring emotion in something solid, something structural. “I’ll let them know tomorrow. I want to sit with it first.”
He nods again and turns back to the plans, giving me space without retreating. No pressure. Just presence.
We work together in companionable quiet for another hour. Focused. Comfortable. Not pretending the moment before didn’t happen—just letting it exist beside everything else. A new beam in our foundation.
As dusk slips into night, I find myself watching him more than the drawings—his focus, the intent in his hands, the quiet satisfaction in his face when something lines up just right. This man who builds birdhouses in secret. Whodesigns homes in silence. Who carved a toothbrush holder with two angled slots and let it do the talking.
Who said our love is under construction, too.
Maybe there’s no blueprint for this. Maybe you just build and hope it holds.
There’ssomething magical about dawn light in a tiny house. The way it creeps through windows that take up proportionally more wall space than in regular homes. How it transforms ordinary surfaces into canvases of gold and amber. The gentle way it eases you awake instead of shocking you into consciousness.
I wake slowly, disoriented for a moment by unfamiliar surroundings, until I realize I’ve fallen asleep on the window seat—the very one I fought so hard to include. The one Owen initially dismissed as “inefficient use of square footage” before eventually conceding its philosophical and practical merit. The one now complete, topped with custom cushions in a blue that matches the morning sky outside.
Finn is curled at my feet, his warm weight anchoring me to the spot. He doesn’t stir as I shift slightly—just sighs, content in his sleep. The repaired birdhouse sits on the sill beside me, its visible seams telling a story of damage and healing that mirrors our own. Next to it, my oldest postcard—the San Diego coastline with ten-year-old me asking if I’d found somewhere that felt like mine.
I stretch carefully, not wanting to disturb Finn, and take in the house around me. It’s almost unrecognizable from the disaster I purchased, drunk and overconfident—the “Sequin Shack” that had once looked one breeze away from collapse. Smooth drywall now replaces the exposed framing. Warm wood floors cover the questionable subfloor riddled with holes. Thekitchen gleams with new cabinets and countertops. The bathroom functions without duct tape. The loft just needs a mattress.
But it’s the window seat that feels like the heart of it all. This space between inside and outside. Between belonging and observing. A threshold—just like me. From perpetual outsider to someone who’s found her place. Not just in a house, but in a community. In a life.
The rising sun paints the eastern wall gold, lighting the spot where Owen and I sat last night, blueprints spread between us, his hand over mine as we talked about the future. The memory sends a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the sunshine.
Finn stirs, stretches, then opens one eye like he’s considering whether it’s worth getting up. When he sees me watching, his tail thumps lazily.
“Morning, buddy,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “Looks like we both christened the window seat.”
He yawns, then rests his head on my lap, clearly expecting more ear scratches. I oblige, watching the sun rise further, transforming the house minute by minute. There’s a peace in it that feels foreign to my normally chaotic life—a stillness that would have once felt like stagnation, now soft and comforting.
My phone sits on the sill beside the birdhouse, Adele Hutchinson’s email still open. The revised offer—the expanded TV feature that includes Owen’s design work and our potential business—still waiting for a reply. The commitment it demands would’ve terrified me three months ago. Staying. Building a business. Building a life.
Now, it just feels like the next step.
I’m still thinking about it when I hear tires on gravel. Finn perks up but doesn’t move. Moments later, footsteps sound on the porch. The door opens, and there’s Owen, balancing a cardboard tray of coffee and a paper bag that smells like cinnamon and butter.
“You’re here early,” he says, taking in my spot on thewindow seat with something almost like a smile. “Testing out the inefficient square footage?”
“Fell asleep here after you left,” I admit, making no move to get up. “Turns out it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least for someone my size. Probably not ideal for someone with your lumberjack proportions.”
“Carpenter,” he corrects automatically, placing the coffee and bag on the kitchen counter. “Not lumberjack.”
“The flannel suggests otherwise,” I tease, finally slipping out from under Finn and joining him in the kitchen. “Please tell me that’s real coffee and not the construction-site sludge you usually bring.”
“Marge’s special blend,” he confirms, handing me a cup. “And cinnamon rolls. Still warm if you move fast.”
