Our fingers brush, the contact sending a current up my arm. Neither of us mentions it, but his eyes linger on mine a second longer than necessary.
The kitchen is barely six feet across—tiny by any standard. It should feel cramped with two people moving around in it. Instead, there’s a choreography to our movements. I reach for a napkin, he steps left. He opens the bag, I move right. We move in tandem, a rhythm we’ve built slowly over months.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, leaning against the counter with his coffee. “Aside from the window seat improvisation.”
“Better than expected,” I say around a bite of cinnamon roll that’s every bit as delicious as it smells. “The house feels different now that it’s almost finished. Less like a construction site and more like…”
I trail off. The word “home” hovers unsaid, too weighty to speak.
Owen doesn’t push. He just nods, his eyes scanning the space with the professional eye of a builder—but softer. Proud, maybe. Or something closer to content.
“The light’s good in the morning,” he observes. “Better than I expected with the easternexposure.”
From Owen, that’s basically a love letter. I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.
We eat in easy silence, the only sound Finn’s occasional sigh when a crumb hits the floor. It should feel strange—this domestic moment in a house that barely had walls a few weeks ago. But it doesn’t. It feels right.
“I’ve been thinking about the TV offer,” I say, setting my cup down. “The one that includes your designs. The business.”
He doesn’t react visibly, but I see the way his shoulders tighten slightly. “And?”
“I think we should do it,” I say, the words landing with a sense of finality. “Not because I need the exposure or validation. But because your work deserves to be seen. Because what we’re building here—literally and otherwise—might help other people find their own version of home.”
Something changes in his expression then. A subtle loosening. A shift I don’t need to name to understand.
“You’re sure?” he asks. “It means staying. For real. The business. Maple Glen.”
“To you,” I add softly, meeting his eyes directly. “And yes, I’m sure. I’ve spent my life running from commitment. Maybe it’s time I run toward something instead.”
Owen doesn’t smile—he never really does—but his whole posture shifts, lightens, like something he’s been carrying quietly has eased. “I’ll call the contractor about extending the camper rental. Until we figure out more permanent arrangements.”
The implication settles between us. Not just longer-term logistics, but something deeper. More permanent arrangements. Like toothbrush holders with two slots. Like futures quietly taking shape in blueprint margins.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, matching his tone even as my heart flutters. “Speaking of plans—what’s on the agenda today?”
Owen slips seamlessly into contractor mode, outlining the last batch of tasks before the TV crew arrives next week: trim work in the loft, touch-up paint in the bathroom, kitchen cabinethardware installation. His methodical delivery is so familiar now I find myself predicting what he’ll say next.
“I can handle the touch-up paint,” I offer, rinsing my coffee cup in the small sink. “I’ve graduated from ‘paint disaster’ to ‘moderately competent with supervision.’”
“Significant improvement,” he agrees, the corners of his mouth tugging into that near-smile. “I’ll focus on the trim. Then we’ll do the hardware together.”
The day unfolds in our now-familiar rhythm—easy, intuitive, unspoken. Where once I fumbled through tools and trailed questions like a nervous intern, now I match his pace, anticipate his steps. We move in sync. A glance, a nod, and we understand what’s next.
By mid-morning, the loft trim is done. I’ve completed the bathroom paint without spilling anything significant. We move on to the cabinet hardware, starting at opposite ends of the kitchen and working toward the middle.
“You’re getting better at this,” Owen says as I line up a drawer pull on the first try.
“I had a good teacher,” I reply, looking up to find his eyes already on me. That focused gaze that makes everything else quiet down. “Though I still think power tools should come with warning labels tailored to people with my coordination.”
“Most of them do,” he says. “You just don’t read the manuals.”
“Manuals are suggestions,” I say breezily, moving to the next drawer. “Like recipes. Or speed limits.”
“Or building codes?” he adds dryly.
“Those seem... slightly more important,” I concede. “Though I notice you made adjustments to the window seat design that weren’t exactly textbook.”
His brow arches. “Structural integrity wasn’t compromised.”
