“Just bent to accommodate my impractical aesthetic preferences,” I say, grinning. “Admit it, Carver. You’re getting flexiblein your old age.”
“Thirty-five is not old.”
“And yet, you know exactly how many inches we saved by trimming the counter edge,” I tease.
“Good design balances form and function,” he says, deadpan. “You taught me that.”
The words land with more weight than he probably meant. From Owen, that’s not flattery—it’s fact. It means something.
“We make a good team,” I say.
His gaze meets mine across the kitchen. “We do.”
By late afternoon,the cabinet hardware is installed and we’re sitting cross-legged in the living area, floor covered in Owen’s layout sketches for furniture placement.
“If we put the sofa here,” he says, pointing to a scaled drawing, “we create a natural division between the living and dining spaces.”
“But then the reading chair gets shoved into a corner,” I counter. “I want it angled toward the window seat. Makes it a conversation nook.”
He studies the layout, brows furrowed. “That reduces the functional pathway by eight inches.”
“But increases the cozy factor by at least fifty percent.”
He shoots me a look. “You’re measuring cozy now?”
“Cozy is a critical design metric,” I say. “Sometimes function has to bow to comfort.”
“Says the woman who wanted to knock out a load-bearing beam.”
“And you admitted I was right. The space feels twice as open now.”
He makes a noncommittal sound that I recognize as reluctant agreement. “The reading chair is negotiable,” he says after a pause. “But the bookshelf stays on the south wall. Proper anchoring.”
“Deal,” I say, resisting the urge to gloat. “But while we’re negotiating, I want the tasseled pillows for the nook.”
He makes a face. “They serve no purpose.”
“They serve joy,” I say. “Emotional support textiles.”
“Three pillows,” he bargains. “Removable. Functional seating must be maintained.”
“Five.”
“Four.”
“Deal,” I say, doing a muted victory dance.
Owen rolls his eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Don’t act like you’re not,” I shoot back. “I saw you comparing wood stain samples like it was a sacred rite.”
“Durability varies,” he says, too serious. “UV resistance matters.”
I laugh, stretching out beside the layout sketches. “You’re secretly a softie with a spreadsheet.”
“I’m a professional,” he says, but his voice is lighter now. “And if we’re building something worth keeping, every detail matters.”
I look over at him, the way the soft light hits the side of his face, the relaxed curve of his mouth as he reads over a floorplan. And I think this man is used to building everything like he means for it to last. And maybe this time, we both do.
