Probably. Maybe.
I arriveat the tiny house at 7:58 AM—technically early for our 8:00 start, but already two minutes behind Owen’s internal schedule, according to the laws of the universe. His truck is parked in what I’m beginning to think of ashis spot,and the sounds of methodical movement drift from inside.
I’ve spent the morning preparing for Demo Day with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for first dates or high-stakes client pitches. Three cups of coffee. Two hours of YouTube tutorials. One outfit carefully chosen to saycasual but competent—new jeans, a flannel shirt I panic-bought at the general store (which feels dangerously close to cosplaying as a local), and work boots stiff enough to guarantee blisters by noon.
“Hello?” I call, juggling two coffees and a bag of muffins as I make my way up the porch steps. “I brought reinforcements!”
I nudge the door open with my hip and find Owen mid-markup. He’s already shed his flannel—working in a fitted gray henley with the sleeves pushed up—and is methodically sectioning the wall with blue painter’s tape. Finn lies nearby on a worn camping pad, watching his owner like he’s meditating and Owen is his guru.
Owen glances up. His expression shifts just slightly—concentration easing into something that might be amusement. “Morning.”
“I know, I know,” I say, setting the coffee tray down on his folding table, now crowded with neatly arrangedtools and what look like hand-drawn floor plans. “You’ve probably been here since dawn, whispering to the walls and consulting the house spirits. But I brought caffeine and carbs, so you have to forgive me.”
“You’re not late.” He returns to his work. “And it was six-thirty. Not dawn.”
“Practically sleeping in,” I mutter, eyeing the grid of tape. “What’s all this?”
“Demolition map.” He caps his marker and tucks it behind his ear—a gesture I’m starting to recognize as Owen’s version of a period. “We’re removing damaged drywall in stages. This isn’t a sledgehammer free-for-all.”
I try to hide my disappointment. I spent way too long last night imagining myself dramatically taking down a wall whileWrecking Ballplayed in the background. “So, no cathartic destruction montage?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “There’ll be destruction. Just... controlled.”
“Controlled destruction. Sounds like an oxymoron. Or my dating history.”
I pull out a notebook, flipping to a fresh page. “So, what’s the plan?”
He eyes me like he’s recalibrating his expectations. Then he picks up one of the coffees—silent thank-you—and gestures toward the wall.
“We’ll remove the worst sections first. Then the subfloor, to inspect the foundation. Once we know the full extent of the damage, we can rebuild.”
“Expose the bones before we fix them.” I nod, writing that down like I’m not 60% caffeine and 40% YouTube confidence.
“You’re going to get dirty,” he says, eyeing my suspiciously clean outfit. “Do you have gloves?”
I pull out a pair of gardening gloves with tiny daisies on the cuffs. “Marge lent me these.”
He stares. “Those are for pruning roses. Not demolition.”
“They protect hands and prevent splinters. Seems functional.”
He sighs, a man seeing his life flash before his eyes, and heads to his toolbox. “Here.” He tosses me a pair of actual work gloves. “These’ll do more than look cute.”
I slip them on. “Thanks. Any other Demo Day essentials I should know?”
“Safety glasses. Dust mask. Common sense.”
“Two out of three’s not bad.” I pull both glasses and a mask from my bag—overnight Amazon Prime, bless. “The common sense is still on backorder.”
This time, I’mcertainI see a smile. It’s small. It’s brief. But it’s there.
“Let’s get started,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to tear down before we can build anything up.”
Forty-five minutes into “controlled destruction,”I’m questioning every decision I’ve ever made. Not the house—that’s surprisingly holding up under my affection. But the three cups of coffee? That was a mistake. I’m vibrating at a frequency that’s better suited for hummingbird wings than precision work.
I’ve already broken off a salvageable baseboard, pried off drywall in the wrong section, and apologized five times.
“Sorry,” I say again, holding a jagged chunk of crumbling drywall. “I think I’m using too much force.”
