He sighs but takes my phone, scrolling like it’s a chore. After a moment, he hands it back.
“‘Fix You’ by Coldplay?” I say, eyebrows raised. “That’s... emotional.”
“It’s about repair.”
“Right. Totally practical. Not revealing ofanyhidden depths.”
He ignores me, but his ears are a little pink.
We fall into a rhythm, music playing in the background as we work side by side. I post a quick update:
Demo Day: fewer sledgehammers, more dust masks and PR damage control. Progress is progress. Swipe for “before” and “during” shots. #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #WreckingBallWasVetoed
As I put my phone away, Owen steps back from the wall, his expression tight.
“That’s not good.”
“What’s not good?” I join him, trying to decipher what he sees in the wood.
“Rot.” He points. “Deep rot in the sill plate.”
“How bad?” My stomach sinks.
“Bad enough.” He crouches, examining it. “We need to expand the demo. See how far it goes.”
Over the next hour, we pull more drywall, more flooring. And it gets worse. The rot extends. The damage deepens. Floor joists. More sill plates. More foundation concerns.
Finally, Owen sits back on his heels, streaked in dust. “This changes the timeline.And the budget.”
I sink onto an overturned bucket. “How bad?”
“Full foundation rebuild. Jacking up the structure. Replacing everything underneath.”
I stare at the skeleton of my house. “Can we save it?”
He looks at me—really looks at me—and his voice softens. “Yes. But it won’t be fast. Or cheap.”
“You can’t build on something unstable,” I murmur, echoing every renovation show ever.
“Exactly.” He seems surprised I understand. “Doesn’t matter how nice the finishes are. If the foundation’s weak, nothing holds.”
The metaphor sucker punches me.
How many times have I slapped glossy finishes over a life I never stabilized?
“So we fix the foundation,” I say quietly. “Whatever it takes.”
He watches me. “No one would blame you for walking away.”
“Everyoneexpectsme to walk away.”
“Not what I said.”
“But it’s what they think.” I stand, brushing off my jeans. “We fix the foundation. End of discussion.”
Something shifts in his expression. A quiet reassessment. Maybe respect. Maybe something more.
“I’ll revise the plan,” he says. “We’ll need permits. Equipment.”
