She waves him off. “Relax, I’m being nice. It’s refreshing to have someone shake things up. Especially someone who’s actuallystayingto fix that place instead of fleeing the second the roof creaks.”
“The foundation’s... conceptually salvageable,” I say, catching Owen’s eye. “The land’s pretty. The view’s nice. The trees aren’t judgmental.”
“You’ve really sold me,” Maggie says dryly. I decide instantly that I like her.
“I’m workshopping slogans. So far I’ve got: ‘Tiny house. Huge tetanus risk.’”
That earns an actual laugh from her. Even Owen’s mouth twitches.
Walt gestures toward the collection of materials. “This is the first round. You’ll need more once you start removing what’s left of the original foundation. Good call on those custom support beams, Owen. Standard stock wouldn’t have worked on that grade.”
“The property’s got slope issues,” Owen agrees, inspecting a bundle of lumber with the air of someone who’s never surprised and never improvises.
“That’s one way to put it,” Maggie mutters.
I wander toward a row of window displays near the back—frames mounted with different glass options, catching the morning light in geometric prisms. Ever since yesterday’s demo, we’ve been talking about not just rebuilding what was there, but reimagining it. That means decisions. And light is on my wishlist.
“These are nice,” I say, running a hand along the edge of a wide picture window. “Imagine all the light that would pour in.”
Owen glances over. “Too large. Too much heat loss.”
“But the view,” I argue. “Trees. Stream. It’d be like living inside a forest painting.”
“It’d be like heating the outdoors.”
“We can’t all be emotionally invested in insulation R-values.”
“Structural before aesthetic,” he says, examining a sheet of specs. “Windows later.”
“Iknow.Foundation first,” I sigh. “Butwhen wedoget to windows, I want light. I want the inside to feel like outside, just without the bugs and bears.”
Walt chuckles. “Sounds like you two’ve got some design negotiations ahead.”
“‘Negotiations’ implies equal input,” I say, shooting Owen a look.
“Input is proportional to experience,” he replies without missing a beat.
From behind a shelf, Maggie makes a sound suspiciously like a laugh. “This,” she murmurs, “is going to befun.”
The window debatecontinues in the truck on the way back to the property, supplies loaded in the bed and tension simmering in the cab. I’ve spent the last ten minutes advocating for what Owen calls“excessive glazing”and what I call“basic human need for vitamin D.”
“All I’m saying is that windows are about more than just practical light,” I argue as we bump down the gravel road toward the tiny house. “They’re about connection to the outside world. Perspective. Being able to see beyond your immediate surroundings.”
“They’re also about heat loss, security, and structural integrity,” Owen counters, tone patient but firm. “Especially in a small space where every square foot matters.”
“Which is exactly why thequalityof that space matters even more,” I persist. “I want a window seat. Specifically, in the living area, facing west toward the stream and those big trees.”
Owen glances at me, expression shifting from professional disagreement to something more curious. “A window seat.”
“Yes. A proper one. Built-in, with storage underneath and enough room to actually sit comfortably.” I can see it so clearly in my mind—a cozy nook with cushions, shelves for books, a placeto watch the sunset through the trees. “I want somewhere to sit and watch the world without being in it.”
The cab goes quiet as he processes that. When he speaks again, his tone is different—less technical, more careful. “That’s wasted space in a tiny house. Every square foot needs to be functional.”
“Itwouldbe functional. Multi-functional, even. Seating, storage, natural light. And it would be...” I trail off, struggling to articulate why this matters so much. “It would be a sanctuary. A place just for existing—not doing.”
Owen pulls up to the house and parks, but doesn’t get out. He turns fully toward me, those gray-blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
“You’re serious about this,” he says finally.
