“Deadly serious. Window-seat-or-death serious. I will die on this weirdly specific hill.”
“Why?” The question is simple. Direct. And it lands.
I look away, suddenly uncomfortable with how much this reveals. “Because I’ve spent my whole life either performing or running. I want a place where I can just...be. Where I can see everything but have a little corner that’s mine. Protected but not isolated.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to unpack. Finally, Owen nods once.
“I’ll consider it in the plans. But the foundation comes first.”
It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either. And from Owen Carver, that’s practically enthusiastic agreement.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “I know it seems trivial compared to, you know,making sure the house doesn’t collapse.”
“It’s not trivial,” he says, surprising me. “It’s your home. It should reflect what matters to you.”
That hits harder than I expect.Myhome. Not just a house. Not just a project. A home. The word feels foreign, like trying on someone else’s clothes.
We unload the supplies in companionable silence,both of us clearly relieved to focus on physical tasks instead of emotional undercurrents. Owen starts organizing materials with his usual methodical precision. I help where I can, trying not to mess up his system.
“We’ll start excavating around the existing foundation tomorrow,” he says as we work. “Today is prep and planning. I need to finalize the structural drawings now that we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Can I see them?” I ask. “The drawings. I want to understand what we’re doing. Even if I can’t contribute much beyond manual labor and enthusiastic demolition.”
Owen hesitates. Then nods. “They’re in my truck. Let me finish setting up.”
While he arranges the tools, I wander the partially demolished interior, trying to visualize what this space could be. Morning light filters through the existing windows—small, practical, and mostly intact despite the rest of the house falling apart. I stand where I imagine my window seat will go, facing west, and close my eyes.
When I open them, Owen is standing in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression. He holds a roll of blueprints and a notebook.
“Here,” he says, spreading them across the folding table. “This is what I’m thinking for the foundation and basic structure.”
I lean in, genuinely interested. Despite my complete lack of construction knowledge, I can appreciate the precision and thought behind the designs. Owen walks me through them patiently, pointing out how the new foundation addresses the land’s slope, where water will drain, and how it’ll all come together.
“And this is the preliminary floor plan,” he adds, unrolling another sheet. “Based on the original footprint. Adjusted for functionality.”
I study it. Efficient. Logical. And soulless.
“It’s very... practical,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“That’s generally the goal in construction.”
“But where’s the joy? The personality?” I glance around. “May I?”
He nods, and I grab a pencil from his tool pouch. I’ve never designed a house before, but spatial flow has always been my thing—layouts, venues, events. I shift the kitchen, sketch in the window seat on the west wall, move the loft ladder. Small changes. Subtle shifts in energy.
“This,” I say, stepping back, “opens the space. The seat becomes a focal point. The kitchen gains a real flow. And you get a sightline straight through the house to the trees. It feels bigger—even if it’s not.”
Owen is quiet a beat too long.
Then: “You have a good eye for space.”
I blink. “Really?”
“These changes are... thoughtful,” he says, which from Owen might as well be shouting.
“I’ll take that as high praise.”
He studies the modified plans. “The window seat would need additional structural support. And the larger windows would affect heating efficiency. But... it might work better than my original layout. For livability.”
