There’s a beat. Then Owen exhales—just enough to let the tightness in his shoulders slip a notch. His mouth tugs, just slightly.
“We were partners once,” he says. “It didn’t end well.”
“Business partners?” I blink. That… wasn’t what I expected.
“Briefly.” He picks up his hammer, signaling the conversation is over. “It was a mistake.”
I want to press—about the partnership, about their whole Alpha Contractor energy—but Owen’s back is already to me, his posture stiff and final.
So I grab my gloves and return to the subfloor, letting the rhythm of work ease the tension neither of us will name.
Later, as we’re cleaning up for the day, the silence between us feels less like a wall and more like a space we’ve both agreed to respect. Still, my thoughts spin.
Maggie’s stories. The childhood treehouse. Boston. The fiancée who left. The late-night sketches. The birdhouses he doesn’t tell anyone about.
Each new detail feels like a light turning on in another room of a house I thought I’d already walked through. And now I’m realizing I’ve barely made it past the foyer.
I came to Maple Glen to rebuild a house—not to care about a man who keeps his blueprints close to his chest and his past even closer. But as I think back to the photo of twelve-year-old Owen standing in front of his treehouse, beaming with pride, I feel it again—that unexpected shift.
Like I’ve found a corner of this place that wasn’t in the original plans.
But now, I don’t want to leave it.
There’ssomething magical about the moment a house starts looking like a house again instead of an architectural trauma site. After weeks of foundation work—digging, pouring concrete, installing support beams, and other deeply unsexy but critically important tasks—we finally have visible progress that doesn’t require a construction degree to appreciate.
“It’s actually starting to look like something,” I say, standing in what will eventually be the main living space. Morning light filters through the newly framed window openings, casting geometric shadows across the subfloor we installed last week. “Something that might not immediately collapse if a squirrel looks at it funny.”
Owen glances up from where he’s measuring a section of wall framing, pencil tucked behind his ear like always. “Structural integrity was always the goal.”
“I know, but it’s different seeing it take shape.” I walk toward the west-facing wall where my hard-won window seat will go. The framing is in place now, the outline clearly visible. “Look—my reading nook is actually happening.”
I catch myself too late—the possessive “my” slipping out before I can stop it. It’s the first time I’ve referred to any part of the house that way, and it lands with unexpected weight. Like I’ve marked my place.
If Owen notices, he doesn’t say anything. He straightens,surveying our progress with those critical eyes that catch every imperfection I’m still learning to spot.
“The framing’s solid,” he says, which from him is basically a standing ovation. “We’re making good time, considering the foundation setbacks.”
I snap a quick photo for my renovation account, framing the shot to catch the way the light pours through the window openings. That account has grown to almost 15,000 followers in three weeks—a number that still feels like a clerical error.
“Mind if I post this?” I ask, turning the screen toward him. I’ve made a point of respecting his no-face, no-name policy.
He glances at it and nods. “It’s just framing.”
“It’s progress,” I correct, caption already forming:
Week four update:We have walls! Sort of! After three weeks of foundation work (not photogenic but VERY important), we’re finally at the “starting to look like a house again” stage. Swipe to see the before/after from the same angle. And yes, that framed-out space on the west wall is my future window seat, negotiated through sheer stubbornness and mild threats.
#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #FoundationsMatter
I hit post and tuck my phone away, returning to the lumber stack Owen asked me to organize. We’ve found a rhythm these past few weeks. I’m still not skilled, but I’ve graduated from “liability with legs” to “surprisingly competent assistant.” I now know the difference between a speed square and a framing square, and I haven’t called anything “the pokey thing” in days.
“Pass me the level?” Owen asks, and I hand it over without needing to ask which one. Small victories.
He checks the alignment, adjusts something microscopic, and nods. “This section’s done. East wall’s next.”
We move across the space and fall into the rhythm again—measuring, placing, securing. Finn watches from his patch near the door, chin on paws, eyes half-lidded in judgment or approval—it’s hard to tell.
Then Owen’s phone rings. He frowns at the screen, then answers. “Carver.” A pause. “When?... That’s not acceptable... No, we need them by Friday at the latest.”
