After dinner, Owen lays out the tasks for the night: loft support beams, conduit prep, and maybe starting the bathroom wall framing. It’s ambitious, but doable. The lights hum softly, music low in the background—currently Leon Bridges’ “Coming Home,” one of Owen’s surprisingly soulful additions to the playlist.
We fall into step. I hand him tools before he asks. He gives instructions with fewer words. There’s something intimate in the rhythm—like we’ve become fluent in a shared language.
“You’re getting better at this,” he says after I pass him the right drill bit without hesitation.
“I had a good teacher,” I reply, then smirk. “Also a lot of YouTube. But mostly the grumpy carpenter who critiques my holding posture.”
He glances at me. “Sounds like a perfectionist.”
“A charming one,” I amend.
He doesn’t deny it.
As the hours stretch past nine, the lines between contractor and client, teacher and student, city girl and hometown builder begin to blur. Maybe it’s the fatigue, or the soft music, or the way the work lights make everything glow like some kind of dream sequence.
But when Owen asks, almost too casually, “How’s the social media stuff going?” it feels less like small talk and more like something else entirely.
I look up in surprise. He rarely initiates conversation about my renovation updates.
“It’s going well. Almost fifteen thousand followers now. I got another sponsorship offer yesterday—a tool company that wants to send me some equipment to feature.”
“Tools you don’t know how to use,” he points out—but there’s no bite behind it.
“Tools I’m learning to use,” I correct. “Slowly. With appropriate safety gear. As per Tiny House Rule Number Two.”
“No power tools after 10 PM,” he recites, catching me off guard again. “Though we’re currently violating that one.”
“Special circumstances,” I say, gesturing to our after-hours work zone. “Rules have exceptions.”
“Do they?” His tone is even, but something in his eyes makes me wonder if we’re still talking about power tools.
I clear my throat. “The window seat framinglooks good. I can already imagine sitting there with a book, watching the sunset through the trees.”
Owen nods, eyes on the conduit. “It’ll work better than I thought. The support structure creates a natural storage nook underneath.”
“Form and function in perfect harmony,” I murmur, remembering what Maggie told me. “It reminds me of the built-ins from your childhood projects—your sister showed me some photos.”
His hands still briefly. “Maggie talks too much.”
“Or maybe just enough,” I offer. Then gently, “She mentioned Boston. The designs you were working on. The firm you were building.”
He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. “It wasn’t really a firm yet. Just me. Early concepts. Custom layouts. Adaptable structures.”
“What kind of concepts?” I ask, careful not to sound too eager.
“Modular homes. Units that could change with the owner’s needs. Space efficiency without losing comfort. I was experimenting with material blends, trying to keep things affordable and sustainable.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say honestly. “What happened?”
“Life.” He reaches for another conduit. “Dad’s stroke. The business needed someone. And I was the only one who could take over quickly.”
“And you left Boston.”
He shrugs. “The timing made the decision for me.”
“But do you miss it?” I ask, handing him the wire snips before he can reach for them.
Owen’s eyes flick to mine. “Sometimes. When I have time.”
