“That explains a few things,” Owen says, tone lighter than his words.
“Like buying a house while drunk?”
“Like adapting quickly to different environments,” he corrects. “You switched from PR executive to renovation assistant without much transition time.”
His observation surprises me—not just its accuracy, but the fact that he’s been paying that much attention. “I had to learn early how to read a room and become whatever version of myself fit. Different houses, different rules, different expectations.”
“That sounds exhausting,” he says quietly.
“It was.” The honesty comes out before I can filter it. “Still issometimes. I got so good at being what other people needed, I forgot to figure out what I wanted.”
“And now?” he asks, meeting my eyes. “What does Penny Winslow want?”
The question lands harder than it should. What do I want? A home that feels like mine. Work that matters. To stop bailing when things get hard.
And something else I’m not ready to say—not to him.
“I want this window seat to have extra cushions,” I say instead, with a smile I don’t quite feel. “And maybe a built-in bookshelf. Definitely a reading light.”
Owen holds my gaze for a second longer, like he knows I’m sidestepping something, but lets it go. “Noted,” he says, then returns to the framing.
The rest of the night slips into steady work. We make real progress—loft support beams, electrical conduit paths, most of the bathroom framing. The hours stretch long and quiet, the kind of quiet that comes not from lack of things to say, but the ease of not needing to say them.
By 1 AM, my body is staging a full revolt. I stifle a yawn as I hand over the last piece of the bathroom wall.
“We should stop,” Owen says, noticing. “You’re dead on your feet.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, then immediately sway a little. “Just... resting my eyes between blinks.”
“Very efficient,” he says. “But we’ve done enough for tonight.”
I don’t protest. We clean up in silence, Finn rousing from his nap near the door. Owen flips off the work lights, leaving only a soft glow from the lantern.
“Good progress,” he says, checking the locks. “We made up some of the lost time.”
“Team Tiny House for the win,” I mumble, dragging on my jacket. “We should list this on our resumes. ‘Works well together past midnight withouthomicide.’”
“A valuable skill.”
As I head for the door, I miss a step and catch myself on the frame with a laugh. “Whoa. Gravity is very committed tonight.”
“Careful, Winslow,” Owen says, reaching out automatically to steady me.
It takes me a second to register the name. Not Ms. Winslow, not Penny—just Winslow. Offhand, casual. Familiar.
I pretend not to notice, but something tightens in my chest. Finn looks up at me like he’s clocking the shift, then ambles to my side and bumps my knee with his nose.
“I’m good,” I tell them both. “Just tired. Who knew renovation was a full-body sport?”
Owen nods. “I’ll drive you back. You’re in no shape to be behind the wheel.”
I don’t argue. The night air is crisp as we walk to his truck, stars overhead bright in the kind of sky LA never offered. Finn hops into the backseat like it’s routine, and I climb in beside Owen.
As he starts the engine, I steal a glance at him, wondering if he noticed what he said. Or maybe he did, and said it anyway.
We drive back to town in comfortable silence, the radio playing softly, Finn curled up in the small back seat. I fight to stay awake, lulled by the rhythm of the road and the strange peace of 1 AM. Somewhere between the curves of the highway and the steady hum of tires on gravel, I catch myself replaying that moment at the door—Owen’s hand steadying me, the way he said my name like it had always belonged to him, like it meant something more than just a label. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was nothing. But it stayed with me anyway, threading itself through the quiet and settling somewhere I couldn’t quite shake.
The thingabout storms in the Pacific Northwest that no one warns you about is the way they arrive—not with the dramatic flair of a Hollywood special effect, but with a creeping inevitability. It starts in your chest, in your ears, in the way the air thickens, and before the first cloud appears, something in you already knows to brace.
