“Right. The paint. Very important.” I’m babbling again, smoothing down my shirt with hands that refuse to steady. “Wouldn’t want it to stain the... floor. Or shelves. Or something.”
He reaches past me—deliberate, careful not to make contact—and grabs a flashlight from the shelf. The beam cuts through the dark, revealing the can tipped on its side, blue-gray paint puddling on the shelf but mercifully not dripping yet.
“Here.” He hands me the flashlight. “There are rags in the box by your foot.”
We clean the spill in awkward silence, the beam jerking around as my hands continue to betray me. Where the air had been charged only minutes ago, it now feels crowded with everything we’re not saying.
“We should check the rest of the house,” I say, voice too loud. “For leaks. And, you know, structural integrity. Professional stuff.”
“Right,” Owen says, matching my tone with forced neutrality. “Professional.”
I all but bolt from the closet, flashlight clutched like a lifeline. The storm still howls outside, but the thunder has drifted off a bit—just enough to notice the silence swelling between us.
“We should pretend that didn’t happen,” I blurt, facing the unfinished wall like it might have opinions. “The closet thing. It was just the storm, and the small space, and?—”
“Sure,” Owen says behind me. His voice doesn’t give anything away.
I turn, light wobbling wildly before I manage to point it somewhere safe. “Good. Great. Glad we’re aligned. Super professional of us.”
“Very professional,” he agrees, but his hand rises to his mouth for half a second before he drops it, like he doesn’t realize it’s a tell.
Something catches in my chest. I look away before I can get stuck on the meaning behind that gesture.
“I’ll check the west wall,” I say, already moving. “You take east?”
We split up, flashlights sweeping across tarps and floorboards. The space helps. I can breathe again. Even if my lips still hum with memory.
One minute we were fumbling through a closet. The next, I was pressed against the shelving, kissing a man I definitely wasn’t supposed to be kissing.
I press a hand to my mouth like I can erase the imprint of him. This wasn’t part of the plan. This was a direct violation of Tiny House Rule #4: No catching feelings for the grumpy carpenter.
Too late.
The rain slows. Thunder stretches thin. We keep movingthrough the house, patching leaks with tarps and towels, avoiding each other by silent agreement.
Twenty minutes later, we meet again in the center of the room. There’s nothing left to fix. Just the two of us and the steady drum of rain on plastic.
“Storm’s shifting east,” Owen says. “Should clear in an hour or so.”
“That’s good,” I say, my voice off-key. “Very meteorologically responsible.”
He doesn’t respond. The quiet stretches again, filled with everything we’re not asking.
I break first. “Why did you give up your design firm?”
It comes out before I know I’m going to say it. Maybe it’s been waiting there, just under the surface, needing to know more about the man who built a life in sacrifice and silence.
Owen looks at me—really looks at me—and something in his expression softens under the flashlight’s edge.
“I told you. My dad had a stroke. The business needed someone.”
“But that’s the practical reason,” I say, surprising even myself. “What about the reason underneath?”
He’s quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more honest than I’ve ever heard it.
“They needed me. Not just what I could do—but me. For once.”
The words settle between us like dust, quiet and revealing.
