“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice low.
He moves to one of the sawhorses and sits. I follow, flashlight angled between us.
“Growing up, I was the reliable one. The one who didn’t ask for much. Maggie had bigger emotions, louder needs. Dad had the business. Mom had her own battles.” He pauses, folding his hands together. “I learned to solve things without being asked. Without being noticed.”
“The perfect son,”I say gently.
“The invisible one,” he corrects. “I wasn’t a problem, so I got left alone. That became the role.”
I nod, understanding all too well. “So when your dad got sick…”
“Suddenly, I was seen. Really seen. And needed. Not just my labor, but my presence.”
He looks down at his hands—hands that build, fix, steady. “It shouldn’t have meant that much. I was thirty-two. But it did.”
“Because we don’t stop wanting to be seen by the people we love,” I say.
He meets my eyes like I’ve said something true. “Yeah.”
“So you gave up Boston. The firm. Your fiancée.” I say it softly.
“She was already halfway gone,” he says with a shrug that doesn’t hide much. “She wanted the city. Connections. Maple Glen was just her exit strategy.”
“But you loved her.”
“I loved who I thought she was.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Someone who understood that roots mattered. She didn’t. She thought they meant you were stuck.”
That one hits. Because I’ve lived that same fear. I’ve been her.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “Not the leaving-you part—she was an idiot—but the running. I’m good at that.”
“Why?” he asks—not accusing, just asking.
I smile without humor. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
I pull my knees up to my chest. “The easy answer is my parents—split between two different lives, two different sets of rules. I got used to shape-shifting. It felt safer to be flexible than to belong.”
“And the harder answer?” he asks, gently this time.
I stare into the darkness beyond our flashlight beams, finally saying the thing I’ve been avoiding. “I’m scared,” I admit, voice tight. “Not of commitment itself, but of committing and being left anyway. Of building something real with someone, only tofind out they preferred the version of me I was pretending to be.”
The confession sits between us, heavier than the storm outside. It’s more honest than I meant to be—but something about the dark, the thunder, and the feel of Owen’s mouth still lingering on mine has stripped away my usual armor.
“That’s why you’re good at PR,” Owen says. “Creating versions of things people want to see.”
“Exactly. I’ve spent my whole life being what other people needed. For my dad, the dependable overachiever. For my mom, the laid-back free spirit. For clients—whoever they wanted to believe in.” I glance down, picking at a loose thread in my jeans. “But the longer I did it, the more I lost sight of the real version of me. And when people got close enough to notice the cracks...” I trail off.
“You left,” Owen finishes quietly. “Before they could.”
“Yep.” I try for a smile, but it doesn’t hold. “Not my proudest trait.”
He doesn’t argue. But then he surprises me. “Neither is staying out of obligation when you’ve already outgrown the life you’re in,” he says. “Or convincing yourself you don’t need a home just because everyone else expects you to build theirs.”
It hits harder than I expect—how perfectly our patterns mirror each other in opposite directions.
After a beat, I ask, “Is that why you build birdhouses? Homes for others, instead of one for yourself?”
He blinks at me, caught off guard. Then nods slowly. “Maybe. I started after Veronica left. I needed something small. Manageable. A design I could finish in a weekend.”
