When we hang up, I finally text Owen:
Heads up—our project got featured on Renovation Nation. Followers jumped overnight. Nothing to worry about, but wanted you to hear it from me first. Still keeping you out of all posts.
His reply comes faster than expected:
Thanks for the heads-up. See you at 8.
No emojis. No extra words. Just classic Owen.
I try not to read too much into it as I get dressed and gather my things, but it’s hard not to wonder. The kiss. The things we said. The silence afterward. Now a spotlight on our project threatens the balance we’ve been pretending still exists.
We agreed not to talk about what happened. We decided to be professional. But as my phone continues buzzing beside me and I think about the feel of his mouth on mine, the way he looked at me afterward... I’m not sure either of us meant it.
The tiny houselooks different in the morning light—more like a real structure and less like the disaster zone I purchased twomonths ago. The foundation is solid, the framing nearly complete, and the roof even has actual shingles on one section. My window seat is taking shape on the west wall, the framing creating a perfect nook that will eventually hold cushions and, I hope, me with a book and coffee on quiet mornings.
Owen’s truck is already parked in its usual spot when I arrive. I find him inside, measuring and marking the bathroom wall framing with his usual methodical precision. Finn greets me enthusiastically, trotting over for his morning pets while his owner offers a more restrained acknowledgment.
“Morning,” Owen says, glancing up briefly before returning to his measurements. His voice is perfectly normal, his expression professionally neutral. Only the slight tension in his shoulders suggests he might be as hyperaware of my presence as I am of his.
“Morning,” I reply, aiming for casual and probably missing by several octaves. “Brought muffins. Marge made them to celebrate the blog feature.”
“Thoughtful of her.” He makes a mark on the wood, movements precise and controlled.
I set the muffin bag on the workbench and busy myself organizing materials, hyperconscious of the few feet of space between us. This is ridiculous. We’ve worked side by side for weeks without this awkward tension. One kiss in a closet during a storm shouldn’t change everything.
Except it has.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence that’s becoming uncomfortable, “what’s on the agenda today?”
“Finishing the bathroom framing,” Owen replies, still focused on his measurements. “Then electrical rough-in if we have time.”
“Great. Sounds great. Very... construction-y.” I wince at my own awkwardness. “I can start bringing in the electrical supplies from the truck?”
Owen nods, and I escape outside, grateful forthe momentary distance. The cool morning air helps clear my head as I gather boxes of electrical components from his truck bed. When I return, Owen has moved to a different section of wall, creating a buffer of space between us that feels deliberate.
We work in relative silence for the next hour, the only sounds our movements and occasional brief exchanges about measurements or materials. It’s not our usual comfortable quiet—it’s loaded with unspoken words and carefully maintained distance. Every accidental brush of hands when passing tools creates a jolt of awareness we both pretend not to notice.
“Can you hold this level?” Owen asks, gesturing to a section of framing.
I move beside him, taking the level and holding it against the wood. We’re standing close enough that I can smell the now-familiar scent of coffee and sawdust that clings to him, can feel the heat radiating from his body in the cool morning air.
“Like this?” I ask, my voice betraying me by dropping to a near-whisper.
“Perfect,” he says, and our eyes meet for a fraction too long before we both look away.
The moment stretches, laden with everything we’re not saying. I focus intently on the level’s bubble, as if it holds the secrets of the universe rather than just confirming whether a piece of wood is straight.
“It’s level,” I announce unnecessarily, stepping back to create distance.
Owen nods, returning to his work with renewed focus. I retreat to my own task, organizing electrical boxes with more attention than the simple job requires.
This pattern continues throughout the morning—careful orbiting around each other, hyperawareness of every movement, moments of accidental eye contact that linger just long enough to acknowledge what we’re both trying to ignore.
Around eleven, my phone buzzes with another flood of notifications. I check it to find my follower count has surpassed 25,000and continues to climb. The comment section on my latest post has exploded with questions about renovation techniques, tiny house living, and yes, multiple inquiries about “the hot carpenter” glimpsed in background shots.
“More social media stuff?” Owen asks, noticing my distraction.
“Yeah, it’s kind of snowballing,” I admit, showing him the screen. “Over twenty-five thousand followers now.”
