When Adele leaves, the air turns heavy again.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “non-load-bearing after all.”
“Apparently,” he replies, unreadable.
“I’m not saying I told you so,” I offer—though let’s be honest, part of me absolutelywants to.
He finally looks at me. “You were right. I didn’t fully account for how the framing changed the load.”
Coming from Owen, it might as well be an engraved apology. It clearly costs him, and I feel it.
“You couldn’t have known without calculations,” I say gently. “You were right to be cautious.”
His eyes meet mine. “But you were right to push it.”
The words carry more weight than just structural validation. Respect. Acknowledgment. Something more.
“So,” I ask, “we’re taking it out?”
“We’re taking it out,” he confirms. “Once the reinforcement’s in. Tomorrow, probably.”
My grin is instantaneous. “The internet is going to lose its mind.”
He gives me a look. “Make sure they know it was only possible because of structural modifications. I don’t want a DIY domino effect.”
“Noted,” I promise. “This will be the most responsibly engineered demo in home-renovation Instagram history.”
The rest of the day becomes a blur of prep—installing reinforcements, clearing space, documenting the “before.” The tension from earlier shifts into momentum, like we’ve re-synced after weeks of friction.
As we’re cleaning up, Owen pauses, notebook in hand, as if about to say something else. But his phone buzzes. He checks the screen. His face changes—slightly.
“Veronica?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He looks up, surprised. “Yeah. Dinner meeting about the Henderson project.”
“Oh,” I say, playing it off. “Well. Big day tomorrow. Operation Beam Removal and all.”
He watches me for a beat. “It’s just a professional consultation.”
“Of course.” I laugh too brightly. “Rule Eight. No jealousy over people who aren’t ours.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Just says, “Meeting’s at The Griddle.”
“Great pie,” I say. “Not that you need to get pie. Or not get pie. Pie’s your call.”
I’m rambling, and we both know it.
“I’ll see you at eight,” he says, heading out.
“Eight o’clock,” I echo, voice too even.
When he’s gone, I linger, staring at the nearly finished window seat, trying not to think about him and Veronica in a booth over coffee and blueprints.
It shouldn’t matter. He’s not mine.
But it does.
I distract myself with progress photos, planning my update for tomorrow. The house is transforming—window seat nearly trimmed, kitchen prepped for cabinetry, the floor plan finally breathing. It’s happening.
