We move to the next window, silence settling as I think about protection systems and controlled permeability. About barriers that don’t isolate—they filter. About the walls I’ve built around my own heart. Once solid. Now... maybe not so sealed.
“How do you know what to keep out and what to let in?” I ask, though we both know I’m not just talking about the house.
Owen pauses at the weatherstripping. “Experience,” he says finally. “Mistakes. Patterns. You learn. Eventually.” He meets my eyes. “Sometimes you still get it wrong.”
The air between us tightens, charged with everything we haven’t said. This—whatever this is—has been building for weeks. Since the storm. Since the beam. Since the night we swayed together in the dark.
“Well,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice, “I’m getting better at spotting leaks before they turn into disasters. Growth.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Progress.”
We finish the inspection just as thunder rumbles in the distance. The forecast says we have hours, but the pressure change is already here. Something’s coming.
For now, we keep working. Sealing edges. Reinforcing gaps. Protecting what we’ve built against what’s on the horizon.
Turns out, weatherproofing isn’t just technique. It’s philosophy.
It’s hope disguised as preparation.
“Ms. Penny!Ms. Penny! I brought my painting clothes!”
The high-pitched voice slices through the afternoon quiet as I’m organizing supplies in the storage area. I poke my head out to see a small figure charging up the path to the tiny house, waving what looks like a plastic grocery bag overhead like a victory flag.
Jamie Henderson. Eight years old. Son of Thomas Henderson—the same Henderson whose lake house renovation Veronica has been trying to lure Owen onto. Jamie visited the site last week when Thomas stopped by to pitch the project in person. While the adults talked shop, Jamie had been far moreinterested in mixing paint samples with me and asking a million questions about “construction stuff.”
“Hey, buddy,” I call, stepping onto the porch. “What’s with the painting gear?”
“You said I could help paint next time!” he says, eyes wide with excitement. “And Dad said you were painting today, so he dropped me off. He’s getting coffee with Ms. Wilcox but he’ll be back in an hour.”
Right. That promise. I vaguely remember making it, though I didn’t think he’d actually take me up on it. Behind me, I sense Owen step outside, his presence shifting the air in that way it always does—subtle, but unmistakable.
“Jamie,” Owen says, nodding in acknowledgment. “Here to do a site inspection?”
“I’m here to paint!” Jamie grins, hoisting his bag higher. “I brought my old clothes and everything!”
Owen glances at me, eyebrow raised in silent question. I shrug, an unspoken translation: I didn’t expect this either, but I’m game if you are.
“We’re priming the bathroom wall today,” I tell Jamie. “Not the most exciting job, but you’re welcome to help if your dad gave the okay.”
“He said I just can’t fall through the floor or break anything,” Jamie replies solemnly. “I promised to be careful.”
“A solid policy,” Owen agrees, his tone a little softer than usual. “Let’s get you set up with some gear.”
To my surprise, Owen pulls a child-sized dust mask and safety goggles from his truck, explaining that his sister’s kids sometimes tag along to sites. We help Jamie change into his paint clothes—a t-shirt so stained it’s a mystery what color it ever was—and lead him to the bathroom, where the new drywall is prepped and ready for primer.
“Painting is all about prep,” I explain, channeling Owen’s usual methodical tone. “We tape the edges, stir the primer, and then use the roller for big areas, brush for corners.”
Jamie nods seriously. “I painted in art class once. We just used brushes. But I’m ready.”
Owen shows him how to load a roller. “This is about coverage and clean lines.”
For the next forty-five minutes, the three of us work in a rhythm: Jamie rolling primer with a surprising level of focus, Owen correcting technique with calm authority, and me keeping the corners and edges from getting out of control. Jamie talks nonstop—about his school project on local wildlife, his goldfish (named Swim Shady), and why the bathroom should be blue because “it looks like water, but doesn’t ruin walls.”
Owen is patient in a way I don’t usually see. He answers Jamie’s rapid-fire questions seriously, like the boy’s opinions carry real weight. And maybe they do. There’s a softness in Owen around kids that smooths his usual rough edges, like someone brushing dust off finished wood.
“Almost done!” Jamie announces, stretching up to reach the last patch. “This is gonna be the best bathroom ever.”
“It’s definitely coming together,” I agree. “You’re a natural.”
