I begin sorting, building clean stacks on the makeshift shelving we installed last week. The task issoothing—putting things in order, finding patterns in chaos. It lets my hands stay busy while my mind drifts to this morning’s weatherproofing conversation... and to Jamie’s question about whether Owen and I were living here together.
Somewhere between zoning regulations and roofing guides, I find a book that doesn’t fit: a cloth-bound volume with a fraying spine and dog-eared pages.The Architecture of Dwelling: Spaces Betweenby Elizabeth Harmon. It falls open on its own, naturally, like it’s been read dozens of times. The margins are filled with Owen’s handwriting.
I shouldn’t read it. It’s clearly personal. But curiosity has always been my weakness, and this is no exception.
I scan the passage he’s annotated:
“The window seat represents perhaps the most perfect architectural manifestation of liminality—the space between inside and outside, belonging and observing. It is neither fully of the interior nor completely connected to the exterior, but rather a threshold space where one may simultaneously participate and withdraw. In this way, the window seat becomes not merely an architectural feature but a philosophy of being—a place from which to witness the world while maintaining the safety of shelter.”
In the margin, Owen has written:
Connection without exposure. Observation with protection. The ideal balance of engagement and retreat.
Something in me goes still.
This isn’t about design preferences or square footage or aesthetics. This isn’t about my stubborn insistence on the window seat, or his initial resistance. This is about Owen. Who he is. How he sees the world.
“Find something interesting?” Owen’s voice startles me. He’s closer than I realized, quiet as always.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “It just... fell open.”
He doesn’t look annoyed. Just thoughtful, eyes on the book in my hands. “Harmon. One of my professors assigned it in architecture school. Changed how I think about space.”
“Because of the window seat passage?”
He nods, reaching for the book. “That one especially. Her theory of threshold spaces—areas that aren’t quite one thing or another—always resonated with me.”
“Like the seat being in-between. Not fully inside, not quite outside.”
“Exactly.” He touches the page gently. “It’s not just about aesthetics. It’s a space for both participation and retreat. It’s psychological as much as architectural.”
I hesitate, then: “Would you read it? Out loud, I mean.”
He looks at me, surprised. But after a moment, he nods. He leans against the wall and opens the book again. When he starts to read, his voice is... different. Softer. Like he’s reading something sacred.
I don’t really hear the words this time. I hearhim—the reverence in his tone, the way he lingers on phrases he’s clearly memorized, the way his hands move unconsciously as he speaks, emphasizing rhythm. His usual reserve is gone, replaced by something unguarded and honest.
This, I think, watching him:this is what Owen Carver looks like when he loves something.
It hits me like a thunderclap—quiet, but undeniable. I’ve seen him focused, frustrated, methodical. I’ve seen him soaked in rain and soothed by coffee. But I’ve never seen him like this. And now I can’t unsee it.
He finishes reading, and the silence that follows is heavy and intimate. He closes the book carefully.
“That’s why the window seat mattered to you,” I say, my voice quiet. “It wasn’t about the view or the storage.”
He nods. “It’s how we inhabit space. How we protect ourselves while still staying connected.”
“Like weatherproofing,” I murmur, and his gaze snaps to mine. “Protecting what matters while letting the right things in.”
“Yes,” hesays. “Exactly.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Outside, thunder grumbles like the sky clearing its throat.
Then I notice it—his hand sketching something on the notepad he always keeps. He does that sometimes, when he’s thinking. Drawing things. Details. Ideas he hasn’t voiced yet.
“What are you sketching?” I ask, edging closer.
He blinks like he forgot the pencil was moving. “Just ideas. For the window seat trim.”
