He steps outside, leaving me alone with the open notebook, the sketches, the book, and the proof of every intention I swore had changed.
I stare at the two realities on the table in front of me: Owen’s sketch of me reading in the window seat, and my crisp bullet list calculating exactly how long until I’d be gone.
Through the window, I see him pacing, phone to his ear, one hand running through his hair. That move—so familiar now—means stress. Something’s wrong. The call is serious.
And just like that, I’m reminded: Owen’s life isn’t just here. It’s tied to this town with threads stronger than contracts or house keys. His roots run deeper than anything I’ve let myself plant. He belongs in a way I never have.
The rain begins—gentle at first, barely a whisper on the roof. But it builds, quick and steady, the forecast finally catching up to the sky.
I look around at the half-finished house. No longer a disaster, not yet a home. My eyes land on the window seat—nearly done. On Jamie’s drawing still taped to the wall, a child’s faith in five block letters:HOME.
Owen is still outside, talking through whatever crisis just found him, soaked now, unaware or uncaring. Focused.
Weatherproofing isn’t about keeping everything out, he’d told me.It’s about protecting what matters while still letting the right things in.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped weatherproofing my heart against Owen.
Morning arriveswith the particular awkwardness that follows emotional revelations—the kind where you both know something happened, but neither of you knows how to name it. We orbit each other like wary planets, maintaining careful distance while pretending everything is normal.
Owen showed up at seven—earlier than usual—which says enough. He’s clearly as eager to escape his thoughts as I am. We’ve been working for nearly an hour now, trading only what’s necessary. “Pass the tape measure.” “Mind the wet paint.” “Electrical inspection’s at two.” Functional. Professional. Painfully impersonal.
The flip plans hang between us like a ghost—my old, clinical calculations for renovating and selling, the tidy exit strategy back to LA. A reminder that, on paper, I once saw this house as a transaction. And Owen found them right after showing me those sketches—me, curled up in the window seat like I belonged there.
The timing could not have been worse. Before we could even speak about it, he got a call about his father. Something with physical therapy. He left in a rush, expression unreadable except for the part that wasn’t—hurt. Plain and sharp.
Now we work in tandem but out of sync, movements choreographed to avoid contact. I’m caulking baseboards; he’s installing light fixtures. The distance between us isn’t just physical—it’s the width ofeverything unsaid.
“I’m going to check the bathroom tile delivery,” he says at last, the first voluntary sentence of the morning. “Should’ve been here by now.”
“I’ll finish this section,” I reply, focused on getting the caulk line just right. “Then I’ll prep for paint.”
He nods and walks off toward the front of the property. As soon as he’s out of sight, I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Finn, clearly unimpressed with our strained dynamic, abandons his post and trots over to sit by my feet.
“At least someone’s still talking to me,” I tell him, rubbing behind his ears. “Though, let’s be honest—you’re mostly here for the bacon I slipped you at breakfast.”
Finn tilts his head, those soulful eyes giving me the kind of judgment I really don’t need right now.
“I know. I should just tell him those plans were from before—before Maple Glen became more than a stopgap. Before the beam came down and the window seat went up. Before the dance in the rain.” I sigh and rest my forehead against the wall. “Before him.”
The problem is, I’m still figuring it out myself. When did this place stop being a flip and start feeling like a home? When did these people become more than friendly faces in a small town? And Owen—when did he stop being just the contractor?
I don’t have a tidy answer. Only the growing certainty that the woman who wrote those notes no longer exists. She’s been demoed and rebuilt—same frame, stronger foundation.
But Owen doesn’t know that. What he saw looked like proof that I’m exactly what he feared: another person passing through, playing house in a place I never meant to stay.
I finish the baseboards, rinse my tools, and check the time. Nearly ten. I haven’t posted today’s update yet, and the TV crew and sponsors are all watching the countdown. Chaos or not, the content machine must run.
I curl up in the window seat—still cushionless butstructurally sound—and write a caption that sticks to progress, not emotion:
T-minus 16 days until the TV crew arrives! Final countdown on this chapter of the renovation journey as we race to complete finishing work. The window seat is structurally complete (though still needs cushions—taking suggestions!), bathroom tile arriving today, and paint colors finalized. So much happening, so little time! #NewBeginnings #WhatsNext #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction
I attach a carousel of photos—the window seat, the prepped walls, the cabinets going in. It’s a strong update, and the hashtags are standard, pointing to the next phase of the project. Still, as I reread it, I wonder what Owen might read between the lines.
I text Abby next:
Crisis mode. Owen found the original flip plans—like, the ones from before I ever got here. Now he thinks I’m still planning to sell and head straight back to LA. I have no idea how to explain that I’m not that person anymore without it sounding like a line.
She replies almost immediately:
