Then he gets in and drives away, the crunch of gravel and the fading sound of his engine the only answer to everything left unsaid.
I stand there, heart pounding, watching the road long after he disappears from view. The irony tastes bitter. I’ve spent my whole life leaving before someone could ask me to stay. But this time, I wasn’t the one walking away.
He was.
They saythe most dangerous moment in renovation isn’t the tearing down—it’s the part after, when the structure is exposed and raw, its bones laid bare. That’s when you see what’s been hidden all along. The rot. The weakness. The parts that can’t be ignored anymore.
I get to the tiny house at 6:15 AM, a full hour earlier than usual. Sleep was a lost cause after Owen drove off yesterday, leaving me with a mess of unanswered accusations and the hollow ache of watching someone else leave first for a change. I spent the night flipping between defensive retorts I never delivered and quieter, sharper truths I couldn’t quite voice.
Nothing’s changed physically since yesterday, but the house feels different somehow—like it absorbed the echo of the argument. The nearly finished window seat, once a symbol of compromise and connection, now sits in the corner like an accusation: You thought you could stay. You thought this meant something.
I fill the time with busywork—organizing materials, double-checking the schedule, responding to TV production emails. Anything to feel in control while my mind loops the same questions. How do we recover from this? Does he really believe I’m still planning to leave? Was everything we built just... one-sided?
At exactly 7:00 AM, Owen’s truck pulls into the drive. My chest betrays me with that familiar flutter—it hasn’t caught on to the fact that we’re in crisis mode now. Finn jumps out first.Normally he bounds over with full-body excitement, but this morning he approaches slowly, tail low, ears tilted back.
“Hey, buddy,” I say quietly, crouching to scratch his head. “At least you’re still happy to see me.”
Owen walks in carrying rolled plans and his laptop. His face is composed, too composed. He’s wearing the gray henley I’ve come to recognize as his armor—buttoned to the top, sleeves pushed just enough to move but not enough to relax. His hair’s still damp. Clean-shaven. It all feels... deliberate. Like he needed a buffer layer of polish between us.
“Morning,” he says, his tone bordering on neutral. “I revised the schedule to account for the tile delay.”
“Great,” I answer, matching his civility. “TV producers sent over a revised shot list. I’ve been going through it.”
We work around each other with exaggerated precision, the kind of careful choreography that would seem efficient to anyone watching—if anyone were watching. The synchronicity we used to share has vanished, replaced by strategic avoidance, every movement calculated to minimize contact.
He unrolls the revised plans on the workbench. I glance at them and feel a fresh pang—the schedule’s been reorganized top to bottom. Not just adjusted for logistics. Tasks divided. Responsibilities isolated. Minimal overlap. It’s subtle, but the message is clear.
“You’ve separated everything,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, but failing.
“It’s more efficient,” he replies without meeting my eyes. “Maximizes time.”
“Right. And minimizes communication,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick up then, cautious. “We have a deadline, Penny. I’m trying to keep things moving.”
“Of course,” I say, defaulting to neutral ground. “Painters are on track. Tile’s supposed to arrive tomorrow. What do youneed from me?”
He taps a section on the page. “Bathroom fixtures. Vanity install needs to happen before the plumber gets here Thursday.”
We dive into work, keeping our conversations strictly functional. The only sound is the occasional clatter of tools or a measurement called across the space. Finn watches from the corner, his head moving back and forth between us like he’s tracking a match no one’s winning.
By ten, the tension is thick enough to cut. I’m in the bathroom, wrestling a fixture into place. Owen’s in the kitchen, installing cabinet hardware with the silent intensity of someone in self-imposed exile.
“The producers want to film a walkthrough next week,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Just some preliminary shots before the big reveal.”
He doesn’t look up. “I’ll make sure the main rooms are ready.”
“They also asked about styling the window seat. I said I’d talk to you before making a decision.”
This time, his hands still for just a beat. “Your call. It’s your house.”
The words are sharp in their precision. My house. Not our project. Not something we shaped together. Just another job for him. Just another possession for me.
“Right,” I say tightly, twisting the fixture with more force than necessary. “My house. Your job.”
He turns now. Not abruptly. Not angrily. Just... directly. “That’s what this is. A renovation contract.”
“That’s all it is?” The words are out before I can stop them.
