In the center of the main workbench sits a half-completed project that makes my heart catch—a miniature version of my tiny house, the proportions perfect, the details exactdown to the newly installed windows and the partially constructed window seat. He’s been building this here, in secret, while officially walking away from the actual project.
I step back, overwhelmed by what I’ve discovered. This isn’t just a hobby or side project. This is Owen’s true self—the creative spirit he keeps hidden beneath the practical contractor exterior. He’s been anonymously filling Maple Glen with these small, perfect homes, bringing beauty to the community without taking credit.
The parallel to my own life hits me with unexpected force. How many years did I spend crafting perfect narratives for products I didn’t care about, hiding my authentic self behind professional competence? We’ve both been living divided lives—showing practical exteriors while keeping our deeper selves hidden.
The sound of gravel crunching outside alerts me that I’ve overstayed my welcome. I slip out the side door, hurrying back to my car with the strange feeling of having glimpsed something precious and private—a room in Owen’s heart I wasn’t invited to enter.
When I returnto the tiny house, Owen’s truck is parked in its usual spot—not hidden at the edge of the property, but right where it always used to be during our working days. My heart leaps into my throat as I pull up beside it, both eager and terrified to face him after everything that’s happened.
Inside, I find him on a ladder beneath the leak I’d tried unsuccessfully to patch, efficiently installing a proper repair. He’s wearing his usual work clothes—faded flannel with rolled sleeves, worn jeans, tool belt secured around his waist. Finn lies nearby, watching with the contentment of a dog whose pack is finally in the same place again.
Owen glances down as I enter, his expression carefullyneutral. “The temporary patch was pulling away,” he says by way of explanation. “Storm front coming in tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say, unsure how to navigate this unexpected return. Is he back as the contractor? A concerned neighbor? Something else entirely?
He nods once, returning to his work with focused precision. I stand awkwardly for a moment, then move to the window seat where the repaired birdhouse sits in its new home. I adjust it slightly, making sure it’s visible from where he’s working.
“I found it after the storm,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “It was damaged, but I tried to fix it. Not as well as you would have, but it should still work for the birds.”
Owen pauses, his eyes moving to the birdhouse. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. “You repaired it.”
It’s not quite a question, but I answer anyway. “I did. It seemed important to try, even if the results aren’t perfect.”
He studies the birdhouse for a long moment, taking in my amateur repair work—the visible seams, the slight asymmetry, the missing decorative elements I couldn’t salvage. “It’s structurally sound,” he says finally. “That’s what matters.”
The words feel weighted with meaning beyond the birdhouse. I watch as he returns to the ceiling repair, his movements efficient and practiced. This is the Owen I know—the competent craftsman focused on practical solutions. But now I’ve seen the other Owen too—the one who designs innovative tiny homes and creates beautiful birdhouses in a secret workshop.
“I know about the workshop,” I say abruptly, the confession tumbling out before I can reconsider. “I went there today. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
Owen goes completely still on the ladder, his back to me. For a moment, I think he might simply walk out again. Then his shoulders drop slightly, tension releasing.
“How did you find it?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Process of elimination. And a hunch.” I movecloser to the ladder, needing to see his face. “Why do you hide them? The birdhouses. They’re beautiful, Owen. Extraordinary.”
He descends the ladder, finally turning to face me. His expression is guarded, but not angry. “They’re just a hobby.”
“They’re more than that,” I counter gently. “They’re art. They’re homes you create and then give away without taking credit.”
Something shifts in his eyes—discomfort, certainly, but also something else. Recognition, perhaps, at being seen. “Not everything needs an audience.”
“No, but some things deserve to be acknowledged.” I hesitate, then add, “Like your designs for this house. I found your notebook too.”
Now he does look away, jaw tightening. “You’ve been busy.”
“I was looking for supplies to fix the roof,” I explain, though it sounds like a flimsy excuse even to my ears. “The notebook was with the extra materials. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. And Owen—those designs are incredible. Why didn’t you tell me you were incorporating your own architectural vision?”
He shrugs, the gesture aiming for casual but landing squarely in vulnerability. “You hired me as a contractor, not a designer.”
“But we became partners,” I say, the word hanging between us, heavy with all its possible meanings. “We made decisions together. You could’ve told me those ideas were yours.”
“Would it have made a difference?” His eyes meet mine, more earnest than challenging.
“Of course it would,” I say. “I would’ve loved knowing I was getting an original Owen Carver design—not just standard renovation work.”
A hint of his almost-smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “There’s nothing standard about this renovation, Winslow.”
Winslow. The nickname slips out like muscle memory, and it warms something in my chest that’s been cold since the fight. It’s a small thing, but it cracks the wall between us.
