Winslow Cottage.
A name. A place. A declaration.
“You renamed it,” I whisper.
Owen meets my eyes. There’s no deflection in his face now, just quiet truth.
“It evolved. Like its owner.”
The words land with a force I didn’t expect. Because he’s seen it—the shift in me. From impulsive buyer to intentional builder. From runaway to someone trying to stay.
“When did you start calling it that?”
“After the beam came down,” he says. “When the space opened up and became something else. Something with... potential.”
Like us.
The thought echoes, but I don’t speak it.
“I like it,” I say instead, fingers brushing the lettering. “Winslow Cottage. It sounds like somewhere you might actually stay.”
Our eyes meet again, and for once, the subtext doesn’t press down between us. It lifts.
I take a breath. The most important part of my pitch isn’t in the folder—it’s in what I say next.
“Owen, I know what I’m asking. This would be a leap. A real one. You’d be taking a professional risk on a plan dreamed up by someone who bought a house while drunk and thought YouTube tutorials were an acceptable renovation strategy.”
My smile wavers, but I hold it. Hold him.
“But I believe in this. In you. In what we could build if we did it together.”
He doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on mine, and the weight of that gaze makes my spine go rigid with hope.
“Why now?” he asks. “After the argument, the plans, the walking away—why this, now?”
It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. I close the folder—set the business pitch aside, so he can see the truth underneath.
“Because when you walked away, I realized something,” I say, voice steady now.
“You’re my load-bearing person, Owen.”
He blinks. “Your what?”
“My load-bearing person,” I repeat, the metaphor forming fully as I speak. “Like a load-bearing wall. The structural element you don’t notice until it’s gone, and suddenly everything feels off balance.”
He says nothing, but he’s listening.
“I’ve spent my whole life avoiding people like that. Keeping things decorative, movable, non-essential. Because load-bearing means permanence. Planning. Risk.”
I take a small step forward.
“But when you left, I realized I’d already built you into my foundation. You’d become necessary. You held up something in me I didn’t know needed holding.”
The room is so still I can hear the distant call of birds, the soft shifting of Finn near the door.
Owen’s jaw flexes, his voice lower than usual when he speaks.
“I’m not good at this. At trusting that people will stay.”
