Something that might actually qualify as a full smile curves at his mouth.
“I’m saying I’m willing to explore the structural implications.”
I laugh—real and bright and unguarded.
“That’s the most Owen Carver way of saying yes.”
“It’s a qualified yes,” he says, voice warm but steady. “Contingent on proper foundation work.”
“Naturally,” I reply. “Can’t build something real without a solid base.”
He reaches out then—an unexpected, quiet gesture—and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek, light and reverent.
“We should get back to the house,” he says, voice softer than before. “Plenty of work to do if we’re going to meet that TV deadline.”
“Right,” I say, blinking. “The house. The deadline. Very important.”
We gather the materials in silence, but the tensionbetween us has shifted. It’s no longer a wall. It’s a current—pulling us forward, not holding us back. As we walk toward the door, Finn bounds ahead like we’ve always been one unit, not two people learning to walk side by side again.
“Winslow,” Owen says, low and quiet, as he passes behind me.
It’s not just a nickname. Not anymore.
It’s a whisper against my hair. A homecoming. A word that holds every part of the conversation he isn’t ready to say aloud yet.
We walk together toward the truck, the morning sun casting gold across the gravel path. There’s no kiss, no sweeping declarations. Just a shared pace. A quiet understanding. A framework we’re finally ready to build on.
Owen opens the truck door for me. And in his eyes, for the first time, I see something I used to run from—wanting. Steady, open, tender.
He looks at me like I’m the only home he’s ever wanted. And for the first time in my life, that doesn’t scare me at all.
I arriveat the tiny house at 7:45 AM, coffee balanced precariously in one hand, notebook full of design notes in the other, and approximately seventeen versions of how Owen and I might navigate the first day of our tentatively reestablished partnership running through my head. After yesterday’s workshop confrontation andload-bearing personconfession, we’ve crossed some invisible threshold. Not just contractor and client anymore. Not quite defined as anything else either. But unmistakably something more.
What I’m completely unprepared for is the scene that greets me as I pull up: four pickup trucks parked in haphazard angles around the property, a steady stream of people moving in and out of the house, and the unmistakable roar of multiple power tools in full operation.
I sit in my car, coffee cooling in my hand, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. There’s Walt from the hardware store measuring something on the porch. Maggie Carver directing two guys I vaguely recognize from The Griddle as they unload what appears to be kitchen cabinetry. And in the middle of it all stands Owen—clipboard in hand, issuing instructions with the calm authority of a general coordinating troops.
Finn spots me first, bounding toward the car in a blur of happy limbs and enthusiasm. Owen glances up. Our eyes meet. Something shifts in his face—a softening that might be invisibleto anyone who hasn’t spent months memorizing every nuance of Owen Carver’s emotional landscape.
I step out, immediately engulfed in Finn’s wiggles and yips.
“What’s happening? Did I miss the memo about a renovation flash mob?”
Owen walks over, that almost-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Community support rally. Phase two.”
“Phase two?” I echo.
“Marge handled phase one at the hardware store,” he says, like this explains everything. “This is the implementation stage.”
Before I can respond, Walt calls from the porch.
“Morning, Penny! Hope you don’t mind us jumping the gun. With the TV folks coming, figured we needed all hands on deck.”
“I—no, of course I don’t mind,” I stammer, still stunned. “I just didn’t expect...”
“An entire town to show up and build your house?” Maggie offers, grinning as she joins us. “That’s what happens when you pitch a business plan that might finally get my stubborn brother to use his actual talents.”
