“Small towns,” Owen says, echoing Walt’s earlier sentiment. “When they decide to help, they don’t hold back.”
I’m about to respond when something on the wall catches my eye—a small wooden fixture beside the sink I don’t remember selecting. I move closer, examining what appears to be a handcrafted toothbrush holder mounted with perfect symmetry beneath the mirror.
It’s beautiful—unmistakably Owen’s work, with the same clean lines and meticulous polish as his birdhouses. The wood glows with a warm finish, the edges smooth, the craftsmanship quiet and precise. But it’s not the quality that makes my chest go tight.
It’s the design.
Two slots. Angled slightly toward each other, like they’re mid-conversation.
Not one. Not three. Just two.
I stare, the meaning settling in without needing translation. This isn’t just a bathroom fixture. It’s a message. An invitation. A hope carved into cedar and offered without words.
I turn to find Owen watching me from the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral—but his eyes say everything. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain. He just waits, letting the piece speak for itself.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, my voice thin around the edges. “Your work?”
He nods. “Figured it was practical. For when you’re here.”
When you’re here.So deliberately vague it could mean anything: visiting, staying, moving in. He’s left the interpretation to me—offering the possibility without the pressure.
“Very practical,” I reply, mirroring his tone even as my pulse jumps. “Two slots is... efficient.”
“For guests,” he offers, giving me an exit if I want it.
I look straight at him. “Is that what I am? A guest?”
Something shifts behind his eyes—something open, tentative, real.
“That depends on you, Winslow.”
The nickname wraps around me like warmth, more intimate than any title. I run a fingertip along the polished edge of the holder, this impossibly simple object holding more weight than it was ever designed for.
“I think I’d like to be more than a guest,” I say finally. “Ifthat’s an option.”
His almost-smile becomes the real thing—small but steady. “It’s an option.”
We stand there in the newly finished bathroom, a space that now feels like a promise. No big declarations. No dramatic gestures. Just a toothbrush holder and everything it quietly says.
And I want it. Him. This. With a certainty that would’ve terrified me three months ago—but now feels like home.
Evening settles around the house.The last of the helpers have trickled out. Finn dozes by the wood stove. The space is quiet, settled, whole.
We sit on the floor in the main living area, blueprints and sketches spread between us, shoulders brushing now and then as we review the final prep for the TV crew.
“If the backsplash goes in tomorrow and the exterior trim wraps by Thursday, we’re on schedule,” Owen says, scribbling notes in that impossibly neat architect handwriting of his. “Landscaping’s the wildcard.”
“I can cover the basics,” I offer, leaning in to see the plan better. “Marge offered perennials, and Mrs. Peterson’s ceramic planters will pull everything together.”
Owen nods, our shoulders aligned. He reaches across me for another drawing. We don’t comment on the contact. We don’t need to.
“The window seat came out better than I expected,” he says, his voice softer.
“Better than I imagined,” I say, glancing over at it. “It’s exactly what I wanted—a threshold space. Not quite inside. Not quite out. A place to watch without being exposed.”
His gaze cuts to mine, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“You remembered that?”
