Page 14 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s something magical about the moment a house starts looking like a house again instead of an architectural trauma site.

After weeks of foundation work—digging, pouring concrete, installing support beams, and other deeply unsexy but critically important tasks—we finally have visible progress that doesn’t require a construction degree to appreciate.

“It’s actually starting to look like something,” I say, standing in what will eventually be the main living space.

Morning light filters through the newly framed window openings, casting geometric shadows across the subfloor we installed last week.

“Something that might not immediately collapse if a squirrel looks at it funny.”

Owen glances up from where he’s measuring a section of wall framing, pencil tucked behind his ear like always. “Structural integrity was always the goal.”

“I know, but it’s different seeing it take shape.” I walk toward the west-facing wall where my hard-won window seat will go. The framing is in place now, the outline clearly visible. “Look—my reading nook is actually happening.”

I catch myself too late—the possessive “my” slipping out before I can stop it. It’s the first time I’ve referred to any part of the house that way, and it lands with unexpected weight. Like I’ve marked my place.

If Owen notices, he doesn’t say anything. He straightens, surveying our progress with those critical eyes that catch every imperfection I’m still learning to spot.

“The framing’s solid,” he says, which from him is basically a standing ovation. “We’re making good time, considering the foundation setbacks.”

I snap a quick photo for my renovation account, framing the shot to catch the way the light pours through the window openings. That account has grown to almost 15,000 followers in three weeks—a number that still feels like a clerical error.

“Mind if I post this?” I ask, turning the screen toward him. I’ve made a point of respecting his no-face, no-name policy.

He glances at it and nods. “It’s just framing.”

“It’s progress,” I correct, caption already forming:

Week four update: We have walls! Sort of!

After three weeks of foundation work (not photogenic but VERY important), we’re finally at the “starting to look like a house again” stage.

Swipe to see the before/after from the same angle.

And yes, that framed-out space on the west wall is my future window seat, negotiated through sheer stubbornness and mild threats.

#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #FoundationsMatter

I hit post and tuck my phone away, returning to the lumber stack Owen asked me to organize.

We’ve found a rhythm these past few weeks.

I’m still not skilled, but I’ve graduated from “liability with legs” to “surprisingly competent assistant.” I now know the difference between a speed square and a framing square, and I haven’t called anything “the pokey thing” in days.

“Pass me the level?” Owen asks, and I hand it over without needing to ask which one. Small victories.

He checks the alignment, adjusts something microscopic, and nods. “This section’s done. East wall’s next.”

We move across the space and fall into the rhythm again—measuring, placing, securing. Finn watches from his patch near the door, chin on paws, eyes half-lidded in judgment or approval—it’s hard to tell .

Then Owen’s phone rings. He frowns at the screen, then answers. “Carver.” A pause. “When?... That’s not acceptable... No, we need them by Friday at the latest.”

His voice is low but tight, and I try to look like I’m not listening while absolutely listening.

“Let me know when you have a firm delivery date,” he finishes, ending the call with a sharp flick of his thumb.

“Problem?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Custom window order’s delayed. Supplier issues.” His jaw ticks. “Two, maybe three weeks.”

I exhale slowly. “That pushes everything back, doesn’t it? We can’t do siding, drywall, insulation—basically anything—until those windows are in.”

“Exactly.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it messily damp in a way that should not be as distracting as it is. “We’ll have to rearrange the schedule.”

“I’m game to work weekends. Nights. Whatever we need to do.”

He glances at me, surprised. Not the what-can-you-do kind of surprise, but the you-didn’t-even-hesitate kind.

“We can shift some tasks, start interior elements that don’t rely on the windows. But yeah, longer hours would help.”

“I’m in,” I say, no hesitation.

Something unreadable flickers across his face—respect, maybe. Recalculation.

“It’ll mean late nights. More precision, less brute force.”

“Are you implying I’m not precise?” I feign offense. “I’ll have you know I am very good at holding things. At specific angles. While standing very still.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh. “Your holding skills are... adequate.”

“Wow. Careful, Owen. You keep complimenting me like that and I might faint.”

His mouth twitches again. I’ ll call it a win.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ve got supplier meetings until four. Back here by five. We can work till ten or eleven.”

“Perfect.” I mentally cancel my solo dinner plans and remind myself to pick up food. “Any preferences?”

“Something with protein.”

“So, not black coffee and pure grit?”

“I said protein. Not flavorless.”

I grin. “Burgers it is.”

By 5:30 PM, we’ve turned the tiny house into a night shift construction zone. I’ve brought burgers from The Griddle (with fries and unsolicited dating advice from Doris), queued up the Beams & Bangers playlist, and angled the work lights to create a kind of industrial ambiance.

Owen arrives on the dot, freshly showered, in a new henley and jeans that somehow still manage to look like he rolled out of a workwear catalog. Finn trots in behind him like he owns the place.

“Honey, I’m home,” I say, holding up the takeout bags.

Owen lifts a brow. “Productive sarcasm.”

“Is there any other kind?”

We eat at the makeshift table, Finn settling between us and slowly, inevitably, conning me out of a fry or two.

“Don’t encourage him,” Owen says, though he doesn’t stop me.

“He looks at me like I’m his last hope for happiness. I’m only human.”

After dinner, Owen lays out the tasks for the night: loft support beams, conduit prep, and maybe starting the bathroom wall framing.

It’s ambitious, but doable. The lights hum softly, music low in the background—currently Leon Bridges’ “Coming Home,” one of Owen’s surprisingly soulful additions to the playlist .

We fall into step. I hand him tools before he asks. He gives instructions with fewer words. There’s something intimate in the rhythm—like we’ve become fluent in a shared language.

“You’re getting better at this,” he says after I pass him the right drill bit without hesitation.

“I had a good teacher,” I reply, then smirk. “Also a lot of YouTube. But mostly the grumpy carpenter who critiques my holding posture.”

He glances at me. “Sounds like a perfectionist.”

“A charming one,” I amend.

He doesn’t deny it.

As the hours stretch past nine, the lines between contractor and client, teacher and student, city girl and hometown builder begin to blur. Maybe it’s the fatigue, or the soft music, or the way the work lights make everything glow like some kind of dream sequence.

But when Owen asks, almost too casually, “How’s the social media stuff going?” it feels less like small talk and more like something else entirely.

I look up in surprise. He rarely initiates conversation about my renovation updates.

“It’s going well. Almost fifteen thousand followers now. I got another sponsorship offer yesterday—a tool company that wants to send me some equipment to feature.”

“Tools you don’t know how to use,” he points out—but there’s no bite behind it.

“Tools I’m learning to use,” I correct. “Slowly. With appropriate safety gear. As per Tiny House Rule Number Two.”

“No power tools after 10 PM,” he recites, catching me off guard again. “Though we’re currently violating that one.”

“Special circumstances,” I say, gesturing to our after-hours work zone. “Rules have exceptions.”

“Do they?” His tone is even, but something in his eyes makes me wonder if we’re still talking about power tools.

I clear my throat. “The window seat framing looks good. I can already imagine sitting there with a book, watching the sunset through the trees.”

Owen nods, eyes on the conduit. “It’ll work better than I thought. The support structure creates a natural storage nook underneath.”

“Form and function in perfect harmony,” I murmur, remembering what Maggie told me. “It reminds me of the built-ins from your childhood projects—your sister showed me some photos.”

His hands still briefly. “Maggie talks too much.”

“Or maybe just enough,” I offer. Then gently, “She mentioned Boston. The designs you were working on. The firm you were building.”

He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. “It wasn’t really a firm yet. Just me. Early concepts. Custom layouts. Adaptable structures.”

“What kind of concepts?” I ask, careful not to sound too eager.

“Modular homes. Units that could change with the owner’s needs. Space efficiency without losing comfort. I was experimenting with material blends, trying to keep things affordable and sustainable.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say honestly. “What happened?”

“Life.” He reaches for another conduit. “Dad’s stroke. The business needed someone. And I was the only one who could take over quickly.”

“And you left Boston.”

He shrugs. “The timing made the decision for me.”

“But do you miss it?” I ask, handing him the wire snips before he can reach for them.

Owen’s eyes flick to mine. “Sometimes. When I have time.”

“Which is never.”

“Rarely,” he amends. “The business is constant. Dad still needs care. And there’s always a deadline. ”

“Like the birdhouses?” I say lightly, hoping not to push too far.

His mouth flattens. “Blake talks too much.”