Page 15 of This Love is Under Construction

“Everyone in this town talks too much. Except you.”

That earns me a flicker of a smile. “Someone has to balance it out.”

We work in silence again, the playlist shifting to something slow and atmospheric. The coffee in our thermos has gone lukewarm, but we drink it anyway, chasing energy more than flavor.

Then Owen surprises me again. “What about you? How’d you end up in PR?”

I glance over. “Doesn’t seem like a natural fit for someone who values authenticity,” I echo, repeating his earlier observation. “That was... oddly perceptive.”

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

“It wasn’t the plan,” I admit. “I studied communications and creative writing. Thought I’d work in publishing, maybe journalism.”

“What changed?”

“Reality. Student loans. Rent.” I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “PR paid better. I was good at it—shaping stories, crafting narratives. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being storytelling and started being spin. And spin is just a nice way of saying ‘lies.’”

He nods, quiet for a beat. “So this house—was it your escape or your solution?”

“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” I steady a beam while he drills into place. “It was impulsive. But it felt like the first decision I made that wasn’t about someone else’s expectations.”

“Authentic decisions aren’t always rational,” he says.

“Says the guy who triple-checks every cut before he makes it.”

“In construction,” he clarifies. “Life’s messier.”

That makes me laugh. “You’re full of surprises tonight. Is this what happens when you work past your bedtime?”

“Fatigue lowers filters.”

“Well, I should take advantage while I can.” I stretch my back, then smile. “So... did you always want to build things? Or was it the family legacy talking?”

He thinks for a second. “Both. I was drawing house plans before I could spell ‘architecture.’ Dad noticed early. Put a hammer in my hand at six.”

I grin. “Tiny Owen with a toolbelt. Please tell me there are photos.”

“There are,” he says with resignation. “Maggie has them all.”

“She’s probably digitized them already.”

“God help me.”

We work a little longer, our voices soft now, like the quiet is something we don’t want to break.

“Were you a serious kid?” I ask.

“I was practical,” he says. “Maggie was the dreamer.”

“Every family needs one of each,” I say, thinking of my own parents—artistic, unreliable mother; practical, distant father. “I bounced between extremes growing up. Mom in San Diego was all spontaneity and creative chaos. Dad in Minneapolis was schedules and sensible planning.”

“That explains a few things,” Owen says, tone lighter than his words.

“Like buying a house while drunk?”

“Like adapting quickly to different environments,” he corrects. “You switched from PR executive to renovation assistant without much transition time.”

His observation surprises me—not just its accuracy, but the fact that he’s been paying that much attention. “I had to learn early how to read a room and become whatever version of myself fit. Different houses, different rules, different expectations.”

“That sounds exhausting,” he says quietly.

“It was.” The honesty comes out before I can filter it. “Still is sometimes. I got so good at being what other people needed, I forgot to figure out what I wanted.”

“And now?” he asks, meeting my eyes. “What does Penny Winslow want?”

The question lands harder than it should. What do I want? A home that feels like mine. Work that matters. To stop bailing when things get hard.

And something else I’m not ready to say—not to him.

“I want this window seat to have extra cushions,” I say instead, with a smile I don’t quite feel. “And maybe a built-in bookshelf. Definitely a reading light.”

Owen holds my gaze for a second longer, like he knows I’m sidestepping something, but lets it go. “Noted,” he says, then returns to the framing.

The rest of the night slips into steady work. We make real progress—loft support beams, electrical conduit paths, most of the bathroom framing. The hours stretch long and quiet, the kind of quiet that comes not from lack of things to say, but the ease of not needing to say them.

By 1 AM, my body is staging a full revolt. I stifle a yawn as I hand over the last piece of the bathroom wall.

“We should stop,” Owen says, noticing. “You’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, then immediately sway a little. “Just... resting my eyes between blinks.”

“Very efficient,” he says. “But we’ve done enough for tonight.”

I don’t protest. We clean up in silence, Finn rousing from his nap near the door. Owen flips off the work lights, leaving only a soft glow from the lantern.

“Good progress,” he says, checking the locks. “We made up some of the lost time.”

“Team Tiny House for the win,” I mumble, dragging on my jacket. “We should list this on our resumes. ‘Works well together past midnight without homicide.’”

“A valuable skill.”

As I head for the door, I miss a step and catch myself on the frame with a laugh. “Whoa. Gravity is very committed tonight.”

“Careful, Winslow,” Owen says, reaching out automatically to steady me.

It takes me a second to register the name. Not Ms. Winslow, not Penny—just Winslow. Offhand, casual. Familiar.

I pretend not to notice, but something tightens in my chest. Finn looks up at me like he’s clocking the shift, then ambles to my side and bumps my knee with his nose.

“I’m good,” I tell them both. “Just tired. Who knew renovation was a full-body sport?”

Owen nods. “I’ll drive you back. You’re in no shape to be behind the wheel.”

I don’t argue. The night air is crisp as we walk to his truck, stars overhead bright in the kind of sky LA never offered. Finn hops into the backseat like it’s routine, and I climb in beside Owen.

As he starts the engine, I steal a glance at him, wondering if he noticed what he said. Or maybe he did, and said it anyway.

We drive back to town in comfortable silence, the radio playing softly, Finn curled up in the small back seat.

I fight to stay awake, lulled by the rhythm of the road and the strange peace of 1 AM.

Somewhere between the curves of the highway and the steady hum of tires on gravel, I catch myself replaying that moment at the door—Owen’s hand steadying me, the way he said my name like it had always belonged to him, like it meant something more than just a label.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was nothing. But it stayed with me anyway, threading itself through the quiet and settling somewhere I couldn’t quite shake.