Page 24 of This Love is Under Construction

I’m staring at my phone screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a caption I’ve written and rewritten seven times. The latest version reads:

Three weeks into our accelerated timeline and The Sequin Shack is starting to feel like an actual home, not just a renovation disaster.

The window seat (my non-negotiable design element that nearly caused a contractor rebellion) is almost finished, and I catch myself imagining mornings with coffee there, watching the seasons change through glass instead of plastic sheeting.

Funny how a place you buy on drunken impulse can start to feel like somewhere you belong.

Updates from The Sequin Shack, where tiny house, huge feelings is becoming less hashtag and more reality.

#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TheSequinShack #EmbraceTheGlitter

My thumb hovers over “share,” suddenly hesitant.

The caption feels different—less sarcastic commentary, more.

.. genuine vulnerability. I’ve built a following of nearly 75,000 people with a blend of renovation chaos and self-deprecating humor.

This post has neither. It has something I’ve carefully avoided both online and in real life: emotional honesty about putting down roots.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit share and set the phone down like it might bite me.

The post attaches to a carousel of progress photos—the window seat with its freshly trimmed edges, the open-concept main space where we removed the beam, the kitchen with its partially installed cabinets.

Real progress. Tangible. Visible. Almost enough to believe we’ll actually meet the six-week TV deadline.

My phone immediately starts pinging. I ignore it, focusing instead on my laptop and the ever-evolving construction schedule. We’re three weeks in, three weeks out. Somehow, despite the chaos, we’re on track—a minor miracle given how many moving pieces we’re juggling.

Ten minutes pass. Then curiosity wins.

I glance at my phone and find hundreds of likes and dozens of comments:

@HomeSweetTinyHome: The window seat is EVERYTHING! I can totally picture you there with coffee and a book on rainy mornings.

@RenovationNewbie: Your journey is so inspiring! I bought my fixer-upper on purpose and still have more regrets than you seem to have with your drunk auction purchase lol

@TinyLivingBig: “Somewhere you belong” I’m not crying, you’re crying.

@DIYDisasterQueen: The transformation is incredible! But more importantly, I’m loving the transformation in YOUR captions. From “what have I done?!” to “this is home”

That last one catches me off guard. Has my voice changed that much?

I scroll through older posts and... yeah. It’s obvious. The early ones were all sarcasm and panic. Now? Still some humor, sure. But also something I hadn’t intended to reveal: attachment. Hope. Maybe even the faint outline of belonging.

My phone buzzes. Abby.

Abby:

That post was FEELINGS with a capital F. “Somewhere you belong”?? Who are you and what have you done with my commitment-phobic friend? Is this the Lumber Owen effect? Because I am HERE FOR IT.

I type back:

It’s just a caption, not a marriage proposal.

And CARPENTER Owen has nothing to do with it.

I’m just... less hate-filled toward the house now that it has actual walls and a roof that doesn’t leak.

She replies immediately:

Abby:

Sure, Jan. That’s why you’re suddenly writing captions that sound like you’re staying in Maple Glen forever instead of flipping the house and running back to LA.

I stare at the message, something strange settling in my chest. I haven’t thought about LA in weeks. The city I called home for five years feels... distant now. Less real than the tiny house I wake up in every morning. When did that happen?

Before I can respond, the camper door swings open. Owen steps in, Finn trotting at his heels. He’s holding architectural drawings, eyes narrowed in that “solving three problems at once” expression.

“The cabinet supplier called,” he says. “The custom corner units for the kitchen are delayed another week.”

“That puts us dangerously close to the TV deadline,” I say, setting my phone aside. “Can we swap in stock cabinets?”

Owen shakes his head. “Not with those dimensions. But I have an idea.” He unrolls the drawings on the table and points to a new sketch. “We build it custom. It’ll actually work better with the space.”

I lean over to study it. Our shoulders nearly touch in the tight space. The design is clever—angled storage that maximizes space without closing off the room.

“This is perfect,” I say. “But can we build it in time?”

“If we start tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll need to get materials today.”

“Let’s do it,” I agree. “Custom is better anyway.”

He nods, the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes. “I’ll stop at the lumberyard after we check drywall. They’re finishing the bathroom today.”

We head to the house. The drywall crew is in the final stretch. It’s wild—walls where there used to be studs, defined rooms where there used to be chaos. The place actually feels like a home now.

The bathroom is nearly done, crisp white walls forming the clean shell where fixtures will go. I’m mentally placing the vintage sink I scored at the salvage yard when one of the drywall guys calls out.

“Mr. Carver? We’ve got a situation.”

I feel it before Owen even responds—something tightens in my chest.

He crosses to the wall near the shower rough-in, pressing his hand against the drywall. His expression shifts.

“How long’s it been like this?” he asks, his voice flat, controlled.

“Just noticed it,” the worker says. “Felt soft while finishing the seam.”

Owen pulls out his utility knife, cuts a clean square into the drywall... and water seeps out.

“What is it?” I ask, though I already know.

“Water damage,” Owen says, his tone grim. “Significant damage behind the new install.”

The words hit like a body blow.

Water damage means tear-out. It means delay. It means cost, chaos, and possibly pushing our timeline past the point of no return.

“How bad?” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

Owen doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Bad enough. We need to open up this whole section to find the source and assess the damage.” He turns to the drywall crew. “Hold off on finishing here. We need to investigate first.”

The workers nod and shift to other areas. Owen keeps inspecting the wall, calm and focused. I stand frozen, worst-case scenarios flashing like warning lights—TV deadlines, budget implosions, cascading delays.

“Penny.” His voice cuts through the noise in my head. “We’ll figure it out.”

Three simple words, but they anchor me. I take a breath. Steady. Focus.

“What do we need to do?”

“First, find the source.” He’s already pulling tools. “Could be a plumbing leak. Could be exterior infiltration. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we make a plan.”

His methodical calm is contagious. This is solvable. A problem, not a collapse. I grab more tools and join him.

“I’ll cancel the lumberyard trip,” he adds. “This takes priority.”

“I’ll call the producers—give them a heads-up. Better they hear it now than later.”

Owen nods, and I get a flicker of approval. We start cutting back drywall, working carefully to avoid spreading more damage. It’s worse than we hoped—soggy insulation, black-streaked framing. The source is a slow plumbing leak, hidden behind the shower wall, quietly wrecking everything.

“How long has this been happening?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“Hard to say,” Owen replies, eyes narrowing on the framing. “ Weeks. Maybe since the rough-in. Water damage is quiet—it works until you can’t ignore it.”

“Like emotional issues,” I mutter. I wince when he glances over. “Sorry. Renovation brain. Not sleeping enough.”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but instead he returns to inspecting the wall. “We need to pull all the damaged material. Fix the leak. Dry it out. Then rebuild. No shortcuts.”

I run the math. “How long are we talking?”

“Three days minimum. If we work late and nothing else goes wrong.”

Three days. Nearly half our remaining time. I should panic—but I don’t. Not this time.

“Then we work late,” I say. “We shuffle the schedule, accelerate wherever we can.”

Owen looks at me for a beat, like he’s seeing something new. “That’s... a practical approach.”

“I have them sometimes,” I say, lifting a brow. “Especially with sufficient caffeine.”

We dive in. The rest of the day blurs into tasks: cutting drywall, fixing the leak, setting up fans. I call the producers, who shock me by being chill about it. Apparently, crisis makes great TV.

By the time we pause, it’s well past eight. The house is a disaster zone—fans whirring, debris piled everywhere, and outside, steady rain taps against the roof.

“We should keep going,” I say, eyeing the untouched insulation. “If we pull it now, it can dry overnight.”

Owen nods, his shoulders visibly heavy from the day. I make a quick run to The Griddle for reinforcements—coffee and sandwiches—then we get back to it.

We work close, tucked into the narrow space behind the shower wall. Our hands brush, shoulders bump, the tension between us thickening with every accidental contact. We’ve been pretending the kiss didn’t happen, but this space has a memory.

“Can you hold the light here?” he asks.

I move closer, lifting the flashlight. Our faces are inches apart.

I see every detail—his eyes, flecked with gray. The stubble along his jaw. The scar at his temple I’ve never noticed before. He glances up and catches me looking. Just looking. But the look lingers.

Then he turns away. “This section needs replacing. Water damage is too deep.”

“Right,” I say, my voice catching. “I’ll add it to the list.”

We keep working. The tension doesn’t leave—it just gets quieter. We move around each other with that same precise choreography we’ve developed over weeks of building, but now every glance feels loaded.

By ten, the insulation’s out and the fans are humming. We’re both filthy and running on fumes, but we did what we could.

“We should call it,” Owen says, wiping his hands. “Early start tomorrow.”

I nod and start cleaning up. That’s when the lights flicker—once, twice—and then cut out.

“Perfect,” I mutter, flipping on my phone flashlight. “Power outage?”

“Generator,” he says, grabbing his own light. “Probably ran out of fuel. I’ll check.”

Rain hammers the roof as he heads out. Minutes later, he’s back—soaked.

“Bad news,” he says. “Not fuel. Line’s busted. Can’t fix it in this weather.”

“So we’re out until morning.” I glance around the darkened site. The fans are silent. The heater’s off. The temperature’s already dropping.

“You should head back to the camper,” he says, grabbing his tool bag. “At least it has propane heat.”

“What about you?” I ask, glancing at his soaked shirt, clinging cold and heavy.

“I’ll finish securing things here, then head home,” he says, already moving to cover exposed materials .

I should head back to the camper like he suggested. But instead, I stay. We work in silence, flashlight beams crossing like spotlights as we move through the dim shell of the house, hands finding familiar tasks even in the dark.

The temperature keeps dropping, and a shiver runs through me. I start bouncing in place, adding arm swings for warmth.

“What are you doing?” Owen asks, his beam catching me mid-bounce.

“Staying warm,” I reply, not stopping. “Circulation. Movement. Survival.”

“You look like you’re having a seizure.”

“I’m dancing,” I say, flinging my arms in something vaguely rhythmic. “It’s a time-honored survival strategy. Movement equals warmth. Science.”

“That’s not dancing,” he says flatly. “That’s flailing.”

“Says the guy standing perfectly still and freezing to death.”

I spin—badly—and nearly topple a stack of trim boards. He doesn’t move to stop me, just watches, expression unreadable in the half-light.

“I don’t dance,” he says finally. The words are soft but edged with something that doesn’t feel like humor.

I slow. “You don’t have to,” I say gently. “Just sway.”

Before I can rethink it, I close the space between us. My hands find his shoulders, damp through the fabric, warm underneath.

“See?” I whisper. “Movement.”

He’s still for a beat. Then his hands settle—tentative, then steady—on my waist.

We move. Not quite dancing. Just… moving. The rain on the roof becomes our soundtrack. The flashlight beams cast long shadows across the unfinished walls, a makeshift spotlight for something neither of us has admitted aloud.

My hair slips loose from its tie, brushing his cheek. I feel his breath hitch.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

His hands shift—slightly firmer now, more certain. My fingers find the nape of his neck, where damp hair curls against warm skin. He smells like rain and cedar and Owen.

We sway. Close enough that I can feel the shape of his breath. Long enough for my heart to sync to the rhythm of his.

Eventually—inevitably—the world intrudes. Early morning. Wet framing. TV deadlines.

We step back at the same time, but his hand lingers at my waist. Just a second longer.

He clears his throat. “We should?—”

“Yeah.” My voice is soft. “Early start.”

We pack up without speaking, working by flashlight. The rain has eased to a hush. The silence between us feels less like tension and more like something carefully held.

On the porch, just before we part—me to the camper, him to his truck—I catch a moment. Owen reaches up, absently touching his cheek. The spot where my hair brushed against him.

The gesture is small. Unconscious. But it lands with the weight of everything we didn’t say.

Not all conversations happen in words.

Some live in the space between a touch and a heartbeat. Between flailing and dancing. Between his hands finding my waist… and my heart remembering what it feels like to be held.