Page 37 of This Love is Under Construction

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 invisible to 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.”

I shoot a look at Owen.

“You told her about the proposal?”

“I didn’t have to,” he replies. “Apparently Marge briefed the entire town before you even presented it to me.”

“Small towns,” Walt calls. “No secrets!”

I laugh—surprised, delighted, and slightly overwhelmed.

“Well then. Put me to work. What’s the plan?”

Owen hands me his clipboard. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and the spark that passes between us zips straight up my spine. I pretend not to notice.

“Accelerated timeline,” he says. “If we keep this pace, we just might make the TV deadline.”

I glance over the schedule he’s laid out—tasks, assignments, deliveries—all mapped with meticulous precision.

“This is... intense. ”

“I had time to think about it,” he says quietly, just for me. “While I was pretending I wasn’t coming back.”

Our eyes lock. That moment of truth, unsaid but felt. He never really left. Not in the ways that mattered.

“Well then,” I say, handing the clipboard back, trying to match his steadiness. “Let’s build a house.”

The rest of the day blurs into motion. What would normally take a week happens in hours with so many hands pitching in. Cabinets are installed. Trim completed. Fixtures mounted. The bathroom tile, delayed for weeks, arrives mid-morning and is laid by lunch.

I bounce from task to task—sometimes working alongside Owen in the rhythm we’ve perfected over months, other times sorting supplies with Walt or documenting progress for my ever-growing group of social media followers.

The vibe is somewhere between a barn-raising and a block party.

People bring snacks. Tools are swapped. Stories fly—mostly about renovations gone sideways, none of which make my drunken house auction look as reckless as it once did.

“You’ve stirred up this town,” Marge says during a quick lunch break, pressing a sandwich into my hands before I can protest. “Haven’t seen this kind of momentum since the Thompson barn fire in ‘98.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, watching Mrs. Peterson from the library install one of her ceramic planters in the nook by the window seat. “This is all... unexpected.”

“You pitched a business that keeps Owen’s talent in Maple Glen and brings in outside interest,” Marge corrects. “That’s something worth showing up for. For the town. And for him.”

I glance toward Owen, who’s managing the electrical inspection like he’s balancing equations in his head.

“I just want him to design again,” I say. “To create things that reflect what he sees—not just build what people ask for.”

Marge’s voice softens.

“And that’s why everyone’s here. Because you see him. The real him. Not just the guy who shows up with a level and a sander.”

Her words land hard. I have seen him—the artist hiding behind the pragmatist, the dreamer behind the duty-bound son, the man who builds houses for others because he isn’t sure how to ask for one of his own.

By late afternoon, the house is nearly unrecognizable. The walls are painted. The floors finished. The window seat—complete with custom cushions Marge had made “just in case”—invites a long sit. The kitchen hums. Even the deck is built.

Owen finds me as the light turns golden and most volunteers pack up for the day.

“You should see the bathroom,” he says, that familiar almost-smile back. “It’s done.”

I follow him through the house, barely able to reconcile this space with the one I stepped into months ago. The bathroom door is open. And it’s stunning.

The vintage tile glows. The fixtures shine. The light is soft and warm. It’s exactly what I envisioned, only better—like the room had always known what it wanted to be, and Owen had simply coaxed it into becoming.

“It’s perfect,” I say, fingertips brushing the edge of the salvaged sink.

“I can’t believe how much we got done.”

“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. “If that’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? ”

“I remember everything important.”

Silence settles, the kind that doesn’t feel like absence but presence. His hand finds another set of sketches—ones I haven’t seen.

“These are... future ideas,” he says. And I hear it—that trace of vulnerability I rarely get from him. “For possible projects.”

He spreads them out.

And I stop breathing.

Treehouse-inspired homes nestled in the canopy. Lakeside designs that mirror the waterline. Geometric marvels that somehow look both modern and mythic. These aren’t just house plans. These are dreams.

“Owen...” I say, stunned. “These are breathtaking. This is exactly what Carver Custom Designs should be doing.”

“Maybe,” he says, watching my reaction. “If people want something this... different.”

“They do. They will. ” My PR instincts kick in. “This is exactly what the market’s missing—tiny house design with actual soul. Not just scaled-down suburban boxes.”

As I flip through his work, I realize this is more than a portfolio. This is trust. He’s showing me the parts of himself he doesn’t share. The parts he protects. The future he’s been afraid to believe in.

And he’s putting it in my hands.

“We start with consulting,” I say, easing into his language. “We build a portfolio around these sketches. Your work. Your vision. My house is your proof of concept.”

He watches me with that focused stillness that always makes the air feel charged.

“This love is under construction too,” he says quietly.

The words hit like thunder—soft but seismic.

And then, just as the shock registers, he adds, “But I think it’s worth finishing.”

I blink. He said love.

Not framed as a question. Not hidden behind sarcasm. Just said .

“You’re not just part of this house, Winslow,” he adds, eyes holding mine. “You’re the reason I started dreaming again.”

My breath catches as I realize what he’s really saying—the declaration nestled inside carefully measured words. This isn’t just about business or renovation or some abstract collaboration. This is about us. About what we’re building that has nothing to do with floorplans or finishes.

Without overthinking, I reach out and thread my fingers through his over the blueprints. His hand is warm, calloused from years of work, and it folds around mine with a kind of quiet strength that undoes me.

We don’t speak. We don’t look at each other. Just watch our hands, still and certain, resting atop a plan for a future neither of us expected but both clearly want. His thumb brushes gently over my knuckles—nothing showy, just enough to send heat blooming in my chest.

We might have stayed like that for hours if my phone hadn’t chimed, breaking the silence.

I glance at the screen, heart still in my throat. “It’s Adele Hutchinson,” I say. “Subject line: Revised Proposal – Urgent.”

Owen’s hand tightens briefly, then releases mine. He doesn’t ask for the phone. Just waits as I open the email and skim it, my face apparently saying more than I intend.

“Bad news?” he asks.

“Not exactly.” I reread it to be sure. “They’re offering something different. They want to expand the segment. Instead of just the renovation, they’d feature your design work and the potential business. It’s called From Disaster Purchase to Design Showcase: A Tiny House Transformation. ”

Our eyes meet. “They saw your sketches from my posts,” I explain. “They think the story works better if it includes your architectural vision, not just my impulsive auction mistake. ”

Owen’s gaze sharpens. “What’s the catch?”

I take a breath. “More filming days. Longer production. And… they want me to stay in Maple Glen. Indefinitely. They’re talking about follow-up episodes. A business launch. Ongoing documentation.”

The weight of it lands between us. This isn’t just a spotlight. It’s a new chapter. A potential life.

He processes quietly. No panic, no immediate reaction. Just that stillness I’ve come to know so well. “That’s a big shift from what you originally signed up for,” he says at last, his voice careful. “What do you want to do?”

Just that. No pressure. No expectation. He’s not trying to decide for me. Just holding the space while I decide for myself.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “It’s an incredible opportunity, but it’s also pressure. On a business that doesn’t technically exist. On us, when we haven’t even defined what this is.”

Owen nods. No argument. Just quiet understanding. “Whatever you decide, I’m in.”

My throat tightens. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, steady as ever. “Some foundations are worth building on, no matter what ends up on top.”

It makes me smile—pure Owen, anchoring emotion in something solid, something structural. “I’ll let them know tomorrow. I want to sit with it first.”

He nods again and turns back to the plans, giving me space without retreating. No pressure. Just presence.

We work together in companionable quiet for another hour. Focused. Comfortable. Not pretending the moment before didn’t happen—just letting it exist beside everything else. A new beam in our foundation.

As dusk slips into night, I find myself watching him more than the drawings—his focus, the intent in his hands, the quiet satisfaction in his face when something lines up just right.

This man who builds birdhouses in secret.

Who designs homes in silence. Who carved a toothbrush holder with two angled slots and let it do the talking.

Who said our love is under construction, too.

Maybe there’s no blueprint for this. Maybe you just build and hope it holds.