Page 38 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s something magical about dawn light in a tiny house.

The way it creeps through windows that take up proportionally more wall space than in regular homes.

How it transforms ordinary surfaces into canvases of gold and amber.

The gentle way it eases you awake instead of shocking you into consciousness.

I wake slowly, disoriented for a moment by unfamiliar surroundings, until I realize I’ve fallen asleep on the window seat—the very one I fought so hard to include.

The one Owen initially dismissed as “inefficient use of square footage” before eventually conceding its philosophical and practical merit.

The one now complete, topped with custom cushions in a blue that matches the morning sky outside.

Finn is curled at my feet, his warm weight anchoring me to the spot.

He doesn’t stir as I shift slightly—just sighs, content in his sleep.

The repaired birdhouse sits on the sill beside me, its visible seams telling a story of damage and healing that mirrors our own.

Next to it, my oldest postcard—the San Diego coastline with ten-year-old me asking if I’d found somewhere that felt like mine.

I stretch carefully, not wanting to disturb Finn, and take in the house around me.

It’s almost unrecognizable from the disaster I purchased, drunk and overconfident—the “Sequin Shack” that had once looked one breeze away from collapse.

Smooth drywall now replaces the exposed framing.

Warm wood floors cover the questionable subfloor riddled with holes.

The kitchen gleams with new cabinets and countertops.

The bathroom functions without duct tape. The loft just needs a mattress.

But it’s the window seat that feels like the heart of it all. This space between inside and outside. Between belonging and observing. A threshold—just like me. From perpetual outsider to someone who’s found her place. Not just in a house, but in a community. In a life.

The rising sun paints the eastern wall gold, lighting the spot where Owen and I sat last night, blueprints spread between us, his hand over mine as we talked about the future. The memory sends a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the sunshine.

Finn stirs, stretches, then opens one eye like he’s considering whether it’s worth getting up. When he sees me watching, his tail thumps lazily.

“Morning, buddy,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “Looks like we both christened the window seat.”

He yawns, then rests his head on my lap, clearly expecting more ear scratches.

I oblige, watching the sun rise further, transforming the house minute by minute.

There’s a peace in it that feels foreign to my normally chaotic life—a stillness that would have once felt like stagnation, now soft and comforting.

My phone sits on the sill beside the birdhouse, Adele Hutchinson’s email still open.

The revised offer—the expanded TV feature that includes Owen’s design work and our potential business—still waiting for a reply.

The commitment it demands would’ve terrified me three months ago.

Staying. Building a business. Building a life.

Now, it just feels like the next step.

I’m still thinking about it when I hear tires on gravel. Finn perks up but doesn’t move. Moments later, footsteps sound on the porch. The door opens, and there’s Owen, balancing a cardboard tray of coffee and a paper bag that smells like cinnamon and butter.

“You’re here early,” he says, taking in my spot on the window seat with something almost like a smile. “Testing out the inefficient square footage?”

“Fell asleep here after you left,” I admit, making no move to get up. “Turns out it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least for someone my size. Probably not ideal for someone with your lumberjack proportions.”

“Carpenter,” he corrects automatically, placing the coffee and bag on the kitchen counter. “Not lumberjack.”

“The flannel suggests otherwise,” I tease, finally slipping out from under Finn and joining him in the kitchen. “Please tell me that’s real coffee and not the construction-site sludge you usually bring.”

“Marge’s special blend,” he confirms, handing me a cup. “And cinnamon rolls. Still warm if you move fast.”

Our fingers brush, the contact sending a current up my arm. Neither of us mentions it, but his eyes linger on mine a second longer than necessary.

The kitchen is barely six feet across—tiny by any standard. It should feel cramped with two people moving around in it. Instead, there’s a choreography to our movements. I reach for a napkin, he steps left. He opens the bag, I move right. We move in tandem, a rhythm we’ve built slowly over months.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, leaning against the counter with his coffee. “Aside from the window seat improvisation.”

“Better than expected,” I say around a bite of cinnamon roll that’s every bit as delicious as it smells. “The house feels different now that it’s almost finished. Less like a construction site and more like…”

I trail off. The word “home” hovers unsaid, too weighty to speak.

Owen doesn’t push. He just nods, his eyes scanning the space with the professional eye of a builder—but softer. Proud, maybe. Or something closer to content.

“The light’s good in the morning,” he observes. “Better than I expected with the eastern exposure.”

From Owen, that’s basically a love letter. I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.

We eat in easy silence, the only sound Finn’s occasional sigh when a crumb hits the floor. It should feel strange—this domestic moment in a house that barely had walls a few weeks ago. But it doesn’t. It feels right.

“I’ve been thinking about the TV offer,” I say, setting my cup down. “The one that includes your designs. The business.”

He doesn’t react visibly, but I see the way his shoulders tighten slightly. “And?”

“I think we should do it,” I say, the words landing with a sense of finality. “Not because I need the exposure or validation. But because your work deserves to be seen. Because what we’re building here—literally and otherwise—might help other people find their own version of home.”

Something changes in his expression then. A subtle loosening. A shift I don’t need to name to understand.

“You’re sure?” he asks. “It means staying. For real. The business. Maple Glen.”

“To you,” I add softly, meeting his eyes directly. “And yes, I’m sure. I’ve spent my life running from commitment. Maybe it’s time I run toward something instead.”

Owen doesn’t smile—he never really does—but his whole posture shifts, lightens, like something he’s been carrying quietly has eased. “I’ll call the contractor about extending the camper rental. Until we figure out more permanent arrangements.”

The implication settles between us. Not just longer-term logistics, but something deeper. More permanent arrangements. Like toothbrush holders with two slots. Like futures quietly taking shape in blueprint margins.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, matching his tone even as my heart flutters. “Speaking of plans—what’s on the agenda today?”

Owen slips seamlessly into contractor mode, outlining the last batch of tasks before the TV crew arrives next week: trim work in the loft, touch-up paint in the bathroom, kitchen cabinet hardware installation. His methodical delivery is so familiar now I find myself predicting what he’ll say next.

“I can handle the touch-up paint,” I offer, rinsing my coffee cup in the small sink. “I’ve graduated from ‘paint disaster’ to ‘moderately competent with supervision.’”

“Significant improvement,” he agrees, the corners of his mouth tugging into that near-smile. “I’ll focus on the trim. Then we’ll do the hardware together.”

The day unfolds in our now-familiar rhythm—easy, intuitive, unspoken. Where once I fumbled through tools and trailed questions like a nervous intern, now I match his pace, anticipate his steps. We move in sync. A glance, a nod, and we understand what’s next.

By mid-morning, the loft trim is done. I’ve completed the bathroom paint without spilling anything significant. We move on to the cabinet hardware, starting at opposite ends of the kitchen and working toward the middle.

“You’re getting better at this,” Owen says as I line up a drawer pull on the first try.

“I had a good teacher,” I reply, looking up to find his eyes already on me. That focused gaze that makes everything else quiet down. “Though I still think power tools should come with warning labels tailored to people with my coordination.”

“Most of them do,” he says. “You just don’t read the manuals.”

“Manuals are suggestions,” I say breezily, moving to the next drawer. “Like recipes. Or speed limits.”

“Or building codes?” he adds dryly.

“Those seem... slightly more important,” I concede. “Though I notice you made adjustments to the window seat design that weren’t exactly textbook.”

His brow arches. “Structural integrity wasn’t compromised.”

“Just bent to accommodate my impractical aesthetic preferences,” I say, grinning. “Admit it, Carver. You’re getting flexible in your old age.”

“Thirty-five is not old.”

“And yet, you know exactly how many inches we saved by trimming the counter edge,” I tease.

“Good design balances form and function,” he says, deadpan. “You taught me that.”

The words land with more weight than he probably meant. From Owen, that’s not flattery—it’s fact. It means something.

“We make a good team,” I say.

His gaze meets mine across the kitchen. “We do.”

By late afternoon, the cabinet hardware is installed and we’re sitting cross-legged in the living area, floor covered in Owen’s layout sketches for furniture placement.

“If we put the sofa here,” he says, pointing to a scaled drawing, “we create a natural division between the living and dining spaces.”

“But then the reading chair gets shoved into a corner,” I counter. “I want it angled toward the window seat. Makes it a conversation nook.”