Page 39 of This Love is Under Construction

He studies the layout, brows furrowed. “That reduces the functional pathway by eight inches.”

“But increases the cozy factor by at least fifty percent.”

He shoots me a look. “You’re measuring cozy now?”

“Cozy is a critical design metric,” I say. “Sometimes function has to bow to comfort.”

“Says the woman who wanted to knock out a load-bearing beam.”

“And you admitted I was right. The space feels twice as open now.”

He makes a noncommittal sound that I recognize as reluctant agreement. “The reading chair is negotiable,” he says after a pause. “But the bookshelf stays on the south wall. Proper anchoring. ”

“Deal,” I say, resisting the urge to gloat. “But while we’re negotiating, I want the tasseled pillows for the nook.”

He makes a face. “They serve no purpose.”

“They serve joy,” I say. “Emotional support textiles.”

“Three pillows,” he bargains. “Removable. Functional seating must be maintained.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Deal,” I say, doing a muted victory dance.

Owen rolls his eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Don’t act like you’re not,” I shoot back. “I saw you comparing wood stain samples like it was a sacred rite.”

“Durability varies,” he says, too serious. “UV resistance matters.”

I laugh, stretching out beside the layout sketches. “You’re secretly a softie with a spreadsheet.”

“I’m a professional,” he says, but his voice is lighter now. “And if we’re building something worth keeping, every detail matters.”

I look over at him, the way the soft light hits the side of his face, the relaxed curve of his mouth as he reads over a floorplan. And I think this man is used to building everything like he means for it to last. And maybe this time, we both do.

“Of course,” I agree solemnly. “That’s definitely why you tested eight slightly different variations of the same cedar stain. For UV resistance. Not because you needed the perfect undertone to highlight the grain pattern.”

Owen gives me a look that might intimidate someone who hasn’t spent months decoding the micro-expressions behind his stern exterior. “Are you questioning my professional methodology, Winslow?”

“Absolutely not,” I say, wide-eyed with mock innocence. “I would never question the methodology of a man who spent three days debating the optimal curve radius for a toothbrush holder.”

His expression shifts at the mention of the toothbrush holder—just slightly. Something flickers behind his eyes before he reclaims his usual neutral tone. “Ergonomics are important in daily-use items.”

“Especially ones designed for two,” I say quietly, holding his gaze.

The air between us shifts—charged now, the silence saying more than either of us is ready to speak aloud. Owen doesn’t answer, but his eyes don’t move from mine, and I read everything there: acknowledgment, intention, hope.

The moment stretches until Finn chooses it to sprawl dramatically across our layout sketches, tail thumping, eyes unapologetic.

“I think that’s a vote for Option Three,” I laugh, grateful for the interruption. “The one with optimal napping zones.”

“Practical design considers all users,” Owen agrees, scratching behind Finn’s ears with a gentleness that feels like another confession.

Evening wraps itself around the tiny house, warm and quiet. The tools are packed away, sawdust vacuumed up, and for the first time, it’s not a worksite—it’s a home.

I’m curled into the window seat again, the repaired birdhouse beside me, the San Diego postcard next to it. Outside, the sky fades toward indigo. Inside, the glow from the new light fixtures casts soft shadows across finished walls and clean floors.

My phone buzzes on the sill. The alert tone is unmistakable—our shared Beams & Bangers playlist. Dormant since before the fight, never deleted.

I unlock the screen.

Owen has added a song.

Not just any song. That song—Leon Bridges’ “Coming Home.” The one that played while we danced in the dark during the power outage. The one that had stayed with me for days.

Across the room, Owen is adjusting a cabinet door. He doesn’t look over. But his posture, the way his shoulders square just slightly—he knows I’ve seen it.

I press play.

The music flows through the space, low and warm, filling the distance between us.

He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But I swear I see it: the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile you feel before you see.

We move in sync—me gathering supplies, him checking light fixtures. No fanfare. No forced conversation. Just quiet companionship, familiar rhythm. And a playlist that now feels like a promise.

It’s close to ten when he closes his toolbox. Finn rises, alert. Waiting.

“Early start tomorrow,” Owen says, his standard exit line. “Final inspection at nine.”

“I’ll bring real coffee,” I reply, walking him to the door. “Not that motor oil you drink.”

“It’s functional,” he defends, but the ghost of that almost-smile returns.

“Function isn’t everything,” I say, holding his gaze. “Sometimes you need tassels. And good coffee.”

He shakes his head, fondness soft in the lines of his face. “Goodnight, Winslow.”

“Goodnight, Carver.”

I watch from the window seat as he and Finn disappear down the gravel drive, headlights vanishing between the trees. The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty. It feels like the pause between heartbeats—waiting for the next one to land.

I realize then: I haven’t thought about leaving once today.

Not during breakfast in a kitchen built for two. Not while deciding where the reading chair should go. Not even when responding to Adele Hutchinson’s email with our answer: Yes.

Yes to the new TV proposal. Yes to staying in Maple Glen. Yes to a business, a partnership, a life.

I pull up the digital folder of my postcards.

San Diego. Chicago. Portland. Places I passed through but never stayed.

Tiny snapshots of all the almost-homes. But this one’s different, because this isn’t a place I’m passing through.

No, this is the place I’m choosing to build. And I’m doing that, with him.