Page 43 of This Love is Under Construction

There’s a particular kind of magic to hosting gatherings in a tiny house—a spatial puzzle that defies conventional entertainment logic.

Every surface becomes multipurpose: the kitchen counter turns into a buffet, the window seat seats three if they like each other, and even the ladder to the loft doubles as string light support.

(“Festive ambiance,” I argued. “Fire hazard,” Owen replied. He installed them anyway.)

Six months after our official Winslow Cottage housewarming, the tiny house has evolved from a renovation project to something undeniably lived-in.

The bookshelf by the window seat spills over with a tangle of Owen’s architectural texts and my dog-eared romance novels.

Finn’s bed occupies the coveted spot between the stove and the kitchen—a location secured after weeks of strategic treat bribery.

The walls have turned into a gallery of framed moments: our first social post, Jamie’s crayon drawing labeled “HOME,” and a candid black-and-white Walt snapped of us mid-argument, both covered in sawdust, completely unaware of the camera.

I laugh, watching my former LA colleague—now a client—take in the chaos. Zoe looks different now. Confident. Softer edges. Gone is the panicked twenty-something from the corporate bathroom meltdown. She’s here for the launch of her sustainable fashion brand—one of the first clients of my PR firm.

“Strategic furniture placement,” I say, sidestepping Marge, who’s demonstrating scone technique to Mrs. Peterson. “Also, Maple Glen residents don’t require personal space. They just sort of... merge auras when square footage runs out.”

“I can see that,” Zoe says as Walt breaks into a dramatic reenactment of the beam removal, complete with sound effects. Finn’s ears twitch. “They really love you here.”

The words stop me for a beat with their quiet truth. They do. These people who once bet on how fast I’d bolt after my drunk auction purchase. Who stepped in with casseroles and crowbars when everything fell apart. They’re not just neighbors. They’re mine.

“It’s mutual,” I say, watching Maggie corner Owen near the door, no doubt teasing him into that back-of-the-neck flush. “Though I maintain it’s mostly for my social media skills and Owen’s contractor discount.”

Zoe glances over. Owen is now seriously studying something on Walt’s phone. “No,” she says. “You seem rooted here. Like you finally stopped looking for the exits.”

The phrasing lands. Because it’s true. I used to map out escape routes from jobs, cities, relationships. Always prepped to leave before disappointment caught up. But somewhere between demolition and drywall, that impulse faded—replaced by something steadier. Something that stays.

We find a quieter corner, or as quiet as it gets in 400 square feet packed with the most enthusiastic people in Maple Glen. Zoe fills me in on LA gossip, including the spectacular implosion of my former agency, courtesy of Diana’s tone-deaf “authentic living” campaign for a fast fashion brand.

“I almost called you during the worst of it,” Zoe admits. “But then I remembered what you said to me in the bathroom that day I was spiraling. ‘Storms pass. Just don’t let your foundation crack.’ I think about that all the time. You weren’t just building a house here.”

Her words hit harder than I expect. That advice? I barely remember giving it. I wasn’t even following it myself.

“I used to abandon the whole foundation at the first sign of trouble,” I admit, watching Owen navigate the room with two full wine glasses, somehow not bumping into anyone despite his broad shoulders. “Guess I finally learned how to reinforce one instead.”

“You did more than reinforce it,” Zoe says, nodding toward the space around us. “You rebuilt it from scratch. And it looks pretty unshakable from where I’m standing.”

“I think Doris is still in the camper reading fortunes in coffee grounds,” I say, collapsing onto the couch beside Owen after the last guests have trickled out. Finn wedges between us with precision, head on Owen’s knee, tail thumping against my leg in perfect shared custody.

“Let her be,” Owen says, stretching his arm along the back of the couch like it’s no big deal. (It still gives me butterflies.) “She predicted the Thompsons would finish on time. I’m not messing with the karma.”

I laugh, surveying the not-quite-wreckage of the night. For a party of twenty, the house has held up remarkably well. Either Maple Glen respects our space, or my strategic wine placement paid off.

“Zoe’s campaign is going to be incredible,” I say, scrolling through my notes. “Her textile story is everything—authentic, values-driven. It’s what people want right now.”

“Her approach aligns with yours,” Owen says, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Work that means something.”

It’s the heart of the shift. I used to spin stories for brands I didn’t believe in. Now I help the right ones tell stories that matter. Winslow Communications has grown into something real—a small but mighty team, with clients across the Pacific Northwest.

“Speaking of meaningful work,” I say, turning toward him, “the feedback from your Seattle workshop was ridiculous. Three architecture programs reached out about guest lectures.”

He flushes, trying not to look pleased. “They had good questions. Spatial efficiency is a popular topic.”

“They were starstruck,” I say. “They gasped when you showed the staircase storage.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s just functional design.”

“It’s innovative and gorgeous, and makes tiny living feel like something you’d actually want to do,” I counter. “You’re not just solving problems. You’re creating possibility.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just lets me say it. That, in itself, is its own kind of progress.

“We make a good team,” he says, echoing my thoughts with his usual efficiency.

“The best,” I agree, resting my head on his shoulder. “Though I maintain your Instagram captions could benefit from at least forty percent more emoji.”

“Professional restraint,” he says, but the ghost of a smile gives him away.

“Tragic underuse of the hammer and tiny house emojis,” I reply. “But I respect your brand integrity.”

We sit in easy silence, Finn’s soft snores filling the space with their usual comfort. Through the window, stars begin to prick the sky—once unfamiliar, now the backdrop to everything I know.

“I have something to show you,” Owen says, that familiar low tone edged with just enough nervousness to make me instantly curious. “A design I’ve been working on.”

Spread across the table is something unmistakably Owen: clean lines, meticulous detail, perfect balance of function and beauty. But this isn’t for a client or a portfolio. This one is personal.

“It’s a tiny house,” I say, scanning the plans. “But bigger than this. What—600 square feet?”

He nods, eyes on mine. “With expandable outdoor space. Southern exposure for light.”

I trace the sketches—familiar layout elements woven with subtle upgrades. A larger loft with more headroom. A soaking tub. The kitchen includes the infamous copper pot rack. And stretching across the west wall?—

“The window seat,” I breathe. “It’s enormous.”

“Takes up the entire wall,” he confirms. “Built-in shelves. Adjustable lighting.”

The more I look, the clearer it becomes. This isn’t hypothetical. This is a house designed for two people who know each other’s rhythms. There’s a desk area that fits my work setup. A layout built to hold our lives. And—wait.

“Is that a Finn door?” I ask, pointing to a tiny, arched opening in the wall.

“It connects to a matching structure,” Owen says, and his voice softens. “His own space. With views of both buildings.”

And just like that, I understand. This is our future. On paper. Rendered in lines and intention.

“It’s not a proposal,” Owen says quickly, catching my stunned silence. “Just a concept. Something we could build. If or when you want more space.”

I bite back a smile and open my laptop. “Can I show you something?”

I click into a folder labeled “Next Project”—my secret vision board. Expanded layouts, shared office ideas, native landscaping for bird traffic. Colors I knew Owen would like. Textures that make a house feel like a home.

“I’ve been planning too,” I admit. “Great minds.”

He studies my screen. Then looks back at his sketches. The overlap is striking .

“We’re on the same page,” he says.

“Literally,” I say, placing my hand over his.

“Your palettes are better,” he adds. “The cedar tone works with the terrain.”

“And your storage ideas are smarter,” I reply, letting our fingers intertwine.

He starts talking through the window seat design, tracing structural supports and light angles. “The reinforced corners create stability without losing the open sight lines you wanted,” he says. “I love how it transitions from inside to out.”

I blink. Wait.

“You what?” I ask, straightening.

He pauses. “What?”

“You said you love it.”

“I do,” he says, still distracted. “The design is?—”

“No.” I put my hand on his. “You said ‘I love.’ You’ve never said that to me before.”

He looks at me, genuinely surprised. “That can’t be right.”

“Oh, I’d remember,” I say. “That’s a first.”

“I’ve thought it,” he says, brow furrowing. “A lot.”

“Thinking and saying are different.”

Silence stretches. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches for both my hands.

“I love you, Winslow,” he says. “Have for a while now.”

It’s not flashy. It’s not scripted. It’s pure Owen: steady, intentional, unshakably true.

And somehow, it still manages to knock the air right out of my chest.

“I love you too,” I reply, my voice steadier than I expect. “Even when you veto my decorative tassel concepts and insist color-coding the tool chest is ‘unnecessary.’”

“The tassels are growing on me,” he admits, tracing slow circles on my palm. “And your color system in the kitchen? Surprisingly efficient.”

Coming from Owen, this is practically a love poem. I lean in to kiss him, still marveling at how natural it feels—this closeness that once would’ve triggered every flight instinct I had. Now it feels like the firmest ground I’ve ever stood on.

Finn, not one to miss a shift in emotional dynamics, wedges himself between us with a dramatic huff, clearly offended.

“Look,” I say, pointing to the floor plan on the table. “Finn already approves of his custom door between the houses. Very forward-thinking design.”

“He has good taste,” Owen says, scratching behind Finn’s ears. “Unlike some clients, he doesn’t question necessary structural elements.”

“I still maintain that beam removal was the best decision we ever made,” I counter, grinning. “And I have the open-concept living space to prove it.”

Later, after we’ve pored over the new design and added a dozen shared notes, I find myself drawn to the window seat—still my favorite place in this house.

Moonlight washes across the floor, casting quiet patterns on the hardwood.

Through the glass, I can just make out the outline of the birdhouse, weathered now, but holding strong.

I open my postcard box—the one that once held a life in pieces. At the top sits San Diego, the coastline faded, my ten-year-old handwriting still legible: Have you found somewhere that feels like yours?

Beside me, Owen flips through a stack of magazines, relaxed in the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. Finn is curled by the stove, legs twitching in pursuit of phantom squirrels.

“I’m donating some stuff tomorrow,” I say, holding up a box labeled ESSENTIALS. “Finally going through the things I couldn’t let go of when I first moved here.”

He looks up, recognizing the box instantly. The ‘emergency’ items I once kept within arm’s reach. “Big step. ”

“Turns out none of this is actually essential,” I say, pulling out my go bag, some old relocation notes, a business card for a Brooklyn realtor. “Someone else might need them.”

He watches me quietly, eyes soft. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” I set the box aside, then reach for a new postcard—one with a photo of Winslow Cottage bathed in autumn light, chimney smoke curling into the sky.

“What are you writing?” he asks.

“Just updating my address,” I say, smiling as I uncork my pen. “Permanently this time.”

He doesn’t need to read the words to understand. The gesture is enough.

When I’m done, I place it on the sill beside the faded San Diego card. Past and present, question and answer.

Owen’s hand finds mine.

The next morning is crisp and golden—the kind of autumn day that feels almost too perfect to be real. We sit on the porch, coffees in hand, a stack of design sketches between us.

“Eastern exposure needs adjustment,” Owen notes, pencil already moving. “Morning light in the kitchen would make more sense.”

“Agreed,” I say. “And maybe we could use some of Walt’s hoarded cedar for the accent wall? If he’ll part with it.”

He nods, jotting it down. Finn lies at our feet, ears alert for squirrels.

Movement near the birdhouse catches my eye. Two new birds—different from the last pair—hop along the railing. One inspects the entrance. The other stands sentry.

“New visitors,” I say.

Owen looks, his gaze softening. “Checking structural integrity before committing.”

“Smart birds,” I murmur, leaning into him. “ They don’t know that birdhouse’s history. The storms it’s seen. The hands that fixed it.”

“They will,” he says. “They’ll make it theirs anyway.”

We fall quiet again, watching the birds consider their future.

The birdhouse stands, weathered but upright. It isn’t flawless. The seams are visible if you know where to look. But it’s holding. It’s enough. It’s home, and so are we.