Page 8 of This Love is Under Construction

I’ve spent the morning preparing for Demo Day with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for first dates or high-stakes client pitches.

Three cups of coffee. Two hours of YouTube tutorials.

One outfit carefully chosen to say casual but competent —new jeans, a flannel shirt I panic-bought at the general store (which feels dangerously close to cosplaying as a local), and work boots stiff enough to guarantee blisters by noon.

“Hello?” I call, juggling two coffees and a bag of muffins as I make my way up the porch steps. “I brought reinforcements!”

I nudge the door open with my hip and find Owen mid-markup.

He’s already shed his flannel—working in a fitted gray henley with the sleeves pushed up—and is methodically sectioning the wall with blue painter’s tape.

Finn lies nearby on a worn camping pad, watching his owner like he’s meditating and Owen is his guru.

Owen glances up. His expression shifts just slightly—concentration easing into something that might be amusement. “Morning.”

“I know, I know,” I say, setting the coffee tray down on his folding table, now crowded with neatly arranged tools and what look like hand-drawn floor plans.

“You’ve probably been here since dawn, whispering to the walls and consulting the house spirits.

But I brought caffeine and carbs, so you have to forgive me. ”

“You’re not late.” He returns to his work. “And it was six-thirty. Not dawn.”

“Practically sleeping in,” I mutter, eyeing the grid of tape. “What’s all this?”

“Demolition map.” He caps his marker and tucks it behind his ear—a gesture I’m starting to recognize as Owen’s version of a period. “We’re removing damaged drywall in stages. This isn’t a sledgehammer free-for-all.”

I try to hide my disappointment. I spent way too long last night imagining myself dramatically taking down a wall while Wrecking Ball played in the background. “So, no cathartic destruction montage?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “There’ll be destruction. Just... controlled.”

“Controlled destruction. Sounds like an oxymoron. Or my dating history.”

I pull out a notebook, flipping to a fresh page. “So, what’s the plan?”

He eyes me like he’s recalibrating his expectations. Then he picks up one of the coffees—silent thank-you—and gestures toward the wall.

“We’ll remove the worst sections first. Then the subfloor, to inspect the foundation. Once we know the full extent of the damage, we can rebuild.”

“Expose the bones before we fix them.” I nod, writing that down like I’m not 60% caffeine and 40% YouTube confidence.

“You’re going to get dirty,” he says, eyeing my suspiciously clean outfit. “Do you have gloves?”

I pull out a pair of gardening gloves with tiny daisies on the cuffs. “Marge lent me these.”

He stares. “Those are for pruning roses. Not demolition. ”

“They protect hands and prevent splinters. Seems functional.”

He sighs, a man seeing his life flash before his eyes, and heads to his toolbox. “Here.” He tosses me a pair of actual work gloves. “These’ll do more than look cute.”

I slip them on. “Thanks. Any other Demo Day essentials I should know?”

“Safety glasses. Dust mask. Common sense.”

“Two out of three’s not bad.” I pull both glasses and a mask from my bag—overnight Amazon Prime, bless. “The common sense is still on backorder.”

This time, I’m certain I see a smile. It’s small. It’s brief. But it’s there.

“Let’s get started,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to tear down before we can build anything up.”

Forty-five minutes into “controlled destruction,” I’m questioning every decision I’ve ever made.

Not the house—that’s surprisingly holding up under my affection.

But the three cups of coffee? That was a mistake.

I’m vibrating at a frequency that’s better suited for hummingbird wings than precision work.

I’ve already broken off a salvageable baseboard, pried off drywall in the wrong section, and apologized five times.

“Sorry,” I say again, holding a jagged chunk of crumbling drywall. “I think I’m using too much force.”

“You think?” he says, dry. Patient. But I can feel the thread of tension in him tightening.

“It’s not about strength. It’s about technique.”

“That’s what all the guys say,” I mutter—then freeze. “Did I say that out loud?”

Owen clears his throat. “Maybe switch gears. Document this for your... online thing.”

He says online thing the way people say rash.

“My Instagram renovation journey, thank you very much.” I dust off my hands, grateful for the out.

I snap before-and-during photos of the wall, the tools, a particularly artistic swirl of dust caught in a sunbeam.

“This is weirdly beautiful,” I murmur, framing the light just right. “Breaking something down to build it better.”

“It’s just drywall.”

“It’s never just drywall. Everything tells a story, if you frame it right.”

He pauses. “PR training?”

“A little. But PR is about pretending things are fine. This? This is actually real. Messy. Honest.”

He watches me a second too long before turning back to the wall. I set up a time-lapse on my phone and grab my gloves again.

“It’s too quiet in here,” I announce, ten minutes later. “We need music.”

“I work better in silence.”

“Everyone works better with a soundtrack.” I pull out my phone. “I’ve already started a playlist. Beams and Bangers.”

“Beams and... what?”

“Renovation vibes. You’re invited to contribute.”

“I don’t need?—”

“First track!” I say triumphantly, pressing play.

The opening chords of Wrecking Ball fill the space, echoing through exposed studs and dust.

Owen turns slowly, one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I CAME IN LIKE A WREEECKING BAAALL!” I belt, swinging a fragment of drywall like a microphone.

And then it happens.

Owen laughs.

Not a smirk. Not a breath through his nose. A real, full-bodied laugh that lights up his whole face and sends a shockwave through my ribcage .

“That,” he says when he recovers, “is the most on-the-nose song choice possible.”

“I’m not known for my subtlety,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “Your turn.”

“No.”

“Yes. House rule. If you work on the house, you contribute to the playlist. Reveal your soul, Carver.”

He sighs but takes my phone, scrolling like it’s a chore. After a moment, he hands it back.

“‘Fix You’ by Coldplay?” I say, eyebrows raised. “That’s... emotional.”

“It’s about repair.”

“Right. Totally practical. Not revealing of any hidden depths.”

He ignores me, but his ears are a little pink.

We fall into a rhythm, music playing in the background as we work side by side. I post a quick update:

Demo Day: fewer sledgehammers, more dust masks and PR damage control. Progress is progress. Swipe for “before” and “during” shots. #ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TinyHouseHugeFeelings #WreckingBallWasVetoed

As I put my phone away, Owen steps back from the wall, his expression tight.

“That’s not good.”

“What’s not good?” I join him, trying to decipher what he sees in the wood.

“Rot.” He points. “Deep rot in the sill plate.”

“How bad?” My stomach sinks.

“Bad enough.” He crouches, examining it. “We need to expand the demo. See how far it goes.”

Over the next hour, we pull more drywall, more flooring. And it gets worse. The rot extends. The damage deepens. Floor joists. More sill plates. More foundation concerns.

Finally, Owen sits back on his heels, streaked in dust. “This changes the timeline. And the budget.”

I sink onto an overturned bucket. “How bad?”

“Full foundation rebuild. Jacking up the structure. Replacing everything underneath.”

I stare at the skeleton of my house. “Can we save it?”

He looks at me—really looks at me—and his voice softens. “Yes. But it won’t be fast. Or cheap.”

“You can’t build on something unstable,” I murmur, echoing every renovation show ever.

“Exactly.” He seems surprised I understand. “Doesn’t matter how nice the finishes are. If the foundation’s weak, nothing holds.”

The metaphor sucker punches me.

How many times have I slapped glossy finishes over a life I never stabilized?

“So we fix the foundation,” I say quietly. “Whatever it takes.”

He watches me. “No one would blame you for walking away.”

“Everyone expects me to walk away.”

“Not what I said.”

“But it’s what they think.” I stand, brushing off my jeans. “We fix the foundation. End of discussion.”

Something shifts in his expression. A quiet reassessment. Maybe respect. Maybe something more.

“I’ll revise the plan,” he says. “We’ll need permits. Equipment.”

“Tell me what to do. I’m in.”

We return to work, the silence companionable now. I match his rhythm, learning with each pass. The day stretches long, dust clinging to every inch of me.

“Like this?” I ask, prying up subfloor carefully.

“Almost.” He steps beside me, adjusts my grip. His hands cover mine, warm and solid.

Just a second. Just enough to feel it.

Rule #4: No catching feelings for the grumpy carpenter.

I repeat it like a mantra .

Then I break another piece of drywall and Owen sighs.

We keep going.

We keep working until late afternoon, the slant of sunlight through broken windows casting golden stripes across the dusty floor. I’m filthy, sore in muscles I didn’t know existed, and sporting at least three splinters despite Owen’s “these will actually protect your hands” gloves.

But beneath the grime and exhaustion is something else—something quieter, deeper.

Satisfaction.

Not the hollow, caffeine-fueled burnout of my PR days. This is real. This is earned. A bone-deep tired that feels... honest.

“Good progress,” Owen says, wiping down his tools.

From him, that’s practically a standing ovation.

“Even with my early sledgehammer ambitions?” I ask, grinning through a mask of drywall dust.

“You’re a quick learner.” He pauses, then adds, “When you actually listen.”

“I always listen,” I say. “I just—selectively implement.”

That earns me a look. The kind that says I’m not mad, just constantly recalibrating your risk factor.

I stretch, wincing as my spine pops like bubble wrap. “So, what’s next? Foundation apocalypse planning?”

“I’ll draw up the revised plan tonight,” he says, scanning the stripped interior. “We’ll go over it tomorrow. This changes the scope. But it’s better to know now.”

More time. More money. More commitment.

And yet...

“Worth it,” I say, and I mean it.

He looks at me, steady and unreadable. Then: “That’s the only way worth doing it.”

We finish cleaning up in a quiet, easy rhythm. Owen packs up tools with the same precision he uses to build—or demolish—anything else. Every wrench, every blade has a place. A method. A reason.

There’s something reassuring in that. Something grounding.

Finn ambles over and nudges my hand. I scratch behind his ears, grateful for the uncomplicated affection.

“He likes you,” Owen says, snapping his toolbox shut. “He’s usually more cautious.”

“I’m very likable,” I reply, giving Finn one last ear rub. “You know, once you get past the impulse control issues and karaoke-level enthusiasm for demolition.”

The corner of Owen’s mouth twitches—his now-familiar micro-smile. “You did good work today. For a beginner.”

Coming from him, it lands like a gold medal. Or a slow clap from a notoriously hard-to-impress judge on a baking show.

“High praise from the demolition dictator.”

“I prefer renovation autocrat, ” he deadpans.

I laugh—tired, genuine, surprised. Every day with Owen is like finding out a statue can blink.

We haul the last of the debris into his truck. As he secures the tarp, I turn to look at the house.

It’s gutted now. Raw and exposed. It looks worse than when we started—but also... more honest. Like it’s stopped pretending.

I snap a photo—sunlight slanting through a missing wall, catching on dust motes that hang like glitter in the air.

A before-before. A new baseline.

“See you tomorrow?” I ask as Owen closes up.

He nods. “Eight o’clock. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”

“Bold of you to assume I have anything left I mind ruining.” I gesture to my dust-streaked flannel. “This was the good one.”

“You’ll need more. It’s the unofficial uniform.”

“Is that a Maple Glen mandate? Five flannels and a pair of suspenders to be granted full citizenship?”

“The suspenders are optional until your fifth year,” he says, completely deadpan.

I blink .

Then laugh.

It’s not just the joke. It’s the fact that I almost missed it. He’s sneaky, this one. Dry and layered like a perfect pastry. A stoic mille-feuille.

“I’ll start my collection,” I say, smiling.

As I drive back to Marge’s, dust in my hair, bruises on my shins, and Owen’s laugh still playing on a loop in my head, I feel something unfamiliar settle into my chest.

Not comfort, exactly.

But weight. Substance. The start of something real.

I’ve spent my life gliding over surfaces—new jobs, new apartments, new cities—never stopping long enough to see what was underneath. Never asking if the foundation was sound.

But this house?

This disaster of a project?

It’s making me look down. Dig deeper. Face the rot I’ve painted over for years.

Foundations matter. And mine—like this house—needs work.