“Does the layout follow a Cretan pattern?” I asked. “Or medieval? Or Roman? Or is it something entirely modern?”
“It draws from several traditions, but it belongs to none of them,” he said. “The structural principles are my own. A variation on Fibonacci relationships, with certain non-Euclidean adaptations.”
My eyes widened. “You designed all of this yourself?”
“Every inch.”
“And built it?”
“Much of it. Some aspects required specialized contractors.”
I laughed a little, still trying to take everything in. “Okay, that is somehow exactly what I should have expected and still completely impossible to process.”
A flicker of something warm passed over his expression, and I followed him farther inside, hurrying to keep pace with his long strides.
We moved through one of the curving corridors, warm recessed lighting washing the concrete walls in gold. Niches had been built into the passage at intervals, each one holding an object: a weathered piece of driftwood, a smooth stone, a fragment of pottery, an oxidized copper vessel. Nothing was crowded. Every item had space around it.
I stopped to study the copper vessel. “Did you collect these?”
“Yes.”
“They’re beautiful.” I glanced back at him. “How do you decide what belongs here?”
He stepped closer, and I caught that now-familiar warm, earthy scent. “Objects with integrity,” he said. “Things that endure without losing their essential nature.”
The way he said it made me think he wasn’t just talking about objects.
We continued on, and the corridor opened into a living space lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. Forest stretched beyond the glass, the trees framed so perfectly they looked like curatedartwork. The furniture was modern but warm—rich leather, soft wood, and curved forms that echoed the architecture around us.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Not at all what I expected.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “What did you expect? Bones and torches?”
I laughed. “No. I just didn’t expect it to feel so peaceful.”
“That was the intent.”
I could see it now. This wasn’t just a house. It was a sanctuary. The walls curved in ways that preserved privacy. The acoustics shifted subtly from one section to another. Sound dampened where it should and carried where it mattered. There was a distant trickle of water somewhere and the quiet hum of circulating air, creating the kind of deliberate calm that made my shoulders drop without me realizing it.
We passed a sleek kitchen with wooden counters and professional-grade appliances, which explained the excellent cookies. A dining area with a table large enough for twelve. An office lined with towering shelves. Then the corridor widened into a studio, and I stopped short again.
Architectural drawings covered drafting tables. Models stood on pedestals—buildings, furniture, sculptural forms. One entire wall held samples of concrete, wood, stone, textiles, and metal in careful arrangement.
“This is where you work?”
“One of several such spaces.”
I moved towards the nearest table, staring at the precision of the drawings. The lines were so controlled, so confident, that even I could see they were extraordinary.
“These are incredible,” I said. “And you said you tooksomeclasses?”
A low sound that might have been amusement rumbled from him. “I don’t have a degree, if that\s what you’re asking.”
“You’re self-taught?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I looked at him, then back at the plans. “Do people know you designed these?”
