The top page is an offer letter.
Dear Mr. McCall, Following our conversation on October 3rd, we are pleased to present a revised offer for the acquisition of the McCall Cabins property, including all structures, land, and water rights...
The number at the bottom of the page makes my stomach drop. That's enough to fix every cabin on this property twice over. Enough to clear whatever debts are keeping Owen awake at three in the morning when he thinks I'm asleep and stares at the ceiling doing math.
He's been doing that every night. Lying there running numbers while his hand rests on my hip. And every night I pretend to be sleeping because asking about it feels too close to caring too much.
The second page is a property tax notice. Three months overdue. Red ink at the top. FINAL NOTICE stamped in the corner.
Third page. A handwritten list in Owen's careful printing. Roof, cabin 2. Water heater, main house. Septic, cabins 3-6. Generator backup. Winterization, all units. Each item has a number next to it. The total at the bottom is underlined twice.
He can't afford to keep this place.
The knowledge settles into my chest with a weight that makes breathing harder. He's been feeding me, housing me, paying for my supplies, fixing things alongside me, all while the property is bleeding money he doesn't have.
"You're up early."
His voice comes from the hallway. Sleep-rough. When he rounds the corner into the kitchen, his eyes go straight to the counter. To the papers. To my face.
The warmth drains from his expression.
"That's not yours to read."
"It was on the counter."
"Because I was looking at it last night." Crossing the kitchen, he gathers the pages into a stack. Precise. Controlled. The steadiness in his hands is deliberate. "After you fell asleep."
"Owen."
"Drop it, Carmen."
"Three months behind on taxes? A developer offering to buy the whole property?" My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. Nurse voice. The one that delivers bad news because someone has to. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it's my problem." He shoves the papers into a drawer. Shuts it. "Not yours."
"I live here."
"For two more weeks."
The words land clean. Direct hit. Two more weeks. My deal expires. The cabin gets cleaned. Someone else checks in, or more likely nobody checks in because the property is sinking.
"So that's what this is." The coffee I haven't made yet is irrelevant now. My arms fold across my chest. Armor. "You needed help with the cabins, and I showed up at the right time. Free labor for a property you're about to sell anyway."
His jaw locks. "That's not fair."
"Fair? You've been pouring soup on my porch every morning while you can't pay your property taxes. You've been sleeping next to me every night staring at the ceiling doing math. You've been acting like everything's fine while some developer circles this place waiting for you to break."
"Everything is fine."
"Nothing is fine, Owen. You're drowning."
The kitchen goes quiet. Wind pushes against the windows. The woodstove ticks. Outside, the creek runs steady over rocks that have been there longer than either of us.
"I've been running this place alone for six years." His voice drops low. Flat. "Before you. Before the developer. Before the roof started leaking. My parents built this place, and I've been holding it together by myself since they died, and I don't need someone who's been here for three weeks to diagnose the problem."
Every word is precise. Measured. The steadiest I've ever heard him sound, which means he's furious.
"Someone who's been here for three weeks." Repeating his words back feels necessary. To hear them. To make sure I understood. "That's what I am."
