Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~9 min read
Jo had a favorite coffee shop.
Brewed Awakening wasn’t trendy or Instagram-worthy. The furniture was mismatched, the wifi was spotty, and the bathroom door stuck. But the coffee was excellent, the staff knew her order, and most importantly, it was never crowded.
Perfect for someone who did her best work in quiet spaces.
Wednesday afternoon found Jo camped at her usual corner table, headphones in, deep in design mode for a new client. She’d been there for three hours and had barely noticed.
The creative flow was real.
Until someone set a fresh coffee down beside her laptop.
Jo pulled out one earbud and looked up.
Logan stood there with two cups, wearing black jeans and a gray henley that fit him unfairly well. His hair was slightly wind-blown, tattoos on full display, and he was almost-smiling in that way that made Jo’s stomach flip.
“You’ve been nursing that same cup for ninety minutes,” he said, gesturing to her cold coffee. “Thought you might want a refill.”
“You’ve been here for ninety minutes?”
“Working in the back corner. Saw you when I came in but you were in the zone. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Jo glanced toward the back of the shop. Sure enough, there was Logan’s leather jacket draped over a chair, laptop open, sketchpad visible.
“I didn’t see you.”
“You were very focused.” Logan gestured to the empty chair across from her. “Can I sit or are you still in the zone?”
“No, sit. Please. I should probably take a break anyway.”
Logan settled across from her, long legs stretching under the small table. Their knees bumped. Neither moved away.
“What are you working on?” he asked, nodding at her laptop.
“New client. Boutique hotel rebrand. They want ‘modern luxury with vintage charm’ which is code for ‘we have no idea what we want, surprise us.'”
“Sounds frustrating.”
“It’s the fun part, actually. Blank canvas. I get to explore without constraints.” Jo sipped the fresh coffee. Perfect temperature, perfect amount of cream and sugar. “How did you know my order?”
“I pay attention.”
That simple statement made Jo’s heart squeeze.
“What are you working on?” she asked, nodding toward his corner.
“New client wants a full back piece. Dragon design. I’m sketching concepts.”
“Can I see?”
Logan hesitated, then pulled out his sketchpad. He flipped to a page showing an intricate dragon, scales rendered in incredible detail, wings spread in mid-flight.
“Logan, this is gorgeous.”
“It’s just a rough sketch.”
“It’s art. Actual art.”
Pink tinged Logan’s cheeks. Actually pink. Jo filed that away under ‘Cute Things Logan Does When Embarrassed.’
“It’s not that impressive,” he muttered.
“You’re terrible at accepting compliments.”
“Yeah, well. Not used to them.”
“You should be. Your work is incredible.”
Logan met her eyes. “Thanks.”
They sat like that, coffee between them, work forgotten, just… existing in the same space.
“This is nice,” Jo said.
“What is?”
“This. Running into you. Not planned or scheduled or part of anything. Just… coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“No?”
“No. I think some things are meant to happen.” Logan’s eyes held hers. “Like you moving into the apartment below mine. And Olive peeing on my doormat. And us both ending up at the same coffee shop on a Wednesday afternoon.”
“That’s very romantic for someone who claims not to do feelings.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Jo laughed. “Did you just quote Walt Whitman?”
“I read.”
“Grumpy tattoo artists who read poetry. What’s next, you’re going to tell me you volunteer at animal shelters?”
“Used to. Before Bear died.” Logan’s voice went quiet. “Haven’t been able to since.”
And just like that, the teasing shifted into something deeper.
“I’m sorry,” Jo said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. It’s been two years. I should be over it by now.”
“Says who? Grief doesn’t have a timeline.”
Logan looked at her with something soft in his expression. “How’d you get so wise?”
“Lost my grandmother three years ago. She raised me after my parents died. Everyone kept telling me I should be ‘moving on’ after six months, a year, two years. Like there’s an expiration date on missing someone.” Jo traced the rim of her coffee cup. “But I still miss her. Every day. And that’s okay.”
“Your parents died?”
“Car accident when I was five. I barely remember them. Gran was my whole world.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. But it means I understand grief. It’s not linear. It doesn’t follow rules. Some days you’re fine, some days it hits you out of nowhere.”
Logan’s hand found hers on the table. “Thanks for getting it.”
Their fingers intertwined. Callused artist hands against her design-cramped fingers. Perfect fit.
“We’re quite a pair,” Jo said softly. “Two sad kids in a coffee shop comparing grief.”
“I don’t feel sad right now.”
“No?”
“No. I feel… good. Like maybe sharing the sad stuff makes it lighter.”
Jo squeezed his hand. “It does.”
They sat like that for a while, holding hands across the table, coffee cooling, work completely forgotten.
The barista—Kaylin, according to her name tag—approached with a knowing smile.
“You two want anything else? More coffee? Pastries? We have fresh lemon bars.”
“I’m good,” Jo said, reluctantly releasing Logan’s hand.
“Same,” Logan said.
Kaylin left with a grin that suggested she’d be gossiping about them in the back within seconds.
“We’re going to be coffee shop gossip now,” Jo observed.
“Bothered?”
“Not even a little.”
Logan’s smile reached his eyes this time. Full sunshine smile that transformed his entire face.
Jo wanted to take a picture. Wanted to capture this moment—the way the afternoon light hit his features, the way he looked at her like she was something precious.
“You’re staring,” Logan said.
“You’re worth staring at.”
“That supposed to be smooth?”
“Was it?”
“Little bit.”
They grinned at each other like idiots.
“This is going to be a problem on Friday,” Logan said.
“What is?”
“How much I already like you. By the time our date actually happens, I’m going to be completely gone.”
Jo’s heart raced. “That’s a problem?”
“Could be. If you’re not in the same place.”
“Logan Marchand, are you fishing for reassurance?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m in the same place. Might even be ahead of you.”
“Impossible. I’ve been into you since the doormat incident.”
“The first one or the fourth one?”
“All of them. Every single time your disaster dog peed on my property, I thought ‘this girl is going to ruin my life in the best way.'”
Jo laughed, loud enough that other patrons looked over. She didn’t care.
“That’s the most ridiculous romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I’m not a traditional romantic.”
“No. You’re better.”
They stayed at the coffee shop for another hour. Eventually returned to their respective work but moved to sit together, laptops side-by-side, working in comfortable silence.
Occasionally Logan would show her a sketch detail. Jo would show him a color palette. They’d exchange feedback, ideas, comfortable in a way that felt lived-in despite only knowing each other for weeks.
When the shop announced closing time, they packed up reluctantly.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in oranges and pinks.
“Which way are you headed?” Logan asked.
“Home. You?”
“Same. Want to walk together?”
“You have your motorcycle.”
“I’ll walk it. Come on.”
They walked slowly through the neighborhood, Logan pushing his motorcycle, Jo’s hand occasionally brushing his arm. The conversation flowed easily—work stories, childhood memories, random observations about the world.
“Can I ask you something?” Logan said as their building came into view.
“Always.”
“Are you nervous? About Friday?”
“Terrified.”
“Why?”
“Because I really like you. And I want it to go well. And I’m going to overthink every single moment and probably say something stupid and—”
“Abbott.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re already overthinking it.”
“I know. I can’t help it.”
Logan stopped walking, forcing her to stop too. They were under a streetlight, golden glow making everything feel like a movie scene.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said quietly. “I don’t want perfect. I want you. Overthinking and anxious and saying stupid things. All of it.”
“What if I’m a disaster?”
“You’re always a disaster. It’s part of your charm.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I mean it, though. Stop trying to be something you’re not. Just be Jo. That’s enough. More than enough.”
Jo’s eyes stung. “You keep saying things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m enough. Like my chaos is acceptable. Like you actually like me for me.”
“Because I do.”
“I’m not used to that.”
“I know. But you should be.” Logan’s hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Friday night, I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to show up. Can you do that?”
Jo leaned into his touch. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good.”
They stood like that for a long moment, close enough to kiss, the air charged with possibility.
But Logan stepped back.
“Friday,” he said. “I want our first kiss to be on a proper date.”
“Very chivalrous.”
“I have my moments.”
They continued walking, reaching their building, riding the elevator up together. Logan got off at his floor, but hesitated at the doors.
“See you Friday, Abbott.”
“See you Friday, Marchand.”
The doors closed, and Jo rode up to her floor with a stupid grin on her face.
Jo: Random coffee shop encounter with Logan. We held hands. He said sweet things. I’m in trouble.
Erika: YOU HELD HANDS???
Jo: In public. At a coffee shop. People definitely noticed.
Erika: This is SO HAPPENING
Jo: He almost kissed me. But stopped because he wants our first kiss to be on the date.
Erika: I AM SCREAMING
Erika: He’s perfect
Erika: Marry him immediately
Jo: We haven’t even had a first kiss yet.
Erika: Irrelevant. I’m already planning your wedding.
Erika: Olive is the flower girl, obviously.
Jo: You’re ridiculous.
Erika: I’m INVESTED
Jo fell asleep thinking about Friday. About Logan’s hands and his smile and the way he looked at her like she was something extraordinary.
Two more days until their date.
She could do this.
She could be brave for two more days.
And maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something that would change everything.
In the best possible way.
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