Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~11 min read
Thursday evening—one day before the date—Jo was walking Olive around the block when everything went wrong.
One second, Olive was sniffing a tree.
The next, she yelped and jumped back, favoring her front right paw.
“Olive? What’s wrong, girl?”
Jo knelt down to check. Blood. A lot of blood, pooling on the sidewalk, dripping from Olive’s paw.
“Oh god. Oh no.”
Olive whimpered, holding her paw up, eyes wide and scared.
Jo’s hands shook as she examined the injury. A deep cut across the pad, bleeding heavily. Probably stepped on broken glass that was partially hidden in the grass.
“Okay. Okay, it’s okay.” Jo’s voice was high, panicky. “We’re going to fix this.”
She tried to remember first aid. Pressure. Elevation. Clean cloth.
She had none of those things.
Jo yanked off her cardigan and wrapped it around Olive’s paw, applying pressure. The fabric immediately soaked through with blood.
Olive whined.
“I know, baby. I know it hurts. We’re going to get help.”
Jo pulled out her phone with shaking hands. Called her regular vet. Voicemail. They were closed.
Emergency vet. She didn’t have the number.
She was three blocks from home, Olive was bleeding, and Jo was spiraling.
Without thinking, she called Logan.
He answered on the first ring. “Abbott? What’s wrong?”
“Olive cut her paw. Bad cut. There’s so much blood and I don’t have my car and the regular vet is closed and I don’t know what to do—”
“Where are you?”
“Corner of Fifth and Oak. We were just walking and she stepped on something—”
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
He hung up.
Jo held Olive close, cardigan pressed to the injured paw, trying not to panic. The blood wasn’t slowing down. If anything, it seemed worse.
“You’re okay,” Jo whispered to Olive, more to convince herself than the dog. “Logan’s coming. We’re going to fix this.”
Olive licked her face, still whimpering.
Two minutes later, Logan’s motorcycle roared around the corner. He killed the engine and was beside her in seconds, already assessing the situation.
“Let me see.”
Jo carefully lifted the cardigan. The cut was deep, still bleeding freely.
Logan’s jaw tightened. “We need to get her to emergency vet. Now.”
“I don’t have my car—”
“We’ll take mine. Can she ride on the bike?”
“I don’t know, she’s never—”
“She’ll have to. Come on.”
Logan helped Jo stand, then scooped Olive into his arms like she weighed nothing. The dog yelped but didn’t struggle, clearly trusting him.
“Hold this against her paw,” Logan instructed, handing Jo her bloody cardigan. “Keep pressure on it.”
He positioned Olive on the motorcycle, holding her steady while Jo climbed on behind them. It was awkward—Jo had to wrap her arms around Logan’s waist while also maintaining pressure on Olive’s paw, the dog sandwiched between them.
“Hold on tight,” Logan said. “I’m going to drive fast.”
He wasn’t kidding.
They flew through the streets, Logan navigating traffic with practiced ease while Jo held Olive and tried not to fall off. The dog whimpered against her chest, warm blood seeping through the cardigan into Jo’s shirt.
“Almost there, girl,” Jo murmured. “Almost there.”
The emergency vet clinic appeared after what felt like hours but was probably seven minutes. Logan pulled right up to the entrance, killed the engine, and immediately helped Jo and Olive off the bike.
Inside, the waiting room was mercifully quiet. The receptionist took one look at the blood and waved them straight through.
“Exam room three. Doctor will be right in.”
Logan carried Olive to the exam room and set her gently on the metal table. The dog immediately tried to jump down, panicking in the unfamiliar space.
“Easy, girl.” Logan’s voice was calm, steady. He kept one hand on Olive’s back, grounding her. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”
Jo stood frozen, blood on her hands and clothes, watching Logan soothe her terrified dog with a gentleness that made her throat tight.
“Abbott. You okay?”
“I don’t know. Is she going to be okay?”
“She’ll be fine. It’s a bad cut but she’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Trust me.”
The vet arrived—a woman in her forties with kind eyes and efficient movements. She examined Olive’s paw while Logan continued to hold the dog steady.
“Deep laceration,” the vet confirmed. “Going to need stitches. I’ll have to sedate her for the procedure.”
“Sedate?” Jo’s voice cracked.
“Just light sedation. She’ll be groggy but fine. It’s standard for injuries like this.”
“How long will it take?”
“Thirty minutes for the procedure, another thirty for her to wake up enough to go home. You can wait here or in the lobby.”
“Here,” Jo said immediately. “We’ll wait here.”
The vet nodded and left to prepare the sedation.
Jo finally let herself sink into one of the plastic chairs. Her hands were shaking. Blood was drying under her fingernails.
Logan crouched in front of her. “Hey. Look at me.”
Jo met his eyes.
“She’s going to be fine,” Logan said firmly. “This is scary but it’s not life-threatening. She cut her paw. They’ll stitch it up. She’ll be back to her chaos goblin self in a few days.”
“What if the sedation goes wrong? What if there’s complications? What if—”
“What if you take a breath and trust the professionals?”
Jo tried. The breath came out shaky.
“I can’t lose her,” Jo whispered. “She’s all I have.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. My parents are gone. Gran is gone. Erika lives two hours away. Olive is… she’s my family.”
Logan’s hands found hers. “You have me too. Whether you realize it yet or not.”
The words landed like a physical touch.
“Logan—”
“We can talk about it later. Right now, let’s focus on getting Olive patched up.”
The vet returned with the sedation. Olive fought it initially, whining and trying to escape, but Logan held her steady, murmuring reassurances until the medication took effect and she went limp.
“Okay,” the vet said. “We’ll take her back now. Should be about thirty minutes.”
They wheeled Olive away on a small gurney, and Jo felt her composure crack.
The tears came sudden and overwhelming. All the fear and anxiety and adrenaline crashing down at once.
Logan pulled her into his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair. “Let it out.”
Jo sobbed into his chest, ruining his shirt with tears and probably blood. He didn’t seem to care, just held her while she fell apart.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped between sobs. “I’m such a mess.”
“You’re scared. That’s allowed.”
“I’m always scared. About everything. I’m exhausting.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I overthink and panic and create problems—”
“Abbott. Stop.” Logan pulled back enough to cup her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Your dog got hurt. You responded. You called for help. You got her here. That’s not creating problems. That’s handling a crisis.”
“I completely fell apart.”
“After getting her to safety. You held it together when it mattered.” Logan’s thumbs brushed away her tears. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“Strong people rarely do.”
Jo let out a wet laugh. “When did you get so wise?”
“I contain multitudes, remember?”
They sat together on the uncomfortable plastic chairs, Logan’s arm around her shoulders, Jo’s head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat—steady, calm, grounding.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For coming. For driving us here. For not leaving.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Home. Living your life. Not dealing with my crisis.”
“Your crisis is my crisis now. That’s how this works.”
“This being…?”
“Whatever we are. Whatever we’re becoming.”
Jo’s chest tightened with something that felt like hope and terror mixed together.
Twenty-eight minutes later, the vet emerged.
“All done. Six stitches. She did great. She’s waking up now if you want to see her.”
They followed the vet to the recovery area. Olive was in a small kennel, groggy but conscious, a bandage wrapped around her paw.
“Hey, girl,” Jo said softly, opening the kennel door. “How are you feeling?”
Olive’s tail did a weak wag.
“She’ll be out of it for a couple hours. Keep her calm, no running or jumping. Come back in ten days to remove the stitches.” The vet handed over a cone and some pain medication. “Any questions?”
“Can she walk?” Logan asked.
“Light walking is fine. Just don’t let her overdo it.”
They got Olive outfitted with the cone of shame—she looked absolutely miserable—and headed back to the motorcycle.
“This is going to be interesting,” Jo said, eyeing the bike.
“I’ll drive slow. You hold her steady.”
The ride home was careful and gentle, Logan taking turns at a crawl, Jo holding a very confused, cone-wearing Olive who couldn’t figure out why everything was sideways.
Back at the building, Logan carried Olive up to Jo’s apartment and settled her on the couch with blankets and pillows.
“She needs water,” he said. “And probably food once she’s more alert.”
“Right. Yes. I can do that.”
Jo moved on autopilot, filling Olive’s bowls, checking the bandage, making sure everything was positioned correctly.
When she turned around, Logan was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
“What?”
“You’re covered in blood.”
Jo looked down. Her shirt was destroyed. Her jeans had spots. Her hands still had dried blood under the nails.
“Oh. Yeah. I should probably shower.”
“You should probably breathe first.”
“I’m breathing.”
“No, you’re functioning. There’s a difference.”
Logan crossed the room and pulled her into another hug. Jo melted into it, letting herself be held, letting someone else be strong for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said again. “For everything.”
“Stop thanking me.”
“I’m going to keep thanking you. You literally rescued us.”
“You would have figured it out.”
“Maybe. But you made it easier.”
Logan pulled back enough to look at her. “That’s what I’m here for. Making things easier.”
“I thought you were here to be grumpy and hate my dog.”
“Plans change.”
“Yeah. They do.”
They stood like that, close enough to kiss, the moment heavy with possibility.
But Jo was covered in blood and Olive was drugged on the couch and everything felt too raw, too emotional.
“I should let you go,” Jo said reluctantly. “You probably have things to do.”
“Nothing important.”
“Logan—”
“But I’ll leave if you want space.”
Did she want space? Yes. No. Maybe.
“I need to clean up,” Jo said. “Process all this. Maybe have a small breakdown in the shower.”
“Valid. Call me if you need anything. I’m right upstairs.”
“Downstairs. You’re downstairs from me.”
“Right. Downstairs. Point stands.”
Logan headed for the door. Paused. Turned back.
“We still on for tomorrow?”
Tomorrow. Friday. Their date.
“You still want to go out with the disaster girl whose dog bled all over your motorcycle?”
“Especially want to go out with her.”
Jo’s chest filled with warmth. “Then yes. We’re still on.”
“Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Wear something comfortable. We’re doing a lot of walking.”
“That’s the only hint I get?”
“That’s all you need.”
After Logan left, Jo showered, changed, and curled up on the couch with Olive. The dog was mostly asleep, occasionally whimpering when she shifted wrong.
Jo: Olive cut her paw. Six stitches. She’s okay but it was terrifying.
Erika: OH NO! Is she alright???
Jo: She will be. Logan drove us to the emergency vet on his motorcycle and stayed the whole time.
Erika: That man is PERFECT
Jo: He really kind of is.
Erika: You’re in love with him aren’t you?
Jo: I think I might be falling, yes.
Erika: FINALLY
Jo looked at Olive, cone-headed and pathetic on the couch.
“You scared the hell out of me today,” she told the dog softly.
Olive’s tail wagged weakly.
“But you know what? It showed me something important. Logan didn’t run. Didn’t get annoyed. Didn’t tell me I was overreacting. He just… showed up. And stayed.”
Olive sighed and rested her head on Jo’s lap.
“I think he might be the real deal, girl. I think he might actually be it.”
Tomorrow would be their first official date.
After everything—the doormats, the floods, the poisoned muffins, the avoidance schedule, the elevator breakdown, and now this—they were finally doing it right.
Jo fell asleep on the couch with Olive, one hand resting on the dog’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
Everything was going to be okay.
More than okay.
It was going to be perfect.
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