Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~10 min read
Jo had a problem.
She’d invited Logan over for a home-cooked thank-you dinner—date number five, as he’d insisted on calling it—and she was currently staring at a recipe that might as well have been written in ancient Greek.
“Sear the protein until golden brown,” Jo read aloud. “What does ‘sear’ even mean? How golden is golden brown? Why are cooking instructions so vague?”
Olive, sprawled on the kitchen floor, offered no helpful suggestions.
“You’re useless,” Jo told the dog.
Olive’s tail wagged.
Jo had exactly two hours before Logan arrived. Two hours to:
- Cook an impressive meal that said “I’m a competent adult human”
- Clean her apartment to hide evidence of her chaos
- Look presentable instead of like she’d been stress-cooking for hours
- Not burn down the building
Simple. Totally achievable. No problem.
(She was going to fail so hard.)
The chicken she was attempting to make was currently looking less “golden brown” and more “questionable gray.” The vegetables were cut in wildly inconsistent sizes because apparently knife skills required actual practice. And the dessert—ambitious brownies from scratch—were either going to be perfect or hockey pucks.
Jo’s money was on hockey pucks.
“This is fine,” she muttered, flipping the chicken. It stuck to the pan. “This is totally fine.”
Her phone rang. Erika.
“How’s the dinner prep going?” her best friend asked.
“I’m going to order takeout and pretend I made it.”
“You are not.”
“Why not? It worked with the muffins.”
“He caught you on the muffins. And you’re trying to impress him, not poison him.”
“The chicken looks poisonous. I might actually be poisoning him.”
“What does it look like?”
Jo sent a photo.
Erika: That’s… gray.
Jo: I KNOW IT’S GRAY
Erika: Why is it gray?
Jo: BECAUSE I’M A DISASTER
Erika: Okay. Deep breath. Turn up the heat. Get some color on it. You can do this.
Jo turned up the heat. Smoke immediately began rising from the pan.
“Not that much heat!” Erika said through the phone.
“You said turn it up!”
“Not to MAXIMUM!”
Jo turned it back down, fanning smoke away from the detector.
“Maybe I should just give up,” Jo said. “Order pizza. Admit defeat.”
“Or maybe you could accept that you’re not a professional chef and that’s okay. Logan doesn’t expect perfection. He expects you.”
“What if ‘me’ includes gray chicken and burnt vegetables?”
“Then he’ll help you order pizza and you’ll laugh about it together. That’s what partners do.”
Partners. The word made Jo’s chest warm.
“When did you get so wise?” Jo asked.
“I’ve always been wise. You’re just now listening.”
After hanging up, Jo salvaged what she could of the chicken (it ended up more bronze than golden, but edible), rescued the vegetables (slightly charred but not inedible), and checked the brownies.
Miracle of miracles, the brownies looked perfect. Crispy on top, soft in the middle, actual bakery quality.
“Finally,” Jo breathed. “Something went right.”
She had forty-five minutes left. Time to clean.
Jo speed-cleaned with the efficiency of someone motivated by romantic desperation. Dishes in the dishwasher, clutter shoved in closets, surfaces wiped down, candles lit to hide any lingering cooking smells.
The apartment looked… decent. Not magazine-worthy, but lived-in and welcoming.
With fifteen minutes to spare, Jo jumped in the shower, changed into a casual dress that Erika had approved via text, and attempted to make her hair look intentionally messy instead of accidentally disaster.
At exactly seven, Logan knocked.
Jo took a breath, checked her reflection one last time, and opened the door.
Logan stood there in dark jeans and a blue button-down that brought out his eyes, holding a bottle of wine and flowers.
Actual flowers. A bouquet of sunflowers mixed with daisies.
“You brought flowers,” Jo said, a little breathless.
“You invited me to dinner. Bringing flowers is basic courtesy.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever brought me flowers before.”
Something shifted in Logan’s expression. “Then everyone else was an idiot.”
He handed her the bouquet. Jo buried her face in the flowers to hide the fact that she was definitely about to cry over this incredibly sweet gesture.
“Come in,” she managed. “Fair warning: I attempted to cook. It may be a disaster.”
“I’m sure it’s great.”
“I burned the vegetables and the chicken looks questionable.”
“Then we’ll order pizza.”
“That’s what Erika said.”
“Erika’s smart.”
Logan followed her inside. Olive immediately launched herself at him, tail wagging, fully healed paw not slowing her down at all.
“Hey, troublemaker,” Logan said, crouching to greet the dog properly. “Paw looks good. Healing nicely.”
“She’s been so much better. Way calmer. I think the training really stuck.”
“Or she’s just less anxious now that you’re less anxious.”
“Am I less anxious?”
Logan looked up at her, still scratching Olive’s ears. “Yeah. You are. Noticeably.”
“Huh. I hadn’t realized.”
“That’s usually how it works. You don’t notice the change until someone points it out.”
They moved to the kitchen. Logan examined Jo’s cooking attempt with the serious expression of someone evaluating art.
“Bronze chicken,” he said. “Interesting choice.”
“It was supposed to be golden brown.”
“Close enough.”
“It’s really not.”
“Jo.” Logan turned to face her. “Stop spiraling. This looks good. You put effort in. That matters more than perfection.”
“But I wanted it to be perfect.”
“Why?”
“Because you saved my career. And you’ve been so good to me. And I wanted to do something nice that actually worked for once instead of being another disaster.”
Logan stepped closer, boxing her in against the counter. “You know what would be a disaster?”
“What?”
“If you spent this whole evening worrying about the food instead of enjoying my company.”
“That’s very confident of you.”
“It’s the truth. I’m excellent company.”
Jo laughed despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“I really do.”
Logan kissed her then—soft and sweet and tasting like promise. When he pulled back, Jo was smiling.
“Better,” he said.
“What?”
“Your anxiety level. Better now.”
“Kissing as anxiety medication. Revolutionary.”
“I’m full of innovative ideas.”
They ate dinner at Jo’s small table, Olive stationed hopefully nearby in case of dropped food. The chicken was dry but edible. The vegetables were charred but had flavor. The brownies were genuinely delicious.
“See?” Logan said. “Not a disaster. Perfectly good meal.”
“The brownies saved it.”
“The company made it. Food is secondary.”
They talked for hours—about work, about childhood, about dreams for the future. Logan told her about wanting to expand Inkwell eventually, maybe hire another artist. Jo confessed her secret dream of writing a design book someday.
“You should do it,” Logan said.
“It’s just a pipe dream.”
“So was owning my own shop. Then I made it happen.”
“How?”
“By deciding the dream mattered more than the fear of failing.”
Jo considered that. “What if I fail anyway?”
“Then you’ll have tried. That’s more than most people do.”
After dinner, they moved to the couch. Olive immediately wedged herself between them, tail wagging.
“She’s very determined to be included,” Logan observed.
“She’s a stage-five clinger. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s part of the package.”
Logan scratched Olive behind the ears, and the dog made a sound of pure contentment.
“She loves you,” Jo said.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“Even after all the doormat incidents?”
“Especially after. She’s got personality. I respect that.”
Olive rolled onto her back, offering her belly. Logan obliged with belly rubs while Jo watched them with a full heart.
This. This was everything she’d wanted without knowing how to ask for it.
Someone who showed up. Who didn’t run when things got messy. Who rubbed her dog’s belly and brought flowers and turned her bronze chicken into a joke instead of a failure.
“What are you thinking?” Logan asked, catching her staring.
“That I’m really happy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
Logan’s expression softened. “Me too.”
“Even with my disaster cooking?”
“Especially with your disaster cooking.”
Olive chose that moment to fart. Loudly.
Logan’s nose wrinkled. “Jesus, Olive.”
Jo burst out laughing. “She does that when she’s comfortable. Consider it a compliment.”
“I’m honored. And suffocating.”
Jo opened a window while still laughing. When she turned back, Logan was watching her with such open affection that her breath caught.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just… I really like this.”
“What?”
“Us. This. The easy parts and the messy parts. All of it.”
“Even the dog farts?”
“Even the dog farts.”
Jo crossed back to the couch, sitting close enough that their thighs touched. Olive had wandered off to her bed, leaving them alone.
“I like this too,” Jo said quietly. “I was so scared at first. Thought I’d mess it up or you’d realize I was too much or something would go catastrophically wrong. But it hasn’t. It’s just been… good.”
“It’s been better than good.”
“Smooth talker.”
“I’m stating facts.”
Logan pulled her closer, until she was tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders.
They stayed like that, watching bad reality TV and trading commentary, comfortable in a way that felt lived-in despite only dating for a couple weeks.
Around eleven, Logan stirred.
“I should probably go. Let you get some sleep.”
“You could stay,” Jo said before she could overthink it.
Logan tensed slightly. “Stay?”
“Not like that. Just… on the couch. Or in my bed, but sleeping. I’m not… we don’t have to…” Jo was babbling. “I just like having you here.”
“Abbott.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you asking me to have a sleepover?”
“Maybe? Is that weird?”
“It’s adorable. And yes, I’ll stay.”
Relief flooded through Jo. “Really?”
“Really. But I need to grab stuff from my apartment. Clean shirt, toothbrush, all that.”
“Right. Yes. Practical things.”
Logan kissed her forehead and headed out. He was back in ten minutes with a small bag.
They got ready for bed with the comfortable efficiency of people who’d been together much longer. Logan borrowed her shower. Jo lent him a towel. They brushed their teeth side by side at her bathroom sink.
“This is very domestic,” Jo observed.
“Is that okay?”
“More than okay.”
In bed, they lay facing each other, close but not touching.
“I’m not expecting anything,” Logan said quietly. “Just to be clear. I’m happy just sleeping next to you.”
“I know. That’s why I asked you to stay.”
“Good.”
Jo reached out, taking his hand. Logan squeezed back.
“Thank you for dinner,” he said. “Bronze chicken and all.”
“Thank you for not running when you saw it.”
“Would never run from you, Abbott. You’re stuck with me now.”
“Promises, promises.”
“I keep my promises.”
Jo believed him. That was the terrifying part. She actually believed him.
They fell asleep like that, hands clasped, Olive snoring at the foot of the bed.
And Jo dreamed of sunflowers and forever and a grumpy tattoo artist who’d somehow become her entire world.
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