Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~9 min read
The morning after their sleepover, Jo woke up to find Logan already awake, watching her with soft eyes.
“Creepy,” she muttered sleepily.
“You drool in your sleep.”
“Romantic.”
“I thought so.”
Logan kissed her forehead and went to make coffee while Jo attempted to look like a functional human.
They fell into an easy routine over the next week—sleepovers at each other’s apartments, morning coffee together, Logan showing up at Jo’s place after work, Jo visiting the tattoo shop during Logan’s breaks.
It felt natural. Right. Like they’d been doing this for years instead of weeks.
“You’re moving fast,” Erika observed during one of their calls.
“Is that bad?”
“Not if it feels right. Does it feel right?”
“It feels perfect.”
“Then don’t overthink it. Just enjoy.”
For once, Jo took the advice. She stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop and let herself be happy.
Which, naturally, meant the universe had to test her.
Two weeks into official dating, Logan invited Jo over for dinner at his place.
“I’m cooking,” he’d said. “Real food. No bronze chicken.”
“That was one time!”
“And I’ll never let you forget it.”
Jo showed up at seven wearing a sundress that made her feel pretty and confident. Logan answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot, hair slightly messy.
Domestic Logan was unfairly attractive.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi yourself.” Logan pulled her inside and kissed her properly. “You look beautiful.”
“You look comfortable.”
“It’s my apartment. I’m always comfortable here.”
The space smelled amazing—garlic, herbs, something Italian and delicious.
“What are you making?” Jo asked.
“Pasta from scratch. With homemade garlic bread.”
“From scratch? Logan, that’s ambitious.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“So you keep saying.”
They moved to the kitchen. Logan had everything organized like a professional chef—ingredients prepped, timers set, workspace clean.
“You’re very good at this,” Jo observed.
“I like cooking. It’s meditative. Like tattooing but edible.”
“Tattooing is not edible.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Jo laughed and settled onto a barstool to watch him work. There was something mesmerizing about Logan in his element—the confidence, the precision, the way his hands moved with practiced ease.
“You’re staring again,” Logan said without looking up from the pasta dough.
“You’re worth staring at.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Everywhere?”
Logan glanced up, something heated in his expression. “Everywhere.”
The air between them charged.
They’d been taking things slow physically—kissing, cuddling, sleeping in the same bed. But nothing beyond that. Logan had been respectful, never pushing, letting Jo set the pace.
But right now, with him looking at her like that, Jo wanted to set a faster pace.
“How long until dinner?” she asked.
“Garlic bread needs twenty minutes in the oven. Pasta needs to rest for ten. Why?”
Jo stood and rounded the counter. Logan tracked her movement with dark eyes.
“Just curious,” she said, stopping close enough to feel his body heat.
“Abbott.”
“Marchand.”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“Maybe I like fire.”
Logan’s hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. “You sure about that?”
Instead of answering, Jo kissed him.
It started slow—familiar territory, comfortable. But then Logan’s hands tightened on her waist and Jo’s fingers tangled in his hair and suddenly comfortable became consuming.
Logan lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her legs, never breaking the kiss. Jo wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting more.
This was different from their other kisses. This was heat and promise and the edge of something bigger.
Logan’s mouth moved to her neck, finding that spot that made her gasp.
“We should—” Logan’s voice was rough. “The garlic bread—”
“Forget the garlic bread.”
“It’ll burn.”
“Let it burn.”
Logan pulled back enough to look at her, pupils blown, breathing hard. “You sure?”
Was she sure? Her heart was racing, her skin was on fire, and Logan was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
“I’m sure,” Jo whispered.
Logan kissed her again, deeper this time, hands sliding under the hem of her dress—
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
They froze.
“Is that the oven timer?” Jo asked.
“No. That’s the smoke detector.”
They both looked toward the oven. Smoke was indeed pouring from the edges.
“The garlic bread!” Logan jumped back, grabbing oven mitts.
He pulled out the baking sheet to reveal what had once been garlic bread but was now charcoal.
Completely black. Smoking. Definitely inedible.
“I told you to forget the garlic bread,” Jo said.
“I did forget it. That’s the problem.”
The smoke detector continued its ear-piercing shriek. Logan opened windows while Jo fanned the detector with a kitchen towel.
After what felt like an eternity, the alarm stopped.
They stood in Logan’s smoke-filled kitchen, burnt garlic bread still smoldering on the counter, the moment thoroughly and completely killed.
Logan looked at the bread. Then at Jo. Then back at the bread.
And started laughing.
Not a small chuckle. A full, body-shaking laugh that made his eyes crinkle and his whole face light up.
Jo couldn’t help but join in. They laughed until tears streamed down their faces, until the absurdity of the situation fully hit them.
“I ruined dinner,” Logan finally managed.
“We ruined dinner together.”
“I was trying to impress you with my cooking skills.”
“You impressed me. Then we burned things.”
Logan wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close despite the smoke smell. “I’m sorry. This was supposed to be romantic.”
“It was romantic. Until it was comedic.”
“The timing was terrible.”
“The worst.”
They looked at the destroyed garlic bread again.
“Want to order pizza?” Logan asked.
“Yes please.”
While waiting for delivery, they salvaged what they could of the meal. The pasta was still good—Logan had pulled it from the heat before the great garlic bread disaster. They ate it with store-bought breadsticks Logan found in his pantry and the bottle of wine Jo had brought.
“I can’t believe I burned garlic bread,” Logan said, shaking his head. “I’ve made that recipe a hundred times.”
“You were distracted.”
“Very distracted.”
“By?”
“You. Always you.”
Jo’s chest warmed. “That’s sweet. Terrible for your cooking success rate, but sweet.”
“Worth it.”
After dinner, they moved to the couch. The smoke smell had mostly cleared, replaced by the scent of wine and pizza and the candles Logan had lit.
“Can we talk about what almost happened?” Logan asked.
Jo’s stomach fluttered. “Yes. We probably should.”
“I don’t want to push you. We can keep taking things slow.”
“What if I don’t want slow anymore?”
Logan’s hand found hers. “What do you want?”
“You. All of you. Not just kissing and sleepovers. Everything.”
“Jo—”
“But I’m also scared. Because once we cross that line, there’s no going back. And what if I’m not ready? What if it changes things? What if—”
“Hey.” Logan cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. There’s no timeline. No pressure. We move at whatever pace feels right for you.”
“You’re very patient.”
“I’m very invested in not screwing this up.”
“Same.”
They sat in comfortable silence, hands intertwined, the weight of almost hanging between them.
“For what it’s worth,” Logan said quietly, “I’m scared too.”
“You are?”
“Terrified. This thing between us—it’s big. Bigger than anything I’ve felt before. And I don’t want to mess it up by moving too fast or not fast enough or doing the wrong thing at the wrong time.”
“So we’re both overthinking it.”
“Seems like it.”
“Erika says I should stop overthinking and just feel.”
“Erika’s probably right.”
“She usually is.”
Logan pulled Jo closer, until she was curled against his side, head on his chest.
“How about this,” he said. “We stop worrying about timelines and expectations and just… exist together. When we’re ready for more, we’ll know. Until then, we enjoy what we have.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I can be reasonable sometimes.”
“Rarely.”
“Okay, rarely.”
Jo tilted her head up to kiss him. Soft and sweet and full of promise.
When they broke apart, Logan was smiling.
“What?” Jo asked.
“Nothing. Just happy.”
“Even though you burned dinner?”
“Especially because I burned dinner. Gives us a funny story for later.”
“For our grandkids?”
“You remember that.”
“You said it very confidently. Hard to forget.”
Logan’s arms tightened around her. “I meant it.”
“Logan—”
“I know it’s fast. I know we’ve only been dating a few weeks. But I can see it, Jo. The future. You and me and maybe Olive running up our furniture and kids who inherit your anxiety and my grumpiness.”
Jo’s eyes stung. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Constantly.”
“That’s… intense.”
“Is it too much?”
“No. It’s perfect.”
They stayed like that for hours, talking about futures and dreams and possibilities. The burnt garlic bread became a running joke. The almost-moment became a promise for later.
And when Jo finally went home—because they both agreed they needed to slow down and not rush into anything—she floated up the stairs with a full heart.
Jo: He burned garlic bread because I distracted him. Then talked about our future kids.
Erika: I’M SORRY HE WHAT
Jo: Future kids. Ours. Together.
Erika: You’re getting married.
Jo: We haven’t even said I love you yet.
Erika: Irrelevant. You’re absolutely getting married.
Jo: You’re impossible.
Erika: I’m a visionary.
Jo fell asleep thinking about burnt garlic bread and grandkids and a future that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
Logan Marchand had come into her life via a pee-stained doormat and was somehow becoming her entire world.
And the scariest part?
Jo was ready to let him.
All of him.
Forever.
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