Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~9 min read
“I need you to trust me,” Logan said over the phone.
“That’s never a reassuring way to start a conversation,” Jo replied.
“I’m taking you somewhere special tonight. Dress nice but comfortable. Wear shoes you can walk in.”
“Where are we going?”
“If I tell you, it ruins the surprise.”
“You know I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
Jo had heard that before. But she trusted Logan, so she agreed.
At seven, Logan picked her up wearing dark slacks and a button-down shirt that fit him in ways that should be illegal. His hair was styled, tattoos on display, and he looked good enough to make Jo’s brain short-circuit.
“You clean up very nice,” she managed.
“So do you.”
Jo had agonized over her outfit, eventually settling on a black dress that Erika had declared “perfect for mystery dates” and ankle boots she could actually walk in.
“Still not telling me where we’re going?” she asked as they headed to Logan’s motorcycle.
“Nope. But you’ll know soon.”
The drive took twenty minutes, weaving through the city to a warehouse district Jo didn’t recognize. Logan parked outside a converted industrial building with no signage.
“This is very serial-killer-adjacent,” Jo observed.
“Trust me.”
“Famous last words.”
But she followed him inside.
The space was transformed. What had probably been a warehouse was now an underground art gallery—exposed brick walls covered in paintings and photographs, sculptures on pedestals, installations hanging from the ceiling. Soft music played from hidden speakers. String lights created ambiance.
And it was packed. Well-dressed people wandered between exhibits, drinks in hand, discussing the art in hushed, reverent tones.
“What is this?” Jo breathed.
“Underground art show. Happens once a month. Local artists showcase their work. No corporate galleries, no pretension. Just art for art’s sake.” Logan’s hand found the small of her back. “I’ve been wanting to bring you for weeks. Waited for the right moment.”
Jo looked around, taking it all in. The creativity, the passion, the rawness of people displaying their hearts on walls.
“Logan, this is incredible.”
“I have a piece here. In the back. Want to see it?”
“You’re exhibiting?”
“First time. Felt right.”
He led her through the crowd to the back corner. A large canvas hung on the wall—an intricate tattoo design expanded to gallery scale. Geometric patterns interwoven with organic shapes, dark colors with pops of bright light, the whole thing absolutely stunning.
A small placard read: “Phoenix Rising” – Logan Marchand
“You made this,” Jo whispered.
“Based on a design I did for a client. Expanded it. Thought it would work on canvas.”
“It’s breathtaking.”
“You think so?”
Jo looked at Logan, this man who kept revealing new depths. “I know so. Logan, this is museum-quality. You’re so talented.”
Pink tinged his cheeks. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. You should be doing this more. Exhibiting your work. Getting recognition.”
“I’m happy with tattooing. But sometimes… sometimes I want to create something that exists beyond skin. Something permanent in a different way.”
“This is permanent. This matters.”
Logan’s hand found hers. “You think it’s good enough?”
“Good enough? Logan, this is extraordinary. I—” Jo stopped, words failing.
“What?”
“I’m so proud of you. For creating this. For putting yourself out there. For being brave enough to show the world what you can do.”
Logan pulled her closer. “You make me brave.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. You believe in me. Makes me believe in myself.”
Jo’s eyes stung. “Logan—”
“Come on. Let’s see the rest of the show.”
They wandered through the gallery, examining paintings and sculptures and photographs. Logan knew several of the artists, introducing Jo with quiet pride—”This is my girlfriend, Jolene”—and discussing technique with easy familiarity.
This was a side of Logan she hadn’t fully seen. Not the tattooist or the grumpy neighbor or even the sweet boyfriend. This was Logan the artist. The creator. The man who saw beauty and captured it.
“You love this,” Jo observed during a quiet moment.
“I do. Art in all its forms. That’s what drew me to tattooing initially. The idea of creating wearable art. But this—” He gestured around. “This is different. This is community. Other people who understand the need to make things.”
“You’re part of something here.”
“Yeah. Feels good. Feels right.”
They ended up in front of a photograph—black and white, a woman laughing, pure joy captured in a single moment.
“That’s beautiful,” Jo said.
“She looks like you. The joy.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever looked that joyful.”
“You have. When Olive does something ridiculous. When you’re talking about a design you love. When you look at me first thing in the morning.” Logan’s voice softened. “You radiate it, Jo. Even when you’re anxious or overthinking. There’s this core of joy that never quite goes away.”
Jo didn’t know what to say to that.
“Thank you,” she managed finally.
“For what?”
“For seeing me. Actually seeing me.”
“Always.”
They got drinks from the bar—wine for Jo, beer for Logan—and found a quiet corner to people-watch.
“Can I ask you something?” Jo said.
“Always.”
“Why did you wait to bring me here? You said you’d been wanting to for weeks.”
Logan considered. “Wanted to make sure you’d appreciate it. This place—these people—they matter to me. Didn’t want to share it with just anyone.”
“And I’m not just anyone?”
“You’re everything.”
The words landed like a physical touch.
“Logan—”
“I know we haven’t said it yet. The L-word. But Jo, you’re—” He stopped, seeming to search for words. “You walked into my life covered in dog pee and apologies and you’ve been turning it upside down ever since. And I don’t want it to stop. Don’t want you to stop. You’re chaos and sunshine and everything I didn’t know I needed.”
Jo’s chest tightened. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It’s true.”
“I know. That’s what makes it romantic.”
A woman approached—early thirties, covered in tattoos, bright red hair.
“Marchand! Didn’t know you were exhibiting!”
Logan stood, embracing her briefly. “Inaya. Good to see you. How’s the photography going?”
“Sold three pieces tonight. Can’t complain.” Inaya’s eyes landed on Jo. “And who’s this?”
“My girlfriend, Jolene. Jo, this is Inaya Halstead. Incredible photographer.”
“The laughing woman,” Jo said. “That’s your piece, right?”
Inaya’s face lit up. “You saw it! What did you think?”
“It’s stunning. Pure joy captured perfectly.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” Inaya looked between them, grinning. “So Logan Marchand finally got himself a girlfriend. The art world is shocked.”
“Why shocked?” Jo asked.
“Because he’s turned down approximately everyone who’s ever asked him out. We’d started to think he was married to his work.”
“I was waiting,” Logan said.
“For?”
“Her.”
Inaya melted visibly. “Okay, that’s adorable. You two are adorable. I’m stealing Jo to see my other pieces, then I’m giving her back, I promise.”
Before Jo could protest, Inaya had linked their arms and was pulling her toward the photography section.
“So how did you two meet?” Inaya asked.
“My dog peed on his doormat. Multiple times.”
Inaya burst out laughing. “That’s the best meet-cute I’ve ever heard.”
“It was mortifying.”
“It was fate. Logan doesn’t talk to people. Doesn’t engage. For him to not only tolerate someone but actually date them? That’s significant.”
“He’s pretty wonderful.”
“He is. Also stubborn and grumpy and terrible at expressing emotions. But wonderful.”
They stopped in front of another photograph—a cityscape at night, lights reflecting off wet pavement.
“This is gorgeous,” Jo said.
“Thanks. Took it last winter. Sometimes the rain makes everything more beautiful.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Inaya returned Jo to Logan with a wink and a whispered “He’s happy with you. Don’t let him go.”
“What did Inaya say?” Logan asked when they were alone again.
“That you’re stubborn and grumpy.”
“Accurate.”
“And that you’re happy with me.”
“Very accurate.”
They stayed until the show closed at midnight. Logan introduced Jo to more artists, discussed technique and vision and the business of creating. Jo watched him come alive in a way she’d never seen—passionate, articulate, fully in his element.
This was Logan without armor. Logan being completely himself.
And Jo had never been more attracted to anyone in her life.
On the ride home, Jo pressed close to Logan’s back, arms wrapped around his waist, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
This had been the best date of her life.
Not because it was fancy or expensive or impressive.
But because Logan had shared something real with her. Had brought her into his world. Had shown her the parts of himself he kept hidden from most people.
That felt significant. Important. Like crossing a threshold.
Back at the building, they stood outside Jo’s door, neither quite ready to say goodnight.
“Thank you for tonight,” Jo said. “For sharing that with me.”
“Thanks for appreciating it.”
“Your art deserves to be seen. Appreciated. Celebrated.”
“Your enthusiasm is showing.”
“I’m enthusiastic about you. Deal with it.”
Logan smiled, full and genuine. “I can deal with that.”
He kissed her goodnight—soft and sweet and full of promise. The kind of kiss that said this wasn’t ending, just pausing.
“See you tomorrow?” Logan asked.
“You’re literally one floor away. I’ll probably see you in a few hours when you sneak up for breakfast.”
“Who said I was sneaking?”
“The pattern we’ve established.”
“Fair point.”
Another kiss, longer this time.
“Goodnight, Abbott.”
“Goodnight, Marchand.”
Inside her apartment, Jo leaned against the door and smiled like an idiot.
Jo: Best date ever.
Erika: DETAILS. NOW.
Jo: Underground art gallery. Logan’s exhibiting his work. Met his artist friends. He called me everything he didn’t know he needed.
Erika: I’M CRYING
Erika: You’re in love with him.
Jo: I think I might be.
Erika: THINK?
Jo: Okay, I am. Definitely am. Completely, terrifyingly in love with Logan Marchand.
Erika: Have you told him?
Jo: Not yet. But soon. Really soon.
Erika: DO IT. TELL HIM. HE OBVIOUSLY FEELS THE SAME.
Jo: How do you know?
Erika: Because he showed you his art and his friends and the parts of himself he doesn’t show anyone. That’s love, babe. That’s absolutely love.
Jo fell asleep thinking about art galleries and phoenix paintings and the way Logan had looked at her like she was the most important thing in the room.
She was in love.
Completely, utterly, terrifyingly in love.
And tomorrow, she was going to tell him.
No more waiting.
No more fear.
Just truth.
The scary, beautiful, life-changing truth.
She loved Logan Marchand.
And it was time he knew.
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