Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~7 min read
Three months after Olive’s great escape, the shop expansion was complete.
Jo stood in her new office space, surrounded by boxes of equipment and design books, and tried to comprehend that this was real.
She had an actual office. With windows and natural light and a view of the street. Her custom desk sat against the wall, sleek and perfect. Shelves waited to be filled. A professional setup instead of her makeshift home workspace.
And it was all right next door to Logan’s studio.
“You’re overthinking again,” Logan said from the doorway.
“I’m processing.”
“That’s what you say when you’re overthinking.”
Jo turned to face him. “This is really happening. I have an office. A real, professional office space.”
“You’ve said that seventeen times today.”
“Because it hasn’t gotten less surreal.”
Logan crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. “You deserve this. Your work deserves a proper space.”
“Because of you. You made this happen.”
“I created the space. You made it necessary with your incredible talent.”
“Smooth.”
“True.”
They stood there, surrounded by unpacked boxes and the promise of new beginnings.
“I’m scared,” Jo admitted.
“Of what?”
“Of this being too good. Of waiting for it to fall apart.”
“It’s not going to fall apart.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can. Want to know how?”
“How?”
“Because we choose not to let it. Every day, we choose this. Choose us. That’s how it works.”
Jo thought about Maggie’s words from the building party. Choosing each other. Every single day.
“You’re right,” she said.
“I usually am. About what specifically?”
“We choose this. We choose us. That’s enough.”
“More than enough.”
They spent the afternoon unpacking Jo’s office. Logan assembled furniture while Jo organized supplies. They worked in comfortable tandem, stealing kisses between tasks, making jokes about Jo’s color-coded filing system.
“This is excessive,” Logan said, examining her label maker.
“This is organized.”
“It’s control-freak behavior.”
“Says the man who alphabetizes his tattoo ink.”
“That’s practical. Colors don’t need labels.”
“Everything needs labels.”
Logan shook his head but he was smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
By evening, the office was mostly set up. Jo’s desk looked professional and inviting. Her equipment was organized. The space felt like hers.
“Thank you,” she said to Logan. “For all of this. The space, the help, everything.”
“Stop thanking me. This benefits me too. Now I get to see you every day.”
“You already see me every day.”
“At work though. That’s different. Professional proximity.”
“We’re going to distract each other constantly.”
“Probably. Worth it.”
Jo looked around her new office. Six months ago, she’d been working from her couch, drowning in freelance chaos, convinced she’d never have a real setup.
Now she had this. And Logan. And a community. And a dog who occasionally escaped but always found her way back.
“I feel found,” Jo said quietly.
“Found?”
“Like I spent years looking for home without realizing it. And now I’ve found it. Here. With you.”
Logan’s expression softened. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Really?”
“Really. I was going through the motions before you. Work, home, repeat. Didn’t realize how empty it was until you filled all the spaces.”
“With chaos.”
“With life. With color. With joy.” Logan pulled her close. “You made everything better just by existing in my orbit.”
“That’s very romantic for someone who claims not to do feelings.”
“I do feelings now. You’ve converted me.”
They locked up for the night—Jo’s new office and Logan’s studio, side by side, connected by a shared wall.
“This is going to be our life,” Jo said. “Working next to each other. Building something together.”
“Terrifying?”
“Absolutely.”
“But good?”
“The best.”
Walking home (they’d been splitting time between apartments but mostly staying at Jo’s), Logan said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“Moving in together. Officially.”
Jo’s heart raced. “We practically live together already.”
“I know. But I want to make it official. Combine apartments, split rent properly, stop pretending we don’t spend every night together anyway.”
“That’s… a big step.”
“We’ve already taken it. I’m just suggesting we acknowledge it.”
Jo thought about it. Logan’s clothes in her closet. His toothbrush in her bathroom. His presence a constant, comforting reality.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
“Let’s do it. Let’s officially move in together.”
Logan stopped walking and turned to face her. “You’re sure?”
“I’m terrified. But yes, I’m sure. Because you’re right. We’re already living together. Might as well make it official.”
“We could get a bigger place. Two bedrooms. Actual space.”
“Or we could combine our apartments. Ask Anderson about breaking down the wall.”
“You want to literally break down walls?”
“Metaphorically we already have. Why not literally too?”
Logan laughed. “You’re full of surprises.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s an absolutely yes.”
They kissed right there on the sidewalk, passersby probably thinking they were ridiculous.
They probably were.
Ridiculously in love.
Ridiculously committed.
Ridiculously happy.
Back at the building, they ran into Anderson.
“Perfect timing,” Logan said. “Question about combining apartments.”
Anderson’s eyes lit up. “You two finally making it official?”
“We’re already official,” Jo said. “We’re just… making it more official.”
“About time. I’ll draw up plans. Breaking down walls between units isn’t common, but it’s doable. Might actually improve property value.”
“Really?” Logan asked.
“Two-bedroom corner units are hard to come by. You’d essentially be creating a premium space.” Anderson pulled out his ever-present notebook. “I’ll need architectural approval, but I don’t foresee issues. When do you want to start?”
Logan looked at Jo. “When do we want to start?”
“As soon as possible?”
“Done,” Anderson said. “I’ll have plans by next week.”
In Jo’s apartment—soon to be their apartment—they celebrated with wine and pizza.
“We’re moving in together,” Jo said, still processing.
“We already moved in together. We’re just making it legal.”
“And breaking down literal walls.”
“Symbolic.”
“Everything with us is symbolic.”
Olive, sprawled on the couch between them, farted.
“Except that,” Logan said, nose wrinkling. “That’s just biological.”
Jo laughed. “This is our life now. Symbolic walls and biological dog farts.”
“Perfect.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Both.”
Erika: How’s the new office?
Jo: Amazing. We’re also moving in together.
Erika: YOU’RE WHAT
Jo: Combining apartments. Breaking down the wall between our units.
Erika: LITERALLY BREAKING DOWN WALLS I LOVE THIS
Erika: When’s the wedding?
Jo: We just decided to officially move in together!
Erika: So six months? A year?
Jo: ERIKA.
Erika: I’m manifesting. Let me manifest.
Jo: You’re impossible.
Erika: I’m invested. There’s a difference.
Jo fell asleep thinking about walls—the ones they’d broken down and the ones they’d build together.
A bigger space. Room for both of them. Space for Olive’s chaos and Logan’s plants and Jo’s color-coded organization systems.
A home they’d create together.
Not his place or her place.
Theirs.
It was terrifying.
It was perfect.
It was everything Jo hadn’t known she’d been searching for.
She’d spent years feeling lost.
Untethered.
Looking for home without a map.
And then a golden retriever peed on a doormat.
And everything changed.
She found Logan.
Found community.
Found herself.
Found home.
Not in a place.
But in a person.
In a grumpy tattoo artist who fixed sinks and trained dogs and created office spaces and researched anxiety and chose her every single day.
Jo was found.
Finally, completely, perfectly found.
And she was never letting go.
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