Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~9 min read
Three days after the Great Doormat Replacement, Jo learned that the universe had a terrible sense of humor.
It started with rain. Not gentle spring showers, but the kind of aggressive downpour that made going outside feel like a personal attack from the weather gods.
And naturally, it happened during Olive’s evening walk time.
“Come on, girl. Quick bathroom break, then we’re coming right back.” Jo zipped up her raincoat and clipped on Olive’s leash. “In and out, like a heist movie.”
Olive did not share her sense of urgency.
The golden retriever stopped to sniff every. Single. Thing. A leaf. A crack in the sidewalk. Another dog’s pee spot from three days ago.
“Olive, I’m literally getting pneumonia out here. Can you please just—”
A crack of thunder split the air. Olive spooked, jerking sideways with enough force that the leash slipped right through Jo’s rain-slicked fingers.
And then Olive was running.
“OLIVE!” Jo took off after her, raincoat flapping, sneakers squelching in puddles. “OLIVE, COME BACK!”
But Olive, in full panic mode, was a golden blur disappearing around the corner.
Jo’s heart hammered. This was bad. This was really bad. Olive didn’t know the neighborhood that well yet. She could run into traffic, get lost, get hurt—
Jo rounded the corner, scanning frantically. No golden retriever in sight.
“Olive!” Her voice cracked. “OLIVE!”
Twenty minutes later, Jo was soaked to the bone, near tears, and contemplating calling the police. She’d run a six-block radius, checked every alley, asked every person she passed if they’d seen a golden retriever.
Nothing.
She pulled out her phone with shaking hands, trying to decide who to call first. Erika? Animal control? A search and rescue team?
Then she heard barking.
Coming from… her building?
Jo sprinted back, taking the stairs two at a time. The barking was louder now, coming from the third floor.
From outside apartment 3B.
Oh no.
Jo reached the landing and froze.
There was Olive, soaking wet and covered in mud, sitting directly on Logan’s new doormat, barking her head off.
And there was Logan, standing in his open doorway in pajama pants and a t-shirt, staring down at the dog like she was a particularly confusing abstract art piece.
“Olive!” Jo gasped, relief flooding through her. “Oh my god, Olive!”
Both Logan and the dog turned to look at her.
“Is this yours?” Logan asked, gesturing to Olive. “Because she showed up five minutes ago and has been yelling at my door ever since.”
“I’m so sorry.” Jo rushed forward, grabbing Olive’s leash which was dragging behind her. “She got scared by thunder and ran away. I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Logan’s expression shifted from annoyed to concerned. “You’ve been out in this?” He gestured to the storm raging outside the hallway window.
“I had to find her.” Jo was shivering now, adrenaline fading. “I can’t believe she came here. How did she even know how to get to your apartment?”
“Dogs are weird.” Logan crouched down, examining Olive. “She’s soaked. And muddy.” He looked up at Jo. “So are you.”
“Yeah, well. Lost dog takes priority over dry clothes.”
Logan stood. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Inside. Both of you. You need to dry off and she needs…” He eyed Olive’s muddy paws. “A bath, probably.”
Jo blinked. “You want us to come into your apartment?”
“You want to stand in the hallway dripping and shivering?”
“I—no, but—”
“Then come inside.” Logan stepped back, holding the door open. “Before you both catch pneumonia.”
This felt like crossing some kind of threshold. Literally, yes, but also metaphorically. Going into Logan’s apartment felt significant in a way Jo couldn’t quite articulate.
But she was freezing, Olive was a mess, and Logan was being surprisingly nice about the whole thing.
“Okay,” Jo agreed. “Thank you.”
Logan’s apartment was nothing like she’d imagined.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d imagined dark colors and minimal furniture and maybe some skulls or something equally stereotypically “grumpy tattooed guy.”
She’d been half right.
The color scheme was definitely dark—blacks and grays and deep blues. But the space was meticulously organized, with actual art on the walls. Not posters. Real art. Some of it looked hand-drawn, intricate pieces that had to be tattoo designs.
And instead of skulls, there were plants. Lots of plants. Thriving, healthy plants in ceramic pots along the windowsill and on floating shelves.
“You have plants,” Jo said dumbly.
“You’re observant.” Logan was already pulling towels from a hallway closet. “Bathroom’s through there. You can clean up the dog. I’ll grab you something dry to wear.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Abbott.” Logan fixed her with a look. “You’re dripping on my floor and shaking like a chihuahua. Take the dry clothes.”
Jo’s brain short-circuited at the thought of wearing Logan’s clothes. “Okay.”
The bathroom was as organized as the rest of the apartment. Everything in its place, dark tile, expensive-looking toiletries. Jo lifted Olive into the tub and started rinsing off the mud.
“How did you even know to come here?” Jo asked the dog. “Did you memorize the route? Are you some kind of secret genius?”
Olive shook water everywhere.
“I’m taking that as a yes.”
A knock on the door. “Clothes,” Logan’s voice came from the other side. “I’m leaving them on the floor.”
“Thanks.”
Jo heard him walk away. She peeked out to find a neatly folded stack—gray sweatpants, black t-shirt, thick socks. All way too big for her, but dry.
Twenty minutes later, Jo emerged from the bathroom wearing Logan’s clothes (which swallowed her whole in the best way) with a significantly cleaner Olive.
Logan was in the kitchen area, doing something at the stove.
“Is that… hot chocolate?” Jo asked, spotting two mugs.
“You looked cold.”
“I was. Am.” Jo accepted the mug he offered, wrapping both hands around it. “Thank you. For all of this. You really didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well.” Logan shrugged. “Couldn’t just leave you out there looking like a drowned rat.”
“Wow. Charming.”
Was that a hint of a smile? “I try.”
They stood there in slightly awkward silence, sipping hot chocolate, while Olive investigated every corner of the apartment.
“Your place is really nice,” Jo said. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect? A cave?”
“Maybe a small cave. With mood lighting.”
Logan actually laughed. It was short and surprised, but definitely a laugh. “Mood lighting?”
“You have an aesthetic. I assumed you’d commit to it.”
“My aesthetic is ‘functional and clean,’ not ‘vampire lair.'”
“Those pants you always wear suggest otherwise.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been noticing my pants?”
Jo’s face flamed. “I meant—they’re very black. All black. Very… dark.”
“Uh huh.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“To what? How your dog has now ruined two of my doormats in one week?”
Jo glanced over. Sure enough, Olive had settled herself directly on the new mat by the front door, getting it completely soaked.
“Oh my god.” Jo moved to shoo her off. “Olive, no!”
“It’s fine,” Logan said. “It’s water-resistant, remember? You read the reviews.”
“Compulsively,” Jo muttered.
“Right. Compulsively.” Logan took another sip of hot chocolate. “So that’s a thing you do.”
“One of many neurotic things, yes.”
“Like labeling your mailbox with hearts?”
“And color-coding my closet. And organizing my spices alphabetically.” Jo wasn’t sure why she was confessing this. Maybe the near-death experience of losing Olive had lowered her social filters. “I’m a very organized person hiding behind a facade of chaos.”
“The dog suggests otherwise.”
“The dog is chaos that I’m attempting to organize. Unsuccessfully.”
Logan leaned against the counter, studying her in a way that made Jo’s skin tingle. “How long have you had her?”
“Six months. Adopted her from a rescue. She’d been returned twice for being ‘too energetic.'”
“Let me guess. You saw that and thought ‘challenge accepted’?”
“More like ‘this dog needs someone who won’t give up on her.'” Jo looked at Olive, now sprawled on the doormat like she owned the place. “Everyone deserves a home. Even chaos goblins.”
Something shifted in Logan’s expression. Softened. “Yeah. They do.”
The moment stretched between them, loaded with something Jo couldn’t quite name.
Then Olive farted.
Loudly.
Logan’s nose wrinkled. “Jesus Christ.”
“Oh god. I’m so sorry. She does that when she’s nervous.” Jo grabbed Olive’s leash. “We should go. Before she commits any more crimes against your apartment.”
“Probably smart.” But Logan didn’t sound upset. Almost… amused?
He walked them to the door. Outside in the hallway, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
“Thanks again,” Jo said. “For the hot chocolate. And the clothes. I’ll wash them and bring them back.”
“Keep them. They’re old.”
“I can’t just keep your clothes.”
“Why not? They fit you better than they fit me anyway.”
That was objectively not true. But Jo wasn’t going to argue about the comfort of Logan’s worn-soft t-shirt against her skin.
“Okay. Well. Thanks.” Jo tugged Olive toward the stairs. “Come on, girl. Let’s go home before we cause any more property damage.”
“Abbott?”
Jo turned back. Logan was still standing in his doorway, backlit by his apartment lights in a way that should be illegal.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you found her. The dog. Olive.”
Jo’s heart did that weird fluttery thing again. “Me too.”
Back in her own apartment, Jo changed into her own pajamas (reluctantly removing Logan’s shirt) and texted Erika.
Jo: So I just spent 20 minutes in Logan’s apartment
Erika: WHAT
Erika: DETAILS. NOW.
Jo: Olive escaped, showed up at his door, he invited us in to dry off
Erika: This dog is a genius
Jo: Right?? She somehow knew exactly where to go
Erika: She’s playing matchmaker
Erika: What was his apartment like? Any clues about his life?
Jo: Lots of plants. Tattoo art. Very organized. He made me hot chocolate.
Erika: HE MADE YOU HOT CHOCOLATE
Erika: Jo
Erika: JO
Erika: This man is into you
Jo: Or he felt sorry for me because I looked like a drowned rat (his words)
Erika: Drowned rat is a term of endearment
Jo: Since when?
Erika: Since a grumpy tattoo artist invites said drowned rat into his apartment and makes her hot beverages
Jo looked up at the ceiling again. Was Erika right? Was Logan actually interested? Or was he just being decent to his disaster of a neighbor?
Hard to say.
But one thing was certain: Olive had officially become the world’s most effective wingdog.
Even if her methods were unconventional.
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