Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~11 min read
Jo should have known better than to attempt home repair based on a YouTube video titled “Easy DIY Sink Fixes Anyone Can Do!”
Key word: anyone.
Apparently “anyone” did not include chronically anxious graphic designers whose tool-using skills maxed out at assembling IKEA furniture with the included Allen wrench.
“It’s just the garbage disposal,” Jo muttered, lying on her back under the sink with a wrench she’d borrowed from the building’s maintenance closet. “The video made it look so simple. Twist, tighten, done.”
Olive sat nearby, watching with what Jo could only describe as deep skepticism.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m perfectly capable of basic home maintenance.”
The wrench slipped. Jo’s knuckles scraped against the pipe.
“Ow! Okay, maybe not perfectly capable. But adequately capable.”
She repositioned the wrench, gripped tighter, and twisted.
Something gave way with a metallic groan.
Then water exploded everywhere.
“NO!” Jo scrambled backward, banging her head on the cabinet. “No, no, no, NO!”
Water gushed from the pipe she’d apparently loosened instead of tightened, spraying across her kitchen floor in an impressive arc.
Olive barked and retreated to the living room.
Jo grabbed for the pipe, trying to screw it back on, but the water pressure made it impossible. Her hands were soaked, the wrench was slippery, and the entire kitchen was rapidly becoming a shallow pool.
“Turn off the water, Abbott. The shut-off valve. Where’s the shut-off valve?”
She frantically searched under the sink, water still gushing, soaking her clothes, her hair, everything.
There. A small knob. She cranked it to the right.
The water slowed. Then stopped.
Jo sat there in the puddle, breathing hard, completely drenched for the second time this week.
“I’m a disaster,” she announced to Olive. “An absolute walking disaster.”
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket—miraculously still dry in her back pocket—and saw a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Is your sink supposed to be raining into my apartment?
Oh god.
Oh no.
Jo looked up at her kitchen ceiling, then down at the floor where water had pooled in concerning quantities.
If water was up here…
It was dripping down there.
Into apartment 3B.
Into Logan’s apartment.
Jo: This is Logan???
Unknown: Who else would be texting about ceiling rain?
Jo: How did you get my number?
Logan: Building directory. Are you going to answer my question?
Jo: No. My sink is NOT supposed to be raining into your apartment. I’m so sorry. I was trying to fix the disposal and I broke everything instead.
Logan: I can see that. My bathroom ceiling is dripping. A lot.
Jo: I turned off the water. It should stop soon. I think. I hope.
Logan: You THINK?
Jo: I’m not a plumber!
Logan: Clearly.
Jo: I said I’m sorry!
Logan: Come down here.
Jo stared at her phone. Come down there? To his apartment? Where water was actively dripping from the ceiling because of her incompetence?
Jo: Are you going to yell at me?
Logan: Probably.
Jo: That’s honest at least.
Logan: I’m nothing if not honest. Get down here. Bring towels.
Jo grabbed every towel she owned—which wasn’t many because she’d been meaning to do laundry for a week—and headed downstairs with Olive trailing behind.
She knocked on Logan’s door, arms full of increasingly damp towels, hair dripping, wearing yoga pants and a tank top that were both completely soaked.
Logan answered immediately. He took one look at her and his expression shifted from annoyed to something else. Concerned, maybe?
“You look like you lost a fight with a car wash.”
“I lost a fight with my garbage disposal.” Jo thrust the towels at him. “Where’s the damage?”
Logan stepped aside, letting her in. “Bathroom. Follow the sound of dripping.”
Jo hurried through his apartment—still meticulously clean despite the plumbing emergency—and into his bathroom.
Water was indeed dripping from a spot in the ceiling directly above his shower, creating a steady stream that echoed against the tile.
“Oh my god.” Jo pressed her hands to her face. “I’m so sorry. This is—I can’t believe I—”
“Move.” Logan gently nudged her aside and started spreading towels on the floor. “We need to contain this before it spreads to the drywall in the other rooms.”
“Right. Yes. Containing.” Jo dropped to her knees and helped position towels. “I’ll pay for any damage. Obviously. This is completely my fault.”
“You think?” But Logan’s tone wasn’t as harsh as his words. Almost teasing.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, adjusting towels, checking the rate of the drip. It was slowing down, thankfully.
“I think it’s stopping,” Jo said hopefully.
“For now. But I’m guessing you didn’t actually fix whatever you broke up there.”
“No. I just turned off the water supply. My entire sink is probably still in pieces.”
Logan sat back on his heels, studying her. Jo became acutely aware that she was kneeling on his bathroom floor, dripping wet, wearing clothes that were probably see-through at this point.
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“You know there’s a maintenance guy for the building, right?” Logan said. “Anderson Alcott. Literally his job to fix things.”
“I know. But it seemed like such a small problem. The video made it look easy.”
“What video?”
“YouTube. ‘Easy DIY Sink Fixes Anyone Can Do.'”
Logan’s mouth twitched. “Anyone except you, apparently.”
“Hey.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No, but you don’t have to be mean about it.”
“I’m not being mean. I’m being accurate.” Logan stood, offering her a hand. “Come on. Let’s check the ceiling in the other rooms.”
Jo let him pull her up. His hand was warm, calloused, strong. He didn’t let go immediately, and for a second they were standing very close in his bathroom, water dripping somewhere behind them, her hand in his.
Logan’s eyes dropped to her wet clothes, then quickly back to her face. His jaw ticked.
“You should probably change. Before you catch pneumonia.”
“This is becoming a pattern.”
“What is?”
“Me showing up at your apartment soaking wet.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe stop doing things that involve water.”
“The rain wasn’t my fault.”
“The sink was.”
“Okay, yes. The sink was definitely my fault.”
They checked the rest of his apartment. Thankfully, the water damage seemed contained to the bathroom. Logan grabbed a bucket and positioned it under the worst of the dripping.
“I really am sorry,” Jo said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I was trying to save money on a plumber and instead I’ve probably caused way more damage than the original problem would have cost.”
“Probably.” Logan leaned against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “What was even wrong with your disposal?”
“It was making a weird grinding noise. Like it had something stuck in it.”
“Did you check if something was stuck in it before attempting surgery?”
Jo bit her lip. “I may have skipped that step.”
“Abbott.”
“I know! I know. I should have started with the basics. But the video was very convincing about the wrench method.”
“The wrench method.”
“That’s not the technical term, I’m guessing.”
“No.”
Olive, who’d been exploring Logan’s apartment, trotted into the bathroom and sat directly between them, looking very pleased with herself.
“Your dog has no concept of personal space,” Logan observed.
“She’s being a buffer. She can sense tension.”
“Smart dog.”
“Sometimes. Other times she pees on doormats.”
Logan’s almost-smile appeared. “Fair point.”
They stood there in slightly awkward silence. The dripping had slowed to occasional drops, echoing in the bucket.
“I should go deal with my sink,” Jo finally said. “Before I cause any more damage to your apartment.”
“You mean call Anderson to deal with your sink.”
“Yes. That. The responsible adult thing to do.”
“Revolutionary concept.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? My complete incompetence at home repair?”
Logan shrugged. “Little bit.”
“At least you’re honest.” Jo headed toward his front door, Olive following. “Thanks for not completely losing it on me. I would have deserved it.”
“Day’s not over yet.”
But he was almost-smiling again, and Jo decided to count that as a win.
She paused at his door. “How did you know it was my sink? It could have been anyone on the fourth floor.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Who else would it be?”
“That’s… actually a fair point. I am the chaos agent of this building.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You were thinking it though.”
“Absolutely.”
Jo laughed despite herself. “Okay. Well. Enjoy your ceiling rain. I’ll go call Anderson.”
“Do that. And Abbott?”
She turned back. “Yeah?”
“Next time you want to fix something, maybe just… don’t.”
“Noted.”
Back in her apartment, Jo surveyed the damage. Her kitchen floor was still wet, the area under the sink was a disaster, and she was pretty sure she’d made whatever the original problem was significantly worse.
She pulled up Anderson Alcott’s number from the building directory and called.
“Alcott speaking.”
“Hi, Mr. Alcott. This is Jolene Abbott from 4B. I have a small plumbing situation.”
“How small?”
“I may have accidentally flooded my kitchen and caused water damage to the apartment below me.”
A pause. “That’s not small, Ms. Abbott.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Can you come look at it?”
“Give me twenty minutes. And don’t touch anything else.”
“I won’t. I promise. Absolutely no more touching.”
Anderson showed up fifteen minutes later with a toolbox and an expression that suggested he’d heard about her already.
“You’re the one with the dog, right?” he asked, examining the disaster under her sink.
“That’s me.”
“The one who keeps having incidents with Mr. Marchand upstairs.”
“He’s downstairs from me, but yes.”
Anderson made a noncommittal sound and got to work. Jo hovered nearby, watching him efficiently fix everything she’d broken in about ten minutes flat.
“That’s it?” Jo asked as he stood up. “It’s fixed?”
“The disposal had a utensil stuck in the blades. A fork. You just needed to remove it with tongs and hit the reset button.” He showed her a small red button on the bottom of the disposal unit. “See? Reset.”
Jo stared at the fork. Then at the reset button. Then back at the fork.
“I caused a flood over a fork and a button.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“I’m an idiot.”
“I didn’t say that.” Anderson packed up his tools. “But maybe next time, call me first. That’s what I’m here for.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Building maintenance is covered in your rent. But the damage to Mr. Marchand’s ceiling will need to be assessed. I’ll go check it out now.”
“He’s going to hate me forever.”
Anderson paused at the door. “Between you and me? I don’t think Mr. Marchand hates you at all.”
“He literally told me my dog is on his shit list.”
“Yeah, but he said it with a smile, didn’t he?”
Had he? Jo tried to remember. Maybe?
“Just think about it,” Anderson said, and left.
Jo looked at Olive. “Did Logan smile when he said you were on his shit list?”
Olive wagged her tail.
“That’s not helpful.”
Her phone buzzed.
Logan: Anderson says the damage is minimal. I’ll live.
Jo: I’m so relieved. And sorry. Again. For the hundredth time.
Logan: You’re forgiven. But seriously, stop trying to DIY things.
Jo: I will hire professionals for everything from now on. Even changing light bulbs.
Logan: Probably smart.
Jo: You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?
Logan: Not a chance.
Jo found herself smiling at her phone like an idiot.
She’d flooded her kitchen, damaged his bathroom ceiling, and proven herself completely incompetent at basic home repair.
And somehow, Logan Marchand was texting her with what almost felt like… affection?
Maybe Anderson was right.
Maybe Logan didn’t actually hate her.
Maybe—just maybe—this disaster was another step in whatever was building between them.
Erika: Update me. I’m bored at work.
Jo: I flooded my apartment and Logan’s bathroom with my incompetent plumbing skills.
Erika: OF COURSE YOU DID
Erika: What did he say?
Jo: He called me a chaos agent and told me to never DIY anything again.
Erika: And you’re smiling about it aren’t you?
Jo: Maybe.
Erika: You’ve got it BAD, Abbott.
And yeah. Maybe she did.
Maybe she really, really did.
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