Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~11 min read
Two days after the Great Plumbing Disaster, Jo’s sink started leaking again.
Not a dramatic flood this time. Just a persistent drip-drip-drip from the pipe Anderson had supposedly fixed, forming a small puddle that Jo discovered when she stepped into the kitchen barefoot at 6 AM.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, staring at her wet foot.
She texted Anderson. No response. Called. Voicemail.
Of course. Because when you needed a building manager, they were suddenly impossible to reach.
Jo grabbed a bucket, positioned it under the leak, and tried to remember if she had Anderson’s emergency number somewhere.
A knock at her door interrupted her search.
She opened it to find Logan standing there in jeans and a faded t-shirt, holding a toolbox that looked well-used.
“Your sink is leaking again,” he said. Not a question.
“How did you—”
“I can hear it. Thin floors.” Logan gestured toward her kitchen. “Can I come in?”
Jo’s brain stuttered. Logan Marchand wanted to come into her apartment? Her disaster of an apartment that she hadn’t cleaned in a week because work had been insane?
“I—yes. Sure. But it’s kind of a mess—”
“I’m not here to judge your housekeeping.” Logan walked past her, straight to the kitchen. “I’m here to fix your sink before it floods my bathroom again.”
Right. Because of course that was the only reason.
Jo followed him, acutely aware that she was wearing pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that said “I KNEAD COFFEE” with a cartoon cat on it. Her hair was in a messy bun. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
This was fine. Totally fine. Nothing to panic about.
Logan crouched down and opened the cabinet under the sink, examining the pipes with a critical eye.
“Anderson’s fix was sloppy,” he said. “He didn’t tighten the connections properly.”
“How do you know about plumbing?”
“I know about a lot of things.” Logan glanced up at her. “You going to hover or you going to help?”
“Help. Definitely help. What do you need?”
“Towels. In case this goes sideways.”
Jo grabbed towels and knelt beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Close enough that she could smell that woodsy scent again, mixed with coffee and something clean.
Focus, Abbott.
“Hand me that wrench,” Logan said, gesturing to his toolbox.
Jo found the wrench and passed it over. Their fingers brushed. Her stomach flipped.
“You’re going to want to watch this,” Logan said. “So next time you’ll know what to actually do instead of breaking everything.”
“I resent that characterization.”
“Do you though?”
“No, it’s pretty accurate.”
Logan’s mouth twitched into that almost-smile. He got to work, explaining what he was doing as he tightened connections and adjusted the pipe positioning.
Jo tried to pay attention. She really did. But she kept getting distracted by his hands—large, capable, covered in tattoos that extended from his wrists up under his sleeves. A geometric pattern on his left hand. What looked like text on his right, though she couldn’t read it from this angle.
“You’re not listening,” Logan said without looking at her.
“I am.”
“What did I just say?”
“Something about… pipes?”
Logan set down the wrench and turned to face her. They were still kneeling on her kitchen floor, close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his dark eyes.
“You’re a terrible liar, Abbott.”
“I’m a great liar. I convinced my mom I was sick at least fifteen times in high school.”
“Everyone can fake sick. That’s entry-level lying.”
“What’s advanced-level lying?”
“I’ll let you know when you get there.”
Jo laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Are you always this much of a smartass?”
“Pretty much. You’re just now noticing?”
“I was too busy being terrified of you before.”
Something shifted in Logan’s expression. “Terrified?”
“You’re very intimidating. The tattoos, the motorcycle, the whole grumpy thing you have going on.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You literally told Olive she was on your shit list.”
“Olive IS on my shit list. That’s just facts.”
“See? Grumpy.”
Logan shook his head but he was almost-smiling again. “Test the water.”
“What?”
“Turn on the faucet. Let’s see if this holds.”
Jo stood and turned on the water. They both watched the pipes under the sink.
No dripping.
“Oh my god, you fixed it.” Jo turned off the water and crouched back down. “How did you do that? Anderson couldn’t even get it right.”
“Anderson is sixty and his eyesight isn’t what it used to be. He probably couldn’t see that the gasket was worn.” Logan packed up his tools. “You should probably replace the whole disposal unit at some point. It’s old.”
“How much does that cost?”
“Couple hundred. Less if you do it yourself, but—”
“But I should absolutely not attempt that.”
“Correct.”
Jo helped him stand. They were in her kitchen now, morning light streaming through the window, and she was suddenly very aware of how domestic this felt. Logan fixing her sink. Her in pajamas. It was almost like—
No. Don’t go there.
“Thank you,” Jo said. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Self-preservation. Couldn’t risk another flood.”
“Right. Because that’s the only reason.”
Logan’s eyes held hers for a beat too long. “What other reason would there be?”
Jo’s heart hammered. Was he—? Did he mean—?
Olive chose that moment to zoom into the kitchen, tail wagging, and shove her head directly into Logan’s hand.
The moment broke.
Logan scratched Olive’s ears absently. “She’s gotten bigger.”
“You think? I feel like she’s been the same size for months.”
“No, definitely bigger. She was smaller when she peed on my first doormat.”
“Are you ever going to let that go?”
“Probably not.”
Olive flopped onto her back, offering her belly. Logan crouched down and obliged with belly rubs.
Jo’s heart did that annoying flutter thing again.
“You want coffee?” The words were out before she could stop them. “I just made a pot. It’s the least I can do after you fixed my sink.”
Logan glanced up at her, still rubbing Olive’s belly. “You’re going to ply me with coffee every time I help you with something?”
“Is that a no?”
He stood. “That’s a yes. But I need to grab something from my apartment first. Be right back.”
Logan left before Jo could respond.
She stared at her front door for a solid ten seconds, processing.
Logan Marchand was coming back. To her apartment. For coffee.
This was happening.
“Okay, emergency clean,” Jo told Olive, who was still sprawled on the floor looking blissful. “We have maybe three minutes.”
She frantically cleared dishes from the counter, wiped down surfaces, lit a candle that claimed to smell like “vanilla bean” but mostly smelled like sugar and lies.
Logan knocked exactly four minutes later.
Jo opened the door. He was carrying a large portfolio case.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“You’ll see. Where do you want me?”
Her brain short-circuited at the phrasing. “Uh. Kitchen table?”
Logan set down the case and accepted the coffee mug she offered. He took it black, which somehow fit perfectly with his entire aesthetic.
“So what’s in the mysterious case?” Jo sat across from him, nursing her own cream-and-sugar-heavy coffee.
“You said you do graphic design, right?”
“Yeah. Freelance. Mostly branding, some web design. Why?”
Logan unzipped the case and pulled out several large sheets of paper. Sketches. Intricate, detailed tattoo designs that were absolutely stunning.
Jo’s breath caught.
“These are incredible,” she whispered, pulling one closer. A full sleeve design featuring geometric patterns intertwined with flowers. “You drew these?”
“Part of the job.” Logan sipped his coffee, watching her reaction. “But I want to update my portfolio. Make it more professional. Maybe a website. I’ve been putting it off because I don’t know shit about design.”
“You want me to help you?”
“If you’re interested. I’ll pay your rate. This isn’t a favor.”
Jo looked up from the sketches. Logan’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes. Vulnerability, maybe. Like this mattered to him.
“I’m definitely interested,” she said. “These are amazing, Logan. Seriously. Your clients are lucky.”
Something softened in his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. The detail work alone is insane. And the way you’ve integrated different styles—” She pointed to another sketch, this one featuring a phoenix rising from geometric flames. “This is museum-quality.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m really not. You’re incredibly talented.”
Logan looked down at his coffee, almost shy. It was a startling contrast to his usual gruff demeanor.
“I’ve been tattooing for ten years,” he said quietly. “But I’ve never really marketed myself properly. Most of my clients are word-of-mouth.”
“Well, we’re going to change that.” Jo was already mentally designing his website. Clean, dark aesthetic, gallery-style layout to showcase his work. “Do you have a logo?”
“No.”
“Business cards?”
“Handwritten on napkins, basically.”
Jo laughed. “Okay, we have work to do. But I can help you with all of it. Branding package, website, social media presence if you want it.”
“I don’t do social media.”
“You don’t have to run it yourself. I can set it up, post your work, manage comments. It’s all part of the package.”
Logan studied her across the table. “Why are you so enthusiastic about this?”
“Because you’re talented and more people should see your work. And also because I love a good design challenge.” Jo pulled out her phone. “Can I take pictures of these sketches? I want to start pulling together a mood board.”
“Sure.”
She photographed each sketch, already seeing the possibilities. Dark backgrounds to make his line work pop. Minimalist navigation. Maybe video content showing his process.
“This is going to be amazing,” Jo said. “When can we meet to go over initial concepts?”
“Whenever. I have my own studio. Set my own hours.”
“You have your own shop?”
“Yeah. Inkwell. On Westfield Ave.”
“Wait, Inkwell is yours?” Jo had walked past that shop a dozen times. Sleek black exterior, always looked busy. “I thought you worked for someone.”
“I did. Bought the place from my mentor two years ago when he retired.”
“Logan, that’s incredible.”
He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but Jo could tell it was. Could see it in the way his shoulders straightened slightly, the hint of pride in his eyes.
They spent the next hour going through his sketches while Jo asked questions about his style, his ideal clients, his vision for the brand. Logan was surprisingly articulate when talking about his work, explaining his technique and influences with a passion that transformed his entire demeanor.
This was Logan without the grumpy armor. Logan talking about something he loved.
And Jo was completely mesmerized.
“I should let you get back to work,” Logan finally said, checking his phone. “I have a client at eleven.”
“Right. Yes. Work.” Jo reluctantly stood. “I’ll put together some initial concepts and send them over. Maybe we can meet at your shop sometime? I’d love to see your workspace.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll text you the address.”
They walked to her door. Logan paused, portfolio case in hand.
“Thanks for the coffee. And for being excited about this.”
“Thanks for fixing my sink. And for trusting me with your work.”
Logan’s eyes held hers. They were standing close again. Close enough that Jo could see the small scar through his eyebrow, the stubble along his jaw, the way his pulse beat at his throat.
“See you around, Abbott,” he said, voice lower than usual.
“See you around, Marchand.”
He left. Jo closed the door and leaned against it, heart racing.
She pulled out her phone.
Jo: ERIKA EMERGENCY
Erika: What happened? Is Olive okay?
Jo: Olive is fine. Logan just came over to fix my sink and showed me his tattoo designs and asked me to help with his branding and I think I’m in serious trouble.
Erika: WHAT KIND OF TROUBLE
Jo: The falling-for-him kind.
Erika: I TOLD YOU THIS WAS HAPPENING
Jo: You were right. You were so right.
Erika: I’m always right. What are you going to do about it?
Jo: Design him the best portfolio website ever created and try not to embarrass myself.
Erika: That’s it? That’s your plan?
Jo: What else am I supposed to do?
Erika: Uh, TELL him you like him?
Jo: Absolutely not. We’re maintaining professional boundaries. I’m his designer now. That’s it.
Erika: For now.
Jo: For forever.
Erika: We’ll see.
Jo looked at the photos of Logan’s sketches on her phone. Intricate, beautiful, revealing a depth she was only beginning to understand.
Yeah. She was definitely in trouble.
The best kind of trouble.
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