Page 10 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan laughs under his breath, a low, warm sound that does something to my heart.

“You two were nightmares,” he says. “And don’t act like I didn’t get caught in the middle of every war. Braden was ruthless when it came to his music.”

“So were you,” I say, nudging him lightly. “You both had awful taste.”

“Lies,” he grins. “Pure slander.”

I laugh, the sound half-choked by tears that rise too fast. The ache hits, sudden and sharp, but this time… it’s not all pain. There’s sweetness buried in it. Memory. The kind that hurts in the best way.

I turn to look at Logan.

He’s already watching me.

His blue eyes are glowing in the last light of the day, like they soaked up every sunset we ever sat through together. The boy who grew up across the street. The boy who became my everything—before I even knew what everything was.

He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.

“I missed you,” he says. “The way you see the world. The way you bring it back to life just by stepping into it.”

“This house… this street… they were just places without you, Mac. But now that you’re here, everything’s right again.”

My chest tightens.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this kind of love. But standing here with him, on the steps of our past and the edge of our future, I feel it. All of it.

And this time, I don’t run from it.

I reach for the doorknob, the key shaking in my hand as I unlock the front door like I have a thousand times before.

The door creaks open on a sigh, like it remembers me.

My hand tightens in Logan’s, grounding myself in the warmth of his skin as the familiar scent hits me—lavender, old wood, and something faintly sweet. It smells like Braden’s cologne. Like safety. Like a thousand yesterdays.

I step over the threshold.

And suddenly, I’m eight years old again, running through the hallway with socks sliding across the polished floors. Braden is ahead of me, shouting something about a dragon in the kitchen. Logan’s voice echoes behind us, laughing, teasing, always close.

It all rushes back in a wave I’m not ready for.

The living room is just as we left it. The sun has dipped behind the trees, casting golden light through the sheer curtains, dust dancing in the quiet. Braden’s favorite blanket is still thrown over the back of the couch—slightly frayed, stitched with Mom’s initials.

No one’s touched it.

Everything waits.

My knees nearly buckle, but Logan's hand finds the small of my back, steadying me.

I glance at Logan. His eyes are on me.

Always on me.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod, even if my chest feels like it’s being unraveled, thread by thread.

“Yeah, it’s just…”

Tears blur my vision, but I blink them away. “God, it’s stupid. I didn’t think it would hit me like this.” Logan turns me gently until I’m facing him. Him thumb brushes under my eye. “It’s not stupid. You lost so much here. But you also had everything. It’s okay to feel both.”

I close my eyes for a second. Just breathing him in. The past. The present. This house might be full of ghosts, but right now—it’s also full of him. And that changes everything.

“I used to dream about walking back through that door,” I admit, eyes still closed. “But in every dream, Braden was waiting.”

Silence stretches between us.

“He is.” Logan whispers. “In the creak of the stairs. In the music that still lives in the walls. In the way you smile when you still talk about this place. He’s here, Mac. He never really left.”

My breath catches. And then, with a soft exhale I lean into him.

His voice is barely a whisper. “You don’t have to talk about it, Mac. But if you ever want to… I’m here.”

“I know,” I say. And I do. God, I do.

This is more than enough.

This quiet.

This history.

This boy who’s always been just across the street, but somehow closer than anyone ever has been.

“There’s something I’ve never told anyone.”

His thumb pauses for the briefest second, then continues. “Yeah?”

I nod, eyes still fixed on the doorway.

“I was ten. Mama walked into the kitchen one afternoon and found me sitting at the table, twirling a daisy between my fingers.”

He stays quiet, just listening.

“She smiled at me and said, ‘Did Logan pick you another daisy today?’” A soft laugh escapes me. “I’d been getting them for weeks, always tucked under the porch rail or stuck through the fence. I wore every one that lived long enough with pride in my hair.”

Logan huffs a breath, shaking his head with a sheepish smile. “That tracks.”

I nodded, but I didn’t smile back. “I guess I must’ve looked upset, because she sat down beside me and asked what was wrong.” I blink down at my hands, suddenly ten again. Small. Hopeful. Heart wide open. “And I told her… I was upset because you hadn’t asked me to marry you yet.”

Logan lets out a low, stunned laugh, full of disbelief and something else—something tender.

My cheeks flush, even now.

“I asked her if you were in love with someone else, because I hadn’t seen you give daisies to anyone else, and Papa always said you only give flowers to the woman you love.”

His hand tightens around mine. Gently.

“And what did she say?” he asks, voice rough.

“She said…” I swallow the lump that rises. “She said, ‘Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.’”

I finally glance over at him. His blue eyes are glassy in the warm light.

He whispers, “Mac…”

“I never told Braden,” I say. “It felt like something just for me. For us.”

Logan leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. “I should’ve asked you that day.”

“You were ten.”

“I was in love with you,” he murmurs. “Even then.”

The truth hangs there between us, old and familiar and brand new all at once.

He kisses my forehead—soft and tender, like I’m still the girl with the daisy in her hand and the world at her feet.

Logan’s still holding my hand when I speak again, voice quiet in the stillness between us.

“You’ve always been there, you know?” I turn to face him fully. “In every memory I have… you’re stitched into it somehow. Like you were sewn into the very fabric of my life before I even knew what that meant.”

His eyes lock onto mine.

“I used to think it was just comfort… just history,” I whisper. “But it’s more than that. You’re… you’re part of me, Logan. Like the spaces in my soul were shaped to fit you.”

His chest rises with a shaky breath, but I’m not done.

“This… us… it might feel new. But it’s never not felt right. Even when everything else fell apart—you being there never did.”

Logan doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. He just cups my face with both hands and presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed, like he’s breathing me in—like the words I just said filled some quiet ache in him he didn’t know was still bleeding.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

I shake my head softly. “You always have.”

“I’m gonna go check everything—make sure the power’s still running, water, heat, the phone connection... you know, the works,” he says, glancing around like the house might surprise him with a burst pipe or a blackout. “I know you’ve probably had everything sorted, but I need to see it for myself.”

I smile. “Of course you do.”

He leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head before moving toward the hallway.

“You want me to order something? There’s that old pizza place over on Maple that still delivers.

I could set up a movie or—if you want to take a bath, I’ll run one for you upstairs.

Or we can just head up and deal with everything else tomorrow. Not everything has to be done at once.”

He pauses like he’s trying to gauge what I need most. And somehow, the answer is all of it and none of it at the same time.

“I’ll go up,” I say quietly, rising from the couch. My body’s still healing, and the ache lingers in places I forgot existed, but I want the comfort of my old room. My space. And him.

Logan nods once, his expression soft. “I’ll get the water running.”

By the time I reach the top of the stairs, he’s already in my en suite, sleeves rolled to his elbows, checking the temperature and pouring in a capful of the bubble bath my mum used to buy.

He’s careful, thoughtful, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

And in a way… he has. Not the bath itself, but everything else—looking after me, being here.

I step into the doorway and watch him for a moment, the gentleness in his movements, the way he tests the water again with his hand, adjusting the temperature just slightly. My chest tightens.

“Logan?” I ask softly.

He turns, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, baby?”

“Will you stay with me tonight?”

His expression shifts—something warm and steady filling his eyes as he nods. “Of course. I was planning on it. I can sleep on the—”

“No, Logan.” I cut him off gently, stepping closer, the words trembling from my lips like a secret I’ve been keeping for far too long. “I want you to stay with me. In my bed.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, longing, something deeper—and then he straightens, crosses the space between us, and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Then that’s exactly where I’ll be.”