Page 11 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

I finish running the bath, the scent of vanilla and lavender curling up with the steam. I test the water one last time, then flick off the tap and glance toward the bedroom.

She’s in the closet, half-hidden by the open door, rummaging around.

“Hey,” I call gently, “I’m gonna order the pizza. You want your usual? Extra olives and mushrooms?”

She twists at the waist, peering out with a small smile. “Really glad some things have not changed, because I cannot lie, Logan, if you brought me pineapple, I would probably have a breakdown.”

“Oh, no, angel! We can’t be having that now, can we?”

She laughs lightly, but it catches—turns into a sharp inhale as she bends down to grab something from the bottom shelf. Her hand flies to her side, her body freezing mid-movement.

I’m across the room in seconds.

“Mac.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be, but fear manifests in a ripple of gooseflesh, my mood shifting from one of joviality to concern.

She’s gripping her side, breathing shallowly through the pain. “It’s okay,” she says quickly, her voice tight. “Just one of the ribs. They’re still a little tender.”

I don’t buy it. Not completely. But I also know better than to push her too hard. I slide my arm around her back, supporting her as I guide her toward the bed. “Sit. Let me take care of it.”

She doesn’t argue, which tells me everything I need to know.

Once she’s settled against the pillows, I pull my phone from my back pocket and order the food, keeping one eye on her the whole time. She’s biting her lip like she doesn’t want me to see the discomfort, but I see it. I see all of it. Every flinch, every breath that takes a little too much effort.

When I hang up, I sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “You want help in the bathroom?”

Her cheeks go pink instantly. “I, uh... I might not be able to wash my hair,” she admits, eyes dropping to her lap, like it’s something to be ashamed of.

I reach for her hand, curling my fingers around hers. “Mac,” I say softly, tilting her chin so she’s looking at me again, “you never have to hide anything from me. Ever.”

There’s a pause, like the air between us is holding its breath.

Then she nods. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.” I am filled with relief that I don’t have to fight her more on this.

I press a kiss to her forehead, then stand. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Because I’ve already left once. And I’ll never make that mistake again.

I leave the bathroom door cracked, just enough to hear if she calls me, then head downstairs to get her meds ready. It’s almost time for her next dose, and if she’s anything like she used to be, she’ll stubbornly insist she doesn’t need it until she’s wincing through every breath.

I fish through the little paper bag the hospital nurse gave us, setting out the pills and a glass of water on the bedside table. My eyes drift to the open door, the sound of the water still running behind it.

"Logan?"

Her voice floats out like steam from the bath, soft and uncertain.

I’m already moving.

I step inside quietly, pausing in the doorway. The warm scent of bubbles and shampoo hits me first—sweet, familiar. She's sitting in the tub, her knees drawn up slightly, a soft froth of bubbles floating on the surface of the water.

She glances over her shoulder at me, damp hair falling in loose waves down her back. Her cheeks are flushed, whether from the heat or my eyes on her, I don’t know.

"Hey," she murmurs. "You still okay to help?"

"Of course," I say, voice a little too low, a little too rough.

I kneel beside the tub, rolling up my sleeves.

She shifts forward, giving me access, and it takes everything in me to keep my hands steady.

Her back is bare, droplets sliding over her shoulder blades, tracing the delicate curve of her spine.

Her skin is soft and warm beneath my fingertips as I cup water in my palms and pour it slowly over her hair.

She tilts her head back with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

"That feel okay?"

She lets out a soft moan, almost a whimper. “God, yes… that feels amazing.”

I swallow hard. “Careful, baby. You keep saying stuff like that and you are going to inflate my ego.”

She laughs quietly, but it ends on another soft sound as I gently massage shampoo into her scalp, my fingers working slowly, tenderly. I keep my touch light, but it still sparks something electric every time I brush against her skin.

“You always this gentle?” she asks, her voice dreamy.

“Only with you.”

I rinse the shampoo out in long, slow passes, then follow with the conditioner, my fingers threading through her hair with care.

She’s so relaxed now, I half expect her to fall asleep right there in the water. But when she speaks again, her voice is quiet and vulnerable.

“Thank you. For being here.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

And I mean it. From the bottom of my heart.

She sighs as I rinse the last of the conditioner from her hair, and when I reach for the towel, she doesn’t flinch—just looks at me like I’m the only safe place she’s ever known.

Carefully, I help her to her feet, holding the towel open for her as she steps out of the bath.

Her skin is damp and glowing, a little pink from the heat.

I wrap the towel around her gently, tucking the edge in at her chest.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, cheeks flushed, eyes soft. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I press a kiss to her temple, slow and lingering. “I’ll leave you to get changed.”

I step out and give her the space, padding down the stairs and into the living room where I left my duffel by the door.

I fish out a fresh t-shirt, a pair of joggers, clean boxers, and my toothbrush, then head back upstairs, the house quiet around me.

It’s strange, familiar and foreign. The last time I was here, I was frantic, looking for signs of Mac.

Now, I’m just relieved to have her here, safe and sound.

Mac’s bedroom door is closed, so I duck into the bathroom across the hall for a quick shower. The water is hot, chasing away the tension in my muscles, and when I step out and wrap the towel low around my hips, I feel a little more grounded.

The moment I open her bedroom door, she’s there.

Mac stands at her vanity, her damp hair clinging to her back in heavy waves. She’s changed into a soft pair of pyjamas—Braden’s old t-shirt, by the look of it, and a pair of cotton shorts—and she looks over her shoulder as I walk in.

Her hair is dripping onto the fabric. Without a word, I walk over, grab the hairdryer, and sit on the edge of her bed.

“Come here,” I murmur.

She raises a brow. “You’re gonna dry my hair?”

“I’m gonna do it right. Sit.”

She does, settling between my legs on the floor, and I gently finger-comb through the wet strands before switching the dryer on.

The soft hum fills the room as I guide it over her hair, my fingers brushing through it, untangling each knot with care.

I catch her watching me in the mirror—eyes soft, lips curled—and I don’t look away.

When her hair is mostly dry, I turn off the dryer and reach for the brush, pulling it through her waves slowly. She sighs again, closing her eyes for a moment like she’s letting herself fall into this, into us.

Then, a knock at the door makes us both freeze.

“Go get the door. I’ll pick a movie.”

I chuckle, raking a hand through my damp hair as I make my way out of her room and down the stairs. The knock comes again—this time more insistent—and I call out, “I’m comin’.”

I swing the door open and the delivery guy gives me a once-over. “Uh—pizza?”

I smirk. “Yeah, man. Thanks.”

I pay, grab the box, and snag the sodas we ordered before heading back up. The scent of melted cheese and garlic fills the hallway, but nothing prepares me for the sight that greets me when I push the bedroom door open.

Mac is curled up on her bed, her hair now fluffy and dry, the glow of the screen casting soft light across her face. Her legs are tucked beneath her, remote in hand, and she looks up at me with a little smile that hits me square in the chest.

“I went with The Notebook,” she says, cocking her head. “Felt like the right amount of tears and swoon.”

I set the pizza down on the bed beside her and lean over to press a kiss to her forehead. “Perfect choice.”

And maybe it’s the way she scoots over to make room for me, or the way her fingers graze mine as she takes her slice, but suddenly, this doesn’t feel like just a night in.

She curls closer as the opening credits roll, the flickering light from the TV dancing across her face. I ease myself behind her, propping a few pillows behind my back and wrapping one arm loosely around her shoulders. Her body relaxes instantly, like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

We have... Just not like this.

I press a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing her in. Lavender and vanilla.

Her fingers toy with the hem of my joggers absently, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. But I do. Every brush of her skin sets something alight inside me. Still, I don’t push.

“ This is nice,” she whispers, voice barely audible over the soft hum of the film.

I glance down at her. “The movie?”

She shakes her head slowly. “You.”

That one word punches through my ribs like it’s always been meant to find its way back home. I let out a breath and press my forehead to her temple.

She lets out a little laugh, soft and breathless. “I used to dream about this when I was a kid. You and me, grown up. Sharing pizza. Watching movies. Maybe kissing a little.”

I smirk. “Just a little?”

She bites her bottom lip, cheeks flushed. “Okay, maybe a lot.”

My hand slides gently down to rest over her waist, mindful of her sore ribs, my voice dropping to a whisper as I say, “Well then… I guess we’ve still got time to make those dreams come true.”

She doesn’t answer right away, just shifts closer—pressing her cheek to my chest, the thrum of my heart loud enough for us both to hear.

By the time the credits roll, Mac’s breathing has deepened, her head resting against my shoulder, her body warm and relaxed in my arms. I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her healing ribs, and slide the blanket up over us.

The bedside lamp casts a soft amber glow, painting her features in gold as she blinks sleepily up at me.

“You still with me?” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She nods, voice thick with sleep. “Barely.”

I smile and lean in, kissing her forehead. “Then let’s call it a night.”

She stretches, careful and slow, before curling back into me—her leg tangled with mine, her palm resting right over my heart like it’s always known the way.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned. Sacred. Like after the storm, when all that’s left is the peace.

“You know… Everything is a mess in my head. I don’t know how much time is lost, and when I saw you and didn’t immediately recognize the man that you have become. I know it must have hurt you… and piecing together everything that happened… I just want to say…”

I close my eyes, the weight of those words hitting something deep. “angel, it’s fine.” I whisper.

She shifts so we’re face to face, eyes glimmering in the soft light.

“Let me finish. Logan… You’re stitched into every moment of my life.

Like you’ve always belonged here….Logan, promise me.

If I ever try to push you away that you’ll stay.

That you’ll talk sense into me, and wait out my tantrums. That you’ll be there.

Because I can’t picture a day going forward without you in it. ”

Something lodges in my throat. I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb over the soft skin beneath her eye. “That’s an easy promise to make, angel, I am considering wrapping you up with bubble-wrap, maybe tying one of those balloons to your wrist so you are easier to spot in a crowd?”

Her lips curve, and I swear the whole damn room shifts.

“Logan Dale… I love you,” she breathes, not like a confession—but like a truth that’s been there all along. It bubbles out, and her cheeks flush, eyes flaring at realizing what she has said out loud. The thrill those words give me, are a high I will never get enough of. I feel dizzy. Giddy even.

“I’ve loved you since the moment you stole my bike and made me chase you down that damn hill, laughing like you already had me.

You’re not just in my lyrics, baby—you are the reason I write.

You’re in every line I bleed onto the page, in the strum of a chord that makes my chest ache, in the roar of a crowd that means nothing without you there.

Even in the silence before the light hits the stage, when everything else fades—it’s still you. It’s always been you.”

She gasps softly into the space between us, and I catch it with my mouth—soft just a brush of our lips.

Then we settle. Her head finds its place in the crook of my neck. My arm wraps tighter around her waist. Her fingers trace circles on my chest. Content, but lost in thoughts.

“I can’t believe we just said all that,” She is still glowing as she continues sleepily, “I still feel like I probably love you more.”

And when her breathing evens out, I let mine follow.

Two heartbeats, one rhythm. But, alas, there is no way for what she said to be true, as you see, I know I love her most.