Page 19 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

T he sound of the front door creaking open cuts through the quiet like a whisper shouted through a megaphone.

I blink, groggy but aware, my body tangled with Mac’s, her skin warm against mine, her breath soft and even where she sleeps curled into me. It’s just past ten. Outside the window, the sky’s gone indigo, that deep velvet just before full dark.

She doesn’t stir, not even when I slide gently out of bed and plant a kiss on her bare shoulder.

I tug on my gray joggers, quietly pulling the door mostly closed behind me before padding barefoot down the hall. Voices—loud ones—spill in from the kitchen. Laughter, bags rustling, glass clinking.

“Shh! Dude, you’ll wake her up!”

“She’s already up,” someone else hisses. “Probably calling the cops on the ransack job we just did.”

I step into the kitchen—and stop dead.

It looks like the boys bought the damn store.

Every single cupboard is open. The fridge is crammed full. Beers, snacks, fresh produce, five different types of milk, a mountain of cereal, and a larder that looks like it belongs to a doomsday prepper. There’s even a rotating spice rack that definitely wasn’t there this morning.

“What the hell did you do?” I ask, scrubbing a hand through my hair.

Chace tosses me a grin. “Restocked. You’re welcome.”

Trey’s perched on the counter, legs swinging, casually holding a six-pack. “We figured you two might want a full fridge and not just expired mustard and one sad apple.”

“And she didn’t have any protein,” Sam adds with a deadly serious look, holding up a tub the size of a toddler. “This is a crisis.”

I chuckle under my breath and help them pack the last of it away. The kitchen hums with easy noise—cabinets closing, beer cracking, paper bags rustling. It’s chaos, but the welcome kind.

Once everything’s put away, we migrate to the lounge like it’s muscle memory. Beers in hand, shoes kicked off, bodies dropped into the couch cushions like we own the place. The overhead light is low, the room warm and worn, the way only old houses can be.

“So,” Trey starts, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wanna see the video that nearly got me murdered?”

Sam groans from the armchair. “Don’t.”

Trey’s already pulling out his phone.

“Bro,” I warn, laughing. “You sure you wanna relive your funeral?”

“Oh, I’m very sure.” He pulls up the clip, spins the phone toward me. “Observe.”

Sam’s face goes white.

It’s cinematic. Perfectly timed.

By the time the video ends, I’m crying.

“Dude,” I wheeze, wiping my eyes. “You’re gonna die young, and it’s gonna be your own damned fault.”

“Worth it,” Trey smirks, lifting his beer.

Sam flips him off but there’s a reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Caught you in the stalls though didn’t I, buddy, coulda given you a swirly.”

It’s all laughter and cheap beer and comfortable silence between jabs.

Still, as the conversation flows around me, my thoughts drift back to the bedroom. To the girl curled beneath the sheets, lips parted in sleep, still tangled in the after of us.

Sometime later, a soft shuffle behind me makes my chest tighten in the best way.

I glance toward the hallway just as she appears—Mac, rubbing sleep from her eyes, one of my old tees hanging off one shoulder, her bare legs peeking out from beneath the hem. Her hair’s a sexy, sleepy mess, and she looks so goddamn beautiful it knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

The whole room stills for a second, like the air shifts when she enters it.

I stand up instantly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “You looked too peaceful,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

She leans into me, wrapping her arms around my waist and tucking her face against my chest. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mumbles.

Behind me, Chace whistles. “Well, well. Sleeping beauty lives.”

Mac peeks out over my shoulder and narrows her eyes playfully. “You all break in and raid my kitchen without saying hi?”

“Correction,” Chace pipes up, holding up his hands in surrender, “We broke in and filled your fridge and cupboards. You’re welcome.”

Trey grins wide. “You’re welcome for the tub of cookie dough, too. I nearly lost a hand fighting off Chace for it.”

Chace throws a cushion at him.

Mac giggles, and the sound does something fierce to my heart. I tip her chin up, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, just a brush.

“C’mon,” I whisper, lacing my fingers with hers, “join us.”

She nods, and I lead her to the couch. She folds easily into my lap, warm and soft and exactly where she’s supposed to be. My arms come around her like instinct.

The banter picks back up, jokes flying, beer bottles clinking together, Trey pulling out his phone again to play a second angle of his stupid prank. Mac watches, amused and wide-eyed.

“Oh my God,” Mac laughs, the sound light and breathless. “Trey, that man looked like he was two seconds away from murdering poor Sam.”

“He was,” Sam mutters, lifting his drink with a deadpan expression. “I tried to tell him Trey was just pulling a bit, but he wasn’t having it. Took off like his ass was on fire.”

“Shit, yeah,” Chace jumps in, grinning, “you should’ve seen Trey run—dude looked like a Emu.”

“I’m fast when motivated,” Trey declares. “And almost dying is very motivating.”

Mac laughs again and it melts me, the way she fits here. With them. With me.

Eventually, the boys settle into the couch, quieter now, half-asleep with beers in hand, the buzz of laughter lingering like music fading out. Mac leans her head back against my shoulder and looks up at me, her eyes sleepy and soft.

“I like this,” she whispers, just for me. “All of it.”

“Yeah?” I ask, brushing my thumb along her thigh.

She nods. “Waking up and hearing your laugh. Seeing you with them. Feeling like... like I’m where I belong.”

My chest aches in the best kind of way. I kiss the top of her head and hold her tighter.

“You are,” I say into her hair. “You always have been.”

My stomach tightens when she freezes in my lap—right as her stomach growls loud enough to shake the damn walls.

Trey raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Jesus, Mac. What kind of pet you got living in there?”

She dissolves into laughter, burying her face into my chest. I chuckle against her hair, inhaling that familiar scent of hers—like citrus and something sweet I can’t name but crave constantly.

“I could eat,” Chace says through a yawn, cracking his knuckles. “What’d we even buy?”

That’s all the encouragement she needs to climb off me. I try not to groan at the loss of her warmth. She’s still wearing my T-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh as she pads barefoot into the kitchen—and damn if that sight doesn’t do something to me.

She opens the pantry and freezes. “Oh my God.”

“What?” I call from the couch.

Another cupboard opens. Then another. Her shocked laugh echoes through the room. “You guys went hard.”

Chairs scrape. Footsteps follow. We all trail in like kids summoned to Christmas.

“Freezer’s full too,” she murmurs, peeking in. “Frozen pizzas, waffles, bags of veggies, tubs of ice cream…”

She spins with a grin. “This isn’t a restock. This is doomsday prepping!”

Sam leans on the counter, arching a brow. “Just so we’re clear—you are not cooking for us.”

Mac mock-glares. “Wasn’t offering.”

“We should cook something,” Chace says, eyeing the fridge like it might give him answers.

Silence stretches between us all. No one moves. I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Fine. I’ll cook.”

Mac lights up, that smile slaying me on the spot. “You will?”

I squint at her. “You wound me.”

“Only slightly.”

I’m already moving, sleeves pushed up, scanning the ingredients. “I’ll make that garlic and chili pasta I used to do at the house.”

Trey lets out a dramatic moan, flopping across a stool. “That one makes me feel things.”

Sam elbows him. “The pasta or Logan?”

“Both.”

I’m plating pasta when I hear Trey’s voice behind me.

“Wait… when the hell did that happen?”

I glance over my shoulder just in time to see all three of them staring at Mac like she’s grown a second head. She pauses mid-step, plate in hand, blinking at them like they’ve lost it.

“What?” she asks, glancing down at herself.

“Your hair,” Sam says, voice quiet but full of something that almost sounds like awe. “You’re blonde.”

Chace takes a slow step forward, his eyes scanning her like he’s seeing a ghost in the best possible way. “Holy shit… It’s been years since you looked like this.”

Trey whistles low, shaking his head. “You look just like her.”

Mac’s smile falters for a second. Just a second. But I catch it—because I’m watching her like I always do. The way her throat bobs. The way her fingers tighten just slightly around the plate.

“She does,” Sam adds, softer now. “Like your mom.”

Chace nods. “And Braden. It’s like… you’re really back.”

The silence that settles isn’t awkward. It’s thick with meaning. Shared memories. Ghosts we all still carry.

Mac clears her throat and shrugs one shoulder, forcing a small smile. “Figured it was time.”

I step in before the mood dips too far, nudging her with my hip as I slide the last plate onto the island. “You’re beautiful, angel. No matter the shade.”

She meets my gaze, that quiet storm in her eyes flickering just long enough to make my chest ache.

And then Trey, bless him, breaks the tension like only he can.

“I mean, if we’re going for nostalgic makeovers, I could frost my tips again.”

Sam groans. “Don’t. I still have nightmares.”

Chace grins, looping an arm around Mac’s shoulder. “Seriously though… it suits you. It really does.”

And just like that, the weight lifts. Laughter stirs again. Plates hit the counter. And my girl—blonde and radiant and entirely herself—stands right in the middle of it all.

Dinner’s nearly done when Trey winces, rubbing his chest.

“Man,” he mutters, glaring at Sam. “You almost ripped out my nipple ring earlier. The girls love that damn thing.”