Page 2 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)
Kayla
B eep... Beep... Beep...
It’s the first thing I notice.
A steady pulse, slicing through the fog, threading itself into a dream I don’t want to leave.
I’m at the checkout. Mom’s coaching the bag boy like the fate of the world depends on where the eggs go, while Dad sneaks a candy bar past her eagle eyes.
Braden elbows me, smirking, as we try to slide a few packs of gum onto the belt.
She catches us, of course—but instead of scolding, Dad claims the gum as his own. His favorite.
Mom rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
We know she knows.
We let Dad think he’s won.
It’s the unspoken deal: our tax is one stick each.
We laugh.
It’s easy. Sweet.
Home.
Then the dream vanishes.
Gone like smoke. Like it was never mine to keep.
Pain crashes into me.
Hot. Vicious. Unrelenting.
It blooms under my skin, wrong and everywhere. My joints scream like they’ve been pulled apart and reassembled by fire. My limbs throb with exhaustion, as if I’ve run for miles and hit the end of the world at full speed.
The beeping quickens, matching the wild thrum of panic rising in my chest.
The sun from my dream is gone—replaced by a sterile white haze. Not warmth. Not light. Just… nothing. Cold. Clinical.
Something is wrong.
My throat is raw, shredded. Like I’ve been screaming. My lips are cracked. My body doesn’t feel like mine.
I feel broken.
Panic slinks into my bones.
How many times have I woken up like this?
What’s real?
This place smells like bleach and loneliness. Like grief that settled into the walls and never left. I try to breathe, but it hurts. Even the air feels borrowed.
Braden. I saw him. I was just with him, wasn’t I? His voice lingers in my ears, soft and mischievous. Mac, not Kayla. Never Kayla. Just Mac.
He was just here. But…no. That can’t be right. The edges of the memory fray. Zellers? No…Target. Maybe both. It slips away like water through my fingers.
I try to move. To sit up. To get out. Something pulls me back—wires, tape, tubes. A monitor squeals.
What’s real?
I flail. Pain explodes behind my ribs. I cry out, a raw, fractured sound that barely escapes. My skin sticks to the sheets, and I want to crawl out of it—out of this body, this room, this nightmare.
I need a shower. I need to breathe. I need to go back to—
To where?
My eyes flutter open. It takes effort, like my lashes weigh a thousand pounds. White walls. Blistering lights. Machines blinking beside my bed. That endless beeping. I’m in a hospital.
The word slams into my chest like a freight train. My ribs ache with every breath. My skull pulses in time with my heart. Something clips my finger. An IV pulls at my arm. I am not in control of my own body. And that terrifies me more than anything.
What happened to me? The dream—the checkout, the gum, the laughter—was a lie. A trick of a mind trying to protect itself. Something darker stirs underneath.
Screaming. Fighting. Hands.
A man—not a man. A doctor who wasn’t a doctor.
Did I dream him too?
What’s real?
My pulse spikes. My skin is damp.
Braden.
I need to find him. I need to tell him I’m here. I need to hear his voice. Feel his hand in mine.
A creak. The door. Footsteps.
I drag my eyes open again. It hurts. Everything hurts.
But then— he walks in.
Tall.
Messy black hair.
Tattoos spill over strong arms.
A vending machine coffee in one hand, a phone in the other.
LOVE and HATE inked across his knuckles.
A dark, sharp rose blooming on the back of his hand.
And his eyes—God, his eyes.
Electric blue. Familiar. Devastating.
He sees me. And everything in him stills.
His body freezes like he’s seen a ghost.
Like I’m the ghost.
But I don’t know him. And yet…I feel like I should.
He’s familiar in the way dreams are. Like a song I almost remember. A name on the tip of my tongue.
My throat burns. But I manage one question.
“Who are you?” He stops breathing. His expression cracks open. And I swear—I feel it inside me.
“It’s me,” he says softly. Like it hurts to say it. “Logan.” The name detonates inside my chest. A spark. A jolt. A wildfire.
Logan.
The boy who used to throw pebbles at my window. The boy who knew all my secrets. The boy who picked me daisies and swore we’d be best friends forever.
I know that name. I know him. But the man standing in front of me isn’t that boy.
He’s older now—sharper around the edges. Inked and broad-shouldered. Shadows live behind his eyes. He isn’t the boy from the porch swing. He’s a man I don’t quite recognize.
“Logan?” I whisper.
He nods, once. Swallows hard. “You’ve been in an accident,” he says, voice thick. “I’m going to get a doctor. I’ll be right back.” He turns to leave— But something in me screams no.
Because if he’s here—
If this is real—
“Is Braden…” The words catch in my throat. “…is Braden gone?”
He stops. His hand grips the doorframe. He doesn’t answer right away.
And that silence? It shreds me. He turns back, slow and heavy.
His face is carved in grief. His shoulders slump under a weight he’s carried too long.
He steps forward. Not rushing. Careful. Controlled.
Like I might break. Like he already has.
He kneels beside my bed. Reaches for my hand.
Fingers brushing mine before curling around them.
His touch is warm. Steady. Real. His thumb moves gently over my skin.
Reverent. Anchoring. And I know—before he says it.
I know .
Braden is gone.
His blue eyes meet mine. Shattered and shining.
“Yes,” he breathes. And the word… it isn’t just confirmation. It’s a heartbreak . A confession . An unraveling .
The sob tears out of me—raw and ripping. It’s been waiting. Trapped beneath my ribs.
“Braden…” I choke. “He—?” Logan flinches. His breath shudders.
And for a second, I swear he’s breaking too. “He died,” he says. “In a car accident. Six months ago.”
Six months.
The words hang in the air like smoke. They don’t settle. They sting.
My world tilts—not with a crash, but a slow, suffocating slide. Like falling. Not through space. Through time I can’t remember. Braden is gone. And I didn’t get to say goodbye. Didn’t even know I’d lost him. Tears fall—hot and silent. I don’t wipe them away.
Because the pain feels real now.