Page 21 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

T he morning hushes around me like a held breath.

I blink into the light pouring through the window, the sky a soft wash of lavender and gold as the sun fights its way through a bank of clouds.

The room is quiet, but not silent. Downstairs, I catch the hum of the kettle, the faint creak of floorboards, a burst of laughter—Trey, probably.

Beside me, Logan sleeps.

He’s curled on his side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting inches from mine.

His breathing is slow and steady, like a melody I didn’t know I needed until it played in the silence.

His dark hair is a mess, his lashes casting shadows over those electric eyes I know will crack me open the second they find mine.

But right now, I am free from all his yummy distractions.

Carefully, I slip out from beneath the covers, trying not to wake him. The cold air bites at my skin, the warmth from his body tempting me back to bed like a siren call.

I don’t listen.

I take the chill as a dare.

Because today, I feel bolder. Today, I feel capable. I don’t flinch. Even as goosebumps chase across my skin, I hold my ground. I move.

For days I’ve danced around that door like it might swallow me whole. Like Braden’s room was sacred and forbidden all at once.

But grief is strange like that—how it traps you in place and makes the silence feel sacred.

Last night changed something in me.

Logan’s hand in mine, steadying me.

Chace’s teasing, Sam’s stories, Trey’s relentless laughter echoing in my bones long after they left the room.

They reminded me that I’m not doing this alone.

Braden might be gone, but I’m not. And I know my big brother would be pissed if he saw me lingering like this. He didn’t when Mom and Dad died. Or Grams.

It’s just… hard.

But hard is okay.

I move down the hall, each step a quiet declaration: I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.

When I reach his door, I don’t hesitate.

I twist the knob.

I push.

The door opens with a sigh.

And I step into the place that still smells like him.

Pinewood. Cologne.

Some things have changed. He has different posters up; his clothes look a lot less Sunday best and lot more dive bars and denim. But it’s about the same shock I had entering my room.

The bed is unmade, just how he used to leave it. Posters peeling slightly at the corners. An old hoodie tossed over the chair. One of his guitar picks on the floor like it’s been waiting for me to come find it.

A quiet ache pulses through me.

I cross the room and sit on his bed.

The mattress dips, and it’s suddenly so easy to pretend he’s just out with friends, or still at rehearsal, or will walk in and groan at me for touching his stuff.

I press a hand to the comforter, fingers trembling slightly.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

The silence wraps around my words, holding them.

I close my eyes.

Let myself feel everything.

The grief.

The love.

The impossible truth that he’s not coming back.

But also… the strength. The quiet kind. The kind that lives in the space between breaking and rebuilding.

“I’m not scared anymore,” I breathe. “Not of this. Not of remembering you.”

“I think you’d be okay with Logan and I being together,” I add softly, thinking of Logan’s sleeping form, of his unwavering patience, of the way his presence fills the empty parts of me without trying to fix them. “Actually... I think you’d give him Hell just for fun.”

My lips curve. A real smile. “You also know I would kick your ass if you went too far.” It feels strange. Smiling. I falter for a second, but only a second, because this smile doesn’t feel like a betrayal.

My Grief hasn’t disappeared. My love is still here. but instead of sitting heavy with nowhere to go, now I know where it belongs. It reaches out, toward him—towards all of them—like a quiet offering.

Today I walk with it. Not away from it.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is open a door we’ve kept closed—especially when what’s behind it is everything we’ve lost.

I reach for the hoodie on the chair and hold it to my chest, breathing him in.

I turn to leave—

But something holds me still.

A pull. Soft. Invisible. Anchoring me to this space.

My gaze drops to the bedside drawer.

His drawer.

I stare at it, the air thick with the weight of memory. My fingers hover above the metal handle, shaking slightly. Then, with a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I open it.

It’s chaos inside—just like him. Guitar picks scattered between old receipts, a crumpled photo strip from a booth at the fair—us as kids, pulling faces, laughing like life would never touch us.

But behind it all—neat, tucked away, waiting—

A stack of black notebooks.

The sight knocks the air from my lungs.

I reach for them slowly, like I’m touching something private, something he didn’t want the world to see.

The first one opens to lyrics—page after page of them.

His handwriting is messy, alive, etched with energy. Some words are scratched out, others circled, arrows drawn to rearranged verses. It’s him. His rhythm. His voice.

But the third one is different.

There’s no song title. No chords. Just a quiet date at the top.

I pause.

This one’s personal.

A journal.

I hesitate, thumb resting against the edge. A part of me wants to shut it, to respect the boundary. But the ache in my chest—the ache that’s never really dulled—won’t let me.

So, I turn the page.

“ I don’t know how my little sis does it.

How is she smiling so effortlessly? Smiling like she doesn’t feel the ache deep in her bones?

Grams is doing what she can but she’s hurting too…

I caught her crying when she was supposed to be at her cribbage game, she said it’s alright to feel things… but I hate seeing her cry… or Mac. ”

Mac .

Braden always called me that when he wasn’t trying to annoy me.

Now, it’s only the boys who do.

There’s something special to it, it carries weight, like a tether to who I was when he was still here. A kind of quiet belonging.

In the drift of everything I’ve lost, that familiarity grounds me. My throat tightens as I trace the line with my eyes.

“ Mac doesn’t talk about it. Not really.

But I see it—the way she disappears sometimes.

I don’t think she even notices. I hate it.

I hate that I don’t always know how to bring her back when she goes quiet like that.

But I’m not going to give up on her, even if she is doing stupid, destructive shit . ”

The words settle into my bones.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quietly devastating.

I turn another page. And another. His thoughts bleed out between them—about music, about the dreams he was chasing, about missing Mom and Dad. About being scared. About not knowing how to say half the things he felt.

And then my heart jumps in my chest.

“Logan’s good for her. Even if she doesn’t see it yet.”

I still.

The next lines are scribbled like they were written in a hurry.

“ He looks at her like every second is a promise he’s afraid he can’t keep.

Logan’s always been that way—with her, especially. All in, no brakes. He’s the best person I know, and if she ever gave him her heart, he’d love her fiercely, without question, without end. Because that’s just who he is when it comes to Mac.

I only made him promise not to touch her when we were kids because I was her big brother. That’s what big brothers do.

But if anyone ever deserved her—it’s him. ”

A breath catches in my throat.

It’s not pain this time.

It’s something softer.

Something whole.

But as I turn the next page—

I stop.

There are tears in the center. Jagged edges poke out among the seams.

Pages are missing.

Ripped out.

I frown, running my fingers over the unevenness. What was there? Why did he take it out?

Maybe they were just lyrics. Maybe they weren’t meant to be found. Or maybe—maybe he wasn’t ready for someone else to read them.

Still, I tuck the journal into the crook of my arm.

I’ll keep it.

Not just because it’s his.

But because somewhere in those pages—ripped or not—he’s still with me.

The people we lose don’t really leave us—they just become quieter, softer. They live on in pages, in echoes, in the spaces they helped build inside us.

I glance around the room one last time, no longer afraid to be in it.

Then I walk out.

Not empty.

Not broken.

But carrying him forward—

One heartbeat at a time.

The floor creaks as I step into the kitchen.

Sunlight spills through the windows, catching on the worn wooden table and casting long shadows across the floor. The smell of coffee wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

Chace stands by the counter, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, two mugs in hand. His green eyes lift to meet mine, and a slow smile curves his lips.

“Hey, Mac,” he says, offering me one of the mugs. “Sam’s out on a run. Trey’s outside, probably swearing at our manager over the phone.”

I take the mug, my fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic.

“Thanks.”

Chace nods toward the table, and I follow, settling into one of the chairs. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s comfortable—the kind that only comes when people have seen your mess and choose to stay anyway.

I take a sip, letting the heat settle into my chest before I speak.

“I just went into Braden’s room.”

Chace pauses, lowering himself into the chair across from me. His brows lift, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“For the first time since I got home.”

A beat. Two.

“And… I feel good,” I say, surprised by the truth of it. “Lighter, even.”

Chace’s smile softens. “That’s what he’d want, you know.”

I nod, staring down into the swirl of coffee in my cup.

“I think… I’m starting to feel him again. Not just the loss of him. But him.”

Chace leans back in his chair, tapping a rhythm against the wood with his fingers. “He’d be proud of you.”

I don’t say anything.

I just let myself sit in it.

The warmth. The stillness. The sense that—for the first time in a long time—I’m not drowning in the grief.

I’m floating.

The kitchen hums with quiet. The occasional clink of Chace’s spoon against his mug, birdsong drifting through the open window, the low murmur of Trey’s voice outside.

And then I hear bare feet on wood. A familiar rhythm.

Logan.

I don’t even have to look to know it’s him.

He enters the room shirtless, hair tousled from sleep, tattoos catching the morning light like art meant only for me. His eyes find mine instantly—still heavy with sleep, but soft in that way that undoes me.

“Morning, carino,” he murmurs, walking straight to me.

His hand brushes the back of my neck as he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head—gentle, soothing.

“Didn’t even feel you get up,” he says, his voice low and rough with sleep.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

He pulls out the chair beside me and drops into it, arm slung lazily over the back of mine.

It’s then he notices what’s resting on the table in front of me.

Braden’s journal.

He stills, eyes locking on the worn black cover.

I run my thumb over it. “I found it in his drawer.”

Logan says nothing at first. He just watches me, like he’s trying to read the weight in my expression.

“I’ve never read his words like that before,” I whisper. “Not lyrics. Just… thoughts. Feelings. About me. About you. About everything.”

His fingers brush my knee beneath the table. “That’s huge, Mac.”

“I know.” I nod. “But it didn’t feel heavy. Not like I expected it to. It felt… right. I don’t want to read it all at once. I want to drag it out—keep him with me for a little longer.

His voice, his words... they’re all I have left. And I want to cherish them.”

I glance back down at the journal, my brow pulling slightly. “Some of the pages are missing, though. Ripped out.”

Logan leans in a little. “Think he didn’t want anyone to read them?”

“Maybe,” I say quietly.

I close the cover, holding it like something fragile. “But I think… I think he wanted me to have this. I felt guided to his drawer in some way. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

Logan watches me with that look—the one that always makes my chest ache in the best way. The one that says he sees all of me, even the parts I’m still figuring out.

“Of course he would,” he says softly.

The back door swings open, a burst of morning light trailing in behind Trey as he strides into the kitchen with that trademark energy that never seems to sleep.

His grin is wide, phone still in hand, his voice carrying before he’s even halfway across the room.

“Guess who just landed a set at Reverb in the Pines?”

Chace nearly chokes on his coffee. “You’re joking.”

Trey beams. “Nope. Phil pulled some strings. Just one slot—but it’s ours. We’re on the lineup, baby!”

He tosses his phone onto the counter like a mic drop and spreads his arms wide. “Come on, show me some love!”

Chace whoops and slaps his hand. I let out a small gasp, a smile breaking over my face before I can stop it.

“Wait— Reverb in the Pines? As in Montreal, I know you all were excited and wanted to go, to take me, but to perform?” I ask, heart fluttering with excitement.

“Yass, baby girl, and you will of course have the best seat in the house while we perform, so long as you are willing to wear a T-shirt or baseball cap flaunting out merch or your undying love of us.” Trey says, proud as hell.

“And there’s more. Phil also wants to talk to you, Logan—something about a charity event.

Says it’s local, tied to the disability Centre you and Braden worked with last year. ”

I glance at Logan, ready to echo my excitement—but his expression is less thrilled.

He groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great. I just wanted to attend the damn festival with you guys. Maybe actually enjoy the music for once instead of running around backstage.”

I nudge his arm, barely holding back a laugh. “Oh, come on. This is even better.”

He arches a brow. “Better than being in the crowd with you, hands in the air, making fun of every band before us?”

I grin. “Way better. Because now I get to watch you perform. I get to be in the crowd, screaming your name. Full fangirl mode.”

Chace snorts. “You gonna wear our merch and be our number one groupie?”

“I might.” I smirk.

Trey leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching us with a half-smile. “You sure you’re up for it?”

I nod without hesitation. “Yeah. I feel… good today. Braden would’ve wanted me to be there. To live again. And this—this is living.”