Page 24 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

T he guys leave in a blur of noise and laughter—Chace calling Trey a pussy, Sam egging them on with that deep belly laugh of his, and Trey swearing he’s going to make them all get a matching cock ring until Logan slams the door shut behind them with a smirk.

“You reckon Trey will get it done?” I ask, still laughing as I wipe flour from my hands.

Logan grins, strolling over with the slow, deliberate gait that always makes my breath catch. “Trey’s too proud. He’ll go through with it.” He slips behind me at the counter, close enough that I can feel the heat of his chest against my back. “Besides, he lost fair and square.”

His hands settle on my hips. I try to stay focused on wiping the counter, but his fingers trace lazy circles under my shirt, and my brain turns to syrup.

“How is it even possible,” I murmur, “that you’re this hot while surrounded by flour and cookie dough?”

Logan laughs low against my ear. “It’s a gift.”

God, it is.

The man is carved from dreams—broad chest inked with stories I haven’t even heard yet, golden-brown skin stretched tight over lean muscle, the sharp dip of his V-line disappearing beneath those low-slung joggers.

His black hair’s a mess from his shower, his electric-blue eyes still heavy-lidded from the way we tangled up on the sofa not an hour ago.

And he’s mine.

I glance at him sideways, heart skipping like a damn stone on a lake.

Will this feeling ever fade?

Looking at him now, the answer is a quiet, certain no.

He reaches over and flicks a bit of dough at me. It lands just below my collarbone.

“Logan!” I gasp, laughing as I swipe at it.

He grins and leans in, licking the spot clean. “Waste not, baby.”

My knees go weak. “We are literally supposed to be cleaning up.”

“We are,” he says, voice low. “You’re just too distracting.”

We move around the kitchen in sync—bumping hips, trading smirks, sneaking kisses between stacking bowls and wiping counters. A song hums softly from the old radio in the corner—something acoustic and romantic, the kind that makes you want to slow dance barefoot on a porch somewhere.

Outside, a soft breeze pushes against the windows, carrying the rustle of the trees with it. The world feels still, quiet, like it’s holding its breath just for us.

The scent of cocoa and vanilla still lingers in the kitchen air, warm and comforting, like something pulled from childhood dreams. I take the cake out from where I tucked it behind the mixing bowls, brushing a bit of flour from the tea towel I used to cover it.

“Okay,” I say, a little breathless with nerves. “Close your eyes.”

Logan lifts an eyebrow, already grinning. “Am I about to get tackled or seduced?”

“Neither. Just shut up and close them.”

He obeys with a smirk, arms folded across that unfairly sculpted chest, tattoos flexing, messy black hair falling into his eyes. God help me.

I place the cake in front of him on the counter and whisper, “Now open.”

His eyes flicker open—and soften instantly. “Angel…”

It’s a heart-shaped brownie cake, the edges perfectly crisp, the center rich and fudgy. I used my nan’s old recipe, but added my own twist—dark chocolate chips, a pinch of cinnamon, a splash of espresso to deepen the flavor, and a swirl of melted caramel across the top, glittered with sea salt.

He stares at it for a long moment, then back at me, expression unreadable.

“I know it’s kind of cheesy,” I ramble. “But I wanted to make something for you. It’s my Gram’s recipe, but I tweaked it, made it ours, I guess.”

Logan doesn’t say a word.

He steps forward, lifts me effortlessly by the hips, and sets me on the counter like I weigh nothing. His hands stay on my waist, eyes locked with mine, heat simmering behind them.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion.

“Maybe not,” I tease, breathless. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

He kisses me like I’m air and he’s been holding his breath—slow, deep, reverent. The kind of kiss that says thank you, I love you, and don’t ever leave me all at once.

When he finally pulls back, he grabs the fork resting beside the plate and tears a bite from the cake.

“For you,” he says, offering it.

I laugh, cheeks hot. “No way. You first. I made it for you.”

I take the fork from him and hold it up to his lips, my fingers brushing his jaw. He doesn’t break eye contact as he leans forward, lips wrapping around the bite of warm brownie—fudgy and still melting at the center.

His groan is low and downright sinful.

“Holy Hell,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. “I think I just saw God.”

Heat blooms in my chest—and lower.

I laugh softly, brushing a crumb from the corner of his mouth, fingers trailing through his dark hair. “Too much?”

His eyes flick open, smoldering. “Not even close.”

The tension crackles between us like the snap of caramel as he sets the fork down and cups the side of my neck. His thumb strokes the skin just below my jaw, slow and possessive.

“You made me that cake,” he says, voice rough, “and I’m trying to be good, baby. But you’re sitting there with flour on your cheek, wide eyed, heart racing.”

My breath catches.

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

“You wreck me, Mackayla Smith. In the best way. Like lyrics I never knew I needed—every part of you fits the spaces I didn’t know were empty.”

A shiver ripples through me, knees tightening around his hips.

“Falling in love with you isn’t something I chose, baby,” he whispers, lips grazing mine. “It’s something my heart was already doing before I even knew what love was.”

And just like that, I melt into him. Into his kiss, his touch, the way he makes me feel like I’ve always belonged here—in his arms, on his lips, in his forever.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, my body instinctively molding to his.

His scent wraps around me—soap and sugar, and something purely him.

I bury my face in the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen, like I need him to live.

His hands grip my hips, holding me steady, like he knows I’m slipping—falling harder with every heartbeat.

I close my eyes, letting the world fade until there’s only him. The warmth of his chest. The beat of his heart. The quiet in my mind when he’s near.

I pause, pressing a palm to my forehead.

Logan notices immediately. “Hey,” he says, putting space between us. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m just a little tired. Might go lie down for a bit.”

He studies me with those stormy blue eyes, then nods. “Alright. Let’s go.”

I blink. “You don’t have to—”

He cuts me off with a look. “I’m not letting you go to bed alone when you’re clearly not feeling right.”

Warmth spreads through my chest as he takes my hand and leads me upstairs, our fingers laced tight. There’s no hesitation in him, no question. Just care.

When we reach my room, I sink onto the edge of the bed, lifting my hair away from my neck with a sigh.

“Headache?” Logan asks gently.

“Yeah. Creeping up on me out of nowhere.”

He steps behind me without a word and slides his fingers into my hair, undoing the tie with ease. My curls spill down, and he begins to massage my scalp with firm, soothing strokes. I exhale, melting under his touch.

“You’ve got magic hands,” I murmur.

His lips brush the shell of my ear. “Only for you.”

The ache begins to dull under the rhythm of his fingers, and soon I feel him shift around to lie beside me. He tugs me gently into his arms, curling me into his chest.

I rest my head over his heart, listening to the steady beat beneath my cheek.

This right here—

This is peace.

This is love.

I wake slowly, blinking against the late afternoon light spilling through the curtains. My headache’s gone—replaced by a lingering warmth and the faint smell of chocolate and coffee in the air.

Logan.

I sit up, stretching, my fingers brushing the soft indent in the pillow beside me where he must’ve laid with me for a while. My chest tightens in that aching, swoony way it always does when I think about how gentle he is—how deeply he loves.

I pad downstairs, the old floorboards creaking beneath my feet.

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft scratch of pen on paper.

Logan’s hunched over the table, shirtless, tattoos on full display, a cup of coffee steaming beside him.

His dark hair is mussed, and there’s a smudge of ink on his knuckle.

He glances up and smiles that grin—that slow, sinful one that melts every bone in my body.

“Hey, baby,” he says, setting the pen down. “How’s your head?”

“Better,” I murmur, crossing the room to lean on the back of his chair. “Completely fine now.”

“Good,” he says, brushing his fingers along my arm. “You scared me for a minute.”

“What’re you working on?”

He turns slightly, the grin widening. “Music.” Then, softer, more intimate: “You.”

I arch a brow, and he laughs under his breath, reaching for my hand and kissing my knuckles.

“You’re my muse, Mac,” he says. “Even when you’re asleep, you’re in my head, rewriting every song I’ve ever started.”

My heart stutters. God, how does he say things like that?

He checks his watch, groaning. “Shit, I’ve gotta head to rehearsal. They called everyone in—Trey, Chace, Sam, the whole crew. I just… I wasn’t leaving till I knew you were okay. Didn’t wanna wake you.”

I smile, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You sure?” he asks, searching my face for any hint of discomfort.

“Positive. I think I’ll stay here and read more of Braden’s journal.”

He nods, standing and pulling me into his arms for a quick kiss—soft, lingering, like a promise.

“Text me if you need anything,” he murmurs against my lips. “Anything at all.”

“I will,” I whisper.

And I mean it.

Once the door clicks shut behind him, the house settles into a soft stillness—the kind that feels lived in, not lonely.

I drift into the kitchen, still warm with the scent of earlier. A few crumbs from the brownie cake remain on the counter, and I smile, heart full as I reach for the kettle.