Page 3 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

M ac clings to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling beneath her.

Her fingers fist my shirt—desperate—as if letting go might make me vanish too.

Her face is soaked with tears, her whole body trembling so violently I feel it in my bones.

And it guts me. Watching her fall apart all over again.

I was there the first time—the night Braden died. The night her world cracked open and swallowed her whole. Her parents. Her Grams. And now this.

Again .

Like someone hit rewind on her pain, only this time, she woke up in a world that moved on without her.

And I’m helpless against the wreckage. Back then, I never questioned what to do.

There wasn’t time for second guessing—only action.

Be there. Be present. Keep her breathing.

Make sure she ate, drank, slept… or at least pretended to.

And now?

Now I hold her like she’s made of glass.

Not just any glass—she’s a Prince Rupert’s drop.

A molten tear of fire and fragility. The head is strong, forged in pressure and pain, nearly unbreakable.

You can strike it with a hammer, and it’ll dent the steel instead.

But the tail? Snap that, and the whole thing shatters—explodes in a thousand shards you’ll never put back together.

That’s what holding her feels like.

My angel.

My warrior.

Strong enough to take on the world…but right now, I’m terrified she’s barely holding on.

I pull her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other locked around her waist, as if I can hold all her broken pieces in place with nothing but my grip.

I don’t say a word. There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t feel hollow in a moment like this. So, I stay. I hold her through the storm—through every shattered sob and broken whisper of his name. Through the gut-wrenching silence that follows when the tears run dry, but the grief still screams.

Time folds in on itself. Hours pass. I don’t move. I don’t let go. I don’t leave. Because I did once. I had to. The tour, the band, life pulling me away before either of us was ready. Not again. This time I'mma stay.

I hold her as she drowns in the weight of it all—Braden, the lost years, the cruel trick her mind has played on her—and I anchor her to the now.

To me. Her breath hitches, then slows. Her grip on my shirt loosens, but I keep mine tight.

Her body tenses, like she’s just realized how close we are, or maybe how there’s no space between us at all.

Slowly, she pulls back—just enough to tip her chin up and look at me.

And those eyes—God, those eyes—red-rimmed and hollow, but still beautiful. Like dawn rising over the wreckage of a storm.

Her breath quivers on the way out, and I brace myself.

I let her go gently, reluctantly pushing to my feet and stepping back from the bed. My hands curl into fists at my sides to stop myself from reaching for her again. Her gaze follows me, studying my face like she’s trying to make sense of a puzzle she doesn’t remember starting.

The door clicks open behind me.

June steps in—a familiar nurse to me, but a stranger to Mac. Her smile is warm, knowing.

“Well, it’s good to see you sitting up, Mackayla,” she says gently, clipboard in hand. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Any pressure in your head?”

Mac blinks, pulling her attention away from me. “Um…it’s okay, I guess.”

“Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“A little.”

“That’s to be expected. Obs are looking good, though.” June’s smile flicks toward me. “Maybe your boyfriend here can spoil you with some cozy PJs—get you out of our scratchy hospital wear, hm? Just a thought for later.”

Mac stills.

Completely.

Her mouth parts slightly. “Boyfriend?”

The word is soft, broken, fragile.

And when she looks at me—really looks at me—something inside my chest fractures. Her eyes are wide, confused, searching mine like she’s seeing a stranger in someone else’s skin. Like everything she thought she knew about me just tilted sideways.

I brace for it. For the crack that comes before the fall.

My breath sticks in my throat, sharp and impossible to swallow.

She doesn’t remember.

Not us. Not what we were. Not what we are.

She remembers the friendship—Braden’s best friend, the boy who hovered at her side, her shadow, her protector. But not the shift. Not the slow, beautiful slide from comfort into something deeper. Something wild. Something real.

Gone.

I try to hold her gaze, to keep myself steady, but the ache inside me swells like a storm surge. Was it fear? Maybe. Rejection? Probably. But more than anything—it’s grief. For what we had. For the part of her that used to look at me like I was her world.

The part that remembered my hands on her skin. My mouth on hers. The way she used to whisper my name like a prayer and a promise.

Now, she just stares, lost.

I swallow hard. My jaw ticks as I shove it all down—stuff the hurt into the deepest place inside me and slam the door shut.

Be her anchor. Not the storm.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. Even that one word feels jagged in my throat. “That’s me.”

Her brows knit together. Her hand lifts, fingers brushing the bandage at her temple like the answers are buried beneath it. My heart twists as I watch her struggle to find me in a mind that no longer knows how.

June doesn’t catch it. She hums and taps at her chart, still all sunshine and blissfully unaware that she just turned our whole world on its head with one casual comment.

And God help me—I want to hate her. Just a little.

Jesus, June. Do you enjoy emotionally gutting people before breakfast?

But I keep my shit together. For Mac.

Because she doesn’t need the past right now. She needs the present. She needs something steady.

She needs me.

So, I stay still. Stay quiet.

And I wait.

Because if it takes a hundred days… a thousand quiet reassurances… I’ll give them.

I’ll wait for her to find her way back to me.

Even if it means pretending we’re just friends again.

Even if it shreds me to pieces.

The space between us crackles—heavy with words unspoken. She’s looking at me again, searching, like she’ll find the truth written on my face.

And maybe…maybe she does.

Because right now, she might not remember loving me.

But she remembers wanting me.

June, the chaos gremlin in scrubs, clears her throat, slicing through the moment. “I’ll be back soon with the doctor. He’ll want to check in during rounds.”

Then she’s gone, and the door clicks shut behind her.

Mac exhales shakily, fingers curling into the edge of the hospital blanket. I watch her for a beat, then speak before I overthink it.

“Do you want anything?” I ask, gentler this time. “I can pick something up for you—anything. PJs? Something soft?”

She hesitates. Her teeth catch her bottom lip. Then, almost too quiet to hear, she whispers, “Tell me about Braden.”

Dios mío…

Where do I even start?

“My memories…they’re fragmented,” she says, voice rough with frustration. “Just out of reach. Every time I try to grab one, they slip away. And the harder I try, the more my head pounds.” Her fingers press to her temple. “I can’t even picture my mom’s smile.”

Her eyes lift to mine, wide and aching. “It’s like I’ve woken up in a different reality, and I don’t know who I am…or where I’m supposed to be.”

Then, softer, almost ashamed: “But your voice…” She exhales. “It’s familiar. Deeper than I remember. But grounding. Soothing.”

I shove my hands into my pockets to keep her from seeing them shake.

“You want me to tell you about Braden?” I ask, voice thick.

She nods. “Please.”

So, I take a breath. I gather up every memory I have of her twin brother—the boy who was my best friend, her other half. The boy we both loved and lost.

And because she asked—because I’ll do anything for her—

I begin.

“Braden loved his guitar,” I start, my voice quiet—drawn from a place inside me that still stings. “Loved cars, too. Especially that Dodge Charger we built together from scratch. He worshipped that thing. And of course…” I pause, catching her gaze. “He loved you most of all.”

Mac’s lips twitch into a shadow of a smile, but it falters at the corners, fragile as glass. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, storm clouds building just beneath the surface.

I exhale slowly, like I can ease the ache from my chest. “We cycled through a few band names, played with a bunch of different lineups. Braden and I both played guitar—some school friends joined for a while, but it didn’t stick. Too much drama. Too many egos. You know how it goes.”

She nods faintly, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket like it’s her lifeline.

“But then we found them—the ones who fit. Chace. Sam. Trey. We weren’t polished. Hell, we weren’t even that good yet. But something clicked.” I smile, the memory warming something cold in me. “And Braden… he named us. Burnt Ashes.”

Her head tilts. “Sounds dramatic.”

I chuckle softly. “We were seventeen and thought we were poets. Braden liked the imagery—rising from ruin. Destruction into rebirth. It meant something to him. Still does to me.”

She’s watching me like I’m an anchor she doesn’t know how to hold onto, her eyes searching mine, desperate for something to grasp. Something to remember.

“One night, just after Christmas, everything changed. Big show. Right crowd. Right scout. We were kids with dreams and suddenly, it wasn’t just a dream anymore. With Phil—our pit bull of a manager—we held on. Even after…”

I stop.

Even after he was gone.

My jaw clenches. I don’t say it. I won’t drag her through that moment just yet.

Instead, I look at her—really look—and say, “We made it, Mac. He made it. Braden had this vision, and he dragged the rest of us—Sam, Chace, Trey and me—right along for the ride.”

Mac sits up a little straighter, wiping beneath her eyes with the back of her hand. The war inside her plays across her face—grief and awe colliding with the agony of forgetting.