Page 30 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

T he scent of coffee and sugar pulls me from sleep, and for a moment, I don’t move.

I’m wrapped in warmth—Logan’s hoodie cocooned around me, the sun spilling golden light across the bed.

I stretch, muscles deliciously sore in all the right places, a smile tugging at my lips as last night’s memories bloom behind my eyes like fireworks.

Laughter echoes down the hall—deep voices mingling with lighter, giggly ones. Female.

I push off the covers, barefoot, tugging Logan’s hoodie lower over my thighs as I pad toward the kitchen.

Rounding the corner, I pause.

The villa’s kitchen is alive. Plates of food cover the counters—golden waffles stacked high, vibrant trays of fruit, pastries dusted with powdered sugar. Bottles of juice and sparkling water glisten in the morning light.

And then there are the two young women—servers, I guess—flitting around the kitchen, setting out trays and batting lashes, both focused on Logan.

He’s shirtless.

Hair damp from a shower, a towel casually slung over his broad shoulders, grey joggers hanging low on his hips like pure temptation. He leans back on the sofa, smirking at something one of the girls says, but his eyes aren’t really on them.

Not yet.

I clear my throat softly.

Logan’s gaze snaps to me. His smirk deepens, and he stands, towel slipping slightly as he moves toward me.

“Morning, baby,” he says, voice low and warm.

Before I can answer, one of the girls, still unpacking trays of food, laughs nervously. “So, is she, like… your girlfriend?”

Logan glances at her briefly, then back to me without hesitation. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing over my jaw.

“She’s everything,” he says simply.

My heart tightens.

His lips brush the shell of my ear. “And next time I see you standing there in my hoodie, looking like that…” His breath hitches. “Kissing won’t be enough.”

I’m still trying to catch my breath when he pulls me closer, his lips finding mine in a slow, deep kiss—a promise wrapped in heat.

The girls finish arranging breakfast in awkward silence, cheeks flushed as they mumble goodbyes and slip out.

Trey whistles low. “Damn, Logan. You kiss Mac like we’re not all standing right here.”

Logan just grins, casual and unapologetic, grabbing a croissant like he didn’t just turn my legs to jelly.

I snag a croissant and sit down at the long table, eyeing the trays stacked with waffles, eggs, fruit, and what looks like a whole forest’s worth of pastries.

Chace’s already mid-bite into a waffle dripping with syrup, and Sam is alternating between chugging orange juice and stealing strawberries from Trey’s plate.

The villa is buzzing—low music playing from someone’s phone, the coffee machine whirring, trays of food clattering as Sam rifles through them like he’s been starved for days.

The smell of syrup, bacon, and fresh waffles wraps around me like a hug, and I settle into the barstool with a grin already pulling at my lips.

I glance across the table, eyes landing on Trey mid-sip of his coffee.

“So,” I say casually, too sweet to be innocent, “how’s your dick?”

Chace chokes so violently juice sprays out of his nose, Sam starts coughing, and Logan nearly dies on his croissant.

Trey? He doesn’t flinch. Just smirks and sets his mug down. “Still attached. Still magnificent.”

“Yeah, but is it... bedazzled?” I press, chin in my hand. “You went for the full piercing experience, right? Please tell me it’s something pink and glittery.”

Sam wheezes. “Glittery?!”

Trey leans in, grinning wickedly. “Picture a tiny disco ball. Maybe I’ll add a sparkly little ‘K’ charm… For kinky.”

Chace groans like he’s in pain. “You people need help.”

Logan slides into the seat beside me like it’s his throne, damp hair curling at the ends, towel hanging around his neck, grey joggers slung low in a way that should be illegal. He nabs a waffle and leans back, eyes glinting with lazy heat.

“You want me to get one, baby?” he asks, voice smooth. “Just know—if I do, you’re the one worshipping me on your knees.”

I arch a brow, lips curving around a bite of croissant. “Depends. Will it be glittery and personalized?”

He grins. “Gold. Classy.”

Trey laughs. “Your dick is not classy, man.”

Logan shrugs, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “It has standards.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter through a laugh, hiding behind my coffee mug. “How is this my life?”

“Because you love it,” Logan murmurs near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “You love me. And you especially love my—”

“Okay!” Chace says loudly, fork raised like a warning. “New rule. No dick talk until I’ve at least eaten my damn breakfast.”

Sam nods solemnly. “Seconded.”

Logan chuckles and drapes an arm over the back of my chair, fingers brushing my neck in slow, lazy strokes that make it hard to think about anything else.

I peek up at him, still grinning. “You’d actually get your dick pierced for me?”

He leans in with a wink. “Baby, I’d walk through Hell for you. And if it meant making you laugh like that again? I’d bedazzle the damn thing myself.”

Trey raises his mug. “To bedazzled bellends.”

Chace groans. “Fucking festivals make everyone weird.”

“Not everyone.” Sam objects.

I shift in my seat, resting my chin in my hand as the conversation drifts. “Oh—Trey,” I say suddenly, glancing up at him. “I meant to tell you. When Logan and I were out last night, I saw that bakery you love on 8th—they have a stall here. And your favorite—red velvet brownies.”

Trey lifts his mug, pausing mid-sip.

“But… we kinda got distracted.” I shoot a sheepish smile toward Logan, who arches a brow, clearly amused. “And then I didn’t see them on the way back, or I would’ve grabbed some for you. Sorry. I know how much you love them. I’ll try again today, promise.”

The room stills.

Trey lowers his coffee slowly, his throat working as he swallows. His eyes stay locked on mine, a quiet storm swirling behind them.

“Really, yeah,” he says softly, setting his mug down with care. “Thanks, baby girl.”

I shrug, leaning into Logan’s chest, his arm curling instinctively around my shoulders. “No worries.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Barely a beat. But I feel it—the shift in the air.

Then Trey says, low and careful, “Hey, baby girl…”

“Yeah?”

“When’s my birthday?”

I blink at him. “What? You want me to order you a cake?”

He doesn’t answer—just stares.

I laugh lightly, nudging my foot against his under the table. “Pretty sure you’d eat it before the candles were lit, Cupid’s Angel.”

The boys gasp, a collective inhale like the moment right before a storm hits.

Trey’s stool screeches against the tile as he shoves it back and launches around the table. Logan barely has time to react before Trey’s pulling me straight out of his arms and into his own, spinning me in a dizzy, heart-lurching circle.

“Fuck, Mac!”

He stops, breath ragged as he sets me on my feet and cups my face. A single tear slides down his cheek, and I swear my heart twists in my chest.

“Trey?” I whisper, my hands clutching his wrists. “Wha—?”

“You remember,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “You remember me.”

His forehead presses to mine. “No one calls me that, only you.”

Logan doesn’t move at first.

None of them do.

It’s like time pauses—just for a second—as Trey holds me like I’m made of something holy, and the weight of what I just said settles on the room like morning mist.

“I…” I falter, my voice small against his chest. “I don’t know what I remember, not really. It’s all pieces. Bits of things that feel like dreams.” I glance up at him, then over Trey’s shoulder to where Logan is still watching us.

But there’s no jealousy. No resentment. Just… awe.

His mouth lifts in a soft, stunned smile.

“She called you Cupid’s Angel,” Logan says, like he can’t quite believe it.

“I didn’t even think about it,” I whisper. “It just came out.”

Trey lets out a shaky breath, brushing his thumbs under my eyes. “It used to drive me crazy when you called me that,” he mutters, laughing through the tears. “I fucking hated it.”

I laugh too, watery and raw. “I know.”

“Shit,” Chace says, clearing his throat and blinking fast. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

“You are 100% crying,” Sam fires back, voice thick. “I can see it from here.”

“You guys,” I say, my heart squeezing so tight I don’t know what to do with it. “I don’t know how much is back. I don’t even know if it’ll ever all come back.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Logan says, stepping forward now. His hand finds mine, warm and steady as he threads our fingers together. “Whatever pieces you find—we’ll hold them with you.”

Trey’s hand still rests on my shoulder, but it’s Logan’s touch that grounds me. The way he looks at me like I’ve already come home—even if I don’t know the whole path yet.

“She’s back,” Trey says softly, looking at them. “Maybe not all the way, but... she’s here.”

“Damn right she is,” Sam grins, raising his coffee like a toast. “Mac attack, back in the house.”

Laughter ripples through the room, unsteady and emotional, but real. I blink against the tears in my eyes and lean into Logan, his lips brushing my hair with a kiss.

Am I back?

Not all the way, sure… and maybe that’s for the best, because I am liking this me.

The cold hits me the second we step out of the black SUV and into the crisp, electric buzz of Montreal in October.

I suck in a breath, hugging my coat tighter around me as the wind whips strands of hair across my face. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet cinnamon pretzels rides the air, mingling with the sharp tang of smoke machines and the distant thump of bass from the main stage.

Festival grounds sprawl before us—an ocean of bodies moving in every direction. Lights flash from massive digital banners, LED panels scroll through set times and sponsors, and somewhere in the distance, someone screams when they spot the boys.

And I get it.

Even standing next to them, I get it.