Page 32 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

W e’re huddled on a bench near the food trucks, the kind of spot that’s supposed to be low-key. But nothing’s really low-key when your face is on the lineup posters and half the crowd knows your name.

Doesn’t bother me. Not when I’ve got her beside me.

Mac’s curled into one of my hoodies under her coat, fingers wrapped around a hot chocolate, legs tucked beneath her like she owns the damn bench. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and every time she laughs, I feel it like a goddamn earthquake under my ribs.

People start noticing. They creep up in twos and threes—phones out, eyes wide, asking for selfies, signatures, shaky videos. It’s routine now.

One girl leans in, her phone raised, her hand hovering near my shoulder. “Can I kiss your cheek?” she asks, eyes hopeful.

Before I can glance at Mac, I smirk. “You’d better get permission from my girlfriend first.”

Mac doesn't miss a beat. She raises her brow and grins over the rim of her cup. “Depends. Do I get to pick which cheek?”

The girl bursts into laughter—pink in the cheek now—and so do the rest of them. I laugh too, pulling Mac in and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. God, I love her. Her mouth. Her confidence. Her total lack of jealousy. She knows she’s mine. Knows I’m hers.

And I don’t give a damn who sees it.

When the fans finally scatter, Trey lets out a low whistle. “You two are dangerous.”

“Power couple energy,” Chace mutters, reaching for another fry.

Sam just grunts and says, “Someone remind me why I agreed to public spaces again?”

My hand stays on Mac’s thigh, my thumb slipping just under the hem of her hoodie to stroke the bare skin at her hip. It grounds me—touching her. Always has.

She steals a fry off my plate. I let her. Always do.

Then I lean in voice low, “Hey, angel. Got a question for you.”

She looks up at me with those too-big eyes and a wicked smirk. “Oh? Are we picking colors for your dick piercing? I vote pink. Maybe the same shade as my nails?”

She holds up her hand, showing off her bubblegum pink tips.

The boys groan like they’re in actual pain.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters.

Trey’s full-on gags. “He said gold earlier. Honestly, woman gets in a little car accident, loses her memories, and forgets the important things.”

Chace nearly chokes on his soda. My girls laughing so hard now, it turns into that snort-laugh she does sometimes—the one that makes me think she’s some dirty old man trapped in a goddess’s body.

Good thing, too. Because if she so much as frowned, I’d be removing every one of Trey’s piercings with rusty pliers.

“You Bitch, I forgot that.” She says, still cackling.

I just laugh.

Because she’s perfect. Wild. Unfiltered. Mine.

I lean in again, my lips brushing her ear. “It’s a bigger question than that,” I murmur, voice low and serious. Not giving her the truth. Not yet.

She shivers.

She doesn’t know that the real questions tucked away in the side pocket of my guitar case. Waiting. Burning a hole through my soul every time I look at her like this.

And I always look at her like this.

Some people fall in love slow. But me? I crashed. Headfirst. No brakes. No doubts. Just her.

Mac leans her head on my shoulder, fingers slipping between mine. “Well, whenever you’re ready, Rockstar, we can find something that will look good in bubblegum pink…” she says with a smirk, “I’ll have my color wheel prepped.”

Trey snorts. “If that ain’t her new bedroom name by the end of Reverb—”

Sam cuffs him around the head.

“It’s gonna be yours if you don’t shut it, Baker.”

“Meh. Been nicknamed worse.”

We all laugh. Mac leans in and kisses my jaw. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear and press a kiss to her forehead.

And I swear to God, I’ve never been happier.

The sky’s that kind of moody October grey that makes the stage lights blaze brighter, sharper against the clouds. People are already crowding closer as we head toward the set, the buzz of anticipation humming through the air like static before a storm.

But for a second, it’s just us.

Mac slips her hand into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I pull her in close so her side’s pressed against me. The noise fades. The chaos quiets. Her scent—vanilla and something deeper, like warm sugar and fire—wraps around me, and I swear I could drown in it.

“Cold?” I murmur, tugging my hoodie sleeve down to cover her fingers.

She shakes her head, smiling softly. “Nope. You’re a pretty decent space heater.”

I kiss the top of her head. “Guess I’m good for something.”

She looks up at me with a raised brow. “You’re good at a lot of things.”

God, her voice does things to me. I smile, even though there’s a knot tightening in my chest. I want to stop time right here. Want to hold her in this moment forever. But forever’s not a thing you wish for—it’s something you make.

And I want to make mine with her.

I keep thinking about how I’ll ask her.

Something over the top? I could book out the entire damn Eiffel Tower if I wanted. Fly her to Paris, light the sky with fireworks, get a string quartet to play her favorite song while I drop to one knee on a rooftop with the skyline blazing behind her.

Or maybe something quieter. A beach at night. Just her and me and the ocean, the waves carrying my promise into the dark.

I want it to be ours. Something she remembers not because it was big, but because it was real.

Hell, I’d do it now if I wasn’t so goddamn terrified of messing it up.

I glance down at her. Her nose is a little red from the cold. There’s a smudge of whipped cream on her lip from her drink earlier. She’s tucked into my side like she belongs there—because she does.

“Baby,” I say, voice low.

She looks up, curious.

“I…” I swallow. Say it. Ask her.

But then she smiles at me, wide and cheeky. “What? Don’t tell me you’re about to get sentimental on me right before you blow the crowd’s face off with your sexy guitar skills.”

I laugh, the moment cracking just enough to breathe again. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

I kiss her then. Slow. Like a promise. Like maybe I am asking, even if the words haven’t left my lips yet.

One day soon.

One day very soon.

Because I’ve already got the ring.

And it’s not a matter of if anymore.

It’s only when.

The lights blind me the second we hit the stage.

Montreal roars.

It’s not just noise—it’s a living, breathing pulse that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go.

A wall of sound crashing through the cold October night as I step up to the mic, guitar already warm against my chest, the strap biting into my shoulder like it belongs there.

Chace drops in behind the kit, Trey prowls to my left, Sam gives a nod from the other side—and just like that—

We’re on.

The crowd is packed tight, shoulders and scarves and beanies, foggy breath curling in the air, faces glowing under the stage lights. The energy out there? It’s primal. Insatiable. Addictive.

But I don’t care about any of it.

Because she’s here.

Mac.

Standing just offstage, arms folded over her chest, my hoodie wrapped around her like it belongs to her now. She’s layered up—black tights, plaid skirt, scuffed boots, a beanie tugged low over her wild hair. Octobers settled in hard overnight, but she’s not shivering.

She’s burning.

Her eyes are locked on me—on my hands, more specifically.

She’s watching the way my fingers slide over the strings, fluid and precise, fast and sure.

Her lips part slightly every time I change chords.

Every time I hammer out a solo. Like she remembers what these hands do when there’s no audience.

No music. Just us and heat and tangled sheets.

And holy Hell, does she look like she’s thinking about it.

I bite back a grin as I step into the mic. “Montreal,” I growl, “let’s burn up the night!”

The crowd answers like thunder.

We dive straight in.

I don’t just play—I give. Everything. Every ounce of pressure, every lyric raw with truth I’m not brave enough to say out loud yet. Not here. Not in front of them.

But I want to.

God, I want to.

I want to turn to Mac right now and ask her to marry me.

The ring’s in my guitar case. Nestled in velvet. Been there for weeks. Burning a hole through my patience. And every time I look at her—every time I feel her watching me like I’m hers—I almost cave.

Almost.

But I want it to be right. Just her and me. No noise. No chaos. Just the kind of moment that holds everything still.

Trey takes over vocals for a verse while I drift closer to the edge of the stage.

The lights flare, sweeping over the crowd, and Mac—my girl—is there with fire in her eyes.

Her smile slays me. She grips the hoodie tighter around herself like she’s holding on to me. Like she feels this as much as I do.

And shit, she has no idea how close I am to falling to my knees right now.

I want forever with you.

But I swallow it down. Keep playing. Keep bleeding out my truth in chords and chaos.

Because the sets not done.

But my mind? My heart?

Already hers.

And after this…

I’m going to give her everything.

The boys burst off stage like a pack of wolves, all fired up and buzzing with energy.

“So?!” Trey’s practically in Mac’s face. “Did we kill it or what?”

Sam’s grinning ear to ear. “Give it to us straight. Don’t hold back.”

Chace laughs, “Come on, Mac, what do you think? We crushed it, right?”

I watch them swarm her, their excitement filling the room like electricity. I can see how much this means to all of us—and how much she’s become part of it.

But I hang back, taking my time.

My fingers find hers, warm and steady in mine.

I look into her eyes and say softly, “Want to take a walk with me?”

We weave through the winding maze of tech tents and catering vans, slipping past roadies and security. No one stops us—they’re all too busy chasing the adrenaline left behind on the stage. Eventually, I find what I’m looking for.