Page 36 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

T he old coffee machine rattles as it brews, groaning like it resents the late-night shift.

I stand barefoot on the kitchen tiles, Logan’s hoodie swallowing me whole, sleeves bunched at my wrists.

The fabric still smells like him—salt skin, worn leather, and something that clings to my ribs like regret.

The house is quiet, but not silent.

Laughter drifts in through the open window from the porch, where the guys are circled around the fire pit—voices low, casual, almost comforting in their normalcy. Trey’s laugh carries above the rest, bold and familiar. Logan’s is quieter. Tired. Like he’s still trying to remember how to be okay.

I stare at the coffee dripping into the pot.

Then I grab my phone.

I know I shouldn’t. I’ve told myself that a dozen times today. But my fingers betray me, and within seconds, I’m scrolling. Searching. Sinking deeper.

#LoganDale #ScandalInThePines #GroupieOrGirlfriend

Every headline is another hit to the chest.

“Sex, Secrets, and Stage Lights – The Truth About Logan Dale’s Wild Past”

“Fans Divided: Rockstar’s New Relationship Sparks Outrage”

“Love in the Pines? More Like Lust in the Pines…”

My stomach churns.

There’s footage I won’t watch. Paparazzi pics I can’t unsee. And rumors—so many rumors—they feel like claws raking through my mind.

But then… I see us.

Captured in soft focus and stolen angles. At Reverb in the Pines.

Logan and me.

His arm around my waist. My fingers tangled in his shirt. The kiss he gave me just offstage like the world didn’t exist beyond that moment. A dozen snapshots where we look like exactly what we were: in love. Before it all shattered.

The comments surprise me.

“He’s never looked at anyone like that before.”

“You can’t fake that kind of love.”

“They deserve a chance.”

I swallow hard, chest tight.

Because I don’t know if I believe it anymore.

But I want to.

A rustle of movement behind me makes me turn slightly.

I can just make out Logan’s silhouette through the window, firelight painting gold across his jaw as he leans back in one of the old Adirondack chairs.

He’s not laughing. Just… watching the flames like they might burn away everything he regrets.

I hold the phone tighter.

The coffee machine clicks off, and I reach for a mug with shaking hands. The ceramic is warm. Real. Unlike the noise on my screen. Unlike the war in my chest.

Tonight’s the Halloween party.

Everyone’s excited—costumes and drinks and music—but I feel like a ghost walking through my own skin. Smiling when I’m expected to. Laughing when it won’t raise suspicion. Pretending I’m not unraveling every time I see his eyes on me.

Not over the chill creeping into my chest as I glance back at the screen.

My thumb flicks past another fan edit—Logan with his guitar, Logan kissing my cheek, Logan with that damn smile that made me forget how to breathe the first time I saw it again.

For a second, I pause. Let it sting. Let it sit.

Then I lift my gaze toward the window.

And he’s already watching me.

His elbows rest on his knees, firelight flickering across his face, jaw shadowed in stubble. Those eyes—blue and bottomless—They don’t plead. They ache.

And it’s the ache that destroys me.

Because I want to go to him. I want to crawl into his lap and press my forehead to his and tell him we’re okay—even if we’re not.

But I can’t.

Because that look? It holds pain.

And I’m already drowning in my own.

I tear my gaze away before he can see how close I am to shattering again. The screen lights up in the dim kitchen. A new headline, fresh and cruel, scrolls across my feed.

“Logan Dale Dating Braden’s Twin Sister Mackayla Smith—Is It Love… Or a Sense of Duty?”

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I just stare.

Duty.

The word echoes louder than the fire outside or the coffee machine’s quiet drip. Louder than the pulse pounding in my ears. Louder than every whispered promise Logan ever made.

Is that what this is?

Was it always?

Because Braden’s gone. And I’m what’s left.

My breath stutters.

Suddenly, I’m not in the kitchen anymore—I’m sobbing into Logan’s shirt at Braden’s funeral, clinging to the only person who understood what losing him felt like. I’m broken. I’m vulnerable. I’m… convenient.

My knees nearly give out.

I press the mug hard to the counter, gripping it like it might hold me up. But nothing does—not when the thought starts taking root.

What if he only came back for me because Braden couldn’t?

What if I’m not love?

What if I’m just guilt?

What if I’m just an obligation.

Tears blur my vision as I turn away from the window, away from the boy whose eyes feel like home, and sink into the nearest chair, trembling.

Because for the first time since I saw those photos, since I ran to that bathroom and fell apart on that floor…I wonder if loving Logan Dale is going to be the thing that breaks me beyond repair.

The air in the kitchen is thick. Not with smoke or warmth or spice—but with the weight of what I’m feeling. The kind of heaviness that doesn’t just sit in your chest. It coils in your stomach. Wraps around your ribs. Makes it hard to breathe.

The article’s headline is burned into my skull now.

"Logan Dale dating Braden's twin sister—love or a sense of duty?"

Like I’m some charity case he inherited after my brother died.

Like I’m the ghost of the person he actually loved.

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles white, the sting behind my eyes threatening to spill over again. I want to scream. I want to hurl the mug against the wall just to hear something break besides me.

Because it’s not just the idea of other women. It’s not just what happened before me.

It’s the idea that I could be nothing more than a promise he’s trying to keep to someone who’s never coming back.

And that?

That breaks something sacred in me.

The kitchen door creaks open, and I don’t look. I already know it’s him.

His footsteps falter when he sees me.

Still, I don’t move.

He walks closer, slow—like he knows he’s approaching something fragile. Something bleeding.

Then, his voice. Quiet. Frayed at the edges.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now… it’s not true.”

I don’t answer. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe.

“Mackayla,” he tries again, my name a prayer dragged across gravel, “I saw the article too. I knew it would hurt you. But I didn’t know it would tear you open like this.”

A beat. Then another.

“I love you,” he says, the words cracking, “more than I’ve ever loved anyone.

More than I ever thought I could. And I don’t mean in the soft, pretty way people say it.

I mean the kind of love that hurts. The kind that strips you raw.

That owns every inch of who you are—every scar, every mistake, every broken piece. That’s how I love you.”

I slowly raise my eyes to his.

And what I see there shatters me all over again.

Logan Dale—on the edge. Unshaven. Eyes red-rimmed. Shoulders sagging with the weight of it all.

A single tear slips down his cheek. Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just honest.

And God, it breaks me.

Because I’ve never seen him like this. Not even when Braden died. This is different. This is him, laid bare.

“This love…” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “it’s not out of guilt. Or grief. Or some twisted loyalty to your brother. It’s because I can’t breathe without you. Because everything I’ve ever done, everything I’ve survived—led me here. To you.”

He steps closer.

“I can’t go back to a life where you’re not mine, Mac. I won’t. I know I’ve made mistakes. Too many. I know there were others. But what I feel for you? That’s never happened before. You’re not some fix or distraction. You’re the only real thing I’ve ever had.”

His chest rises and falls hard, like even saying the words costs him.

“I don’t care what the world says. I don’t care about gossip or backlash or the mess we’ll have to walk through together. Let them come for us. Let them try to tear us down. Because what we have? It’s worth fighting for.”

He looks at me then—eyes flooded, heart in his hands.

“I love you, Mackayla. With everything I am. And everything I’ll ever be.”

The second the words leave his mouth—I love you, Mackayla. With everything I am—something in me gives out.

It’s not weakness.

It’s surrender.

Because the truth is, I’ve been holding myself together with frayed threads and false walls, and now… I can’t anymore. I don’t want to.

I move before I even think about it.

My feet stumble forward. My coffee mug clatters to the floor, shattering on impact, but I don’t care. My hands hit his chest, fingers clutching at his shirt, and I fall into him like it’s the only place I’ve ever belonged.

He catches me instantly, arms locking around me so tight it steals my breath—but it’s the right kind of breathlessness. The kind that says you’re safe now. The kind that says I’m here. I’m not letting go.

And then I’m crying—really crying. Ugly, gasping sobs that shake through my entire body as I bury my face in his neck and let the pain tear its way out of me.

“I know you didn’t cheat,” I whisper, voice cracking on the words. “I know you never would.”

His grip tightens, and a broken sound escapes his throat—half relief, half agony.

I keep going, can’t stop, won’t stop.

“I just—God, Logan—it destroys me,” I choke. “The thought of you with someone else… the thought of your hands—your mouth—your touch—bringing them pleasure? I can’t breathe when I picture it. I hate that I picture it.”

He tries to speak, but I shake my head against him.

“No. Let me say this.”

My voice is jagged, bleeding.

“You’ve never made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Not once. And I know that whatever came before me—whoever came before me—none of it matters. Because we matter. This matters.”

I pull back just far enough to see his face—his ruined, beautiful face—and I lift trembling fingers to trace the trail of his tear.

“I’ll fight for you,” I whisper. “Of course I’ll fight for you.”

My voice breaks again, softer now. Fierce in the way only love can be.

“Because all you’ve ever done is fight for me.”

He closes his eyes, like the weight of my words nearly buckles him, and I press my forehead to his.

“I love you, Logan Dale. I love you. Not Braden’s best friend. Not the rock star. Not the man the internet wants to pick apart. You. The one who sees me—even when I’m in pieces—and stays anyway.”

He exhales a shaking breath against my skin, and I swear, for a second, the pain lifts. Just enough.

We stand there, tangled and raw, surrounded by the shattered remains of a coffee mug and the echo of truths finally spoken.

His arms tighten around me like he’s scared I’ll disappear if he lets go. But I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

Not when we’ve both bled this much to get here.

His lips brush my forehead, reverent and shaky, and I feel his voice more than I hear it.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs.

I tilt my face up, tears still clinging to my lashes. “Stop saying that.”

He searches my eyes, broken open but hopeful, like he’s scared to believe this is real. “I was so sure I’d lost you.”

“You didn’t,” I say, voice steady for the first time in days. “You found me. Again.”

His throat works around a rough sound—something like a laugh wrapped in a sob—and he rests his forehead against mine.

“I want to be better,” he whispers. “For you. For us.”

“You already are,” I breathe. “You’ve always been.”

And then we’re quiet again, but it’s different now. Not heavy silence. Not aching.

This one feels like peace.

Outside, I hear the low rumble of the guys still talking around the fire pit, someone cracking a joke, the distant sound of a guitar strumming a lazy tune. Laughter hums through the walls like a promise.

The party’s still going.

But here, in this moment, it’s just us.

Me. Him. And the love we nearly lost.

He draws back just enough to look at me fully. His eyes still glisten, but his smile—crooked and tender—is the one I fell in love with all those years ago. The one that makes me feel like I’ve come home.

“Can I take you outside?” he asks, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “Just for a little while. Sit with me by the fire?”

My lips twitch, something soft blooming in my chest.

“You really think I want to be seen looking like this?”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says without hesitation. “Messy or not.”

I shake my head, smiling through the tear tracks.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

He links his fingers with mine. My heart flutters—nervous, uncertain—but something in me settles. His touch doesn’t erase the thoughts racing through my head, but it quiets them.

Scar tissue remains.

Damaged nerve endings still flinch. But healing doesn’t always come all at once.

Sometimes, it starts with a hand in yours. A soft pulse where numbness used to be. A flicker of memory—of what was, what might still be.

Whispers of hope stitched into the silence. Promises that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow won’t hurt as much.

And a heart—grazed, raw and trembling—

Still willing to feel.