Page 6 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

T he door clicks shut behind me, and silence presses in like a weight I can’t shake.

No steady beeping.

No rustle of hospital sheets.

No soft, rhythmic sound of Mac breathing beside me—her presence a heartbeat away.

Just this temporary apartment in Portland—half unpacked, chaos bleeding into every corner.

Guitars leaning like forgotten promises.

Pizza boxes stacked on the counter. Laundry slouched over a chair like it gave up halfway to the basket.

The guys must’ve gone out again. Good. I don’t have it in me to fake okay.

I toss my keys onto the counter and scrub a hand down my face, dragging it through my hair. My shirt’s still wrinkled from hours hunched over her bed. I should care. I should shower. Eat. Breathe.

Instead, I move on autopilot.

I dig a roll of trash bags from my backpack and start cleaning—anything to keep my hands busy while my head spins.

Cardboard gets broken down. Empty cans tossed.

I try to impose order on this mess like it might bleed into me.

Like if I can straighten the outside, maybe the inside will follow.

Maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m drowning in a body that still hasn’t figured out how to swim without her.

Eventually, I stretch—muscles tight, back aching—and head for the bathroom. I strip off the day with my clothes and step into the shower. The water hits hard, blistering hot.

I don’t flinch.

Let it burn.

Maybe it’ll scald away the helplessness.

The fear.

The guilt.

Being with her today… Christ.

She looked so lost. Like the light behind her eyes had been dimmed, flickering behind thick glass. And then the guys came in—loud, chaotic—and I damn near lost it. I wanted to shout, shove them out the door. Tell them to give her room. To give me room. To not steal what little clarity she had left.

But then she smiled.

And even more than that—she remembered something.

A couch.

Laughter.

Sunflower seeds in the carpet. Trey being Trey.

The tiniest flicker of memory, there and gone like a spark on the wind. But it was real. And it hit me like an earthquake beneath my ribs.

Hope.

It’s dangerous. It hurts. But I’d forgotten how good it feels to hold on to something that might come back.

I crash onto the couch, hair still damp, towel slung around my shoulders. The apartment smells like cheap takeout and faded cologne. I grab my phone off the coffee table and power it on—more out of habit than hope.

Before I left the hospital, I gave her a phone.

Meant to help her set it up, walk her through it.

I didn’t need to. Eight years gone, and she still picked it up like muscle memory.

Watching her flick through the menus, changing the wallpaper without hesitation—it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Mac always was the sharpest of us all.

I made sure she had my number.

That part, at least, I could give her.

I told her to text me. Anytime. If she couldn’t sleep. If she was scared. If she just didn’t want to feel alone in that sterile, lonely room.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I told her. “Just send me something. Anything. I’ll be there.”

And I meant every damn word. I swipe open my messages, not expecting much. My phone vibrates. Once. Twice.

Mac: Logan… I just want to check you're there.

My heart twists so hard it knocks the air from my lungs.

Another vibration.

Mac: I’m scared.

I bolt upright, breath catching. My fingers freeze for a beat before I’m typing on instinct.

Logan: I’m here.

Another breath.

Logan: You’re okay. I’ve got you.

I stare at the words, wishing they could do more. Wishing they could reach through the screen and wrap around her like I want to. Like she deserves.

No reply.

I picture her curled in that too-white hospital bed, shadows creeping up the walls, the mechanical buzz of machines too loud in the silence. I picture her clutching the phone like it’s a lifeline. Her heart racing with memories she can’t quite grasp.

I type again, softer this time.

Logan: Do you want me to come back?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Come back again.

My pulse stutters like a broken drumbeat.

Mac: No… I just needed to know you’re real.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, shaky and uneven. Press the phone to my chest, like if I hold it close enough, I’ll feel her heartbeat on the other side.

Logan: Always real. Always yours.

She doesn’t reply.

She doesn’t have to.

I stay right here, on this worn-out couch in the middle of a messy apartment, staring at her name on my screen.

Waiting.

Because this is what it means to love her now.

To wait.

To hold space.

To be the one thing she can count on when everything else feels broken.

The sky is still dark when I blink awake, a faint line of light just starting to stretch across the horizon. Sunrise. Always the same time. Always the same reason.

It’s muscle memory now—engrained since the night Mac landed in the hospital. Some part of me refuses to rest properly, like if I sleep too long, I’ll miss something. Miss her. So, I rise before the city. Before the weight of waiting sets in.

I drag a hand over my face, the rasp of stubble grounding me. My body’s heavy—weeks of half-sleep etched into every muscle—but lying still feels worse. I need air. Motion. Something.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit there, momentarily disoriented.

No clue how or when I got back here last night.

Just shadows. Silence. And that hollow ache in my chest that’s becoming far too familiar.

I scrub a hand through my hair and force myself to move.

A quick shower—lukewarm, barely enough to chase off the night—but it wakes me up just enough.

The apartment is quiet when I step into the hallway, towel slung around my neck. A couple of the guys are still out cold, their soft breathing muffled by thin walls. They cleared space for me yesterday, no questions asked. Just like always. No pressure. Just loyalty.

I pull on clean sweats, a black tee, socks over damp feet, and grab a cap off the hook. Tug it low. My running shoes wait at the door like they already know what’s coming.

As I stretch out my calves, I catch movement—Sam heading out for his own morning routine.

We nod in passing, silent understanding exchanged in a glance, and then I step out into the still-sleeping city.

Old Town Portland hasn’t stirred yet. My footsteps echo down the sidewalk, steady and grounding.

The rhythm is familiar. Comforting. It’s the only time I feel remotely in control—when the world is quiet and I can keep moving forward, one block at a time, without drowning.

I follow the same path I always do. Past the boarded-up music store.

Past the angel-wing mural, cracked and weathered but still standing.

Past the bakery that always smells like cinnamon and nutmeg.

By the time the sun crests the skyline, I’m pushing open the door to Patty’s Diner.

The bell above the door sings its soft, familiar chime.

Patty’s already behind the counter, pouring coffee like it’s some kind of religion.

She looks up and smiles—that soft, no-nonsense, maternal kind of smile that sees through every lie.

“Logan Dale,” she says, shaking her head like she’s scolding one of her own. “You look like something the cat dragged in. And not even a fancy cat. One of those strays with attitude.” I manage a tired grin and slide onto my stool—the one I’ve sat in every morning for five weeks.

“Mornin’, Patty.”

She eyes me over the rim of her glasses, already reaching for a mug. “You sleep?”

I shake my head. “Couple hours. Not much.”

She hands me the coffee and plants a fist on her hip. “You keep running yourself into the ground like this, you’ll be the next one in a hospital bed.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I mutter, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. “At least I’d be closer to her.”

Her gaze softens, her worry laced with something steadier. Unshakable. “That girl’s a fighter, baby. But she doesn’t need a ghost hovering around her. She needs you. Fed. Rested. Upright.”

I stare into the swirl of black coffee. “She remembered something yesterday.”

That gets her attention.

She leans in, every line in her face suddenly gentle. “Yeah?”

I nod, throat tightening. “Just flashes. A couch. Sunflowers. Laughter. But it was there. For a second, she was there. I saw her.”

Patty’s smile starts small, like it’s afraid to bloom too early. “Told you. That light’s still in her. You just keep showing up until she finds her way back.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders ease, just a little.

“Trying.”

“You’re doing more than trying,” she says, patting my hand. “You’ve been here every damn day. That kind of love leaves a mark, baby. On both of you.”

Before I can reply, she disappears into the kitchen, barking orders like she owns the place—which, in here, she does.

I stay at the counter, coffee in hand, mind spinning with yesterday’s glimpse. The way her eyes had flickered—like something inside her had cracked open for a second. Like a door swinging halfway.

Then my phone buzzes on the counter.

One vibration.

My pulse stutters.

Mac: Are you awake?

A sharp breath escapes me. I fumble for the phone, heart hammering.

Logan: Yeah. You okay?

The reply comes fast.

Mac: I think I might’ve remembered something. About you.

I sit up straighter, the world shrinking to that little screen.

Mac: This is going to sound weird... but do you have a skull tattoo on your ribs?

Jesus.

I don’t move. Barely breathe.

Mac: And a nipple piercing? I don’t know if it was a memory or a dream. It was fast. I just remember flashes—skin, ink, metal. I felt something. Like it mattered.

I reply before I can think.

Logan: Yeah, angel. I do.

Logan: The tattoo’s on my left side. You used to trace it when you couldn’t sleep.

Another pause.

Mac: And the piercing?

Logan: Real. Got it after losing a bet to your brother. He dared me. You laughed so hard, I thought you were gonna pass out.

The typing bubble comes. Disappears. Then comes back.

Mac: Okay… then maybe it was real.

Mac: That’s kind of a relief. I thought maybe I was losing it.

Logan: You’re not. Your brain’s starting to connect the dots.

She doesn’t reply after that. But she doesn’t need to.

She remembered me . Not everything. Not our story.

But something. A thread. A tether. And that?

That undoes me. Patty returns just in time to catch the look on my face.

She sets a plate in front of me—eggs, toast, a mountain of bacon that’s absolutely against health codes but always shows up when she thinks I need saving.

“You look like someone just handed you your heart back,” she says.

I blink up at her, the corner of my mouth lifting. “She just texted.”

“And?” Her eyes light up.

“She remembered something. About me.” Patty stills, then slowly grins—this time all warmth and knowing.

“She asked if I had a skull tattoo. And… a nipple piercing.”

One eyebrow arches, and there’s laughter behind her eyes. “Well now. That’s one hell of a way to come back to a man.”

I chuckle under my breath. “Told her they were real. Reminded her she used to trace the tattoo when she couldn’t sleep. She said maybe it wasn’t just a dream.”

Patty leans in, voice low and certain. “That’s not just something, sweetheart. That’s the beginning of everything.” The words land hard. Sharp and true.

Five weeks of waiting. Hoping. Breaking. And now she’s finding her way back.

“She remembered me,” I whisper.

Patty nods. “Because you never left.” She taps the edge of my plate. “Now eat before I cry in public.”

I smirk and dig in. “Yes, ma’am.” She watches me take a bite, satisfied.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, Logan,” she says softly. “She’ll find you. Piece by piece.”

I nod, phone still beside me like a lifeline. Like proof I wasn’t dreaming.

And for the first time in weeks, I let myself feel it.

Hope .

Real and raw and wrapped around her name.