Page 7 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

A soft knock comes at the door—just a whisper of warning—before it creaks open. Dr. Hamid steps inside, his white coat fluttering at the edges as he moves with his usual unhurried grace. He carries warmth in his smile, kindness etched behind the rectangular glasses perched low on his nose.

“Good morning, Kayla,” he greets, glancing down at the chart in his hands before easing into the chair beside my hospital bed. “How are you feeling today?”

I pause mid-stroke, the hairbrush frozen halfway through a tangle. “Tired,” I admit, “but… clearer. Less foggy, I think.”

He nods, pleased. “That’s exactly what we want to hear.”

I set the brush in my lap my heartbeat starting to climb as he closes the chart with a gentle snap.

“Well,” he begins, leaning forward slightly, “I have good news. Your most recent scans—CT, MRI, and all cognitive assessments—are showing significant improvement. Neuroplasticity is working in your favor. The trauma is healing. No new ischemic damage. Cognitive recall is increasing at a very promising rate.”

My throat tightens. I swallow hard, fingers going still.

“In layman's terms,” he adds gently, “your brain is fighting to bring you back. And it's winning.”

I stare at him, eyes locked, barely blinking.

“It’s been five weeks since we brought you out of the medically induced coma. You’ve made remarkable progress. Given time—and continued neural stimulation and follow-up neuropsych evaluations—I believe many of your memories will return.”

Many. Not all. But it’s more than I had yesterday.

“And the best part…” He smiles gently. “With the right discharge plan and a continuity-of-care agreement with your local provider, you’re well enough to go home.”

Home.

The word lands in my chest like a weight. Heavy. Unfamiliar.

Home.

It tastes strange on my tongue—like something I used to know but can no longer place. My gaze drops to my lap, hands motionless around the brush.

Home used to mean Braden. Mom. Dad.

It used to mean chaos and comfort, laughter and music, the smell of fresh-baked bread or ocean-breeze candles. My dad’s occasional sneaky cigars—how we’d pretend not to notice the way the smoke clung to him, tangled in his beard, his clothes, the faint dusting of ash he never seemed to see.

Now?

Now, home feels foreign. Like something unfamiliar and daunting.

I’m not even sure I know what that word means anymore.

“Th-thank you,” I murmur, voice brittle.

Dr. Hamid nods, warm and reassuring. “We’ll schedule a final consult this afternoon. If everything checks out, we’ll discharge you tomorrow morning.” He stands, pausing at the door. “You’ve come so far, Mackayla. I hope you know how proud you should be.”

I give a small nod, manage a practiced smile. Then he’s gone—the door clicking quietly shut behind him—and I’m alone again.

The brush moves through my hair, slow and mechanical, but the motion feels disconnected. Like I’m watching someone else do it. Like I’m trying to reach a version of me that isn’t there anymore.

Go home.

But what does that mean now?

Can I go back to the place I used to be? To the girl I was before the accident? Before Braden died? Before I erased eight years of my own life?

Will Logan want to come with me?

The thought hits like a punch to the ribs.

Would he?

Could I even ask that of him?

He has a life. A tour. A future that’s still moving forward, while mine feels like it’s been frozen in amber,—paused, rewound, fractured.

I blink fast, but the sting behind my eyes lingers. The silence in the room wraps around me, thick with questions and no easy answers.

Then the door opens.

His scent reaches me first—clean soap, worn leather, a hint of sandalwood—and my breath catches. My hand stills.

“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping into the room like he can sense the shift in the air.

I don’t turn. Not yet.

“Hey,” I echo, my voice catching on the word.

The silence between us stretches—not awkward, just full. Full of everything I can’t seem to say.

He moves closer. I see him now, reflected in the mirror—blue eyes locked on mine, searching.

“They said I can go home,” I tell him.

He stills behind me.

“They said I’m healing. That I’m doing well enough to… leave.”

I run the brush through the ends of my hair one more time. My fingers are shaking.

But it’s my voice that breaks when I whisper, “I don’t know where home is anymore.”

That’s when he moves.

Logan’s hands come to rest on my shoulders—warm, steady. His eyes locking with mine in the mirror. Solid. Unflinching.

“I do,” he says, voice low. “I do, Mac. And if you’ll let me… I’ll take you there.”

A single tear slides down my cheek before I even feel it coming. It traces a slow burn down to my jaw and drops, silent and shattering, into my lap.

Logan sees it.

He doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. His hands tighten on my shoulders, then gently turn me toward him. He sinks to his knees in front of me, his gaze level with mine like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.

His thumb brushes away the second tear.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You don’t have to figure it all out today.”

I try to respond, but nothing comes. My throat’s too tight, my chest too full.

Then he does the one thing I didn’t know I needed.

He pulls me up from the bed, straight into his arms.

My fists grip the fabric of his shirt, burying my face into the warmth of his shoulder as his arms wrap around me like a promise. Like he’s anchoring me to something solid. Something safe.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips in my hair. “I’ve got you, Mac.”

I tremble. But I let it come. The fear. The relief. The ache of not being alone in this.

He sways us gently, like music plays only for us. His lips brush the side of my head.

“Wherever you go, I go. Got it?”

I nod, too choked up to answer.

Maybe home isn’t a place.

Maybe it’s a person.

And maybe… maybe that person has been here all along.

We stay like that—his arms around me, my cheek to his chest, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath my ear.

Eventually, I pull back just enough to look at him. His hands settle lightly at my waist.

“Logan?” My voice is small. Fragile.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah?”

“What if I don’t remember everything?” I ask. “What if I never go back to the person I was?”

His gaze softens. “Then we make new memories.”

I bite my lip. “But what if I’m different now? What if the version of me you loved doesn’t come back?”

He brushes his knuckles down my cheek. Tender. Sure.

“Mac,” he says, his voice thick, “I didn’t fall in love with a version of you. I fell in love with you. All of you. Past, present, future—you’re still you.”

My throat tightens again. “Even like this?”

“Especially like this.” His smile curves, fierce and full of feeling. “You’ve survived hell. And you’re still standing. You’re brave. You’re beautiful. And you’re mine—if you want to be.”

My breath catches.

“I want to,” I whisper. “But I’m scared.”

He pulls me down gently beside him. Our knees touch. His hand finds mine, and he doesn’t let go.

“I’m scared too,” Logan admits, his voice low and earnest, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic and the quiet tick of the wall clock behind us. “Scared I’ll lose you again. Scared I’ll mess this up. But I’d rather be terrified with you than without you.”

I trace the lines of his fingers, memorizing every scar and callus like they hold the truth of us. “I can’t picture you scared.”

He lifts our joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles—soft, reverent.

“Angel,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin, “you’ve scared me my whole life.”

I meet his eyes—those electric blue eyes that have haunted my dreams for years—and it hits me. It’s not fear I see there.

It’s hope.

Blinding, fragile hope.

My heart skips a beat, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Do you think it can really be home? My home, I mean… so much has changed.”

Logan goes quiet, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles over my hand. In the distance, a siren wails, soft and fading. He lets out a breath and shrugs, casual but careful.

“Home doesn’t have to be the place you left behind,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “It can be wherever you feel safe. Wherever you’re loved. I don’t care, Mac. As long as I’m with you.”

Something soft and aching unfurls in my chest. Like the first warm breeze after a bitter winter. A smile tugs at my lips—small, shaky.

I lean in, pressing my forehead to his. The scent of him surrounds me—faint soap, worn leather, something unmistakably him.

“Then I guess we’re going home,” I whisper.

His smile mirrors mine—hopeful, a little broken, but whole in a way only we can be.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “We are.”

A beat passes. Quiet. Gentle.

“Logan…”

“Yes, angel?”

“You don’t… have a kid or anything, right?”

His breath hitches, and then he lets out a sound—half snort, half horrified laugh.

“I don’t think so, angel. Why?”

I wince. “I don’t know. Just… had this thought that maybe you had a kid and forgot to mention it.”

“Oh, dios mío…” He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Yes. No. Not that I’m aware of.”

“Okay. Cool. Cool-cool-cool.” I bury my face in his neck, trying to breathe. Calm the sudden panic like I haven’t just embarrassed myself beyond recovery.

His voice rumbles against my cheek. “Angel?”

“Yeah?” I mumble, muffled.

“I thought… for a second, you were asking for one.”

The silence between us thickens. Heavy. Charged. My heart stumbles and then races, ticking up into panic territory.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

And then he starts laughing.

A full-bodied, unfiltered, Logan kind of laugh. The kind that shakes his chest and rumbles beneath my cheek. It bubbles out of him like he can’t hold it back.

And somehow, I’m laughing too. Maybe out of relief. Maybe because the tension snaps in two like a stretched rubber band. Or maybe just because his laugh is so contagious, so him, and God, I’ve missed the sound of it.

We’re both laughing now, curled into each other, breaths mingling, hearts racing, hands still clasped tight.

The soft rustle of a plastic bag crinkling breaks the silence as I fold the last of my clothes into the small overnight case Logan brought from the mystical boarding house.

It’s early evening, the sky outside the window tinged with warm streaks of fading gold.

Logan’s sitting on the edge of the bed, checking through a stack of discharge papers like he’s afraid if he misses one checkbox, they won’t let me leave tomorrow.

His presence has become the only constant I trust. When the world feels too unfamiliar, I look at him—and things soften.

I take one last look around the room. Sterile. Cold. Impersonal. I’ve spent five weeks here, watching the bruises on my body fade and the holes in my memory refuse to fill. I don’t remember the accident. I don’t remember much at all. Just flashes. Feelings. Sounds.

Logan looks up and smiles at me, his blue eyes soft. "You okay?"

I nod, and just as I’m about to reply, there’s a gentle knock at the door.

Before either of us speaks, it opens, and a familiar woman steps in with a warm, crinkly smile that instantly makes my chest loosen.

“Evening, sweetheart,” Patty says, her voice as cozy as a knitted blanket. “Look at you, packing up already.”

Behind her, Dean follows with a casual wave and his usual worn denim jacket.

And then Clay steps in—on crutches, still recovering.

His leg and pelvis are braced up, but he walks like he’s determined not to let it slow him down.

They stop by every so often during my recovery—always bringing laughter, stories and just enough chaos to make my days brighter.

Logan stands to greet them, pulling Patty into a one-armed hug first, then nodding to the guys. I hover by the bed, unsure what to do with my hands, my shoulders tucked in tight.

“You made it,” Logan says.

“Told you we would,” Dean answers, voice low and warm.

Patty turns to me, her eyes soft and kind. “Can’t let you sneak off without one last goodbye, now, can we?”

Her touch is gentle when she takes my hand, and I don’t pull away. I never do with her. She feels like safety. Like someone I’ve known my whole life, even if I don’t remember a single thing about her.

Dean offers me a quiet smile. “Not sure the place’ll feel the same without you bossing us around.”

I smile, just a little. “I am almost sure I wasn’t that bad…or mean.”

Clay grins and leans carefully on his crutches. “You’ve already kept us in line better than the nurses around here. They’re gonna miss you.”

“I didn’t think I’d… miss this,” I admit softly, eyes flicking to the view outside the window. “But I think I’ll miss you.”

A silence settles, thick with unspoken words. Logan’s fingers brush against my back, steadying.

“You’ve had half the town pulling for you, Kayla,” Patty says, her thumb gently rubbing over the back of my hand. “And not one of us is going anywhere. You’ve got a whole crew waiting to walk alongside you—however long it takes.”

My throat tightens. I blink hard, but a tear still escapes.

Dean steps forward and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small silver keyring. He presses it into my palm.

“For your room at the boarding house,” he says. “Still yours. No pressure, no expectations. Just… home. Whenever you want it. Or if you get sick of the rock and roll glam lifestyle.”

I wrap my fingers around it, the metal cool and solid in my grip.

As they turn to go, Clay pauses at the door and looks back at me, his grin softer this time. “We’ll see you soon, alright?”

Patty gives Logan a long, warm hug, like she’s done it a thousand times. “Look after her, darlin’. And don’t forget to look after yourself, too.”

“You have my word, Patty,” he murmurs, steady and sure. “I’ll bring her back soon.”

She nods, eyes shining, then reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair from my cheek. “You’ve got this, sweetheart.”

Then they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them, and the room feels quieter—but not emptier.

Logan rests a hand gently on my lower back. “You okay?”

I look down at the key in my hand, the tiny weight of it anchoring something inside me. Then I look up at him.

“I don’t know why… but they feel like family.”

His smile is soft and full of something I can’t name.