Page 8 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

I step into the apartment and freeze.

Boxes. Everywhere. Stacked in corners. Taped shut. The cupboards are bare. Even my stuff’s been slapped into cardboard and labeled in black Sharpie: Wogi Bear.

The fridge hums low in the background, blending with the rustle of packing paper and the occasional thump of tape sealing another box.

Trey’s perched on the counter, shoveling cereal into his mouth like the apartment isn’t being gutted around him. “Welcome back,” he says, cheeks puffed, words muffled by food as he grins like an idiot.

Chace tosses a roll of tape in the air, catching it easily. “Took your time.”

“Looks like you’ve all been busy?” I ask.

Sam gestures around us. “Heavy shit on the bottom. Figured you’d freak if we did it wrong.”

Trey lifts his spoon in salute. “Well, they packed. I curated the playlist and provided moral support. Vital role. Backbone of the operation, really.”

I just stare at them. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Chace shrugs. “Seemed like your hands were full. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t done for us a hundred times.”

“Hey, I helped too,” Trey says. “I literally just said that. I’m great at following instructions. Logistics, bro. Fact.”

“Trey,” Sam mutters, “shut up and eat your cereal.”

“Instructions unclear. Dick stuck in toaster,” Trey deadpans.

We all laugh.

“So…” Chace tosses a box toward the door. “Where to now?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not at the hospital anymore. And word is, she’s getting discharged…”

Sam steps closer, calm and steady. “Is it true? Is our girl coming home?”

Trey sets his bowl down. “June didn’t give us much—just started talking shit about the doc—but signs look good. So… is it true? Mac’s out tomorrow?”

“If you’re going back to her place, we are too,” Chace adds. “We’re not letting you do this solo.”

For a second, I can’t speak. The quiet kind of emotion rises, that unspoken kind of warmth that moves straight through you.

“Shit, guys… I didn’t want to presume.”

“Careful, Yogi,” Trey teases between mouthfuls. “You’re almost sounding like a non-broody functioning human.”

Chace rolls his eyes and casually dips a finger into Trey’s cereal.

Trey gasps dramatically. “Chace! What the actual—?”

“Come on, Logan,” Chace says, ignoring him. “We’re a family. How could we do any less?”

Trey huffs. “Don’t fuck with my food, Chace. And why couldn’t Sam have done the family speech? Would’ve been way more emotional. Proper gravitas.”

Mac’s coming home tomorrow.

After everything—the accident, the hospital, the bruises I still see every time I close my damn eyes—she’s coming back. Back to the house on the edge of the meadow. The white porch. The swing we used to fight over. The one she always swore she’d repaint and never did.

And I get to take her there.

“I’m picking up Braden’s Charger in the morning,” I say quietly. “Gonna drive her home. Thought it might feel right… bringing her back in his car.”

Sam nods, solemn. “That’ll mean everything to her.”

“In the beast?” Chace raises a brow. “You sure you remember how to handle that thing?”

“It remembers me,” I smirk. “You just gotta talk nice to it.”

Sam claps a hand to my shoulder. “We’ll meet you there later. Give you two a head start.”

Trey points his spoon at me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t leave a lot, Baker. Now clean up your damn mess.”

Laughter breaks out again—easy and warm—but then Trey pauses, paper towel in hand, going quiet. Too quiet. Not Trey Baker at all.

I watch him.

“You good?” I ask, stepping closer.

He doesn’t look up. “Kinda fucked, to be honest.”

He slides down the cabinet, sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him.

Chace, Sam, and I all move in. I half expect this to be a bit. It’s not.

I crouch, forearms on my knees. “Talk to me.”

Trey exhales. Finally meets my eyes. There’s something raw there. Off.

“I may have worn out my welcome in Portland.”

Chace snorts. “Not shocking. You mess with the wrong person?”

Trey shrugs. “Got a pastor after me.”

I blink. “Wait—what?”

Sam frowns. “Did you fuck someone in a confessional? Bro.”

Trey shakes his head. “No.”

Chace zips up a duffel and tosses it aside. “Why the hell would a pastor be after you?”

Trey pauses, then says, “Because I’m helping his daughter.”

Silence settles between us. Distant sirens. Horns. Music from a few floors up.

Sam raises a brow. “You’re being real vague, mouthpiece. How are you helping her?”

Trey’s smile is thin. “Escape.”

Chace whistles low. “A one-word answer? Holy shit, Trey’s evolving.”

“Escape what?” I ask. “Shitty relationship? Drugs?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Still figuring it out.”

I study him. “You serious?”

His smirk fades. “Dead serious. Her dad…this pastor—Padre—is a real fire-and-brimstone type.”

“So, how’d you get involved?”

“Met her one night. She was shaken. Saw the signs.”

“If it’s that bad, you think about calling the cops?”

“She says she tried once. Won’t do it again.” He swallows. “Called her the Whore of Babylon and cut off all her hair.”

“What the fuck,” Sam mutters.

“Calling him insane would be letting him off too easy,” Trey says. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Chace leans on the armrest. “So, where’s the girl now?”

Trey’s voice drops. “Said she’d find me.”

He says it like he believes it. Like he’s already waiting.

Chace exhales. “So, she’s gone to ground…and her dad’s like…you?”

Trey snorts. “Not far off. I went back to where we met. Met him there.”

“Alright,” Sam says, slinging an arm around Trey. “You could’ve just said, ‘Met a guy, and now he wants to kill me.’ That’s your usual vibe anyway.”

“Love you too, Baldy.”

“Sounds like you’re sticking your nose into family drama,” Chace says.

“If you ever need backup—”

“I know,” Trey cuts in. “You guys are always there. We’re family.”

“Actually,” Sam adds, helping Trey up, “Logan was probably gonna say call your tattoo artist friends instead.”

“The support in this room is overwhelming,” Trey deadpans.

“Support?” Sam laughs. “Things have to be real bad for you to need our support. Just know… if that happens, night or day…”

He grins.

“Our phones will be on airplane mode.” Chace cuts in.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Trust Trey to fall for the first hot girl with daddy issues.” Sam teases.

“She’s a unicorn,” Chace beams.

“You guys are never meeting her,” Trey growls. “Only Mac.”

And just like that, we’re back to the beginning.

I glance at the guys—my brothers, not by blood but by everything that counts.

“You sure about this?” I ask.

Chace nods. “No question.”

Sam grins. “Just bring her back with that smile of hers.”

The laughter fades slowly. Like a candle burning low. What’s left behind is softer—something unspoken but thick in the air.

Chace stretches out on the couch, arms behind his head. Sam leans in the doorway, quiet now. Trey rinses his bowl in the sink, his cocky grin dulled around the edges.

I clear my throat. “Thanks for not making me do this alone.”

Three sets of eyes lift to mine. Different shades. Different scars. Same loyalty.

Same love.

Sam pushes off the frame and nudges my shoulder. “You’d do it for any of us. Hell, you have.”

Chace nods. “Besides, if we left you alone with all that unresolved sexual tension, you’d combust.”

I smirk. “That supposed to be your way of saying you care?”

He shrugs. “I’m emotionally repressed. Let me have this.”

Trey dries his hands and walks over, slower than usual. He stops in front of me, green eyes shadowed by something heavier than he lets on.

“You ever think about how we all ended up here?” he asks. “Like… this exact moment?”

“Yeah,” I say. “More than you’d think.”

“Then you know this isn’t just about Mac,” Trey says, softer. “It’s about all of us. Getting home. Whatever that looks like now.”

I swallow, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah. I do.”

Trey claps my shoulder, firm. “Then let’s go home, man.”

For a second, no one says anything.

Then Sam raises a brow. “Are we having a group hug or what? ’Cause if we are, I’m taking my shirt off. No one needs to feel these abs through cotton.”

Chace groans. “You’re the worst.”

Trey’s already got his arms out like he’s about to tackle someone. “Get in here, assholes.”

I laugh—real and raw and good—and before I know it, we’re in this awkward four-man huddle in the middle of the kitchen, arms slung over shoulders, too many elbows, someone’s deodorant aggressively minty—but none of that matters.

We’re not brothers by blood.

We’re something stronger.

Chosen. Forged. Unbreakable.