holding on • jenzie

22 ⇝ whats happening to us

» I love the 3am version of people; they're vulnerable, honest and real. «
~ Trinity (me oof)

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「 In which Mackenzie and Johnny have horrible dreams. 」

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Dedicated to:

A/N ~ Aye I'm finally updating! Fun fact; I was so eager to write this chapter that it was the third chapter I wrote out of the whole book lol. Enjoy!

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POV: Johnny Orlando
DATE: 26 January 2026

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I lie in bed, tossing and turning, completely torn between the two worlds of sleep and reality. In my dream, Mackenzie's there, screaming in pain; but I'm the one who has the knife. I'm the one who has the power. Evilly, I'm about to plunge it into her heart before I wake with a start, sweaty and gasping. My shirt is pasted to my chest, sweat running in rivets down my back.

It takes a while for me to realise that Mackenzie's screams weren't just in my dreams– they're in real life too. The high octave of her voice can be heard over the busy noises of the city below. I freeze. Goosebumps erupt over my skin. My blood runs cold, and terror grips me like it never has before.

Throwing the covers of my bed aside, I stagger across the hall and into her room. Her mouth is wide open in absolute agony, and her body is thrashing around like a fish out of water.

Nightmares.

"He left me!" She cries out, confirming my theory.

Seeing red, I scrawl onto her bed and plant my two legs either side of her hips, fingers and hands making way to her cheeks and holding her still. Unable to resist, I push back her hair softly.

"He's gone!" She yells, another scream tearing from her throat.

"Mackenzie." I then shout, pleading. "Wake up! It's just a dream!"

She relentlessly tries to move under my grip, but slowly, the screams turn into whimpers and tears cascade down her cheeks.

"Wake up Mackenzie. Please." I now beg, smoothing out her hair with my fingers.

And she awakes with a gasp before looking into my eyes and starting to shake. I pull her up into a hug, letting her cry out while gently rubbing her back. Sometimes, words can't describe situations. I know this is one of them. We studied a quote in high school once; maybe home is nothing but two arms holding you when you're at your worst. This is it for me. She's the one. I would let her cry in my arms for as long as she needed if it meant she would feel even a fraction better.

"I'm so sorry." She says weakly after what feels like years of us simply cuddling.

I brush my lips to her temple, the ghost of a kiss, easing her back into her original spot after propping her head up on a few pillows. I stay with my legs wrapped tightly around her hips, but my arms hang loosely by my sides.

It's only now that I notice the only things she's wearing are two scraps of white lace; one on the top and one on the bottom. She's perfect. My stomach bottoms out, and I look away as to avoid thoughts like these.