Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 110

I force myself to nod. Just once.

Xander shifts against me, his voice quiet but steady when he asks, “Is that where you learned to cook?”

“Yeah, from their dad. Taught me everything I know.”

He finds my hand, laces our fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s always supposed to have been that way. He brings our joined hands up between us, thumb stroking over my skin. The simple motion nearly undoes me. Then his other hand comes up, angling my jaw, forcing my gaze back to him when all I want to do is look anywhere else.

His eyes catch me, hold me. And then he says, low and rough, “Jax....I have no idea what you’ve been through. I can’t even begin to fathom it. And I won’t pretend I understand, because I don’t. Not in the way that it deserves.”

The words cut straight through me, sharper than any blade.

He goes on, his thumb still tracing slow, steady circles over my knuckles, grounding me. “But I know.....whatever this is between us, it’s new and it's fucking scary. And we’re both trying our best to make it work. I want it to work. More than anything. Which is why you need to hear me when I say this. I’m here. I’m all in. I’m not going to give up on us...on you.”

My lungs burn like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. He says it so plainly, so unflinchingly, like spilling the truth costs him nothing. I don’t understand how he does that, how he can just open himself up and hand me the rawest pieces of himself without flinching, without shame. Doesn’t he know words like that cut deeper than a damn scalpel? Doesn’t he see how dangerous they are, how heavy? I’ve spent my whole damn life building walls high enough to keep the world out, patching holes with anger, with fists, with silence. And here he is, speaking like walls are pointless, like the only thing that matters is saying what’s real. It terrifies me. And yet..God help me, it makes me ache for more.

His voice softens, but there’s steel in it too, a conviction I can’t look away from. “I know it can’t be easy for you, letting anyone in. But you are. You’re letting me in. And I’m so fucking glad, and so damn grateful that it’s me you’re choosing.”

Then his mouth is on mine, and the kiss wrecks me. It isn’t rushed, isn’t greedy...it’s slow and deep, heartbreakingly tender, like he’s pouring every promise into me one breath at a time. My hand fists in his hair, holding him there, because I don’t know how the hell to survive without it.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath mixing with mine, his words low and unwavering. “I’m not going anywhere, Jax. And I’m not letting you go anywhere either.”

Something splinters inside me, something I didn’t even know I’d been holding together this whole time. And in that moment, all I can think is, if he’s not letting me go, maybe I finally don’t have to run anymore.

We finally crawl under the sheets, the air still thick with heat, my body still trembling from the wreckage he’s left me in. He slides against me, skin on skin, and I can’t stop myself from pulling him tighter, like if I let go the whole world will slip back into its miserable shades of grey. My hand drifts over his back and that’s when I find it...the spot that makes him twitch and laugh in this way I didn’t know I’d crave. Right at the small of his back, ticklish as hell. He curses under his breath, shoving weakly at my chest, but I dig my fingers in again just to hear that sound a second time. I try to pry the info out of him about Adam’s tattoo, but he smirks, his voice gone rough and lazy, and mutters something about client confidentiality. I could kiss that grin right off his mouth.

And for the first time in longer than I care to admit, I can breathe. Not the shallow, constant survival kind of breath I’ve lived on. Not the kind laced with smoke, violence, and old ghosts. This...him in my arms....is different. It’s oxygen that doesn’t burn, air that doesn’t weigh me down. For once, my chest expands and it doesn’t ache. For once, the edges of my world aren’t black and grey, they’re bleeding with something softer, something brighter, like color is leaking into me because of him.

He starts to fade, his voice going slack and drowsy, and he tells me this story like it’s nothing. How at sixteen he and a friend stole guitars from his dad’s shop, tried busking for cash to buy alcohol and weed. Neither of them knew a single chord, couldn’t hold a note to save their lives, but they were so spectacularly, absurdly bad that people threw coins just to watch the trainwreck. I argue they were probably just desperate to make them stop. He’s laughing by the end of it, soft and worn-out, and then he’s gone, his head heavy against my chest, breathing deep and steady like he’s finally safe enough to sleep.

And I just lie there, holding him. My hand still tracing circles over his skin. My heart still tripping over the truth that I’ve finally touched something real, something that strips me bare and terrifies me all at once. Because now that I’ve had him, this beautiful, impossible man....nothing else in this world will ever be enough. Nothing will come close. My goddamn breath of color in a life that’s been nothing but black and ash.

But because it's me, and because happiness is a luxury in my life....it still creeps in. Quiet at first, like a draft through a cracked window, but then it swells, heavy and choking. That cold reminder that nothing in my life has ever lasted, not the good, not the safe, not the rare moments I almost believed I was worth something. It all ends up in ruins, and I’m left holding ash. Wanting him this much, needing him this much, it’s like daring fate to strike me down all over again. I can feel the danger of it, how it claws at the edges of my chest. Like if I blink too long, he’ll be gone.

The old ghosts stir, restless. They whisper in the dark corners of my head, reminding me of every loss, every failure, every person I couldn’t hold onto. Their voices are sharp, familiar and cruel. They ask me what makes this time different, why I think I deserve to keep him. It’s a chorus of knives, and for a second I swear I can’t breathe.

So I do the only thing I know how. I clutch him tighter, burying my face in his hair, pulling him against me until he’s plastered to my chest. I don’t care if I’m suffocating him, don’t care if it’s desperate. I need him close, so close that the ghosts can’t get between us. So close that maybe they’ll finally understand he isn’t theirs to take.

They’ve taken everything else. Stripped me down to nothing more times than I can count. They’ve had their fill, they should be satisfied by now. But still I plead, silently.... viciously, with whatever rotten thing in the universe has made a game out of breaking me.

Just let me have this. Just this one thing.... This one person. My last unburned corner. My last proof that I’m still alive.

And if they want to come for it, they’ll have to pry him out of my arms. If the world tries to take him, I’ll burn the whole fucking thing down before I let him go.