Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 117

The tension breaks just enough to make me chuckle, leaning back against the stool. I turn in time to see Nate hopping off his seat, wandering toward the platter like he owns the place. There are three burgers left.

“Hands off,” Jax says, voice sharp enough to cut.

Nate’s face falls, shoulders drooping. “But I’m still hungry.”

Jax mutters a curse under his breath, then finally moves toward the fridge. The second he steps away, a hollow ache opens up inside me, and I hate it. It doesn’t make sense. He’s literally still in the room, just a few feet away, but the distance feels like loss, sharp and immediate.

He pulls out some Tupperware, sets it on the counter with his usual efficiency. But then he stops, turns, and fixes Nate with that sharp, unforgiving stare that freezes the room.

“You ruined the fucking microwave,” he says flatly.

I blink, glance toward the hulking machine in the corner. Nate shifts awkwardly, guilt flickering across his face before he rolls his shoulders in this half-hearted shrug. “Sorry. I probably should’ve googled before putting the can in there.”

Jax’s voice tightens, incredulous. “That’s common sense, Nate. Who’s the last person you saw putting a sealed can in a damn microwave?”

Nate actually seems to think about it, too long for it to be reassuring, then answers, “Andy? But now that I think about it... that didn’t end well either.” He frowns, then lights up and quickly adds, “But I cleaned it up.” He gestures vaguely toward the microwave, like that absolves him.

I turn back to Jax, and everything about him has shifted. The lightness from earlier, the rare ease he’d let me glimpse, is gone. His shoulders draw tight, his jaw set hard. He turns back to the fridge without a word, starts sliding the containers back inside with a clipped efficiency that feels like dismissal.

“Grab one more, and that’s it.” he tells Nate, voice stripped of softness, of patience.

Nate hums like he doesn’t notice the shift, but I do. I can’t not. I keep watching Jax as he closes the fridge, walks over to the sink, and starts rinsing plates. His movements are methodical, almost mechanical, like he’s forcing order back into himself.

Nate seems unbothered, but my chest is pulling tight.

Andy..... Andrew?

The name circles in my head like a storm I can’t see the edges of. Something about it yanked him straight out of reach. I want to know why, what happened, what ghosts he’s carrying in the spaces he won’t talk about. But I stop myself.

We’re making really good progress. He’s trying, I see that. Letting me in, piece by piece, in the only ways he knows how. I’m not going to ruin that by pressing too soon, by reaching too far.

I shift, ready to stand, ready to go to him and remind him I’m here, that he doesn’t have to retreat into silence. But then Nate, oblivious, fills the quiet. He pours another glass of juice, casual as anything.

“When’s your next fight?” he asks, distracted, like he’s just remembered. “Haven’t been to The Pit since Dorian worked there. I kind of miss the place. Sam too, the old fucker.” He takes a sip, then grins faintly. “Lend me a hundred when it’s on, yeah? I’ll bet on you, for sure.”

My eyes narrow before I even realize it. The words clang in my head. Fight? The Pit? None of it makes sense. I turn to Jax, searching his face. He’s paused at the sink, hands still wet, body gone still. Slowly, he turns, his eyes meeting mine.

And in that look, I know he sees it....the confusion, the questions running sharp and loud in my head. He reads me like he always does, and something unsettled flickers through his eyes before he shifts his gaze back to Nate who notices the silence a beat too late.

He turns, brows pulling together when he catches Jax’s expression. “What?” he asks, his tone defensive. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

His gaze darts between the two of us, Jax’s steady, unamused glare and my furrowed confusion. Then realization crashes in, clear as glass breaking. His voice drops, uncertain. “Oh.”

He swallows, clears his throat, then mutters, almost to himself, “I just fucked up again, didn’t I?”

For a beat, the room holds still, the air sharp with things unsaid. Nate clears his throat like he’s choking on the weight of some unexpected thing he just walked in on. He grabs his juice and burger without daring a glance in our direction, shoulders stiff, feet shuffling too fast toward the living room. He’s gone in a blink, the sound of the TV turning on acting like his shield.

But my eyes don’t follow him. They stay on Jax.

He’s still as a fucking statue, but his chest rises like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He looks at me like he’s bracing for a blow....questions, demands, maybe for me to rip open whatever the hell Nate just said. And I almost do. The words are right there on my tongue, ready to slice through the silence.

But then I blink, and the sharpness softens just a bit. No...not now. We'll talk when it’s just us. When there’s nothing else to distract or deflect.

“Later,” I say, clipped and certain, leaving no room for argument. My voice carries the kind of finality that makes him lean back just slightly, like he feels the weight of it. I grab what’s left of my juice, tilting the glass and drinking slow. The tang burns a little on my tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his stare.

Because Jax doesn’t stop watching me. His gaze never wavers, dark and heavy, pulling me in like gravity. It’s relief I see flicker there, but it’s jagged and fragile, like the storm between us hasn’t settled, only shifted.

Then he moves and walks over.

“Glass,” he says, his voice low, the single word threaded with something deep.

I don’t flinch, don’t look away. I hold his stare, let it catch and burn. It’s a current, a tether... a goddamn challenge. His gaze sharpens, and I know mine mirrors his in that way only we seem capable of.

I lift the glass toward him, but when his hand reaches, it doesn’t just take. His fingers curl around mine first, warm and deliberate, lingering for one breath too long. It’s possessive, or maybe it’s anchoring, but it shoots straight through me.

Only then does he peel the glass away, his hand brushing mine in a drag that feels intentional. He walks back to the sink, shoulders taut, glass in his grip, but it’s my skin that still burns where he touched me.

And I sit there, pulse unsteady, already knowing that whatever “later” looks like, it’s probably going to cut us both open yet again.