Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 127

The third antique store of the day, and I’m starting to suspect Jax is only here because I dragged him along. He hasn’t bought a single thing, just lurked behind me with his hands shoved in his pockets like he’s enduring medieval torture. Meanwhile, I’ve already scored a couple of finds, and he’s been giving me that patient-but-broody look that says 'why the hell am I here, Xander?'

Until he spots them.

A set of vintage chef knives, packed in this gorgeous lacquered wooden box, lined in velvet so dark it looks like it might swallow the blades whole. Sleek handles, steel that still gleams even with the years on them. The kind of thing someone might’ve sliced open kingdoms with.

And Jax’s eyes light up. It’s that rare, electric brightness I’ve only ever seen when he looks at me, and I can’t decide if I should be flattered or deeply offended.

The sales guy starts rambling about their history, Japanese craftsmanship, some dynasty or another. I don’t really catch it, because I’m too busy watching Jax. He doesn’t even flinch at the absurd price. Just scoops them up, holding the box with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for relics or religion.

“Glad you found something that makes you this happy,” I mutter as we walk. “I was starting to think you only followed me around because you liked my ass.”

He laughs, low, and before I can sidestep him, his arm wraps around me from behind, his chest pressing against my back. Warm, solid and entirely unexpected. “Why not both?” he says, soft enough to short-circuit my brain.

My heart actually skips.

And then, true to form, he presses his thumb into that goddamn spot that makes me jolt like a live wire. “Bastard!” I yelp, and he peels away, smug as sin, striding ahead while I try to get my dignity back.

It’s..... stupidly nice. Light in a way I know he doesn't do normally.

I pick up a picture frame, turning it over in my hands. “Maybe you can frame a picture of your beloved bike. Or your dearly departed microwave. May it rest in peace.” I stalk closer, lowering my voice just enough for him. “Or maybe one of us.”

His gaze flicks to me, quick, like he’s checking if I’m joking. Then he says he doesn’t have a picture of us, and something about the way he says it....almost offhand, but not entirely, pulls at me.

“That’s an easy fix,” I tell him. I pull my phone out, step close, angle it up for a selfie. My other hand cups the side of his face, turning him just enough, and before he can react I press a kiss to his cheek and snap the shot.

I study the photo, nodding. “Perfect. I’ll just crop out the stupid knives, and voilà.”

He rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the way his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

By the time we leave, I’ve snagged a couple more finds, and Jax ends up with not just his murder-knives, but a pair of antique salt and pepper shakers he eyed like they might be worth killing over.

We step out of the shop and I point down the street at a pawn shop with a neon sign that looks like it’s survived three apocalypses. “Wanna check that one out? Who knows, maybe they’ll have a fancy toaster for only three hundred bucks.”

He tries to grab me but I dodge out of reach, fighting a smile. We stash our finds on the bike, hoping no one decides today’s the day to run off with antique cutlery and my precious stack of frames. Then we start walking, side by side.

And that’s when I notice his hand.

It hangs loose at his side, calloused, but somehow careful even when it’s just.... there. This sharp, stupid ache blooms in me, this ridiculous urge to reach out and take it. I’ve never done that before, held someone’s hand like this. I’ve thought about it, sure. Wondered what it would be like. Warmth. Pressure. The strange rightness of it.

I swallow and keep my eyes forward. My fingers drift, brushing his once, casual. Testing.

He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t react. Just keeps walking like nothing happened.

I almost let it go, shove it back down into the graveyard of things I’ll never do. But then, just as I’m working up the nerve to risk it, slow and awkward, Jax beats me to it.

His hand catches mine without hesitation, his fingers threading through like they’ve always belonged there. There’s no pause, no awkward shuffle. Just certainty.

And when he finally turns his head toward me, I realize it’s that same brightness I saw when he spotted the knives, only it’s not the same at all. This look...it’s softer, deeper. Like he’s staring straight past my walls into the marrow of me. Like he’s been waiting for this just as much as I have.

It’s everything I’ve ever let myself imagine, only sharper. Dangerous in its beauty.

I hold it until I can’t anymore, until it scorches me, and then I look away, because if I don’t, I might not survive it.

We step inside the pawn shop, still linked. We don’t talk about it, don’t draw attention to it, but neither of us lets go.

Instead, we end up debating the dumbest things.

“Tell me you don’t think this lava lamp is art,” I say, pointing at a tragic, half-bubbly mess on the shelf.

He frowns, his expression one of unmasked disgust. “It looks like a lava accident they swept off the highway.”

I grin, tilting my head at him. “You’ve clearly never had taste.”

He arches a brow. “If taste means staring at melted goo in a tube, I’ll pass.”

I drag my fingers down the glass like I’m in a museum. “One day when it’s worth a fortune, I’ll remind you of this moment.”

We volley back and forth, our joined hands swinging lightly between us as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I tug two worn-looking black t-shirts off a rack, hold them up proudly. Matching prints, some band I’ve never heard of....Bleeding Saints or some equally dramatic shit.

Jax eyes them like I just pulled out two dead rats. “Yeah, no. I’m never letting that nightmare touch my body.”

But I'm already tossing them over my arm. “Oh, it’ll touch. You can bet on that. This is what couples do, you know. Matching shirts, holding hands in pawn shops, the works.”

He gives me a long, unimpressed look, I just shrug. “Don’t fight it, it’s happening.”

By the time we finally leave, I’m the one who reaches for his hand. No testing this time, no hesitation. Just sliding my fingers into his like they belong there.

It feels so natural it’s terrifying. I know, with the same certainty I know the sky is up, that I’ll want to do this every single time we’re together. Maybe even when we’re not. He glances at me, doesn’t say a word about it, just gives my hand a quick squeeze before looking ahead again.