Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 129

“Well?” I ask. “Is it good?”

He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully, and swallows with the kind of confidence that makes it sound like he’s been a food critic for years. “It’s not bad. Needs less oil on the skin, though. And something sharp to cut through the richness...pickled fennel, maybe. Or a sauce with real acidity instead of this watered-down citrus glaze.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Should I get you a clipboard, chef?”

He lightly kicks me under the table, then keeps eating like he’s dissecting the flavors, like it matters.

I go quiet, brush hovering over my canvas, and then I ask, “Did you like working at the restaurant?”

I expect him to tense, to wall himself off the way he always does when I dig anywhere near his past. But he doesn’t. He dips his brush into a new color, hums low in his throat, and nods. “Yeah. The cooking part was great. Joe always let me experiment.”

My brush freezes mid-stroke. Every time he offers me something like this....something real and unguarded, it feels like being handed a fragile piece of glass. I don’t want to move too fast, don’t want to risk dropping it. “Joe?” I ask quietly. “That Nate’s dad?”

He nods once, curt. “Was. He died.”

The words land with a weight that sucks the air out of me. I watch him, and for a second, I swear I see the boy beneath the man, the kid who must’ve stood in some kitchen with flour on his hands, tasting sauces and grinning at experiments, who found something like belonging in the smell of oil and fire and food.

And then lost it.

A wave of sadness hits me so sharp I almost can’t breathe. I want to go to him. I want to shove aside my easel, press myself against his side, wrap my arms around him and anchor him to something warm and living. Instead, I stay in my chair, heart aching in my chest. “That’s heartbreaking,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It's in the past,” he mutters, clipped and final. But I can see it’s not. The past still has him by the throat. I hear it in the fray of his voice, see it in the way he doesn’t look at me, doesn’t look at anything, eyes shadowed with a grief that never left.

I hesitate, then push further, careful, like I’m stepping across thin ice. “What happened to the restaurant?”

His fork hovers mid-air before he lowers it, setting it against his plate like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold. “It closed down. It was on the ground floor of Joe’s building. Dorian sold it off. It’s an apartment block now.”

His words drag like chains. There’s pain etched into every syllable, leaking into the spaces between. I look at him, and it nearly unravels me...the stoicism, the way he talks like it’s all over and done, while his eyes give him away.

And I ache for him. Ache with a force that makes my hands tremble. I want to tell him that I’d give anything to take that hollow look out of his eyes. But the words sit heavy on my tongue, fucking useless.

I let the silence breathe around us. I pick up my brush and pretend like I’m focused on the canvas when all I’m really doing is memorizing the shape of his sorrow. Because every time he opens up like this, it feels like he’s giving me another map to his heart. And I swear to myself, I’ll learn to read every line.

********

We’ve been here long enough that the sounds in the café feel like background music to my own pulse. Outside, the sky’s dulled to an unforgiving grey, swollen with the threat of rain.

Jax sits leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at his canvas like he’s about to submit it to a gallery. His expression is unreadable, too thoughtful for the mess I know he’s made.

I lean forward, “Ready to switch?”

He puts up a finger without even looking at me, grabs his brush, dips it in paint, and makes one single stroke....just one, a careless swipe, and then drops the brush back down. “Now I am.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Fucking pretentious.”

We trade canvases. I turn his around first. My eyes narrow, trying to make sense of the abstract tangle of shapes and colors. There’s definitely.... a bed. A body on it. Naked? I tilt my head, confusion bleeding into horror as the pieces click together. My eyes widen and I quickly angle the canvas away from the nearest couple so they don’t get an eyeful of what is very clearly....oh, God. That’s a cock. A badly painted cock, but unmistakably a cock.

I glance up at him, heart stuttering. He’s not even looking at me. His gaze is glued to my canvas, sharp, surprised and impressed in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“What...” I say slowly, breath catching. “What exactly is this supposed to be?”

He looks up, frowning like I’ve insulted his genius. “It’s you. Obviously.” He says it like it’s the most natural answer in the world. “In bed. Looking fuckable.”

A strangled, mortified sound escapes me before I can stop it. My gaze snaps back to the canvas....dark hair, a bed at a skewed angle, proportions all wrong...but, Jesus Christ, yeah. That’s me. And that’s definitely a dick.

People passed by, their glances all sharp and shocked. I’d assumed the horror was just them being art snobs about Jax’s lack of technique. But nope, it was clearly the subject matter. I drag my hand down my face, heat flooding every inch of me.

Jax finally looks up, lips twitching, mock-innocence dripping from his tone. “What? You don’t like it?”

I shake my head, lost between outrage and disbelief. “You’d get along with my mum. You both apparently have a thing for nude art and public humiliation.”

Still, with a heavy sigh, I give up on decency and set the painting on my easel. And despite myself, the longer I look at it, the more the corners of my mouth betray me. It’s awful, but it’s so him....brazen, inappropriate and unapologetic. I can’t help but smile.

When I finally glance back at him, he’s still staring at mine, holding it like it’s breakable. My throat tightens. “So?” I ask carefully. “Do you like it?”

I’d painted him in his kitchen, sleeves rolled, head bent over the stove in that focused way he gets when he’s cooking. The curve of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the low glow of the space...it’s all there. And I wonder if he sees the details I tucked in, the things I didn’t mean to say out loud but couldn’t keep off the canvas.

He clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair, eyes still locked on the painting. Then, softly, he asks, “What’s that, on the counter?”

I cross my arms, feigning casual, though my chest feels like it’s about to split. “Food?”

He shakes his head, flips the canvas slightly toward me, his finger gesturing at the corner detail. It's hard to miss, considering the care I put into it.

I hold his gaze. My heart pounds so loud it might as well be part of the café soundtrack. “Oh. That.” A breath leaves me, shaky but determined. “It’s a baby bottle.”

His eyes sharpen, pinning me down. But I don’t look away. I let the truth settle between us before I add, steady and quiet, “Not sure if you've noticed yet, but I’m nothing if not optimistic.”

The silence that follows is thick, like the world itself has stilled. His eyes are unreadable, but they burn into me all the same, and I feel my whole body trembling with the weight of what I’ve just laid bare.