Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 134

The door clicks open, and already I feel like an intruder. Like stepping inside here dirties the place just by association. The living room’s lit, too bright, and there he is.

Xander.

On the couch, his whole body wound tight, frantic in a way that stabs at me. He shoots to his feet the second I step in, and his eyes rake over me, cataloguing the damage. Every bruise, every drop of blood, every inch. He doesn’t say a single word. Doesn’t need to. The silence is its own verdict.

There’s a first aid kit waiting on the table, cracked open like some damning evidence. The sight of it makes something inside me twist hard. I hate myself more than I already did, and that’s saying something. He gestures to the side, voice low, telling me to go shower. That he’ll wait there. Like I’ve given him this role, this responsibility, when he never asked for it.

I linger, because looking at him feels like punishment. Then I sigh, because stalling won’t change anything, and I do as I’m told.

I make the shower quick. Water sluices off me, blood thinning out to rust as it swirls down the drain. Every second feels like betrayal, like I’m wasting time that should be his. And there’s this panic simmering in me...like if I stay under too long, he’ll drift further away, and I’ll come out to nothing but an empty couch and a closed door.

When I step back into the living room, he rises immediately, a kind of quiet resolve in his movements. He tells me to sit. I do. He hands me painkillers, a glass of water, both already waiting for me like he’d known exactly what shape I’d walk through the door in. I swallow them down without argument, my throat tight.

Then he kneels right beside me. The kit on the couch, his hands moving. My chest hurts at the sight of it, the way he positions himself lower, like I deserve care but not eye contact. His fingers tremble slightly as he opens antiseptic wipes, peels back packets. He never looks at me. Not once. And that’s not Xander. Xander doesn’t flinch from me. He doesn’t look away. He meets me head-on, every damn time, and doesn’t let me run. But right now, his gaze stays fixed on my split knuckles, his jaw tight, his silence louder than shouting. And fuck, it guts me.

I want to say something. Anything. But the words rot before they form. Nothing’s enough. Nothing could be.

He dabs at my hand. I hiss, but he’s careful, heartbreakingly so. He blows gently across the skin before laying ointment, as though his breath might undo the sting. Wraps the bandage with patience, his movements shaky but precise. All of it feels more like devotion than first aid. And I don’t deserve it.

Then his hands move to the hem of my t-shirt, slow, hesitant, like asking permission without words. I let him. He lifts it up, and I see the wince flicker in his eyes before he looks away. Bruises bloom dark across my ribs and chest.The same spots I aim for when I’m in the ring, because I know how they hurt.

He blinks hard, turns his head, runs a hand through his hair like he can’t bear to look anymore. Then he grabs the ointment again, forces himself to keep going. Still quiet. Still locked inside himself.

And I just sit there, drowning in guilt. Watching him patch me back together with hands that should be touching me for better reasons. Knowing every careful press of his fingers is both a mercy and a condemnation.

He doesn’t say a word. And maybe that’s worse than if he had.

Once he’s done, he doesn’t linger. He packs the kit with clinical precision, every little packet tucked away, every edge smoothed over like he’s trying to contain more than just bandages. He stands, kit in hand, shifts like he’s about to walk off.

My hand shoots out before I can stop it, curling in the fabric of his t-shirt. Desperate. Pathetic. His eyes drop to it and there's no shock there, no flinch, just this weary acknowledgment, like he’d expected me to do it. Like I’m predictable in all the wrong ways. He exhales deep and slow, and glances around the room, anywhere but at me.

“Don’t go,” I rasp, the words scraping out of me raw.

That’s what finally makes him turn. His gaze hits me...worried, yes, but sharp too, edged with something pent up, something biting at the seams. Frustration wrapped tight in restraint.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’ve been here, Jax. You’re the one who keeps straying away.”

And that lands. Because I know he doesn’t just mean physically. He means the way I drift inside, the way I disappear into my own darkness even while he’s right in front of me. He means all the places I vanish to when I can’t keep still long enough to believe I deserve him.

His voice softens, careful. “Was it me?” he asks. “Did I say something? Do something—”

I shake my head before he can finish, jaw locked. “No. It’s me.” My voice comes out thick and weighted with truth that tastes like ash. “It’s always just me.”

He stares at me a beat too long, like he’s searching for something inside the wreck of me. Then his hand moves, freeing mine from his shirt, uncurling my fingers one by one, but not letting me fall away. He holds it instead. Holds me with so much gentleness I almost can’t stand it. Like he knows exactly how fragile I am under all this bone and scar.

“You told me you’d try,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes lightly against my wrapped knuckles, grounding. “Remember that? You said I shouldn’t push, that it wouldn’t get me anywhere. That I had to let you feel your way through this. That you didn’t want to lose it.”

The words carve through me. Because I do remember. And I meant it. And still....look at me.

His eyes refuse to let go of mine, sharp and trembling at once. “Is this what you meant? This is how you’re feeling your way through it?” His voice cracks on the edges, steady but splintered. “Because if it is....I fucking hate it. I hate watching you tear yourself apart, can you fathom how seeing you like this makes me feel, or does that not matter here?”

He lets go slowly, like prying himself away hurts. His hand slips from mine, and with it something inside me slips too.

“Come to bed,” he says finally, voice quiet, steady in a way I can’t be. Then he turns, walking to the bedroom without giving me a chance to reply.

Not that I’d know what to say if he did.