Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 136

I trail after him, slower than I should, his words still clawing at me from the bathroom,.every one of them sharp and true, the kind that leave a sting long after. He’s already pulling on sweats, a hoodie half-zipped, shoes in hand as if his body knows the motions even while his mind’s still somewhere else. He sits on the edge of the bed, bends to lace them. And I just stand there for a beat, watching him in silence like some pathetic shadow.

When I finally force myself closer, the mattress dips under my weight. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t falter. Just loops one lace over the other calmly, like I’m not sitting inches away unraveling piece by piece.

The question claws its way out before I can stop it, quiet but jagged.“Do you ever wish you hadn’t started liking me? Then you wouldn’t be dragged into all this shit I carry.”

That’s what makes him stop. Hands stilled halfway through a knot. He goes still, then slowly straightens, turning toward me. And the pull in my chest is instant and fucking brutal. I really want to fold into him, bury my face against his neck, cling until I’m part of his heartbeat. My hands fist tight against my thighs instead. I look away, because if I don’t, I’ll give in.

“Jax,” he breathes. Just my name, but it’s thick with something that makes my throat ache. He exhales hard, and then his eyes find mine again. Cutting through everything I try to hide.

“Liking you wasn’t some choice I sat down and made. It just.... happened. I saw it coming from miles away, and I let it. Because I knew I couldn’t stop it, even if I tried.” His voice dips lower, weighted with truth. “But even if it had been a choice, I’d still make it. Over and over again. Emotional rollercoaster and all.”

The words slam into me, heavy and bright all at once, like I don’t know whether to break down or fall to my knees. How is he like this....so fucking perfect in all the ways I don’t deserve? I feel the ache in my ribs every time I breathe, but none of it compares to this new ache, the one that wants me to let go of every guard and just lean into him. Forget the rest.

He tugs the lace tight, double-knots it, then straightens. He turns toward me, and before I can brace for it, his hand comes up, warm and steady, cupping my face. His thumb grazes my cheekbone, and I feel how careful he’s being, like every bruise is a map he’s tracing, cataloging the damage I let happen. His eyes linger on the cut near my brow, then lower to the swelling along my jaw. The affection in him sharpens, written across his face so bare and unguarded it knocks the air out of me.

“I’ll put more ointment on you when I get back,” he murmurs, voice firm as if it’s not up for negotiation.

Then he leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead. It’s not quick, not distracted—it’s a kiss that lingers, reverent and steady, his mouth resting there long enough that I close my eyes against the weight of it. Like he’s claiming me, reminding me I’m still worth this kind of softness. When he pulls back, I feel colder instantly.

He studies me for a beat longer, then asks, “You need anything? I can stop by the store on my way back.”

The words lodge in my throat. What I need is him, his arms around me, his steadiness to drown out the noise in my head. But that’s selfish, so I bite it back. Shake my head instead. “No. I’ll go grab what we need.”

His brows pinch faintly. “You sure? The weather’s shit.”

I force a nod. “I’m sure.”

He searches my face like he doesn’t quite believe me, then lets out a small breath and nods. “Okay.”

I watch him move across the room, toward the door, pulling his hood up with one hand. My lips part, something on the verge of breaking free, but before I can find the words, he beats me to it. His hand hovers at the lock, his back still to me, voice quiet but clear, cutting through the hush of rain outside.

“Jax... talking about your past and talking about how you feel are two very different things. You can do one without the other.” He exhales, and I feel it shiver through him. “Take last night, for example. You could’ve just told me. Told me you weren’t okay. Told me you needed to go. Preferably to my face.”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to look at me without turning all the way. “And I would’ve figured it out. What to say, what to do. But instead, you shut down. You curl in on yourself so tight there’s no way to reach you. You just vanish on me. And I’m left wishing you’d said something. Anything. That you weren’t okay. That you needed space.”

His voice falters for a second, but he pulls it back again.

“I'm no expert, but I think that’s what a relationship is. Communicating, showing up for each other even when it’s messy. Otherwise…” he trails, then finally says it, quiet but sharp, “otherwise we’re just stalling until this crack between us splits into a crater. And when that happens, there’ll be no way left for me to reach you.”

His hand hovers on the doorknob, then he glances back at me. “I cleared out a drawer for you,” he says quietly. “Top one on the right.”

The guilt burns. Because all this time, all I’ve done is take. His patience. His hope. His steadiness. He keeps showing up, again and again, I'm forcing him to patch me up because I can’t stop destroying myself.

The thought circles, relentless... how many more days before he decides he’s had enough? Before this patience he carries like a shield finally fractures?

Because God help me, if I lose this, if I lose him....I don’t think I’ll survive it.

The words bleed through me, sinking into cracks I didn’t know were still open. But with them come others....Nate’s voice, sharp in my memory. Adam’s too, quiet but weighted.

He finally leaves the apartment, and the silence he leaves behind presses in on me like a weight. I pace the living room, restless, every step loud against the floor. I tell myself to breathe, to calm the hell down, but nothing works. I get dressed and head to the store, hoping maybe the freezing air will shake something loose. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes me more aware of just how close to the edge I am.

Back inside, the quiet feels worse. I unload the bags, and before I know it I’m pulling out flour, sugar, eggs... muscle memory takes over.

The walls feel like they’re closing in tighter with every stir of the spoon. My chest aches. I feel everything too much when it comes to him, every thought hitting me like a fist.

And I know, I can’t keep doing this to him. Not if I want to hold onto this. Somehow, I’ve got to be better. I don’t know how yet, but I have to.