Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 141

“Used to?” I ask, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “What changed?”

I see it flicker in his eyes—that look that usually means I’ve just hit a wall. End of the line. No trespassing. But then he blinks, looks away, and when his gaze comes back to me, it’s muted, dulled down like he’s trying to smother whatever lives there.

He shrugs, goes back to chopping and stirring, to pretending he can hide behind motion. “Back when I worked at Joe’s restaurant... I only liked the cooking part. Even dishwashing was nice. But when it came to actually talking to customers? Couldn’t stand it. Someone was always pissing me off. Or even if they weren’t, I just...didn’t like it.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s it? That’s why you gave up on your dream?”

He doesn’t answer. But I can feel it, the way that explanation sits too neatly, like the outermost layer of something heavier. Like he’s hoping I’ll take it and leave it alone.

So I don’t. “What else?” I press.

He risks a glance at me. Sees the look on my face, the one that says I’m not letting this go, and looks away again. His jaw works, his hands fumble for a bowl, and he starts dumping in the chopped vegetables like it’s suddenly life or death. His hands are trembling just enough for me to notice.

I should tell him he doesn’t have to share. That I’ll stop asking. But I don’t. I’m selfish enough to want to know, selfish enough to keep pushing, because he promised he’d try....and this right here, these trembling hands and shallow breaths, is him dragging himself to the edge of those trial waters.

When he finally turns back to me, the bowl clutched in his hands like a shield, his eyes find mine and hold. And he says, rough and careful, “I told you about him.”

The words land heavy. I know who he means before he even breathes the name. “Andrew?”

Jax swallows hard and nods. The sound alone feels like it hurts him. “We’d planned on opening one together.” His throat works, and then quieter, more broken, “But then he left.”

The way he says it, left, like the word itself cuts. Like it’s too small a word for the size of the hole it left in him.

“Left?” I ask, even though I already know there’s more.

His mouth tightens, eyes flicker with something sharp and brittle, and then he lets it out in a whisper that could split me in two. “He’s gone. He died.”

And it’s like the air gets knocked out of me. My chest caves under the weight of it, this grief that isn’t even mine but feels like it could shatter me anyway. Jax has lost too much, too many people. It’s fucking obscene, the way life keeps carving pieces out of him like he’s some endless offering. No one should have to carry that much absence, that many ghosts. No one should know what it feels like to keep digging graves inside their own chest just to make room for the loss. And yet he does. And yet he’s still standing here, scarred and angry and impossibly alive, and I want to hold him so tightly the world can’t take anything else from him.

His voice drags me back. “After that, I guess you could say I was in a really dark place. Didn’t want to think about him, or anything tied to him. Including the restaurant. Figured there was no point. I’d have probably fucked it up anyway.”

He shrugs again, but it’s hollow, his shoulders weighed down by something that doesn’t lift no matter how hard he tries to play it off.

And all I can do is stand there, watching the cracks in his armor widen, aching to reach through them and touch the part of him that still believes he ruins everything he loves.

Then it hits me, sharp and ugly—the pang of jealousy toward someone who isn’t even here anymore. Who shared a dream with Jax. Who mattered so much that he can barely get his name out without breaking. I hate myself for it, for being this fucking shallow and self-centered, for wondering what they were like together. If Andrew made him laugh, if he was someone Jax thought he’d spend forever with. I hate myself for wanting to measure up to a ghost.

I shove it down, because this isn’t about me.

“Did you guys have a name picked out?” I ask, voice careful.

Something flickers across his face...soft, almost wistful. He shakes his head, a subtle smile tugging at his mouth. “Never got around to settling on one. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You sure?” I press, my tone more serious than I intended.

He hums in response, a low non-answer, and it grates because I don’t buy it.

I lean back against the counter, shove my hands in my pockets, try to ground myself. “Drinking, partying... those things are easy to leave behind when you find something better.” I give him a look that makes it clear I mean him. “But they were never dreams. Not like when I decided to really go after tattooing. That.... that was fucking terrifying. Thrilling, yeah, like I’d finally stumbled into a purpose. But it was scary too.”

His eyes cut toward me, curious despite himself, so I keep going.

“My first practical piece?” I let out a laugh that’s half-grimace. “Disaster. I still cringe when I think about it. And even now, I’ll sometimes finish a piece, and all I can see are the things I should’ve done better. The lines that could’ve been cleaner, the shading tighter....”

He chuckles under his breath. “Is this is one of your pep talks? You gonna tell me it’s not too late to chase my dream?”

I tilt my head, watching him. “So it's still your dream?”

That earns me a scoff and another shake of his head, but I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes.

I look down at the floor, let the weight of the moment settle between us, then say quietly, “It’s not a pep talk. You know what you want, Jax. Deep down. Pretending otherwise....it’s unfair. To both of you.” I pause, meet his gaze, steady and sure. “But it’s okay. Because I’m gonna work on that.”

His brows draw together, suspicious, almost defensive. “Work on what?”

“Making you hopeful again,” I say, with zero doubt. “Making you daring where the future's concerned. I’ll work on it.”

The silence stretches, he studies me like I’m a piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle in his head. Finally, his voice drops, something like wonder threading through it. “Where the hell did you come from, Xander?”

It hits me deep, because I can hear he means it. As if he’s genuinely baffled by my existence in his life. And I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. I just stand there, soaking in the fact that he let me see this much of him.

I’m stupidly proud of him. Proud that he cracked himself open, even a little. Proud that he’s trying. And for the first time in a long time, I feel this pull of optimism for us....for what we might build together out of all these sharp, broken pieces.