Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 162

I’ve been here half an hour, sprawled in Adam’s chair. My boots are propped up on his desk, the leather squeaking against the polished wood, and I watch him like he’s some exhibit behind glass. He’s mid Zoom call, full boardroom polish, voice smooth and tone sharp, not a single edge showing. Nothing of the man I know, only the mask he wears so well.

Eventually the call ends. He exhales, sets his pen down, and swivels toward me. He gestures lazily at my boots. “Feet. Off.”

I don’t move. Just lean further back, hands laced over my stomach, studying him.

He sighs, picks the pen back up, then drops it again with a thud. His brow arches. “Alright, what is it this time?”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

He scoffs. “You only darken my door when something’s gnawing at you. And by something, I mean the miracle working tattoo artist you couldn’t keep your eyes off Friday night.”

I shake my head and glance away. “Miracle working?”

Adam shrugs, lips curving like he knows exactly where to land the knife. “Well, he’s got you sitting here like a moody dog waiting for his owner. That’s miracle enough in my book.”

I tap my finger against the armrest in a steady rhythm, the only thing keeping me from reacting. He gestures loosely with his hand. “Go on then. You’re lucky your best friend happens to be an expert in the art of advice.”

My eyes widen a little before narrowing into an amused scoff. “You’re making it painfully obvious you don’t have any other friends.”

“Speak,” he says flatly, “...or get out. The sooner I finish today, the sooner I get to go home.” He throws me one of those smug smiles.

Talking to anyone but Xander feels like trying to speak a language I never learned....my throat closes. The words never come out right, or they don’t come at all. He’s the only one I don’t have to translate myself for. But Adam, if there’s anyone who might understand even a fraction of the shit clawing at me, it’s him. Not because I want to hand it over, but because he already wears that same weight in his eyes.

He doesn’t push. He never does when it matters. Finally, I look up. The words scrape out of me. “I think I’m turning into you.”

His brow arches, confusion flickering before he leans back in his chair. “Turning into me? You mean successful, good looking, and in a stable committed relationship ?”

I shoot him an unimpressed look and drop my feet to the ground. The chair creaks as I inch it closer, reaching across his desk to pick up some heavy paperweight. It’s a glass sphere, smoky and fractured, light bending inside it like it’s hiding entire storms. I turn it in my palm, the weight cold and grounding....I’m stalling.

Then finally, I mutter a curse and place the weight back down.

“I feel like I can’t breathe...like I’m suffocating every time he’s out of my fucking sight.” My voice is low, like saying it aloud makes it real, makes it irreversible.

Adam closes the files and laptop in front of him, setting them aside with deliberate care, and when he finally looks at me, his expression has shifted. Serious now. Measured. He studies me like he’s prying open a door I’d rather keep bolted shut.

“Why?” he asks. Just that.

I shrug but say nothing.

He nods slowly like he already expected silence for an answer. Then his gaze sharpens, one of those assessing looks he does so well. “Have you told Xander that?”

“Not in those exact words.”

Adam tilts his head. “Why not? You’re telling me, and you never tell me shit of substance.”

I shoot him a look for that, but he doesn’t even blink. “What?” he says, almost bored. “It’s true.”

Then, softer but still cutting, “How bad is it? That feeling.” He hesitates, but I know exactly what he’s reaching for. “Is it like....”

Him and Layla, he means. The constant check-ins, the panic that pulls her under if he doesn’t answer quick enough. The way their worlds collapse without the other.

I shake my head.

He doesn’t stop. “Then why?” he presses. “You don’t have to lay it all bare, not if you don’t want to. Just give me something, a general shape, so I know what to say to you.”

I swallow, hard. At the end of the day, everything circles back to him....Andrew. Just like it always does.

“The last time I cared about someone, ” The words get stuck in my throat. “I lost them, unexpectedly. One second they were there. The next—” I cut myself off before the pictures bleed back in. I don’t need them here. I don’t want them here.

Adam leans forward slightly. “So now you think the same thing will happen with Xander?”

I shrug. “What’s stopping it? I’ve got a track record of....” But this time I stop for another reason. Xander’s words echo in my head. Him telling me I'm not cursed. I drag my gaze away from Adam. “His dad wants him to visit home in a couple weeks. Just two days. And I’ve already run through every worst-case scenario there is.”

He picks his pen up again, thumb pressing the lid in and out....in and out, the hollow snap breaking the silence until it’s grating enough that I lift my head and pin him with a glare. He smirks like that was the whole point, then sets it down like he’s won something.

“That sounds like the kind of thing you should be telling Xander,” he says.

I scoff, leaning back, covering the weight in my gut with a sneer. “For being my alleged best friend, you’re surprisingly useless.”

That doesn’t faze him, he just leans in a little, cool as you like. “Look, I get how hard it is to open up about shit like that. Especially to the one person you know will actually listen.” His gaze pins me. “But you thinking something bad’s bound to happen to Xander? That’s bullshit.”

The words hit harder than they should, and I shoot him a look that ought to shut him up. It doesn’t.

“You care about me?” he suddenly asks.

I almost laugh. The instinctive burn of sarcasm climbing up my throat to kill the absurd question dead. But Adam shakes his head before I get the chance to open my mouth.

“No. Just....be honest. You think I believe you stuck around for eight years because you were bored? That you showed up every time I needed you....” his mouth twists into a grin I want to smack off his face, “—even if it was to dump a bucket of ice water on me—”

“That was necessary,” I cut in.

“Room temperature would’ve worked just as well.” He waves it off, softer now, too soft. “Point is, you were there. Even if all you did was listen, scowl, or call me out when I let shit get too bad. You were there. And whether you’ll ever say it out loud or not, that means you care. You don’t keep showing up for someone you don’t give a damn about.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t answer, and he knows I won’t.

“And look at me,” he adds, voice low but unshaking. “I’m still here, better off for it even. Because of you. So if nothing’s happened to me in eight years of you dragging me back from the edge, then nothing’s gonna happen to Xander. You’ll break before he does if you keep thinking like that.”