Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 175

The words hit me like a body blow, low and brutal. I can see it, too clearly.....Jax with smoke on his skin, rage clawing out of him because grief had nowhere else to go. Nate keeps talking, but it’s like I’m hearing him through water. “And I know people process grief differently, but he wouldn’t even let anyone near him.” he adds.

My throat burns, and my chest feels too tight. I stare at the broken glass glinting at our feet, at the faint reflection of the overhead light trembling on the floor. Every piece of it feels like him....sharp edges, dangerous beauty, too much pain packed into something fragile.

I swallow hard and stand there, feeling that same helpless ache I did hours ago, when Jax looked at me and said he needed the pain.

Nate goes quiet for a while after that, his expression darkening, like the memories he’s pulling from are heavy enough to leave marks. When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer, but rough at the edges.

“It’s not healthy,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere far past me. “What he does....what he doesn’t do. He never grieved, you know? And now it’s just eating him alive.”

He lets out a slow breath, thumb rubbing absently over his knuckles. “Everyone thinks he visits their graves...my brothers, that is, they think he goes out there, talks to them or whatever.” He shakes his head. “But he doesn’t. He can’t.”

Nate laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “It wasn’t even his fault, none of it was. But any time someone tried to tell him that, he’d either shut down completely or go feral. So eventually, we all just stopped telling him he wasn’t to blame. And I think....” He looks at me then, eyes heavy with regret. “I think he started to believe he was.”

Something in my chest twists painfully. I thought I was past that raw, trembling feeling I had earlier, past the urge to shatter or to just cry until it all empties out. But now it’s creeping back in, slow and insidious, like smoke curling under a door.

Nate shifts his weight, reaches up to scratch the back of his head. “I guess what I’m really trying to do here,” he says, voice uncertain, “....is ask you to look after him.”

My breath catches.

“Emotionally, I mean,” he adds quickly, forcing a half-smile. “God knows he doesn’t need anyone’s help in a fight. But with all the other stuff? The mental, the emotional shit.....” He trails off, exhaling hard. “He’s just not okay, Xander. I think you know that.”

I don’t answer, I don’t have to. The silence says enough. He gives me a small, lopsided smile, eyes dim. “Anyway. I’ll get out of your hair.”

He turns toward the door, and I still can’t find the words. My mind’s already miles away...on Jax, on the look in his eyes when I told him he'd have to choose. I wish I was with him right now. I wish I could hold him the way I didn’t let myself earlier.

Nate’s hand hits the doorknob, and he hesitates. Turns around slowly, wearing a cautious smile.

“So, uh,” he starts, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly again, “....any chance you could loan me, say, twenty-five grand?”

I blink. “What?”

He holds up his hands, grin widening a little. “Just asking. I’ll pay you back with interest–”

“No,” I say firmly before he’s finished. Struggling to believe his nerve.

He laughs softly, like he expected that. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

He lingers there for a moment, then offers a small, genuine smile. “Bye, Xander.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The room somehow feels heavier once he leaves. And all I can think about is Jax, what he’s been through, what he’s still fighting. I stare at the envelope Nate left behind, feeling that ache spread deeper in my chest.

I count the hours before my client shows up. Too many. Way too many. Especially now when each minute drags like it’s weighted with boulders, slow and merciless. I sink down into the chair again. I can’t even ask Addy or Layla to cover for me, they’ve got clients of their own. Not to mention they don't particularly like me too much right now.

So I'm stuck waiting like it’s a punishment. My hands curl into fists on my knees, jaw tight, trying not to let the frustration bleed into something ugly. It’s agonizing, how long before I can leave, before I can finally get to him. And I hate it. Hate that I have no control. That I can’t do anything but sit here and burn in the thoughts of him.

I eventually drag myself back to my station, shoulders heavy, phone in hand, and type out the message almost automatically... *‘Did you get home okay?’*

I wait. And wait. And nothing, no reply. Not even a quick “yeah, I’m good.”

Jax always texts me back. Always.

I call and it rings thrice before going straight to voicemail. My chest tightens, stomach twisting in that low, gnawing way it does when dread creeps in uninvited. I try again, same thing.

Every second I stare at the screen, my mind refuses to stay rational. It skips over the mundane possibilities too fast and lands in the worst ones. My fingers curl around the phone like it’s a lifeline, heart hammering, and I feel that sharp, panicked edge gnawing at me.

I hate how powerless I am.

And then the guilt creeps in, slow and insidious. Maybe I pushed too hard earlier. Maybe I went too deep, asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, forced him to confront things he wasn’t prepared to. My stomach knots tighter at the thought.

Did I make it worse? Did I make him feel cornered or judged or like he couldn’t breathe? I run a hand over my face, jaw tight, mind spinning. Every word I said, every look I gave.....was it too much? Too raw? Too honest?

And somewhere beneath the worry, the fear, the dread, there’s a quiet, stinging voice whispering the thing I don’t want to admit....maybe I’m actually the worst boyfriend in existence. Maybe I’m failing him even when all I want is to hold him, to keep him safe and be enough.

I recall the conversation and realize that I somehow made his pain about me.

I lean back in the chair, head tilting to the side, eyes on the phone I can’t stop checking, and I hate that I can’t fix this. Hate that I love him this much because it only makes every silent minute feel like a judgment on me.

Nate’s words keep replaying in my head, sharp and relentless. He didn’t cry.... he shut everyone out.... he let himself believe he was to blame.

It’s clawing at my chest, twisting me up inside, and I can’t do a damn thing to make it stop.