Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 176

It’s a little past nine. Jax’s bike was parked where it always is, gleaming under the dim lights like proof that he’s here. It should calm me.

It doesn’t.

I won’t breathe easy until I see him. Until I touch him.

The elevator stops and I’m already moving before the doors fully slide open. The hallway feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that thrums in your bones. I reach his door, fumble the key he gave me once before it slides in, and I push it open.

Darkness swallows me whole.

My stomach drops, Jax never leaves the lights off when he's around. I drop my backpack by the door and flick the switch. The light floods the room, and I call out his name.

Nothing.

He’s not on the couch, not in the kitchen. My pulse is loud in my ears. I stride down the short hall and push open the bedroom door.... there's lights on in here. The bed’s unmade but he’s not here either.

“Jax?” My voice cracks on it, thinner than I mean it to be. I check the bathroom next and find it empty.

Now I’m panicking, I can feel it crawling up my throat. I head back to the bedroom, phone already in my hand. I call him again, pacing. Running a shaky hand through my hair. My heart’s pounding like it’s trying to break out of me.

Then.....ringing.

Not through the speaker but here. In the apartment. I stop dead, phone still pressed to my ear. I turn slowly, eyes scanning the space until they land on the balcony door.

The sound’s coming from there.

I move toward it, every step heavy with dread. My hand trembles when I slide the glass door open. The cold night air rushes in and it's sharp against my skin.

And then I see him.

He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head tilted slightly down. His phone lies near his leg, vibrating once more before I cut the call and it stops. Next to it, there's an almost empty whiskey bottle, and his old flask tipped on its side.

For a second, everything in me just stops. Relief hits first, so fierce it’s almost painful. Because he’s here, he’s breathing.... thank God. But it twists fast into something else. Worry and fear.

“Jax?”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t even twitch. His eyes are fixed on some point far beyond the railing, as if he’s seeing something I can’t. I follow his gaze out of instinct, but all I see are the muted shapes of the city, a flicker from a window across the block, the blur of a car sliding down asphalt. Nothing that explains the faraway look in his eyes.

There’s a stillness to him, though. A quiet that doesn’t feel like peace, more like a silence that’s holding its breath. I watch the sharp line of his jaw flex. “What're you looking at?”

He doesn’t answer, his fingers twitch against his knee, his shoulders drawn tight like he’s holding something in place just by staying still.

I drop to one knee beside him, the concrete cold and gritty under me. The air smells like whiskey and him. My eyes flick to the bottle, then to the flask lying on its side.

When I look back at him, he finally moves. His head tilts lazily toward me, hitting the wall with a soft thud. His eyes find mine, but they're unfocused, still carrying that quiet storm that’s always there.

“Hey,” I say softly, the word barely making it past my throat. It’s almost a prayer, almost a plea.

He still doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand comes up, slow and unsteady, and he curls his fingers around the back of my neck. Just holds me there, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw like he’s trying to remind himself I’m real. His grip isn’t rough, it’s desperate.

I force a small smile, the kind that trembles on its way out. “Thought you said you don’t get drunk,” I whisper.

His eyes narrow, heavy-lidded, his head tipping slightly as if he’s fighting to stay upright. I slide my hand up to his arm, steadying him. “Come on,” I murmur, “Let’s get you to bed.”

I reach past him to pick up his phone. Then I hook my arm under his, pulling him up carefully. He stumbles, the weight of him slamming into me, and it’s clear he’s wasted.

Just like smoking, drinking used to be his shadow when we first started circling each other. A flask almost always in his hand, a dare in his smile. But somewhere along the way, that shadow faded. He’d stopped reaching for it. Or maybe he’d just learned to hide it better.

Tonight, it feels like it’s come back with a meaner vengeance, like a ghost that doesn’t knock before it enters.

I tighten my grip around him, slide the balcony door open with my free hand, and guide him inside. The warmth of the apartment hits us, dull against the cold seeping off him. His weight leans harder into me with every step.

“Easy,” I murmur, half to him, half to myself, as I steer him toward the bed. When we reach it, I lower him down gently. His body sinks into the sheets, his eyes half-closed but still searching.

I crouch beside the bed, fingers moving without thought as I untie his boots and slide them off. Then I just sit there....watching him.

His eyes are closed now, lashes casting faint shadows across his skin. That look, the one I’d prayed I’d never see again, is back. The tortured kind. The kind that makes his face look carved from something fragile, like grief wearing the shape of him. It used to live there, that look. It used to be part of him. And for a while, it was gone. I’d almost let myself forget it existed.

But now it’s back. And it’s fucking agonizing to look at.

I drag my hands through my hair, elbows digging into my knees. My chest feels too tight, like every breath I take is an apology that doesn’t fix anything.

I inhale slowly.

We can deal with this....whatever the hell this even is. We can get past it. We have to.

I rub a hand over my face and glance back at him again. He hasn’t moved. Then I stand, start stripping out of my clothes, everything mechanical now, I throw them all in a heap near the nightstand. Then I go to him, easing off his shirt, followed by his jeans. He still doesn’t stir.

I leave the bathroom door wide open when I walk in. The sound of running water feels too loud in the silence. I brush my teeth quick, less than five minutes later, I’m back in the room. Back to him.

He’s still in the same position, one arm bent above his head, face turned toward my side of the bed. I slip under the covers beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight. For a while, I don’t touch him. I just lie there, looking at him.

Watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. The twitch of his jaw. The bruises from earlier and the tiny crease between his brows that refuses to smooth out, even in sleep.

And I think, not for the first time, that loving him might be the most beautiful, and the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.