Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 181

Xander doesn’t say anything for a while. He just holds on, tight enough that I feel his heartbeat against mine, like he’s trying to anchor us both to something solid. I don’t move, I can’t. His breath is warm against my neck, steady but uneven, and when he finally exhales, it comes out like a surrender.

When he pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant....his hands lingering at my sides like he’s not ready to let go. I can see it in his eyes, too. That same haunted edge I feel digging into my ribs from the inside. The kind that doesn’t fade when the words stop. I look past him, out over the railing, and my gaze catches on the skyline.

It’s still dim out there, the horizon smeared in the darkness of a morning that hasn’t decided whether to come or not. My eyes find the building. I don’t even have to look hard. I always know where it is.

“It's that one,” I murmur, nodding toward it. “Right over there....Joe's building.”

Xander turns, follows the direction of my hand. The building stands quietly in the distance...all shadow and silence. And still, it pulls something out of me, a rage I can’t name. The kind that lives deep, coiled and bitter. I needed somewhere to pour the anger, so I chose it.

Because at least it’s still here. Still standing when nothing else did.

When he turns back to me, I can tell he wants to ask that same question Nate did. His lips parts, then closes again. He exhales sharply through his nose, rakes a hand through his hair, and lets it go.

“Let’s head back inside,” he says softly.

I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength to. He threads his fingers through mine and leads me through the balcony doors. The air inside is warmer. My hand is still tightly in his, and somehow that simple thing almost feels heavier than everything I just said.

He doesn’t let go until we’re at the bed where he guides me to sit. I do. The mattress dips beneath me, familiar and foreign at the same time. I expect him to sit beside me, but he doesn’t. He stays standing, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. Then he steps between my knees, his movements slow.

His arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me in. The other hand slides into my hair, fingers curling there, grounding me in a way that almost hurts. He presses my head to his chest, and I let him.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing and the faint thud of his heartbeat under my ear.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know what he’s thinking. That this, right here, is all that's left to salvage of me. That maybe if he holds on long enough, it’ll make the ghosts quiet down.

Maybe now that he knows, we can just bury it deep enough to pretend it’s gone. Maybe we can finally leave it behind and move on. Then he pulls back, just a few inches, but enough for the air to slip between us again. His hand slides from my hair to my jaw, and he angles my face up until I’m looking at him.

His eyes hold mine...quiet, searching again, and I feel like I could drown in the depth of them. He looks wrecked. Beautifully wrecked, because he's still Xander. His hair’s a mess, his lashes are wet even though no tears have fallen, and his mouth looks like it’s holding back a thousand things at once....but he's still the most terrifyingly beautiful thing I've ever seen.

And he's real...flesh and breath and warmth. The one good thing I have in my life right now.

I can see it in his eyes...the ache, the tight restraint, the way his chest rises a little too fast. He wants to cry for me. I can feel it, can almost taste it in the air between us. But he doesn’t. He’s fighting it with everything he’s got, keeping himself steady for me. And that nearly undoes me.

I hope he won’t bring it up. Any of it.

The words I said, I want that door closed. Locked. Buried so deep it might as well not exist.

But I know Xander. Unless he lets it out, he’ll turn it over and over in his head until it bruises him. So I brace myself. Our eyes lock, and I can see the words carefully forming behind his silence. The kind that reach straight for the places I keep boarded up. He doesn’t have to say them for me to feel the ache coming, that quiet breaking he does so damn well. I’m not ready for it....not now, not when I’m already falling apart in the quiet, but it’s him.

And if it’s him, I’ll let it shatter me.

He cups my cheek his thumb drags softly across my skin. He leans in, close enough that I feel his breath ghost over my lips. But then he whispers....“I’m hungry.”

For a second, I just stare at him. Then I huff out something that’s supposed to be a laugh but comes out heavier. I smile the kind of smile that feels too full of exhaustion and all the dark edges still cutting inside me.

Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I trace the vein running beneath his skin, and lift his hand to my mouth. I press a slow kiss against his palm, the skin warm against my lips.

“Let’s go make you something,” I murmur.

He doesn’t move right away, just looks at me like he’s standing at the edge of something he can’t bring himself to step into. Then he nods once, and we both stand. The motion feels fragile, like the air might shatter if we breathe too hard. I move toward the bathroom first, the light flickers on and I meet a reflection I barely recognize. I twist the tap, cup my hands, and let cold water crash over my face. It stings where the bruises live, burns where I still feel alive. The ache settles deep, and I let it.

Beside me, Xander brushes his teeth, his reflection steady where mine trembles. I grab my toothbrush, fall into his rhythm, into the quiet domesticity of it. And it shouldn’t feel like salvation. But right now, it’s the only thing that does.

He’s still holding my hand when we walk to the kitchen. I know what he’s doing. He’s giving me something to hold onto, something small and ordinary to anchor me when everything inside feels unstitched. The illusion of normal with something ordinary he knows I love. He’s reaching for the pieces of me that still remember what it means to exist outside the wreckage.

And I let him, because he’s right, I need it. Because right now, pretending is the closest thing to breathing I’ve got.