Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 230

He’s late. Twenty minutes, give or take. The beer in front of me’s already gone warm, but I take another sip anyway, the bitterness grounding me in a way that almost feels earned. I glance at my phone, no text, no missed call. I sigh, thumb hovering over his name, ready to check if I’m being stood up when I catch sight of him by the entrance.

He scans the room, eyes sharp but tired, until they land on me. And even from across the room, I can see it....the exhaustion carved into the edges of his face, the heavy kind that I'm not sure how to fix. There are shadows under his eyes, dark and sunken like he’s been fighting ghosts all week and losing. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set, and the sight of him....it fucking hurts.

He walks over slowly, and for a second I wonder if he’s forcing himself to be here. When he reaches the table, he pulls back the chair with one hand. My eyes fall to it before I even realize why, and then I see it. His knuckles are bruised. Red around the edges.

I look up at his face again, searching for signs of something worse...fresh cuts, swelling, anything....but there’s nothing. Which could mean it wasn’t a fight, or that it was and he’s just hiding it better now.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, sitting down. “Got a little held up.”

I nod, keeping my voice even. “It’s okay.”

I grab my beer again, gesture toward his hand with the bottle. “What happened there?”

He glances down at it, shrugs once. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” I echo, lifting a brow, watching him. He exhales through his nose, gaze fixed somewhere on the table between us. “Injured it at the farm. That’s all.”

I want to believe him. I really do. But there’s a flicker in his eyes, just a second of something raw and distant...and it’s enough to make me wonder if he’s lying to me now. The thought hits like a slow burn, because him shutting me out, feeding me half-truths....is not something I can live with.

I take another slow sip, set the bottle down. The silence between us is uneasy, and I can’t help thinking how strange it is, how love can make you ache for someone sitting right in front of you.

I’m trying to figure out how to approach this without making him feel cornered. It’s a thin line....one wrong word, and he might shut down completely. So I keep it easy, let the conversation find its own rhythm.

We order. He reaches across the table without asking, grabs my half-finished beer, and downs what’s left.

Two nights ago, I woke up and he wasn’t in bed. My heart nearly stopped. The apartment was dark and silent, until I caught the faint scent of smoke. Found him in the living room, sitting on the couch, a cigarette between his fingers. He’d said weeks ago he was gonna quit. Not that the smoking’s the real problem.....it’s a bad habit, yeah, but what scared me wasn’t that. It’s that he didn’t wake me. Didn’t even try. Just sat there alone, drowning in whatever storm was keeping him up while I was sleeping.

And every time I ask, he swears he’s fine.

Fucking fine!

“How was work?” he asks, voice tired.

“Same as usual,” I say, shrugging. “Narrowed down the applicants to about five. I’ll schedule interviews next week.”

“That’s nice.”

“We’re supposed to check out apartments in a couple days,” I remind him. “Did you see the pictures I sent?”

He hesitates, thumb dragging across his phone, then he mutters a curse. “Meant to. Got sidetracked.”

I run a hand through my hair. The waitress brings our food, and I lean back, arms crossed as Jax scrolls through the photos. His eyes look heavy, the kind of tired that seeps into your bones. I’m starting to think he’s avoiding sleep altogether, like he’s scared of what waits for him when he closes his eyes.

The waitress leaves, and he grabs the beer he'd ordered, takes a long drink. When he sets it down, he turns his phone toward me, showing one of the kitchens. “That one seems promising.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I figured you’d think so.”

Then I exhale. The whole *take it slow, ease into it, let him open up on his own* thing....it’s not exactly my strong suit. Subtlety’s never been my language, especially with him.

I reach across the table, take his bruised hand, and study it. His knuckles look worse under the light. The other’s fine. I look up and he’s watching me now, still and guarded.

“You tell her?” I ask quietly. “That you’re not sleeping?”

He holds my gaze for a long second. Then lets out a deep, uneven breath and turns his head away. I expect him to either ignore the question or say he doesn't wanna discuss it. But instead, he says, “I haven’t.”

Just that...no edge, no defense. Just tired honesty. My thumb drifts over the bruises on his knuckles carefully. “Why not? You should.”

He makes a sound in his throat...noncommittal and unreadable. Could mean okay. Could mean drop it. With Jax, it’s a coin toss.

I look back up at him. The restaurant’s dim lighting carves soft shadows along his face, tracing the exhaustion that’s settled into him like a permanent mark. “You should take the day off tomorrow,” I suggest. “Get some rest. You don’t look too good.”

“I’m fine.”

*Fine*....the word grates. It’s the same one he’s used a thousand times before, a word that's building walls between us, walls I suspect will break my hands while I try to tear them down. I feel something sharp twist in my chest. “That why you're punching shit?” I ask. “Because you’re fine?”

His eyes flick up at me, guarded but steady. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t confirm it either. I quickly glance at his hand again, then back at him. “That’s what it’s from, right?” I'm really trying not to sound like I’m accusing him of something.

He says nothing, just sits there. Then he gently pulls his hand from mine, and it’s that gentleness that gets to me. It pisses me off more than if he’d just snapped. I lean back, the chair creaking under me. “You wanna talk to me about it then?”

He shakes his head once, slow. “I’ll be fine,” he says, eyes dropping to the table between us. “Just let it go, Xander.”