Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 261

I lift the lid and my breath snags. There’s.... a lot. Layers of careful folds, shapes tucked into corners. I look up at him. “One thing would’ve been enough. You didn’t have to do all this.”

It comes out softer than I expect, almost a whisper. He just tilts his head, that small, knowing smile forming.

“Think of them as all the birthdays you skipped,” he says. “I figured you were overdue.”

I reach up, run my fingers through his hair, pushing it gently out of his face. His lashes flutter, that tiny tell he never notices he has. Then I turn back to the box.

“They’re all vintage,” he adds quietly. “I wanted to pick each piece out myself, but....” he shrugs little “....I gave Addy and Layla very specific instructions. Ridiculously specific.”

I pick up the smallest wrapped piece. It crinkles delicately as I unfold it. When the metal glints in my palm, I frown, puzzled.

“A compass?” I ask and he nods once.

“So you'll always find your way back to me.”

There's no tease, no grin. Just the raw and warm truth. For a second my throat goes tight.

“Turn it over, I had it engraved,” he adds.

I do, and freeze. One elegantly carved word curves along the back...

*“Breathe”*

Something in my chest caves in. I tuck it quietly into the inner pocket of my jacket...close, right over my heart. Where it feels like it belongs. The next piece is heavier. Book-shaped. I glance at him suspiciously. “Did you get me a book?” I ask as I peel the paper back.

Two books.

The first is a leather journal, deep brown, soft edges worn.The second is...

“A cookbook,” I murmur.

“From the 1960s,” Xander explains, lighting up a little. “It belonged to a chef who worked the kitchens on one of those naval supply ships. When he retired he opened a tiny restaurant in Malta. I looked it up and it’s still running.”

I open it, the pages breathe a faint, mellow scent, something aged by decades. There are scribbled notes in the margins. Little arrows. Crossed-out measurements. Grease stains, corrections, opinions. Someone’s entire life spilled into recipes.

I’m completely gone for a moment. It pulls me under like anything food-related always does.

“Hey,” Xander murmurs eventually, nudging my knee with his. “You can obsess over it later. There’s more.”

I set it aside carefully, like it might break.

Then I lift the leather journal. I flip open the first page and there’s writing.

*“For everything you don't know how to say yet.*

*And it's okay if you never write a single thing, just keep it.*

*–🖤Xander”*

My breath catches. I look at him but nothing comes out. He doesn’t say anything either.

Next are the three empty photo frames. Heavy, ornate brass. He watches me take them in.

“You can fill them with whatever unlived moments you want to remember,” he says softly. “Preferably the really special ones, I recommend you wait it out before deciding.”

I’ve never owned a photo frame. Never had anything I cared enough to capture.

Until him.

There’s one last thing at the bottom, wrapped even more carefully than the rest. I slide the box closer, peel the paper back.

My fingers stall.

I know what this is before I fully see it. The shape, the weight, the feel of the fabric through the wrapping. I can feel his eyes on me...quiet but with a hint of caution, like he’s not sure how far I’ll let this one in.

There’s a small note resting on top. I pick it up first.

*“For your future kitchen”*

My vision blurs for a beat. Finally, I lift the fabric in my hands. It unfolds slowly, clean lines and pristine white.

A chef’s coat. Beautiful and crisp. My name is embroidered on it, elegant and subtle. I can’t move for a second.

Xander scratches the back of his neck.

“That one’s not vintage,” he says lightly. “Didn’t think you’d want some dead guy’s coat. So I went modern. Don’t hold it against me.”

I let the quiet wrap around us, then I think about all the sessions I’ve slogged through, the truths I’ve forced myself to face, the habits I’ve dismantled, the walls I’ve chipped away at.

Therapy has been brutal, humbling.... necessary.

I know I still have a long way to go. Some days, I’m bone-deep exhausted, every nerve screaming for me to hide from the world. But I make myself show up anyway. And every single time, when I see the way Xander’s eyes soften, that quiet relief there, I feel it too...like a tether pulling me forward, reminding me why I keep trying, why I can’t stop.

I remember what I told him. How I’d give him everything he wants. Every single thing. And for that to happen, for him to truly get me, I can’t stay the same. There are risks to take and changes to make. Big, scary ones. The kind that make my chest tighten just thinking about them. But I’m more determined now than ever. Determined to make him happy. Because he deserves it. Because he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I won’t let my fear stand in the way anymore. And then I realize, I’m holding the future he believes I still have.

I move, still holding the coat in my hand, and stand in front of Xander. He parts his legs and, without a word, tugs me closer by my jacket. I settle between them, and I hook a hand at the back of his head, pulling him into me. My other arm wraps around him, drawing him in like I’m trying to hold every piece of him. I take a slow second to just feel him there, steady and alive against me, then I murmur, “She diagnosed me today.... with a bunch of messed-up stuff. Intimidating stuff.”

He tilts his head up, eyes searching mine. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks gently. Every other time him or someone’s ever asked, I’d have snapped no. Even now, the old instinct tugs at me, that urge to shut it all down..... But I don’t. I nod, just a little, letting him know I’m not shutting him out this time, that I’ll fight to keep him close, to let him see me even when it’s messy or painful, because he deserves that honesty, always.