Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 262

Xander's already sinking under....the meds always take him fast, tugging him under like sleep has hands. I can see it in the way his blinks drag, in how his body settles heavier against me. And I hate how tired he looks afterward, how much he resents the pills. If I wasn’t on him about every dose, he’d skip them in a heartbeat.

He’s lying on his side, head on my lap, my fingers working slow circles into his shoulder. “I wish I wasn't on fucking house arrest,” he murmurs, voice slurred with oncoming sleep, “...we could’ve gone out. Celebrated properly.”

I huff a low laugh and comb his hair back. “We can celebrate here. I’ll make something.”

“Mmm.” His eyes stay closed, lashes brushing his cheek. “Bake a cake too. Or something sweet.”

“Whatever you want.”

“No,” he whispers, barely above breath. “It’s whatever *you* want, Jax. It’s your birthday.”

My chest tightens, he’d asked earlier, before the meds fogged him, what I’d been diagnosed with. And when I told him, he just nodded like he’d already made peace with it. He said he’d done some research, had suspected as much, and then he asked me how I felt.

How I felt....

I’d stopped and thought about it, and the best I could manage was, “I’m not sure. A lot? I’m still processing.”

He’d squeezed my wrist, eyes steady, and said, “It’ll get better. You’re doing so well, Jax.”

Now his breathing evens out, his face softens, his hand curled weakly against my thigh. I stay there for a long moment, just watching him sleep. The weight of him against the sheets, the softness in his face, the way his breaths fall in slow, even waves.

And I don’t know how he’s mine. How any of this is mine. He’s everything, bright and grounded and impossible.... the closest thing to home I’ve ever had.

Eventually, I check the time and wince. If I want the food ready by the time he wakes up, I’ve gotta move. I shift carefully, reluctantly, easing out from beneath him. I settle him in the center of the bed, adjust the pillow under his head, tug the blanket up to his chest. I take a second to brush my lips over his forehead. Then I grab the gift box, slip out of the room, and leave the door slightly cracked. Just in case he needs me.

In the kitchen, I set the box on the counter and I lose at least fifteen minutes just going through everything again. Running my fingers over the frames. Turning the journal over in my hands. Smiling like an idiot at the chef’s coat.

It’s embarrassing how soft he’s got me.

Embarrassing in the best possible way.

I place everything aside, exhale, and turn to the stove. I take out the ingredients and start prepping.....rice, aromatics, the basics. I decide on the first thing I ever cooked for him. Korean barbecue. I can still picture his face when he took that first bite. Back then, what’s between us now hadn’t even been a possibility. I never let myself imagine it.

I’m rinsing the rice, fingers trailing through the cool grains, when a knock hits the door. I frown, wipe my hands on a towel, and head over. When I open it, Adam’s standing there. Two bags in one hand, a box of expensive whiskey in the other. He lifts them slightly in greeting.

“Heard it was your birthday,” he says. I sigh under my breath. I'm sure it was Layla who told him. Then I step aside and gesture him in.

He walks past me, eyes flicking around. “Xander?”

“Just took his meds. He’s sleeping,” I explain. “He’ll be up in a couple hours.”

Adam nods. “How’s he doing?”

“Good. Better every day.”

“That’s really good to hear.”

He hands me the two bags. “From Addy and Layla.” Then he lifts the whiskey. “And this one’s from me.”

I’m drinking a lot less these days, not that it needs to be said. I just nod. “Thanks. And thank them for me.”

I gesture toward the kitchen. “I was cooking.” Then I turn and head back, hearing his footsteps follow close behind.

We haven’t really talked, not properly, since that night I found him in my apartment and he tore into me about going back to the hospital, back to Xander. That night he’d looked at me like I was circling a drain he refused to let me fall into.

I set the bags on the counter and lift the whiskey. “You want a glass?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Beer’s fine. Or water.”

I hand him a beer from the fridge before getting back to the rice. He stands there like he’s not sure where to put himself.... he's one of those tall, expensive-looking men who somehow still end up hovering awkwardly whenever they aren't in a board room.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking around the room like he’s searching for the least intrusive question. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Nothing much.” I shrug. “Just mostly keeping an eye on Xander.”

He hums like he expected that answer, takes a sip, then pretends to study the ingredients I laid out. He isn’t subtle, he’s curious, worried, trying not to make it a thing.

“How about you?” he finally asks quietly. “You doing okay?”

I pause for half a beat. The easy answer sits right on my tongue....‘*yeah, I'm fine’.* But I remember the wreck I’d been the last time he saw me. The way my hands were shaking. The way I almost didn’t go back. The way he called me out when I needed it. Not letting me run, not letting me ruin everything.

He’s genuinely asking.... genuinely concerned

So instead of lying, I breathe slowly, Put the rice in the cooker, and move to the counter. I grab a knife and a carrot, and the moment before the blade hits the board, something stops in me.

I turn slightly. Not fully facing him, just enough.

“I’m not very good at the whole friend thing,” I admit, my voice lower than I mean it to be. Adam blinks, surprised. Then he huffs an awkward little laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well....neither am I, to be honest.”

I shake my head. “You’re better at it than I am.”

He scoffs, disbelieving. “Please. I don’t even know what to do with my hands right now.”

He holds them up a little, proving his point, and I manage a small smile. Silence falls again, but it’s not heavy, it’s just unfamiliar.

Then he exhales and leans his hips back against the counter. “The only real friend I ever had was my brother,” he suddenly says, so casually it lands harder. I stop cutting and turn all the way this time.

“I mean, even before prison, I wasn’t social. Didn’t care to be. I studied, kept my head down. I had Liam, and that felt like enough. Didn’t think I needed anyone else.”

His eyes go distant for a second.

“Then he died. And I ended up locked up. And I was, well....not in a great place.”

He taps his beer bottle against the counter lightly, like he needs the sound to keep his thoughts moving.

“Last thing I expected to come out of that hellhole was a friend.”

He looks at me, quick but real.

“But I did. And I’m grateful. More than I know how to say without it being weird.”