Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 272

My favorite sound, music aside, used to be the tattoo gun. The buzz, the vibration, the hum that felt like purpose sliding under skin.

Now it’s Jax’s laugh.

Not the quiet one he gives sometimes, I mean the real one. The deep, uncontrollable kind where his shoulders shake and he bends over like the joy is too big for him to stand upright through it.

I heard it for the first time last night when my mum called to say hi and somehow ended up telling Jax about the time four year old me decided my sister's goldfish looked sad and needed a friend, so I scooped him out and put him on my pillow to ‘rest.’ My mum found me sitting cross-legged on the bed, petting the poor thing with one finger like it was a stuffed toy, whispering, “It’s okay, buddy. You’re not alone anymore.”She still finds it hilarious, and for whatever reason, so did he.

And my favorite food used to be a burger. Now it’s whatever Jax makes for me.Which is basically everything, but especially whatever the hell we’re making now. Some recipe from the cookbook I bought him. Something with way too many steps and ingredients that look like they belong in a science lab.

We’re both in the kitchen because I said I was bored and wanted to help. Which just means I wanted an excuse to stay near him like some toddler with separation anxiety. And now Jax definitely regrets letting me anywhere near heat or knives. He’s trying so hard to hide it, but every time I turn around I catch this look....unimpressed, frustrated, borderline pained.

He prepped everything so all I had to do was follow the instructions. I stifle a laugh as I hold the cookbook up. “Okay, next step says.... sauté the onions until translucent.” He instantly steps in. “I’ll do that part.”

“Nope.” I stretch my arm, lightly guiding him back. “Trust me. I’ve got this.” His mouth opens, definitely to say something rude, but he clamps it shut, pressing his lips together like he’s physically restraining himself. “Translucent,” I repeat, grabbing the pan. “Easy. Like tattooing... just with food.”

“Cooking is nothing like tattooing.” His voice is already tense.

“Sure it is.” I drop the onions in and stir them like I’ve seen him do a thousand times. “Feel the moment, be one with the...”

“You’re burning them.”I blink down at the pan. “...No I’m not.” He reaches over and turns down the heat so fast I swear I hear wind. “You put them on high. Who cooks onions on high?”

“Someone who believes in them?” I try.He shoots me a deadly look. “Give me the spatula.”

“No.” I hold it tighter. “I can do this.”

“You’re not stirring it right, ” he mutters, rubbing his forehead like he’s aging by the second. “It literally says gentle stir.”

“I’m being gentle.”

“No, you’re manhandling them.”

I open my mouth to tell him to just have a little faith in me when his phone starts ringing. He pulls it out, glances at the screen for a few seconds too long. That pause snags something inside me. “Hello?” he says, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Yeah. I’m doing good.” Another pause. His brows pull in. “Today?” More silence. I hear nothing on the other end. Whatever the person is saying, Jax doesn’t interrupt.Then, almost resigned, “No.... no, it’s okay.” He shifts his weight, leans a hip against the counter. “No, actually, I don’t stay there anymore.” A couple seconds. “Yeah. I know a diner, I'll send you the address.” A beat. “Okay. See you then.” He hangs up. The pan in front of me is sizzling, probably burning, but I can’t look away from him.

He taps the phone against his thigh like he’s steadying himself before slipping it back into his pocket. “Who was that?” I ask. His gaze flickers, quick and evasive.

“Dorian.”

For whatever reason, my stomach sinks. I force myself to look up, meet his eyes. “He’s here?”Jax nods once. “Yeah. He is. He, uh....asked me to meet up.”

I study him. The little twitch in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. The way he’s suddenly aware of the space his body takes up, like he’s bracing for something.

“You okay?” I ask quietly. He blinks, scoffs under his breath, shakes his head. “Last time we talked, he said he might drop by.... but they all always say that, you know? I figured it was just talk.” His mouth twists slightly. “Turns out he meant it this time.”

I think about everything Jax has ever told me about Dorian, all the emotional wreckage he's gotten tangled in alone. They haven’t seen each other in years. My pulse starts pounding in places it shouldn’t. I hate the way it hits me, but it does. My eyes drop, almost involuntarily, to the ring on my finger. The silver glints in the light

I feel a sharp, warm surge of something hot and vicious and ridiculously tender. This instinct to protect what we have, to keep it close. To not let anything crack it open or take Jax one inch back toward the past he crawled out of.

I look back up at him. And the calm in my voice is only there because everything else is too loud.

“Why can’t he just come here instead?” I ask. The question hangs between us, unmasked. Jax’s eyes widen a fraction, just enough for me to catch it. Shock flashes across his face like he genuinely hadn’t expected that suggestion. He glances around the kitchen, at the mess I’ve made, at the half-burning pan, at literally anywhere except me for a second.

“Here?” he asks, finally looking back at me. I shrug, twist the knob on the burner until the flame dies with a soft click. “Yeah. Why not?” His brows tug together, not defensive, just uncertain. I wipe my hands on the dish towel, then lean my hip against the counter, forcing myself to sound casual even though nothing inside me feels casual. “If he wants to talk, you guys can talk,” I say quietly. “I don’t have to be in the room. I can give you space.” I swallow. “But I’d rather you meet him here instead.”

Because the truth is, I want to be close enough to hear if Jax’s voice tightens. Close enough to walk over if his shoulders go rigid the way they do when he’s frustrated but trying not to show it. Close enough to step in if something, anything, hits a nerve he’s still trying to stitch back together.

I don’t know what they’ll talk about. Maybe nothing heavy. Maybe Dorian will come in, say hi, catch up, and leave like it’s nothing. But if it’s not nothing....If it tilts Jax even an inch in the direction of overwhelmed or upset, I want to be here. I need to be here. Because he’s mine to protect now. Not in some possessive, unhinged way, but in the way you guard something you never thought you’d get to keep. I’m not risking anything that might shake him. Not ever again, if I can help it.

When I meet his eyes, he’s already looking at me like he sees every unspoken thought I just had, every quiet instinct that tied itself around me the second he said Dorian’s name. His expression softens in this barely-there, vulnerable way I don’t think he realizes he’s doing. Then he gives a small, curt nod. “Okay.” He clears his throat, glancing down for a beat before meeting my eyes again.

“I’ll ask him to come here instead.”