Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 37

I wait.

I give him a full ten seconds. Ten heavy, expectant, skin-prickling seconds for him to say something, anything. To meet me halfway, to even give me a damn look that tells me I didn’t just humiliate myself for nothing.

But Jax says nothing.

He just stands there, face unreadable, still as a fucking statue. So I nod. Swallow the knot rising in my throat and say, “Okay.”

It comes out tighter than I want, but whatever.

“Good thing I came to my senses before we pushed it any further,” I add, looking anywhere but at him. “Before I started having stupid expectations you never gave in the first place.”

Still nothing.

I offer him the kind of smile that could cut glass. “Have a nice day.”

And I turn.

This time, I’m walking like I mean it. Straight down the alleyway toward the sidewalk. No hesitation, no slowing down. I can already see the curve of the turn, the street sign. I focus on that. One foot in front of the other. Clean exit. No looking back.

But of course, HE DOESN'T let it go.

I hear the steps before I feel the grip. Heavy boots scraping against asphalt, then fingers curling around my arm—not yanking, just there, firm and insistent.

I roll my eyes at the sky before I even look at him. “God,” I mutter, dragging in a breath. “You really don’t know how to leave people alone, do you?”

I turn back, face tight, lips pressed into a thin line. “Let go, Jax.”

He’s close now, too close. Still holding on, still unreadable, and I fucking hate that I can’t tell what’s going on behind his eyes.

“Is that it?” he asks quietly. “You’re just gonna walk away and cut me off?”

I scoff. Loud. Sharp. “What the fuck do you expect me to do?”

He flinches, barely, but I see it.

“I’m not doing this,” I go on, voice rising, cracking around the edges. “I’m not your fucktoy, Jax! I’m not some outlet for whatever ego trip you’re on. I’m a human being, alright? Not a thing. You don’t get to use me cause I fascinate you or whatever and then walk away.”

His mouth parts slightly. He’s still holding onto me, but softer now. Like he’s listening.

“What do you want then, Xander?” he asks.

My throat tightens. My pulse is pounding. I hate him, I hate this, I hate that part of me still aches under his hand like it wants him there.

“I want you to leave me alone,” I say. Quiet but sure.

He shakes his head. “That’s out of the question.”

My eyes widen. I laugh bitterly. “Are you serious right now? Do you hear yourself?”

He doesn’t respond. Just keeps looking at me like I’m some puzzle he can’t figure out but refuses to put down.

“I really need to get back to work,” I snap. “Zig’s gonna lose it.”

Still nothing. “You’ll be fine,” I add, sharper now, cruel because I need to be. “You just need a pack of cigarettes, maybe a fistfight, and you’ll forget I ever existed.”

His grip tightens slightly, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to say you’re wrong.

“What if I can’t do it?” He murmurs, voice roughened at the edges. “What if I can’t leave you alone?”

I force a breath through my nose. His level of selfishness continues to stun me, does he not see what he's doing to me?! My chest feels too tight. “You have to.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do I.

I look away, anywhere but at him, and my voice dips low. “It’s either that… or…”

I trail off. The words taste dangerous even in thought. I shouldn’t be thinking them, much less saying them. But they’re there. Gnawing at the edges of my control. Pulling at something I didn’t know was this stupidly fragile.

“Or what?” he asks, almost gently.

I meet his eyes again. And I fucking hate how much he’s in them. How much of me is unraveling right now. I shrug, slow and heavy.

“Or we take this seriously,” I say. “No in between.”

His entire expression changes. The teasing lurking in his eyes–gone. That determined look—gone. He goes still, like he’s staring down a bomb with a trembling wire in his hand.

He looks scared, and that, God, that throws me.

“By ‘take this seriously’…” he starts, voice low, uncertain, “what exactly do you mean?”

I hold his gaze. No room for confusion.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His eyes flicker like he’s trying to find an emergency exit, a lifeline, anything. He shakes his head once and takes a small step back. It’s the tiniest motion....but it lands like a punch.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. “I don’t do… whatever the hell you want me to do.”

It shouldn’t sting the way it does.

But it does.

Worse than any heartbreak I’ve talked myself out of before. Worse than all those beautifully packaged disappointments who swore they genuinely liked me and meant none of it.

I try not to show it.

My nod is slow. Final. “Then get the hell out of my life.”

His eyes lock onto mine. We stare.

And damn him...he looks conflicted. Like he wants to argue, like he might say something—anything. But he doesn’t. He just watches me.

My gaze flickers down to his mouth. And it hits me, heavy and brutal: I might never get to taste him again.

That thought is ridiculous. It’s unhinged and overdramatic. But it hurts. Sharp and real and far too deep for what we were....or weren’t.

And despite every rational voice in my head screaming at me to walk away, I step forward.

Then again.

His brows pull in. “What are you doing?”

I reach for him, hand curling behind his neck, fingers pressing into warm skin, familiar and aching all at once.

My voice is low. Wrecked. “Consider it a parting gift.”

Then I kiss him.

I kiss him like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do right. Like he’s oxygen and I’ve been underwater since the day we met. My other hand fists his jacket, pulling him into me like I can somehow undo the past ten minutes with just this.

He makes a sound, deep in his throat, and then he’s kissing me back like he’s unraveling too. His hands slide into my hair, down my back—like he’s trying to map me, memorize me, claim me.

The kiss turns hungry, a desperate kind of sensual, like we’re trying to eat up every second we’ve wasted pretending we weren’t whatever this is. His lips part, and I feel him exhale against my mouth like I’ve punched the air out of him.

It’s messy. Beautiful. A little heartbreaking.

I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against his, my breath short. His hands stay on me. Mine don’t let go either. I close my eyes, let the warmth of him burn into my memory like a scar. My voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and uneven.

“Goodbye, Jax.”