Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 38

The air shifts. It’s different this time. We both feel it.

Still, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t pull away. And for the briefest second, I almost don’t move. I almost stay. Let myself fall, break every damn rule I’ve ever built around my heart just to be ruined by him one more time.

But I can’t.

Because wanting him isn’t the same as surviving him. So I take a breath that cuts on the way in.

And I let go.

His hands linger at my neck like they’re confused, like they don’t understand why mine aren’t there anymore. His eyes search mine...panicked, maybe—but whatever war is happening behind them, he loses it. He blinks, jaw clenched, and slowly… slowly… his fingers slide off me.

It’s excruciating.

I step back. One pace. Then another.

Each inch of space between us feels like tearing stitches open. Bleeding fresh. My chest is a war zone, but I keep my spine straight. Chin up. Eyes still on him like I’m trying to burn him into the back of my skull.

He doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t make some last-ditch effort to stop me.

Not this time.

My heart thunders like it’s trying to outrun the moment, but I don’t run.

I just turn.

And walk away.

********

I don’t remember much of the day after I walk away from Jax. Just this slow, dull ache in my chest that follows me like a ghost.

Two hours to closing, Layla’s sprawled dramatically across the couch with her arms overhead when I wander back into the front. She stretches and groans like she just did six hours of heavy labor.

“Ugh. My next appointment’s some dude who wants a full back piece to cover his ex’s large ass name. He suggested a demon eating her face, I was almost tempted to go with it,” she complains, flinging a hand toward the ceiling like she’s addressing God directly. “Like, sir, why did you let this woman live on your spine for six years?”

I crack a faint smile. “Sentimental.”

“It’s horrifying,” she says, sitting up. “Anyway, I’m definitely gonna be the last one closing up.”

“I’ll take it,” I say.

Layla blinks. “What?”

“I’ll take the appointment. I’ve got it.”

She squints at me like I’ve just spoken another language. “Are you joking?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I love cover ups.”

Lie.

I love finished cover ups. The reveal. I do not love the hours of careful precision and creative logistics it takes to stitch someone else’s pain into beauty.

But I need something to throw myself into. Something that makes everything else feel far away.

Layla’s eyes light up. “If you’re serious, then hell yes. Thank you. I owe you one. Or, like, ten.”

She kisses her fingers and tosses it to me.

Addy gives me a look across the room.....narrowed eyes, eyebrows raised. Suspicious. I don’t return it.

Eventually, everyone filters out. The shop empties, until it’s just Zig and me.

He lingers by the door, keys in hand, his dark hoodie pulled over his head like he’s halfway to disappearing already.

“Hey,” he calls, voice casual. “Can you take note of what supplies we’re low on? We’ve burned through half the black shading ink this week.”

“Yeah,” I say, absently. “I got it.”

He turns like he’s about to leave...but stops. Doubles back.

I don’t hear him walk, but I feel him looking at me. When I finally glance up from the counter, he’s standing a few feet away, head tilted slightly, arms crossed over his chest.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod once. Quick. Controlled. “Yeah.”

Zig’s not dumb.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak right away. He just studies me the way he studies fresh ink, searching for the flaw beneath the finish.

I go back to pretending to check inventory on my iPad, even though the screen’s still locked.

“It about that guy?” he asks eventually. “The one Layla and Addy won’t shut up about?”

I groan, dropping my head back with a curse. “Those two have no concept of discretion.”

“Nope,” he agrees.

I hesitate, thumb hovering above the screen. I want to lie. I should lie.

Instead, I shrug. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales, slow and thoughtful.

“You know why I hired you?”

I glance up, brow furrowed. “Because Addy and Layla saw my picture and thought I was really hot?”

He snorts. “You were one of twenty portfolios I looked at that week. Most of them had more experience. But I kept coming back to yours.”

I wait. He doesn’t drop compliments often. If he’s talking like this, it means something.

“You had this one piece in your set,” he says, voice lower now. “The one with the stained glass and the phoenix rising through it. Remember that?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He smiles faintly. “I saw something in you. Not just the technique...which, yeah, you’ve got—but the heart. The care. You’re the only artist I’ve seen take a full forty minutes talking a client out of a dumb decision and into a piece that’ll still mean something ten years from now.”

My throat tightens. I blink, look away.

“Two years, and this is the first time you don't seem overly excited about a client."

I swallow hard, jaw flexing. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says, gently.

I press my palm flat on the counter, grounding myself. Breathing feels like an effort. He steps closer. Not too close, but enough that I can feel the weight of his presence.

“You sure it’s done?” he asks. “Whatever it is with this guy?”

I nod. “It has to be.”

He watches me for a beat, then just says, “Okay.”

Not in a way that means he agrees.

In a way that says—I hear you, even if I think you're full of shit.

He still doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, watching me with that unreadable expression he wears when he’s trying to figure out how deep the damage goes.

“Did you like him?”

My jaw clenches before I can stop it.

I told Jax earlier that I think I was starting to like him.

Big fucking lie.

I nod, eyes flicking to the floor, then the counter, then anywhere but Zig.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I did.”

He just nods. “Then it’s his loss.”

I let out a short breath, something that might pass as a laugh if you don’t listen too closely. “I’m okay,” I say, because I know he needs to hear it more than I need to say it. “Really.”

He doesn’t press. He’s not the type.

He just points over his shoulder. “Lock up when you’re done. And try not to overwork yourself into an early grave, yeah? Your mum checks in with me weekly to make sure I’m not ‘working her precious baby boy into the ground.’” He grins. “Her words, not mine.”

I cringe. “ I swear to God. Please block her.”

He laughs, and then he’s gone. I’m left standing there, sketchbook in hand, surrounded by silence and unfinished thoughts.

I like him.

God, I really like him....but it doesn’t matter now.