Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 46

That gets me a look over his shoulder. “Why do you sound so shocked?”

“Because I am.” I put my phone down. Whatever drama had Adam blowing up my phone can wait. This is a bigger discovery.

Jax moves to the sink and starts washing his hands. “Had to leave my bike at that club,” he says casually, I'm hardly even listening. “Told the cab driver I’d pay him if he kept it safe for me. Nothing’s stopping him from doing the opposite, though. If it gets stolen, you owe me.”

I don’t answer. I’m too busy watching him rinse vegetables under cold water, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he moves. He grabs a knife from a fancy magnetic strip, pulls a wooden board closer, and starts working.

He doesn’t chop like some guy who Googled “how to julienne” once. He’s clean, fast, precise. His movements are muscle memory, like he’s done this a thousand times.

I can’t look away.

And God help me, it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. The curve of his wrist, the rhythm of the knife, the focus in his face. He’s not even trying to be attractive, and it’s working better than anything I’ve ever seen someone try to do on purpose.

He glances up briefly, catches me staring, smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and goes right back to slicing.

I lean towards him, still watching like he’s some freak of nature.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?” I ask, because seriously...this is not a man who should look this competent doing anything domestic.

He glances up at me, all slow and unreadable. “Do what?”

I wave vaguely at… all of it. The chopping, the pan that's now sizzling, the easy confidence. “That.”

He just stares for a beat, and it’s not an answer I get, it’s… whatever the hell that is in his eyes. Something raw. Something that makes my chest compress like I’ve just caught a punch I wasn’t braced for. I drop my gaze, whatever’s going on in his head isn’t coming out, so I give up.

“You’re full of surprises,” I say instead. “I heard you had this weird hobby of tracking down restaurants like some kind of food snob, but this?....I never would’ve imagined you actually doing it.”

He chuckles. “You’re overreacting. It’s not that hard.”

“It is,” I shoot back. “You’re looking at a guy who burns microwave popcorn. My stove thinks I’m a stranger. I survive on coffee and takeout.”

"And protein shakes," he adds absently, grabbing a large container filled with rice. The grains so white and thin they look fictional.

I tilt my head toward the counter. “Want me to help with anything?”

That earns me an amused, borderline pitying look. “After you just confessed your serious lack of skills? Not a chance. I don’t let just anyone touch my knives.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Would you let me tattoo one of your clients?” he asks, like it’s checkmate.

I give him a horrified expression. “Fuck no. I’d sooner hand them a Sharpie and tell them to draw it themselves.”

“Exactly,” he says, smug, turning back to the stove. “So you just sit there and keep looking turned on. It’s incredibly motivating.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in, his smirk is lethal. “You’re looking at me like I’m slow-stroking you under the island right now. And if you don’t stop staring at my hands like that, I’m gonna start thinking about other ways to use them on you… ways that have nothing to do with food.”

I want to shoot something back, something sharp enough to wipe that smug look off his face, but instead, a small smile tugs at my mouth. I rake a hand through my hair, glancing up just in time to catch him smiling too...soft, almost like he didn’t mean to....before he turns away to rinse the rice. His shoulders relaxed as if nothing just passed between us.

The whole house smells unreal by the time he's done. Rich, savory, mouthwatering....it’s the kind of smell that makes your brain turn off and your stomach start writing bad poetry. He plates everything with this almost annoying precision, then walks over and sets a tray in front of me.

There’s a whole damn spread, small plates and bowls crowding the space between us. Stir-fried vegetables glossy with sesame oil and flecks of chili. A deep, fragrant mound of rice, not the plain boiled stuff but speckled with herbs and egg and crisped just enough at the edges to make you want to hoard it. Thin slices of marinated beef glistening with that smoky Korean barbecue sheen, a side of kimchi bright and sharp enough to make your mouth water.

I blink. “Uh… what exactly is it?”

“Food,” he says simply, like that answers anything.

My stomach answers for me, growling loudly. Jax smirks, walks around the counter, and drops onto the stool beside me. “Eat.”

I don’t need telling twice. One bite and...holy hell...my mouth is useless for anything but chewing. One bite and I swear, I black out for a second. It’s indecently good. The beef is tender and deep with flavor, the rice nutty and addictive, the vegetables the perfect sharp counterpoint. I’m already imagining myself breaking into his kitchen in the dead of night.

Two more bites vanish before I glance over and catch him watching me. Closely.

I raise a brow. “What?” My voice comes out around a mouthful, not my most glamorous moment.

“I'm guessing you like it,” he says, low and smug.

All I can do is nod, genuinely. I’m too busy letting my taste buds throw a party. He picks up a few more pieces of meat with his chopsticks and drops them onto my plate.

We eat. Quiet, but not awkward quiet. It’s comfortable, which might be more dangerous. My guard doesn’t know what to do with this kind of peace around the guy. Halfway through, I feel his gaze again, like it’s pressing heat into my skin.

I turn. “What?” I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious. My mind instantly goes to crumbs....do I have rice stuck to my face? Oil on my chin? Am I chewing like a starving raccoon?

He shakes his head once. “Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes, because Jax doesn’t do 'nothing.' Not like that.

Then he says it. Not a tease, not a line. Just steady and serious, like it’s the truest thing in the room.

“You’re just… really pretty to look at.”

It’s ridiculous how much that hits. My brain wants to fire back something snarky, but the words get jammed in my throat. He’s never said anything like that to me without the edges of a smirk to soften the blow.

My hand twitches toward my hair, but I stop myself.

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches me like I’m some strange thing he’s trying to figure out, and suddenly the food’s not the most intoxicating thing on the table.

It’s not teasing. It’s not bait. It’s real. And it hits somewhere I don’t know how to guard.

I should say something, I should brush it off, give him grief for making it weird. But instead, I just keep looking back at him, my chest tight, unsure if I’m more terrified he means it or more terrified that I want him to.