Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 50

I wake up feeling like I’ve been in a fight I don’t remember losing. My head’s heavy, mouth dry. The first thing I see is the whiskey bottle sitting on the nightstand, a third of it gone.

So much for not drinking.

I drag a hand over my face, groaning. My other hand reaches for the packet of cigarettes next to it. I flip it open, pull one out… then stop and stare at it.

With a sigh, I toss it back into the pack and drop them on the table. I’m not even sure if that’s self-control or just laziness.

I turn my head, eyes landing on the other side of the bed. The sheets are rumpled there, dented where he’d slept. If I breathe in deep enough, I can still smell him....can still feel something I can’t put a name to but it sticks to my chest like a weight.

I roll out of bed, shower, pull on clothes, and drag myself to the kitchen. Every action feels mechanical. I need coffee, maybe something to eat. I’m halfway to the fridge when I remember Adam. Maybe I should check in. Not because I’m some concerned friend. Just because…

Hell, I don’t fucking know.

I yank open the fridge, and my eyes land on the food I made yesterday morning. I’d gone overboard. Half of it’s still in containers.

And that’s when the bad idea starts whispering.

No...I’m not doing this.

Except I’m standing there too long, debating it like an idiot. My hands are already moving before I make a decision, pulling the food out, heating it in the microwave. I grab a thermal lunchbox and some taper ware and start packing neatly, like I’m preparing for a goddamn picnic.

I tell myself it’s just to make sure he’s okay. That I’ll hand it over, see he’s alive, and leave.

I hardly believe me.

Outside, the morning air is sharp, cool against my face as I swing onto my bike. The engine roars under me, the vibration running up my arms.

Not long after, I’m leaning against my bike outside Xander’s building, the weight of the paper bag heavy in my hands. I’ve been here for ten minutes, pretending I’m not waiting, but I know exactly when he gets back from the gym. Give or take five minutes. And I’m never wrong.

I hear him before I see him, footsteps pounding against pavement, the low rhythm of his breath. Then he comes into view, jogging down the street like some cruel test I didn’t agree to take.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

Skin flushed, chest rising and falling, hair damp. He looks so goddamn good it actually hurts.

He slows when he spots me, expression unreadable. Puts the lid on his protein shake, then walks the rest of the way, stopping just far enough that I can’t pretend I didn’t notice him keeping his distance.

“What?” he asks, voice even, guarded.

For a second, I can’t speak. I don’t know which answer will come out, so I just hold out the bag.

He eyes it like it might explode in his hands before finally taking it. Peeks inside, brows drawing slightly together.

“The one on the top is thermal,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. “Keeps the food warm all day. Put the rest in the fridge before it spoils.”

His gaze doesn’t lift immediately, he keeps staring into the bag like it holds a secret. When he finally looks back at me, there’s something in his eyes I can’t name. Not warmth. Not gratitude. Something heavier.

Expectation.

The silence stretches between us, my chest tightening with all the words I’ll never say. So I do the coward’s thing, swing a leg over my bike and fire up the engine.

His expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of something hurt and raw. I gun the throttle and ride away, the stupid taste of regret already bitter on my tongue.

I call Adam to confirm where he is. He says his office. Figures.

When I get there, I head straight up and push the door open. He’s behind his desk, surrounded by a small mountain range of paperwork.

“You sleep here?” I ask. It’s supposed to be a joke, but the way he looks at me… yeah. He actually did.

I cross the room and drop myself onto the couch. He glances over after a beat, eyes dull.

“You look like shit,” he says.

“Don’t kid yourself, you’re not exactly glowing either.”

He doesn’t answer right away, so I let my gaze linger on him. His face is off....drawn, like something sucked the air right out of him.

I tilt my head. “She leave?” The words come out lazy, almost careless. “Heartbreak’ll do that to you. I hear it’s supposed to be really motivating.”

I kick one ankle over the other. He’s barely looked up from whatever stack of papers he’s been pretending to read for the last five minutes.

“Thanks,” he mutters without much warmth, “...for your immense concern.”

I study him more closely.

“And no, she didn’t leave,” he adds after a beat, voice dry. “Technically.”

“Technically?” I repeat, tasting the word like it’s suspiciously undercooked.

He exhales, drops his pen, and runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull the frustration out by the roots. “She said we need some time apart.”

I lean slightly forward. “So… she did leave.”

“It’s not like that.” He straightens a paper that doesn’t need straightening. “She just… wants to get better first. For the sake of our relationship.”

I let out a scoff before I can stop it. “Good luck. Can’t wait for when shit hits the fence.”

His gaze flicks up to mine, unimpressed. “Is that why you came here? To make me feel worse?”

I don’t answer right away, just watch him from across the desk. His fingers tap against the wood, restless. Eventually, he asks, “What the hell’s got you looking all—” He gestures vaguely at me.

“ What do you mean? This is just my face,” I say.

“No, something's up,” he presses. Then a subtle smile tugs at his mouth. “Let me guess—”

“Please don’t,” I cut in, more exhausted than annoyed.

“I’m curious about something.” He leans back in his chair, a thoughtfulness taking over his expression. “You said whatever was going on between you two was nothing.… so why do you look like that?”

I narrow my eyes. “Like what?”

“Like me.” He doesn’t blink. “Like you almost lost something important. Something precious.”

The words hit harder than they should. My chest tightens in that familiar, unwelcome way, and I suddenly can’t stand sitting here under his gaze. I push up from the couch

“I’m leaving,” I tell him, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets. “Just wanted to make sure you were still breathing.”

“It’s okay,” he calls after me. “You can admit you care about me.”

I don’t turn around. “Don’t flatter yourself.”