Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 62

XANDER'S POV

Four hours. That’s how long I’ve been sitting here, shading the hell out of some mystical character across some guy’s ribs, pretending my hand doesn’t want to tremble. Four hours of ink and needles and fake focus, when really my head’s been somewhere else....gone, chasing someone who apparently doesn’t give a shit about being found.

Jax.

The last time I heard his voice was Wednesday, after lunch. Two days ago. Which sounds short until you’re the idiot replaying every word he said like it was worth cataloguing. Now it’s Friday. My texts? Left to rot. My calls? Straight to voicemail. He’s vanished, like pulling disappearing acts is some kind of personal talent. And it shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t dig under my skin this deep. But it does.

I drag the machine along another curve, the hum filling the silence between me and my client’s clenched teeth. Concentration, somehow, is still there. No idea how.....I should be shaking, should’ve blown it by now. Instead, I’m carving out perfect gradients while my chest feels like someone’s been carving me.

I hate him.... Or I want to. God, I want to. Hate that I was stupid enough to think this was worth a damn shot. Hate that I let myself buy into something so doomed it practically came with a neon sign flashing 'Don’t'. But I did, and now look at me, twisting myself up while he ghosts.

And the worst part? I can’t even comfort myself with that whole 'at least I tried' nonsense. Tried what, exactly? No. What I’ve got is regret, ugly and heavy and clinging to me like second skin.

This morning was it. My last call. My last attempt. I’m done forcing this. He wants to disappear? Fine. Let him.

At least that’s the story I’m sticking to while I clean the blood off the needle, because the truth is I already know I’ll keep checking my phone like a masochist.

I finish the tattoo, wipe down the last streak of ink, and force a smile for the client that feels stitched on by a drunk seamstress. I shouldn’t be able to focus this well, but apparently heartbreak and precision go hand in hand.

The client leaves. Zig's not in today, Layla left to go visit Adam and Addy is over at her station, literally sleeping. The silence wraps around me like it’s been waiting. I wander to the backroom, the little graveyard of spare supplies, and drop myself into the chair I dragged in here two years ago when I was hired. My unofficial throne of contemplating. The room is dim, shadows in the corners, and I don’t bother flicking the lights on.

Darkness feels honest right now.

I almost went to his place last night. Two steps out the damn door before I stopped myself. I pictured it...him opening the door, looking at me like I was some stray mutt he never invited, telling me to leave. And that… that would’ve gutted me worse than this silence. Ghosting hurts, yeah, but at least it leaves space for imagination. Him saying it straight would’ve been the final nail.

What kills me is the lack of closure. A single line, even something cruel...“stop trying, I don’t want this”...would’ve been easier. Instead I’m left pacing in my own skull, wondering what I did wrong, what I said, if maybe I leaned too far in too fast. And God help me, I care about him enough to be worried, too. Is he okay? Did opening up about his parents on Wednesday push him over some edge he didn’t tell me about? Did I pry too much, or did I not pry enough?

This sucks. There’s no better word. It sucks in a way that’s sharp and stupid and unfair. And the worst part? Even after being ignored, after being left hanging like an idiot, I’d still pick up the phone right now if he called. I’d still go. Because somewhere in the mess, under the ache, I actually give a damn about him.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy, that caring this much feels like bleeding into a void, waiting for an echo that never comes.

The knock is soft, almost tentative, but it cuts through the dark like a gunshot.

“Xander?” Addy’s voice slips through the crack before she does, the door creaking open just enough for her head to poke in. “What are you doing in here… brooding in the dark like some tortured poet?”

Normally, I’d have a comeback for that. Today, I can’t even lift the corner of my mouth.

I see her hand move for the switch, hesitating right before it clicks. Her fingers hover there a second, then she sighs and lets them fall. Instead of flooding the room with light, she pushes the door wider and steps in.

She bumps into something on the floor, curses, and stumbles with a scrape of shoes against the wood. " For fuck's sake, Xan. I get that you wanna be alone, but you didn't have to set obstacle courses on the damn floor!"

Despite myself, my lips twitch, but it dies before it becomes a smile.

She makes it across the room, finally reaching me, arms folding across her chest as she stands above me. Her shadow cuts into the slice of light leaking through the blinds. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks down at me, waiting.

I keep my eyes forward until it’s unbearable, until the silence stretches so thin it threatens to snap. Finally, I turn my head toward her. “What?”

That gets her moving, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her jaw set tight. “That’s it. I’m done watching you wallow in silence. You’ve shut us out, Xan. And I thought...hell, I thought we were closer than that.”

Her voice is steady, but I catch the crack buried underneath.

She goes on, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “Look, I get it. If you just want to bottle it all up and play Mr. Mysterious...fine. Whatever. But I’ve done this before with Layla. Way before you even got here. And trust me, keeping it locked up? It doesn’t help. At least Layla’s dragging herself to therapy. You? You’re just walking around looking like a damn zombie.”

Her words hit harder than I expect. I almost laugh at the accuracy.

She exhales, softer this time. “I don’t just want to be there when you wanna get wasted. I’m actually really fucking good at listening, you know. Despite how I come off.”

Her hand finds my shoulder. Warm. Solid. She squeezes, not too tight, just enough that I feel it.

I stare at the floor, throat dry. Where the hell would I even begin? What words would come out of my mouth if I opened it?

She tilts her head, searching my face. “So.” Her tone softens, but there’s steel underneath. “What did the jerk do?”

The corner of my chest caves in, sharp and sudden, because she says it like she already knows.

Before I can open my mouth, she lifts a hand, palm out, warning me not to dare. " Don’t you deny it", she says, eyes pinning me. "We know there’s something happening between you and Jax. No point pretending."