Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 63

My throat tightens.

" We figured you were just messing around, casual fun... but something tells me it isn’t."

This is harder than I thought it’d be. Addy and Layla know I don’t do feelings. Not like that. And telling my mum was one thing. We talk on the phone, catch up, but our lives are miles apart. Safe distance. But these two? I see them almost every day, some weekends the only reprieve. Telling them isn’t just admitting something...it’s cementing it. Making it real.

And there’s nothing to cement.

So I drag in a breath and tell her, “I appreciate the concern. But I’d really rather not talk about it.”

She nods, says “okay,” like she means it. Starts to turn away, then glances back at me, sharp. "I was curious about how I got home from Obsidian last weekend," she says. "So I asked my building manager to pull the surveillance. Saw Jax carrying me to my place. That earned him some points in my book. Figured he wasn’t as cold as he comes off…" Her voice hardens. "But if he hurt you, Xan, I’ll put him in his place myself."

She pauses, looks at me like she already knows the answer. "And I can see that he did. So even if you tell me to let it be, don’t blame me if my inner bitch comes out when I see him next."

That day I leave early. Addy says she’ll close up, so I take the out. Hit the gym even though I was already there this morning, like somehow another round of pounding on bags will bleed the noise out of my head. It doesn’t. I come home, shower too hot, burn my skin pink just to feel something sharper than what’s crawling under it. Two slices of microwave pizza later, I’m on the couch with three beers sweating on the coffee table, phone in hand.

There’s that damn wedding group chat again. Erin’s domain. My brother’s fiancée has been firing off Pinterest collages like she’s curating a museum. Table settings, flower arrangements, bridesmaids’ hairstyles. She’s tagged me three times already because I haven’t weighed in on “the flatware situation.” Like picking spoons is a matter of national security.

Normally, I’d mute the whole circus, but tonight I need something stupid, anything to keep me from circling back to the shit that never leaves. A distraction, even if it’s torture.

And Erin delivers.

So I lean in. She asked if we like gold spoons or silver spoons for the rehearsal dinner. My future sister-in-law is apparently planning a wedding where cutlery deserves its own political summit. I type... "They’re spoons, not crown jewels. No one gives a shit what color they are as long as they hold soup."

She sends back a polite “haha” but I know she’s rolling her eyes.

A beat later, she drops a photo of three floral arrangements.

"Thoughts? I love the first one but the second feels more “timeless.”'

I write..."They all look like someone murdered a garden. Go with whatever won’t make people sneeze to death."

She'd also dropped a poll about napkin folding styles. Swans or fans. I don’t hesitate. "Swans are origami for people who peaked in kindergarten. Fans are fine. Or better yet, just hand everyone a paper towel and move on."

Then it's...."White or ivory??"

I shoot back..."Aren’t those literally the same color?"

Damien, my brother, tries to play peacemaker. Tells Erin to just pick the one she likes, that they’re all nice.

Then he immediately sends me a text separately. "Wha's with you ? Now I’ve got front-row seats to at least three hours of Erin’s wedding meltdown when I get home. Appreciate it, asshole.”

The group explodes with laughing emojis. Erin insists she’s considering all opinions, but I know her....three years watching her steer my brother like she’s driving stick. She’ll pick what she wants, no matter what we say. Still, I keep firing off one-liners. Every petty gripe, every “choice,” I slap down with some blunt, cutting remark. It’s easier than sitting here with my own thoughts chewing me alive.

At some point I realize I’ve cracked open the third beer without tasting the first two. My phone slips against my thigh, screen glowing. Muscles heavy, worn out from the gym, from pretending I can fight the things inside me into silence.

The room softens around me. My phone buzzes again, but I just lie down on my back and let it fall against my chest. Then I stare at the ceiling too long, like maybe if I keep my eyes open I won’t sink. But I do. Somewhere between the last sip of beer and the sound of my own uneven breathing, I drift. Not because I’m at peace. Because exhaustion finally outpaces the war I’m losing in my own head.

********

I’m half-buried in the couch cushions when it comes...the knock.

At first I chalk it up to a dream, some stray sound my brain’s dragged into sleep, but then it comes again. Sharper. More deliberate.

My eyes crack open. The lights are still on. My phone slips off my chest and lands on the floor with a thud, I fumble to grab it. Ten o’clock. Not late, not early. Just… inconvenient.

The knock returns, steadier this time, and my pulse spikes. No. Not tonight. Not again.

I run a hand through my hair, sitting up slow, trying to will the adrenaline out of my system. My gaze locks on the door like it’s an enemy I’ve got to outstare. I can feel him. Even before I move, I know.

And I’m not doing this. Not putting myself through it again.

Still, my feet betray me. I stand. Cross the room. My breath bunches tight in my chest.

I lean in, glance through the peephole....

And there he is.

He’s standing like he owns the hallway, broad-shouldered shadow filling my view. And like he can feel me peeking, his voice cuts through the wood....low, rough, threaded with something dangerous.

“Open the door, Xander.”

The sound punches right into my gut, and fury scorches through me just as fast. Two days of silence. Two days of being treated like I don’t exist. And now he’s here, like nothing? Like I’m the one waiting on him?

Hell no!

I crack the door an inch, just enough for him to see me and no more.

“Fuck off,” I bite out, my tone razor-sharp, and slam it shut. The impact rattles the frame, the echo reverberating through my chest. Maybe it’s dramatic, but I don't care. He’s lucky I didn’t chain it shut just to be extra.

On the other side, I hear the scrape of his boot, the shift of his weight. Then....

“I’ll wait out here,” he says, voice muffled but certain, like he’s carved from sheer stubbornness. “Knocking until you open up.”

I bark a laugh, humorless, as I stride back toward the couch. “Knock yourself out.......Literally.”

I flop back onto the cushions, tossing my arm over my eyes. My body betrays me, buzzing at just the idea of him out there. His presence bleeds through the walls, heavy, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

And then the knocking starts again. Louder. Repetitive. Relentless.

Each thud drills into me until it’s less knocking and more pounding, a damn war drum beating at my door.

“Persistent bastard,” I mutter under my breath. My jaw clenches, but my chest.... my chest thrums, half with rage, half with something else I don’t want to name.