Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 73

I kill the engine and let the bike settle under me. Farmer’s market....been here more times than I can count. There was a time I used to avoid it. Too many ghosts hiding in the smell of roasted coffee beans, fresh bread, and flowers laid out in buckets.

Whiskey used to dull that, made the place tolerable. But lately...I’ve needed it less. Today, I don’t need it at all..

Xander swings off the bike, eyes roaming the stalls like he’s soaking it all in. Sunlight licks over him, gilding his hair, warming his skin until he looks like something carved to tempt mortals. He left me hanging in the shower this morning. Gave me a smirk and a low murmur that I was “creative enough to figure something out.” Like I’m some jerk-off artist and that was supposed to satisfy me. I didn’t get myself off. Not because I couldn’t, but because I’m saving it.

He turns, catches me staring. That smug smile curves his mouth, sharp and sweet all at once. “You okay?” His voice carries just enough to sting me. He leans in, eyes cutting. “You look a little… pent-up.”

I give him a look. Around us, kids tug on their parents’ hands, some dog pants happily by a produce stand, and the air is easy.

Meanwhile, I’m burning alive under my jacket.

“Don’t get too cocky,” I say back, stepping closer so only he hears me. “I’m keeping score. Every time you leave me like this, it’s going in the ledger. And real soon?” I let my mouth brush his ear, my smile wicked. “I’ll collect....with interest.”

He pulls back, eyes glinting with that infuriating amusement, like he loves the idea of me strung out and pacing the length of my own restraint.

His laugh is soft, but it digs into me like a hook.

“You and your promises,” he teases, walking ahead toward the stalls. I catch up to him, matching my pace to his.

Then he asks, “Where’d you learn to cook?” Like he doesn’t already know he’s asked before, like he’s circling the question the way people circle something sharp, waiting to see if it cuts.

It's an easy enough question on the surface. But it isn’t...it’s tied up with things I don’t want picked at, not now, not ever. I feel his eyes on me waiting for an answer, but the words stick in my throat like glass.

He must notice, because he slows, hands sliding into the pocket of his hoodie. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t look hurt either. Just… steady. He nods once, like he’s filing away the silence. Then he looks off, and I follow his gaze to the curl of smoke rising from a stall up ahead. Smells like charred meat and spice, rich enough to cut through the market air.

“Can we go check that out?” he asks, pointing, his tone lighter now, casual. “I’m starving.”

Relief stirs in my chest, but I keep my voice even. “Burritos,” I tell him. “They’re good.”

We walk that way, shoulder to shoulder. My guard should be up, but he catches me off balance again.

“When I was fourteen,” he starts, voice calm but sure, “I came home from school one day. My mum was in the living room, working on a painting.” He glances at me as if to measure my reaction, then back ahead. “It was one of those… artistic nudes. There was a naked guy, lying on his side, all stretched out. Not shy about it, either.”

I turn my head, frowning slightly, wondering where the hell this is going. We’ve reached the line, stopped behind a couple clutching iced teas, smoke curling around us. He keeps talking, eyes a little distant.

“She looked up and asked me, ‘How was school?’ like nothing about the situation was strange. But I...” he gives a short, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just stood there. Staring at the guy. Heart hammering. That was when I kinda knew. Not completely sure, but… yeah. I ran straight to my room, slammed the door, and didn’t come out until hours later when I knew he was gone.”

He shifts, tucks his hands deeper in his hoodie. “ Later, when I officially came out at eighteen, my mum reminded me of it. Said that was when she knew. She even told my dad that same night. And when I finally told them, they just looked at each other and smiled like they were in on some joke I wasn't aware of. ”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Then his eyes flick to me. “So now you know one of my stories. Anything you want to share?”

The line moves forward. My pulse kicks up. He doesn’t let me off the hook...just watches, waiting.

I order without thinking about it. “Two carne asada burritos. Extra cilantro. Salsa verde on one, red on the other.” The guy behind the grill nods, starts wrapping them in foil.

I turn back, and there he is, studying me with that look. Not prying, but expectant. Like he really wants to know. That stubborn patience of his....like he’s willing to wait me out forever.

I sigh. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“You promised,” he reminds me, quiet but firm. “Not asking for your darkest secrets, Jax. Just… anything. Favorite song. Movie. Favorite place. Something. I want to know more about the guy I’m into.”

The guy he’s into. Those words scrape against me, sharp and sweet. I sigh, long and rough. Xander doesn’t bluff...when he says something, he means it. And when he says he wants to know me, he’ll keep chipping away until he gets there. That stubborn streak of his, it’s a turn on and a curse rolled into one.

Finally, I give him something. Not much. Just enough. “Worked in a restaurant a few years back,” I mutter. “Picked up some things in the kitchen. That’s how I learned.”

He tilts his head, curiosity sparking like a live wire. I expect more questions but none come, he just nods, eyes narrowing slightly, intrigued. Like he’s peeling back a layer he’s been dying to see under. I feel bare under that look so I glance away.

Since I'm still deciding what I'll cook, I decide to ask, “So what’s your favorite food?”

He's halfway through unwrapping his burrito, his mouth already curved like he’s holding back a laugh. “You’re gonna judge me for this,” he says, eyes flicking toward me, playful.

“It's protein shakes, isn't it?” I say, tearing at my own foil. He scoffs all dramatic. “ It's a big, thick burger. The kind that drips down your hands, grease on your wrists, bun falling apart halfway through.”

I fight a frown and shake my head. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. And you’re right....I am judging.”

He grins, chewing, then points at me with his burrito. “Don’t blame me. My mum was a disaster in the kitchen. She was always experimenting with these Frankenstein dishes I swear she dreamed up in the middle of the night. Half the time it was inedible, and the other half it was… worse.”

“That bad?” I ask, amused.

“Oh yeah.” He smirks, but his eyes are warm, nostalgic. “My dad was better, but he was gone most of the time cause of work. My sister actually told my mum to stop, flat-out. Thought she’d take the hint. Instead, it just made her more determined. Like she was out to prove a point. Endless rounds of… whatever the fuck she was throwing together.”

“So the burger thing is trauma-based?”

“Huh... I've never thought of it like that, but it tracks.” He lets out a laugh, shoulders bumping mine as we walk past a stand selling jars of honey. Then suddenly he mutters a curse under his breath.

I glance at him. “What?”

“I was supposed to call her last night.” He scrubs a hand over his face, groaning. “Completely forgot. She’s probably writing me a whole speech about being a neglectful son. Bullet points and everything.”