Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 75

XANDER'S POV

Two hours. That’s how long we end up wandering the market, weaving through stalls like we’ve got nowhere better to be. I like it more than I thought I would. The smells, the chatter, the way the whole place hums with life. We eat our way down three aisles...stuffed peppers, fried dumplings, sticky pastries, until my stomach waves the white flag. I’m full, stuffed stupid, but happy.

I can tell Jax isn’t entirely comfortable, though. He scowls at strangers like they’ve personally offended him just by existing, shoulders tight, eyes darting like he's looking for escape routes. But he stays. Lets me pull him from stall to stall. And maybe it’s me, but I catch him softening around the edges, like he’s indulging me. Like he wants me to see him here, in the light. I’ll take that as a win.

Somewhere between the third food stall and the egg lady in combat boots, I learn he doesn’t have a favorite movie. Doesn’t watch TV....at all. No favorite song either. When I ask him his favorite place, he doesn’t even hesitate, says it's his kitchen. His favorite food?...Whatever he makes. It's a bit narcissistic, sure. But in a way that makes me grin because it’s also strangely endearing.

By the time we’ve actually finished the shopping, the whole point of coming here, he’s got bags of vegetables and spices and says he'll make something Indian. Bread and curry. My stomach’s still protesting, but suddenly I can’t wait. Because if it’s him making it, I already know it’ll be the best thing I’ve eaten.

We’re heading back when I remember...“My haircut.”

He glances at me, deadpan. “We agreed I’d cut it for you.”

I bark a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “The hell we did. I like my ears attached.”

“It’s hair, not rocket science,” he mutters, adjusting the bags. “I’ll make sure I don’t ruin your future mirror selfies for your horny fans.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “That’s… weirdly reassuring, but only because you're one of them.”

He hands me the helmet when we reach the bike. Just one....he never wears it himself, but always shoves it into my hands like it’s non-negotiable. There’s something protective buried in that quiet insistence that gets me every time. I strap it on, then swing onto the bike behind him. He tightens my grip around his waist before the engine roars to life, like he doesn’t trust me to hold on tight enough.

I lean into him as we take off, arms snug around him, the city blurring past. The wind bites, the world moves, but all I feel is him...solid, unshakable, mine for as long as he lets me hold on.

“Let’s come back here again,” I shout over the noise.

His only answer is the slight tilt of his head, the faintest acknowledgment. But it’s enough. Because in this moment, I’m happy. Pressed against the one person who makes me feel both weightless and heavy all at once.

Back at my place, we drop the bags on the counter, the soft thud echoing in the too-quiet kitchen. Jax shrugs off his jacket, and I tell him I’ll put it away for him since I’m gonna go change into something comfortable.

He holds it out. I take it, and for a beat I don’t move. My eyes dip to his mouth....full, careless, infuriating. Before my brain can argue, I’m leaning in. I kiss him simply because I want to.

When I lean back, my gaze locks on his, pinning him there.

He doesn’t even miss a beat. “You should just take off all your clothes instead. Can’t get more comfortable than that.”

My mouth curves. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “I’d feel more inspired to make something extra tasty.”

I laugh under my breath, shake my head. “Or it’d make you a safety hazard. Can’t have you chopping off those fingers cause you couldn’t concentrate...I happen to like those fingers.” My tone dips, deliberate, dirty. “Planning to put them to better use soon.”

His throat works, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of staring too long. I snag the jacket from his hand, and nod toward the cupboards. “Pots and pans are in there. They’re basically virgins. Never been used.”

Then I leave him there, crossing to my bedroom, biting back the grin tugging at me. I peel off my clothes, change into a pair of pajama pants. I pick up Jax’s jacket with the vague intention of hanging it by the door.

But when I lift it, there’s weight. Something solid pressing the pocket. I freeze.

I shouldn’t. My pulse argues otherwise.

I slip my hand in, fingertips brushing leather. His wallet.

For a moment I just hold it, stupidly heavy in my palm, like it’s some kind of key. Something intimate. Something I shouldn’t be touching.

I tell myself I’m not going to open it.

And still I stand there, staring, every nerve thrumming with the temptation. I tell myself I’m only curious. That’s all. I'll just check his birthday....something simple, something harmless. Something a..…whatever-the-hell-I-am, should know.

The wallet’s heavier than it looks, and when I flip it open, I have to bite back a laugh. Cards, sure—but also a ridiculous wad of bills, thick enough to make the thing bulge. Who the hell carries this much cash in this economy? It’s like he’s perpetually waiting for some grand emergency. An apocalypse. A mob payout. A random poker table in a fucking alley.

I thumb past the bills, pull out his ID. The photo makes me smile, he looks almost exactly the same. And it’s pretty new. Crisp edges, no fading.

October 10th. Three months from now. He wasn’t lying about his age. I file it away. The way you’d tuck a fragile, important thing into the folds of your brain.

I go to slide it back in...and that’s when I see it.

Something folded, tucked into the side pocket. Small. Paper.

Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t be that guy. Don’t dig. He doesn’t give you much, yeah, but he's giving you something. You don’t need to....

But the argument dies fast. Because the truth is, Jax makes me feel like an amateur interrogator every damn day, prying for crumbs he won’t willingly drop. So maybe I want this. Just this one thing.