Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 77

Steam from the kitchen drifts faintly into the bathroom, heavy with the scent of butter and toasted flour. I’d stood there watching him earlier, rolling dough like he’d been born with flour on his hands. Patient, precise, maddeningly steady. And now those same hands are holding scissors way too close to my head.

I’m perched on the edge of the counter, knees braced tight, back pressed to cool tile. The mirror catches us both...me looking like I’m preparing for execution, him standing behind me, jaw carved in concentration.

He tilts my chin with two fingers. Gentle. Too gentle. My pulse stumbles. Jax spritzs water through my hair, combing it through with his fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The scissors gleam when he raises them, wicked in the light, and suddenly I’m regretting every decision that brought me here. “You ever actually cut anyone’s hair before?” I ask, trying to sound casual but hearing the edge in my own voice.

For the briefest second, his focus slips...scissors poised, eyes flicking down to my face. Just a flicker, but I catch it. His gaze locks with mine in the mirror, dark and unreadable.

“I have,” he says simply, voice a shade lower than before. Then his eyes are back on my hair like nothing happened. But it did. I felt it. Something weighted in the way he said that, like it wasn’t just an answer but a memory. A ghost I’m not supposed to see.

And here I am, overanalyzing like a lunatic. Was it the guy from the photo? The one carved into him so deep he can’t hide it? I curse inwardly, throat tight. I told myself I wouldn’t ask. I told myself I’d let it go.

I will. I swear I will.

Except the curiosity sits in my chest like a splinter, sharp and unmovable, every careful snip of his scissors pressing it deeper.

He combs through again, fingers grazing the back of my neck, and it’s ridiculous...absolutely ridiculous, that such a small touch makes my breath stutter.

“You’re fidgeting,” he mutters, almost amused.

“I’m not,” I lie instantly, staring at our reflection like it can back me up. The mirror, traitor that it is, shows my knee bouncing.

Jax doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, his stare stays pinned on me like he’s trying to see if I’ll twitch first. Every so often I glance up, catch him, and look away just as fast. Not because I can’t handle it. It’s what’s behind it that keeps me second-guessing...the way his eyes flash like he’s already bracing himself for something I haven’t even said yet. Like he knows I’m thinking too much, knows I’m going to ruin the air with some dumb question.

I feel the nudge of his knuckles, guiding my chin to tilt. I obey without a word, swallow down the instinct to talk. My brain’s doing laps though. The question is stupid. Childish. The kind of thing that clings to your ribs even when you tell yourself to let it go.

I can’t help tracking the lines of his face, the way his mouth pulls slightly when he concentrates. Eventually, he notices. His voice is low, careful. “What?”

My lips pull into something between a grin and a grimace. “Nothing.”

He arches a brow, waiting.

I sigh. “It’s nothing. Just… you’re not, like—mad at me or anything? About earlier?”

His silence is so complete it might as well be laughter. He keeps working like I didn’t even open my mouth, like my question got caught in the buzz of the scissors and dissolved. He doesn’t give me a look, doesn’t throw me a bone. Just trims, angles, checks. Like I’m background noise.

I almost push, but then he stops. His gaze drops from my hair to my face, and when his eyes find mine, they’ve got that weight....that unique, unbearable intensity that belongs only to Jax.

And then, out of nowhere, he says...

“I was in foster care for a while.”

It hits me sideways. I blink, because it’s not what I expected, not even close. His voice is steady, but there’s something frayed beneath it.

“Got bounced around a few places,” he goes on, like he’s just listing facts, like it doesn’t mean anything. “That’s why when you ask where I grew up, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not really sure myself.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. He just gave me something I didn’t even ask for, and I’ve got no words worth giving back. The weight of it sits between us. I’ve got a thousand things I want to say, but all I manage is silence.

He doesn’t wait for me to catch up. “You can dry your hair now,” he says, voice clipped, already stepping back. “I’ll check on the food.”

He makes it to the door before he stops, one hand braced against the frame. His shoulders rise, fall. Then he glances back at me, eyes darker than the rest of him.

“I’m not mad,” he says, “But I hope you remember the part about not asking. Because if you do…” His mouth twitches...not a smile, not anything close. “You’re not gonna get an answer.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me with a hundred things I want to say but can’t, and the sharpest ache in my chest I’ve ever felt.

********

About twenty minutes later, I’m sprawled on the couch, phone angled just right so I can check out my new haircut in the front camera. I tilt my head left, then right. He actually did a good job. My hair’s sitting neat, clean lines where there used to be chaos.

I’m not letting anything screw with today. He gave me something earlier, words he didn’t have to share, and I’ll take it for what it is. A step forward. Doesn’t have to be perfect, just enough to remind me the wall between us isn’t as solid as it feels sometimes.

The smell hits me before I hear him...the deep spice of curry, warm bread, something rich that’s been simmering low on the stove all this time. My stomach growls, traitorous. Jax strides in carrying a tray like some domestic fever dream, sets it down on the coffee table, and drops onto the couch beside me.