Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 78

I take in the sight of the spread. “Keep this up and I’m gonna get used to having my own personal chef.”

That almost-smile tugs at his mouth, but it’s darker this time, sharper. His gaze drops to my lap, lingers until my pulse spikes, then lifts. “If I wanted to keep you spoiled, it wouldn’t be with food. I’d make sure you couldn’t even think about eating.”

Heat darts straight down my spine. I grab the remote like it’s a weapon.

He hands me a plate stacked with curry and bread before grabbing his own. He sets the extra plate of bread between us and I drag the coffee table closer, set the bread on it, and then I edge closer to him.

He leans back, plate in hand, as I flick the screen alive. I know he’s not a fan of TV, said so flat-out earlier, but the silence is starting to feel heavy. I scroll through options, my thumb hovers over Ink Master...safe choice, my comfort show , but then I pause, glance sideways at him.

“You know,” I say, “there’s a ton of cooking shows. Seems like something you'd be into, should I put one on?”

He looks at me like I’ve just offered to read him the dictionary. “I only find food interesting when it's in front of me.”

I go to argue back, but then my phone rings. Loud, sharp. A FaceTime call.

I glance at the screen, and my stomach dips. Damien.

“It’s my brother. Gotta take this.” I stand, phone in hand, and retreat to the kitchen like I need cover.

The smell of rice greets me, steaming on the stove, rich and layered. I frown at it as I swipe to answer.

“Hey,” I say.

The first thing out of Damien’s mouth is.. “You’re an asshole.”

I nod solemnly. “Yeah, I got that from your text. You know, the one where you very subtly called me an asshole.”

He’s on a treadmill, sweating, running like it’s a competition with death. People used to say we looked alike when we were younger...same mouth, same jaw. Not anymore. He’s got the whole “mature adult” aesthetic now. Respectable and stable, running the musical instruments shop my dad opened up years ago.

He drinks from a water bottle, then, like always, he asks “So, what have you been up to?”

I sigh, turning towards the entrance and wanting to desperately get back to Jax.

"Work, mostly. Little partying, nothing wild. Unlike you, Mr. Planning a wedding.”

“Don’t even.” He grimaces mid-stride. “By the end of this, I’ll have PTSD. Someone’ll say the word reception in passing and I’ll dive under a table.”

I snort. “Yeah, bet you'll be twitching at the sight of floral centerpieces.”

He laughs, short and breathless, then his grin sharpens. “Speaking of twitching… I hear you’re hopelessly in love with some guy.”

My hand goes straight to my freshly cut hair like that’ll hide the heat climbing my neck. I shake my head, muttering, “Let me guess. You talked to Mom.”

“Yap. She called me this morning, said you’re too busy swooning over some mystery man to call her.”

I sigh hard, tilt my head back against the cabinets. “Leave it to Mom to make me sound like I’m writing poetry in the rain.”

Damien smirks through his jog. “Well? Is it true?”

I lower the phones volume a bit and answer . “Of course it’s not true—” My mouth stumbles before my brain catches up. “I mean, there is someone. But it’s not nearly that advanced. We’re still… getting to know each other.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows jump. “Where’d you meet him? What’s his name? What does he do for work?...”

I narrow my eyes at the screen. “You all need to quit meddling in my life.”

Damien gasps theatrically. “Oh, excuse me for having this bizarre thing called interest in my little brother’s happiness. Next time I’ll be sure to sit quietly and not give a damn.”

“Don't be dramatic.” I sigh.

He grins. “So? You bringing him to the wedding? I’m curious. Would like to meet the poor bastard who signed up for you.”

“That’s my cue to hang up.” I stab at the screen. “Lay off me, Damien.”

“Love you too,” he sing-songs, but I end the call before I can roll my eyes into another dimension.

By the time I walk out of the kitchen, Jax is there.

Leaning against the wall, arms folded, head tipped just enough that those sharp eyes catch mine. Watching me. My pulse skips, betraying me, and I hate that he can probably see it written across my face. It feels like he’s pinning me in place with nothing more than his stare.

“You tell your family about me?” he asks, voice low.

My chest tightens, and I’m pretty sure it’s visible, like my ribs have given away the secret I won’t. “Were you listening in on my phone call?”

“That depends.” He leans in, his mouth tilting with that maddening mix of challenge and promise. His stare pins me harder than Damien’s questions ever could. “Are you hopelessly in love with me, Xander?”

I scoff, sharp and disbelieving, because it’s the only defense I’ve got. “If you were listening, you already heard my answer to that.”

I turn before he can land another jab, heading back to the couch where I clutch the remote like a weapon. I drop down, trying to act casual. Jax follows a beat later, he doesn’t even sit at first, just stands there long enough to make me feel the weight of his presence. Then he drops beside me with the kind of ease that looks unbothered but is anything but.

I scroll and settle on MasterChef despite the fact that he’d already rolled his eyes at the suggestion.

Three episodes later, he’s leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen with a concentration that borders on reverence. He’s not just watching... it's like he’s dissecting every detail, the way the contestants slice, the mess of nerves in their voices, the rare moments of triumph.

“You’re into this,” I murmur, not looking at him but feeling him shift beside me.

“No,” he answers too fast, too flat. Then softer, after a pause...“Maybe.”

I glance at him, there’s something raw about him like this. And I want to see how far he’ll let himself get pulled in, how long I can sit here beside him and pretend that the only thing heating this room is what’s on the screen.