Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 84

I stall outside his door longer than I should, palms shoved in my pockets, telling myself to knock and then not moving an inch. Finally, I force my hand up, rap against the wood, and wait. There’s a beat of silence, then the muffled scuffle of movement inside, like he wasn’t expecting me and is scrambling.

The lock clicks, the door swings, and there he is.

And for a second, I just freeze. Like I'd said, it had only been yesterday morning when I saw him last, but somehow it feels like my memory had blurred him around the edges. I’d forgotten how damn good he looks. How his beauty isn’t the delicate kind...it’s sharp, almost dangerous, the kind of face that hooks you and doesn’t let go. The kind that hurts to look at for too long. It had been the first thing that hooked me back then, when I’d sworn I wasn’t the kind of man to get caught, before I ever knew how reckless, how stubborn, how impossible he really was. And yet here I am, two years later, bleeding for it.

Half the time, I don’t even think he realizes it. The power he has. The way people tilt toward him without even meaning to...the way I do.

“You’re here…” he says, smiling that heartbreaker smile of his as he drags a hand through his hair, casual and devastating all at once.

“Yeah,” I manage with a nod, voice rougher than I intend. “I’m here.”

His gaze shifts, narrowing, sharpening. Assessing me like he’s dissecting every inch. Before I can blink, he reaches out, a fingertip brushing over my jaw. My chest tightens.

He steps closer...closer still. His hand catches mine, studies it like it holds some kind of truth, then lets it go just as suddenly. His face inches toward mine, eyes locked on me, and it’s so intense, so unnerving, I almost take a step back. Almost.

“You’ve been fighting again,” he says, not asking but declaring. I swallow, the wordless challenge of it making my throat tight.

Then his hand slides around the back of my neck, warm and firm, grounding me and unbalancing me all at once. He pulls me forward, lips pressing to mine. It’s brief, too brief, just a spark before he pulls away, leaving me raw with want.

His eyes flicker over me again, sharp and unrelenting. His lips barely leave mine before the words cut in, soft but sharp enough to sting. “And you’ve been drinking too,” he adds, voice low.

I should’ve expected it, that uncanny way he strips me bare without even trying. Just the truth sliced out of me like he’s got a scalpel for a tongue. I took a few sips of whiskey before coming here, needed to slay the demons.

“Got all that from one kiss, did you? Have you started moonlighting as a detective or do I just reek that bad?” I mutter, trying for lightness, but it comes out strained, cracked at the edges.

His hand is still at my neck, thumb pressed against my pulse like he’s keeping time with it. He doesn’t answer right away, just studies me, closer now, until I can feel his breath on my lips again. His eyes are searching for something, and I don’t know if I want him to find it. I can’t decide if I want to shove him back or kiss him until neither of us can breathe.

Then he suddenly steps back, wordless, leaving me the space to walk in. I half-wait for some kind of sharp remark, something smart and cutting that would set the tone, but nothing comes. Just his silence, and it gnaws at me as I step inside.

The first thing I see is the coffee table. Bowls of snacks, drinks, a pizza box still steaming faintly at the edges. It feels curated. Prepared. Not random. I walk over, reach for the popcorn, pinch a few between my fingers, and roll them in my palm like I’m inspecting evidence. Then I pop them into my mouth, chew slow, and glance at him.

“They’re not even burnt,” I say, tilting my head, letting sarcasm drip into my tone. “I’m feeling very pursued right now.”

That earns me a scoff. He closes the space between us with that casual prowl of his, arms loose, jaw set. “I thought we’d continue watching MasterChef or something.”

I arch a brow. “Can I get a more detailed breakdown of what exactly ‘or something’ entails?” My voice is low, careful, baiting. I peel my jacket off, the one I bought at that antique shop when he first declared he was "pursuing me" and toss it aside. When I turn back, he’s once again watching me.

Arms crossed now, shoulders broad and cut by shadow, his eyes track every shift of me like he’s stripping me down layer by layer.

“What?” The word leaves me sharper than I mean it to, because the way he’s looking at me feels like exposure. Like being pinned open under glass.

I drop onto the couch, grab a can of beer, crack it open. The hiss fills the silence between us. I take a sip, bitter and cold, and pretend it steadies me.

He shifts his weight, slides his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. And that tank top... it has to be intentional. Clinging just enough to frame the width of his chest, the shape of his shoulders. It bunches slightly at the waist, riding up, revealing the branded waistband of his boxers. Like he knows it’s the kind of detail that sticks in someone’s brain.

It’s definitely sticking in mine. Too well. My mind stumbles down darker paths before I can slam the brakes. The kind of thoughts that make my pulse climb and my throat go dry.

And then his voice cuts in. “You okay?”

My gaze snaps to him, narrowing and defensive. “Am I okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just crosses the room, closing the distance until he’s in front of me. His hand slides into my hair, strong and sure, angling my head up. Forcing me to meet his eyes.

And when I do, when we lock in that moment, it’s like being caught in a snare. His grip is steady, but it’s the look in his eyes that guts me. Not smug. Not taunting. Just steady, searching, fucking raw.

“You seem… tired,” he states, voice softer than I expect, like the words are meant for no one else. “And a little upset.” His thumb ghosts over my temple, not quite tender, not quite cruel. “Did something happen?”