Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 85

My chest tightens. The room feels hot, air heavy, like everything in me is vibrating toward him. The question scrapes something raw inside me, something I don’t want to put words to.

“Nothing happened.” It comes out flat, practiced. “I’m not upset.”

It already feels like a lie sitting on my tongue.

Xander’s mouth slants. “Is that the truth, or are we doing that thing where you lie...

like when you said you weren’t gonna fight anymore?”

My jaw ticks. “That what this is about? The fighting? I never promised to stop. I said I’d try and ease up.”

He cups my jaw, thumb warm against the hinge. “You trying to pick a fight right now?”

I exhale, slow and frayed. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Of fighting?” he cuts in, too quick, too sharp.

“Of everything,” I say, swallowing it down. “Can we save this argument or whatever the fuck it is for later?”

He studies me a heartbeat longer, then lets go and drops onto the couch beside me. A can hisses open. He takes a sip, throat working, eyes on the middle distance like he’s trying not to push.

Guilt pinches under my ribs.

“I was just asking a question,” he says finally, softer. Then he looks over, and the softness firms into something honest that knocks me off balance. “I missed you. Was gonna text you to take you out to lunch tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait, so I called.”

I have to look away. It’s too direct, too clean.

“And since we apparently scheduled an argument for later,” he adds, mouth curving, “I’m gonna need a proper kiss now. Insurance, in case we end up flipping tables.”

The corner of my mouth betrays me, wants to rise. He notices, of course he does.

His eyes drop to my mouth. “Been thinking about it all day,” he murmurs. “So make it good.”

The distance between us shrinks like it’s being reeled in. His breath is warm. The beer and something sweet. I angle in and he meets me halfway, and the first press is slow on purpose...testing, tasting, a careful slide that turns greedy when he makes a sound in his throat and hooks a hand in the back of my neck. I open to him and he takes, thorough and patient, like he’s memorizing me one stroke at a time. The room narrows to heat and the faint clink of the can as my fingers loosen. He tilts his head and I follow, deepening until it’s not a kiss so much as a fuse burning down between us.

When I finally stop, I don’t go far. My forehead rests against his, breath mixing. There’s a tightness in my chest that feels like a warning flare and a homecoming at the same time.

I start to pull back but he fists a hand in the neckline of my T-shirt and keeps me there, eyes searching. “You’d tell me if something was really bothering you, right?”

The truth sits heavy and uncooperative on my tongue. I answer the only way I know won’t make anything worse...I kiss him again, brief and sure. Then I ease away, pick up my beer, and take a long drink I don’t need.

He doesn’t push. He just thumbs the remote, brings the show back to life, and then shifts until his shoulder is under mine and his weight is along my side like it belongs there. His hand finds mine, no fumbling, like he knew where it would be, and laces our fingers together.

The TV throws soft light over the room. The popcorn smells like butter and salt. My pulse stops trying to punch through my throat and just… settles. His thumb drags once over my knuckles, absentminded, and it does more to me than any amount of liquor could.

Halfway through the episode, Xander’s grumbling at the screen, something about how the pompous, egotistical dick of a contestant needs to get sent home already.

I smirk. “I kinda like him.”

That gets me a sharp look, he shakes his head slow, like I just said something unforgivable. “How the hell can you stand that guy?”

I shrug. “He’s won the last two episodes for a reason. At this point, he’s earned the right to be a bastard.”

Xander exhales through his nose, disbelieving, but he doesn’t argue. Just tips his drink again and sinks deeper into the couch, into me.

My arm slips around him without me thinking, my hand finding his shoulder, then wandering, restless. I start idly playing with his ear, eyes still on the TV. Then...something. A tiny ridge under my fingertips, cool metal. I pause, brush his hair back and tilt his head so I can see.

There’s a piercing there, tucked high in the cartilage, gleaming faintly in the light.

And fuck...something in me stirs sharp and low. It’s stupid, it’s small, but it wrecks me. Our eyes catch, and I know he sees it, knows exactly where my head’s gone.

He leans back into me deliberately, resting his weight against my chest like he’s daring me to make good on it. Then he breaks the silence...

“I wish you'd talk to me,” he says, light like it’s nothing, but there’s this flicker in his eyes that makes it feel like everything.

I lean down, nose brushing his hair, and draw in a slow breath. He smells like his shampoo, clean with that faint addictive tang, and underneath, just him. It grounds me.

We sit like that, the show running in the background, neither of us caring. My hand is still at his ear, thumb brushing the line of his jaw now, softer.

After a long while, I murmur, voice lower than I mean it to be, “Maybe I was a little upset.”

He tilts his head, not pulling away. “You wanna talk about it?”

I shake mine, lips brushing his hair. “I’d rather not.”

He nods once, like he gets it, doesn’t push. Then, quiet, “And now? You still upset?”

My arm tightens around him instinctively, like I’m afraid he’ll slip out of reach. “Not anymore.”

The truth settles between us, heavier than anything else I could say. I press my chin into his shoulder, let the silence stretch, warm and thick. Then I add, almost like a confession, “I’m glad you asked me over.”

He shifts just enough that I catch the corner of his mouth lifting, the kind of smile you don’t give unless it’s earned. And whatever storm was chewing at me before is now nonexistent. What’s left is this heat between us, steady and sharp, burning me alive in the best way.