Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 86

Three episodes in, Xander stretches, muscles flexing under his skin, then drags his hand across his jaw as he clicks the TV off. The sudden silence makes the air heavy, like it’s waiting for something. He shifts, turns toward me.

“Stay?” he asks, trying to sound casual but missing it by a mile. There’s weight behind the word, expectation burning in his eyes.

I trail a finger along the waistband of his boxers, letting it linger, teasing the skin beneath before sliding higher. My palm flattens against the hard plane of his chest, heat radiating up into me, stopping at his nipple. I flick it with my thumb, watching the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Gonna make it worth my while?” I murmur, leaning closer, my mouth nearly brushing his ear.

He scoffs, chuckles, and then stands...breaking the contact, but not the tension. “I was wondering something today at work,” he says, tone careful, like he’s stepping into territory he knows might set me off.

I arch a brow. “Yeah? What?”

He exhales, steadying himself, then meets my gaze head-on. “What exactly are we?”

The words hit harder than I expect. My jaw tightens. I drag a hand down my face, buying myself a second. Of course this is where he’s going. “Do we need to have this conversation right now?”

“It’s not a conversation, Jax. It’s a simple question. And I’d like an answer.”

His arms fold over his chest, but his stance isn’t defensive, it’s hopeful. I can see how much it matters to him, how much he wants me to give him something solid. Something real.

I let out a breath, heavy and sharp. “I heard what you told your brother,” I say, voice low. “That we’re still getting to know each other. Isn’t that enough?”

He shakes his head. “It would be, only I’m not really getting to know you, am I?”

“Not this again...” I mutter, leaning back.

He puts his hands up, cutting me off. “I was just thinking about telling Layla and Addy about us. But I don’t know what I’d even say.” His tone softens, cracks around the edges. “Are we dating? If they ask how serious it is, is it okay if I say it’s pretty serious? And is it, Jax?” His eyes pin me in place. “…is it serious?”

Fuck. The way he asks it, quiet but burning, makes my chest ache. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hide. And I hate how much I want to give him every answer he’s begging for.

But my walls are ironclad, forged from years of keeping things compartmentalized, and he’s trying to pry them open with nothing but his naked questions.

I exhale slow. My shoulders sink further into the cushions, but my chest feels tight, stretched thin between wanting to give him something and knowing I don’t have it in me. Not the way he wants it. I can hear him out, I can understand where he’s coming from, I do...but what he’s asking? It’s a lot. Too much. And it’s fucked up because I’m not willing to let him go either.

“I’m not trying to rush you into—” he starts, voice low, tentative.

“I like you, Xander,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. My gaze locks on his, holding. “Isn’t that enough? Can’t we just let that be okay for now?”

It’s quiet for a beat. He nods, slow, eyes slipping away from me. His jaw works, and then he asks, barely above a whisper, “Just for now… or?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just need to know we’re going somewhere solid.”

His words shoot straight through me. Solid, permanent. He's asking for some kind of future. The ghosts stir immediately, whispering their warnings, curling sharp claws around my ribs. I can’t breathe right for a second.

When I look up, his hands are resting on his waist. He doesn’t look at me, just stares off to the side like he’s afraid to see what’s written on my face.

He swallows, then speaks. “I can see you hate talking about this, but I want us to be able to talk to each other, Jax. And every time I go to ask you something, I choke. Because I’m scared of spooking you. Of pushing too far and watching you bolt.” His fingers flex against his sides. “I don’t know what I can or can’t say. What’s allowed and what’ll just get me shut down. It’s like everything about you is off-limits. And if that’s how it stays, then one day all we’ll have left to talk about is the weather… or some other mindless bullshit. And I don’t want that. Not with you.”

The words settle deep, heavy. They sting because they’re true. He’s calling me out without even raising his voice, and I don’t have a defense that doesn’t sound hollow.

I study him, searching his face, his posture, the way his mouth tightens like he already regrets saying it. “You want me to pour out my heart for you?” I ask, testing how far I can push him before he lets it go. “Is that what’ll make you feel better?”

His eyes flash, then shutter. He shakes his head. “Never mind.” He shifts over, reaching toward the couch for his phone. “Forget it. It's late so just stay over, okay?”

Before he can pull away completely, I catch his wrist. Hold him still, his eyes flick down to where I’ve got him, then lift back to mine.

“What if I can’t?” I ask, my voice low and rough. “What if I’ll never be able to give you the answers you keep trying to dig out of me? What then?”

We stare at each other, his eyes wide, wild for a heartbeat. Then I watch them calm, like waves settling after crashing hard against rocks.

“I don’t wanna go back there,” I murmur. “The past....I’d rather leave it where it is. You’ve got this itch to know, and I get it. But just thinking about it? It fucks me up.” I search him, my thumb brushing unconsciously over the bone of his wrist. “Can’t you just let it go?”

He exhales through his nose, then shifts his stance, moves to stand right between my spread knees. Looking down at me, he asks, steady but quiet, “Have you let it go? Because the only reason I’m bringing this up is cause I can see you haven’t.”

The words slide under my skin like a blade. He isn’t wrong.

He adds, softer now. “I’m not here to dig up your old bones. I’m not some dog sniffing for whatever you’ve buried. I don’t need everything you carry laid out in front of me.” His chest rises, falls. “But I can’t pretend I don’t notice when they’re still haunting you, I fucking care.”

My throat tightens.

“But it's fine,” he says after a long beat, exhaling like the weight’s leaving him. “If it’s what you want, I’ll never ask you anything about yourself again.”