Chapter 9: Midnight Claim
The apartment was quiet, save for the soft click of Angel’s knitting needles and the distant, rhythmic sigh of the city through the slightly cracked window. He was curled in his now-usual spot on the sofa, a fortress of yarn bags and half-finished projects around him. The special ‘Sea Ghost’ yarn from Osaka was already wound into a perfect, soft cake, sitting on the coffee table like a trophy. He’d been too excited to wait, and the beginnings of a delicate, lacy shawl were growing in his lap.
He was wearing it, of course. The oversized black hoodie with the faded band logo that smelled irrevocably of Alex—tobacco, leather, and that clean, sharp soap she used. The sleeves covered his hands, only his fingertips peeking out to guide the needles. It was a uniform of comfort, of belonging.
The key scraped in the lock at 11:37 PM. Angel didn’t look up, but a small, private smile touched his lips. He heard the heavy tread of her boots, the rustle of a paper bag, the thud of a sizable cardboard box being set on the floor.
“Welcome home,” he said softly, his eyes still on the intricate lace pattern.
Alex didn’t answer with words. He heard her jacket being shrugged off, then her footsteps approaching. A moment later, a small, white paper box appeared in his line of sight, held between her two fingers. Pink mochi. Then her hand, rough and warm, slid under the curtain of his white hair and cupped the back of his neck. She squeezed, once, a possessive, grounding pressure that made him shiver.
“Missed you,” she murmured, her voice gravelly from the night air. She finally leaned over, her frame blocking the lamplight, and kissed his temple. “Started without me, I see. That’s the fancy shit?”
“It’s beautiful,” Angel said, finally setting his work aside and taking the mochi box. He looked up at her. The bar-light haze was still on her, in the slight dilation of her black eyes, the relaxed set of her jaw. She looked pleased. “Thank you for getting it. And these.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She straightened, grabbing the cardboard box and hauling it onto the sofa beside him. “Open it. Let’s see what forty bucks an ounce looks like.”
He proceeded to do so with ritualistic care, slicing the tape with a small pair of sewing scissors, peeling back the layers of tissue paper. Alex watched, one hip cocked, arms crossed. Her gaze wasn’t on the yarn; it was on his face, on the way his eyes widened, the way his breath caught at the colors. It was, she thought, a better high than any whiskey.
Later, after the mochi was shared and the yarn admired, after she’d heated up the takeout soup she’d brought and watched him eat it properly, she nudged his leg with her foot. “So. You’ve been holed up here for days with your string. Wanna go out tomorrow? Actually see other humans?”
Angel blinked, a slender needle paused mid-stitch. “Out? With you?”
“No, with the fucking pope. Yes, with me. The Anchor. Theo and them will be there. Maya’s been whining about wanting to see you.”
He worried his bottom lip. He liked Alex’s friends, in small doses. They were loud and overwhelming, but they’d never been unkind. Going to The Anchor with Alex was different from being collected from it. It was appearing as a unit, in public. It made his stomach flutter. “Okay. If you want to.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to, kitten.” She reached over and plucked the knitting from his hands. “Now, go pick out something devastating to wear. I want to watch every pair of eyes in that place realize what’s mine.”
The next night, Angel stood before their full-length mirror, anxiety and a thread of defiant pride warring in his chest. He’d taken the ‘devastating’ directive to heart. Low-waisted, light-wash flared jeans hugged his hips and thighs, the denim flaring dramatically over his four-inch platform heels. A thin, off-the-shoulder black shirt clung to his torso, leaving his collarbones and the delicate line of his shoulders bare. Every piece of silver jewelry he owned—thin chains, chunky rings, dangling earrings that caught the light—adorned him. And, because it felt like a secret, a whisper of rebellion against the night’s potential chill, he’d chosen a lacy, strings-style thong that peeked above the jeans’ waistband—a visible whale tail.
He looked… different. Not just cute. Sharp. Intentional.
Alex’s whistle from the doorway was low and appreciative. “Fuck. Me.” She walked in, a storm of black denim and muscle, and wrapped her arms around him from behind, her chin hooking over his shoulder. Their reflection was a study in contrasts: her stark, powerful lines against his curated, delicate ones. Her hands splayed possessively over his flat stomach. “You’re gonna start a riot.”
“I just want to go out with you,” he said, but the effect was undermined by the blush spreading across his cheeks.
“And you are.” She nipped his earlobe. “Let’s go. I want a drink, and I want to show you off.”
The Anchor was thicker with people than the last time he’d been there, the air a solid wall of sound and heat. Alex’s hand was a firm brand on the small of his back, steering him through the crowd to the familiar booth where Theo, Maya, Jamie, and Leo were already entrenched. A chorus of greetings erupted.
“Angel! Oh my god, look at you!” Maya squealed, shifting to make space.
“You clean up good, kid,” Jamie said, raising his bottle.
Theo’s eyes did a quick, appreciative sweep. “Alex didn’t mention we were required to dress up. I feel underdressed.”
Angel slid into the booth, a shy smile on his face, acutely aware of Alex pressing in beside him, her thigh a solid line against his. The night unfolded in a comfortable, familiar pattern. Alex got him a sweet, fruity cocktail. She argued with Theo about football. She let Maya gush over a picture of Angel’s latest finished sweater. Her hand never left him—resting on his knee, toying with a strand of his hair, her thumb rubbing idle circles on his hip. It was a constant, low-level signal to everyone: Taken. Handled. Mine.
It was during a lull, while Alex was engaged in a detailed, vulgar story about her mechanic shop professor that required both hands for gesturing, that Angel felt a subtle shift. He murmured, “I’ll be right back,” and slipped out to find the restroom.
The hallway to the bathrooms was narrow and dim, a respite from the sonic assault of the bar. He took a moment, leaning against the cool wall, letting the buzz of the cocktail settle. He liked these nights, but they were a lot. The noise, the eyes, the constant awareness of being perceived alongside Alex. It was thrilling and draining in equal measure.
He pushed off the wall and walked back. As he rounded the corner to re-enter the main bar area, his eyes automatically scanned for their booth. And he stopped.
A woman was standing where he had just been sitting. No, not just standing—leaning. She was tall, blonde, athletic in a sleek, expensive way. She had one hand on the table, the other lightly touching Alex’s forearm. She was smiling, a bright, confident, toothy smile, saying something Angel couldn’t hear over the music. Alex was listening, a neutral, polite expression on her face, but she hadn’t shrugged off the touch.
A cold stone dropped into Angel’s stomach. He felt the platform heels glue him to the floor. He watched, his heart a frantic bird in his ribs.
Then Alex said something, shaking her head, a slight smile that wasn’t her real smile. The woman’s smile didn’t falter; it intensified. She leaned in closer, her mouth near Alex’s ear. Her other hand came up, fingertips brushing the sleeve of Alex’s t-shirt.
Angel was moving before he could think.
His walk across the sticky floor felt dreamlike, the noise fading to a dull roar. He arrived at the edge of their table just as the woman let out a light, tinkling laugh.
“—just saying, a girl like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone,” the woman was saying.
“She’s not alone.”
Angel’s voice came out quieter than he intended, but it cut. The woman straightened up, turning. Her eyes—a bright, dismissive blue—swept over him. The appraisal was instant and cruel, taking in the heels, the jeans, the jewelry, the soft hair. Her smile turned condescending.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “We’re just talking.”
Alex’s eyes snapped to Angel. He saw her expression shift from neutral readiness to sharp attention. She opened her mouth, but Angel spoke again, his gaze locked on the blonde.
“You were touching her.”
The woman had the gall to laugh. “It’s a bar. People touch. Don’t be so sensitive.” She turned back to Alex, dismissing him entirely. “As I was saying—”
“You should go,” Angel said, a little louder. The table had gone quiet. Theo was watching, frozen. Maya’s eyes were huge.
This time, the woman turned fully, her patience evaporating. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but the adults are talking. Why don’t you run along and find your friends?”
The air crackled. Alex moved to stand up, her face darkening. “Alright, that’s enough—”
Angel’s hand, small and fine-boned, came up and pressed flat against Alex’s chest, stopping her rise. He didn’t look at her. His eyes, dark blue and usually so soft, were fixed on the woman with an unsettling flatness. “Shh,” he said to Alex, the sound barely audible.
The blonde woman saw the gesture, the quiet command. Her sneer deepened. “Cute. You keep him on a leash?” she asked Alex, jerking her chin at Angel.
“You need to walk away right now,” Alex growled, the warning in her voice lethal.
But the woman, emboldened by alcohol and insulted pride, zeroed in on Angel. She took a half-step closer, invading his space. She looked him up and down again, her lip curling. “What are you, anyway? Her little brother? Her… pet?” She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper meant to carry. “Or are you just the pathetic boy she fucks when she can’t get a real woman?”
Time didn’t slow. It snapped.
Angel’s body moved with a fluid, economic precision that seemed impossible in the platform heels. The years of disciplined kata, the muscle memory drilled into him since childhood, took over. It wasn’t a wild swing. It was a perfect, short, explosive seiken zuki—a straight fist punch.
His hips twisted, his back foot pivoted for stability, and his fist—knuckles perfectly aligned, driven from the center of his body—lashed out. It connected with the woman’s nose with a sound that was sickeningly crisp, a wet crunch of cartilage giving way.
The woman’s head snapped back. A choked gurgle escaped her. She staggered, hands flying to her face, where blood was already welling thick and dark between her fingers. Her eyes, wide with shock and pain, streamed with tears.
Silence erupted around their booth, a sudden pocket of stillness in the noisy bar.
The woman stumbled back, collapsing into an empty chair at the next table, moaning. Angel stood, his fist still clenched. He was breathing steadily, his expression eerily calm. He looked at his own knuckles, smeared with a faint streak of red, then back at the woman sobbing into her hands.
The bartender, a burly man with a grizzled beard, had seen the whole thing. He glanced from the bleeding woman to Angel’s placid face, to Alex who was now standing, her own expression one of stunned, fierce pride. The bartender jerked his thumb towards the door. “Hey! Security! We’ve got some trash needs taking out.” He pointed at the blonde woman.
Two large men materialized and hauled the woman to her feet. She was blubbering now, blood dripping down her chin onto her expensive top. “He hit me! That freak hit me!”
“You provoked him, lady,” the bartender said flatly, wiping a glass. “We all saw it. Get her out of here.”
As she was dragged away, the bubble of silence popped. A cheer went up from a group at the pool table who’d witnessed the end of it. Someone clapped. Theo let out a low, long whistle. “Holy. Shit.”
Jamie was grinning. “Kid’s got a hell of a right cross!”
Maya just stared, mouth agape.
Angel finally turned to look at Alex. The calm was leaving his eyes, replaced by a slight tremble, a dawning realization of what he’d done. He unclenched his hand, flexing the fingers.
Alex closed the distance between them in one stride. She didn’t hug him. She grabbed his face, both hands rough on his cheeks, and forced him to look up at her. Her black eyes were blazing, searching his. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, a tiny movement.
“Did you hurt your hand?”
He shook his head.
A fierce, triumphant grin spread across Alex’s face, a look of pure, unadulterated awe. “You broke her fucking nose.” It was a statement of fact, whispered like a prayer.
“She was rude,” Angel said, his voice small again, the childlike tone returning now that the adrenaline was draining. “She was touching you. And she… she said a bad thing.”
“A bad thing,” Alex repeated, her grin widening. She leaned her forehead against his, her voice dropping so only he could hear. “My little knight in shining platform heels. My fucking savage princess.”
She kissed him then, hard and claiming, right there in the middle of the bar, with everyone watching. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a seal, a brand. When she pulled back, she kept her arm locked around his shoulders, tucking him firmly into her side. She looked at their friends, her expression defiant.
Theo raised his glass in a solemn toast. “To Angel. Full of surprises.”
Angel buried his face in Alex’s neck, the scent of leather and soap drowning out the coppery tang of blood still lingering in the air. He was trembling now, a fine, full-body shiver. The noise of the bar rushed back in, but it felt different. The eyes on them felt different. Not dismissive, not condescending. There was a new respect, a wary curiosity.
Alex pressed her lips to his hair. “Let’s get you home, killer,” she murmured, and the pride in her voice was the warmest thing he’d ever felt.