Chapter 37: Morning After Claiming
Alexis gasped into the pillow, a sharp, delicious shock running through her as Mark’s teeth found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. His weight was a comfortable anchor, his hands sliding from her wrists to intertwine with her fingers, the new, cool metal of her ring pressing against his skin. He relaxed his grip, nuzzling into her hair.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and everything else.
She turned her head, catching a sliver of his profile against the grey-blue dawn seeping past the bent blinds. “Is it?” she breathed, her own voice shot. “Feels like we never actually stopped.”
He laughed softly, a warm puff against her ear. “Don’t start quantifying time. You’ll ruin the vibe.” He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, pulling her back against his chest. His fingers found her left hand, lifting it between them. The square-cut diamond caught the minimal light, scattering faint, dreamlike colors across the rumpled sheets.
They lay there in a silence that was anything but empty, filled with the slowing cadence of their hearts, the distant hum of the city waking up, the sheer improbability of the last twelve hours. The frantic escape from the convention center, the hushed, desperate intensity of his proposal in the office, the dizzying hours here in his bed where reality had softened at the edges.
“I should probably look at my phone,” Alexis said, not moving.
“Absolutely not.” Mark’s arm tightened around her waist. “Your phone is currently a monument to chaos. Let it be a monument.”
“My mom has probably called the NSA by now.”
“Let her. They’ll never find us.” He kissed her shoulder. “This is the safe house.”
She smiled, tracing the lines of his fingers. “A safe house with an 8K TV and a fridge full of Red Bull.”
“The best kind.” He was quiet for a moment. “You regret it?”
She shifted fully to face him. His expression was open, but there was a tightness at the corners of his eyes, a faint echo of the fear she’d seen last night when the crowd’s energy had threatened to swallow them whole. She touched his cheek. “Regret? The only thing I regret is that I didn’t pack a toothbrush.”
The tension broke. He grinned, that charismatic, boyish grin that had launched a thousand reaction videos. “I have extras. The content creator’s emergency kit. Unopened toothbrushes, phone chargers in every possible configuration, a shocking number of backup external hard drives.”
“A true romantic.”
“Practical romance is still romance.” He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The anime scenes from his idle monitors played across his skin—a flickering cascade of vibrant hair and dramatic poses. “I’m making coffee. And then, maybe, we can address the outside world. Like adults.”
“Adults,” Alexis snorted, sitting up as well. She dragged his t-shirt from the floor, pulling it over her head. It smelled like him, like clean sweat and his stupidly expensive cologne. “We’re a pre-law student and a guy who got famous for dressing up as Goku. Let’s not get carried away.”
He padded, naked and unconcerned, into the open-plan kitchen. The polished concrete floor was cold under his feet. She watched him move, the ease of him in his own space, the practiced way he measured the coffee grounds. This was a different Mark than the one on stage, or even the one commanding a meeting room at HQ. This was the version maybe seven people in the world ever saw.
Her phone, discarded on the charging pad next to his monstrous gaming setup, began to vibrate. Then his phone, on the kitchen island, buzzed in tandem.
They looked at each other across the room.
“Adults,” he said again, nodding toward the devices.
She shuffled over, picking hers up. Seventy-three missed calls. Two hundred and twelve texts. Her Instagram notifications were a numerical blur. She scrolled through the messages—her mom, her dad, her sister, every cousin, every friend from undergrad, half of Howard’s pre-law society. A screenshot dominated the group chats: a blurred, zoomed-in photo from last night’s crowd. It was them, just a glimpse, Mark’s back to the camera as he hustled her through a staff door, but her face was visible, tilted up toward his, and the flash of something glittering on her left hand was caught in the harsh convention lights.
The caption read: “RDCMARK SECRET ENGAGEMENT? WHO IS SHE?!”
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
Mark sipped his coffee, leaning against the island. “That bad?”
“They got a picture. They see the ring. It’s… it’s a whole thing.”
He put his mug down and came to her, taking the phone from her hands and placing it face down on the desk. He framed her face with his hands. “Listen. It was always going to be a thing. The second I knew it was you, I knew it would become content, whether we wanted it to or not. The question is, how do we want to handle it?”
She looked into his eyes, seeing the certainty there. “I don’t want a hiding strategy. I’m not a secret.”
“Never.” His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “But we control the narrative. Not some fan account with a shaky camera.” He glanced at his own buzzing phone. “My team’s blowing me up. They’ll want a statement, a plan. But before I talk to them…” He took a deep breath. “What do you want to do, Lex? For real. A big, cheesy, viral announcement? A quiet post? A ‘none of your business’ and let the rumors run wild?”
She thought about the blinding flash of cameras, the screaming questions, the feeling of being cornered. Then she thought about the weight of the ring on her finger, his face in the dim office, the words marry me faster. “I want it to be ours first,” she said finally. “Just for a little longer. Can we have today?”
He pulled her into a hug, his chin resting on top of her head. “We can have today. I’ll tell them no comment, to let it breathe. We’ll order stupidly expensive food, watch terrible movies, and you can actually use that toothbrush.” He pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But you have to promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“No law textbooks. For twenty-four hours. Just be Alexis. My fiancée. The anime nerd from St. Louis who has terrible taste in pizza toppings.”
She swatted his arm. “My taste is impeccable! And I have a Constitutional Law midterm in three weeks.”
“Which is why you need a one-day break.” He kissed her forehead. “Deal?”
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed again, this time with a specific ringtone—a blaring hip-hop beat he used for his inner circle. He sighed, grabbing it. “Yeah, Jiden?”
Alexis could hear the excited, rapid-fire voice on the other end, though not the words. Mark listened, his face growing more serious.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, slow down. The Con folks reached out directly?” A pause. “And they want what?” Another, longer pause. He met Alexis’s eyes, a complex mix of annoyance and opportunity flashing in his. “Tell them we’ll think about it. But no promises. And tell them their security was trash yesterday. That’s non-negotiable.”
He hung up.
“What?” Alexis asked.
He ran a hand over his short hair. “The convention organizers. They’re hemorrhaging from the ‘incident.’ They want to… turn it into a feature.”
“A feature.”
“A joint interview. Tomorrow. On the main stage. You and me. They want us to come back and… ‘share our story.’ They’re framing it as an exclusive, a ‘behind-the-scenes look at a viral moment.’” He made air quotes, his expression sardonic.
The air left Alexis’s lungs. The thought of walking back onto that stage, into that sea of eyes, voluntarily…
“It’s a trap,” Mark said, reading her face. “But it’s also a microphone. If we do it, we get to say our piece, on our terms, to the exact audience that’s losing its mind. We cut off the speculation at the source.” He reached for her hand, his thumb circling her ring. “Or, we tell them to kick rocks, and we let the internet beast run free for a few more weeks until we get sick of it and post a cringey engagement photoset anyway.”
Alexis looked at their joined hands, then out the window at the waking Austin skyline. The fear was a cold thread in her stomach. But beneath it was a sharper, hotter feeling—a challenge. The same part of her that argued moot court cases and defended her thesis arguments stirred.
“We do the interview,” she heard herself say.
Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But our way. Our questions. Our moderator. No talking heads from their staff. And…” She straightened her spine, a tactic she used before a big presentation. “And I want a binding agreement that they donate a quarter of the panel’s ticket proceeds to the Howard University legal aid clinic.”
A slow, proud smile spread across Mark’s face. It was the look he got when one of his team pitched a perfect sketch idea. “You’re negotiating with them.”
“I’m pre-law,” she said, a smirk touching her lips. “It’s what I do. You handle the content. I’ll handle the contract.”
He laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the high-ceilinged space. He pulled her close, spinning her once in a little circle. “See? Adults.” He kissed her, hard and quick. “Scary, competent, take-no-prisoners adults.”
Her phone buzzed again on the desk. This time, it was her mother. The ‘Call Me NOW’ text was visible on the preview screen.
Mark looked at it, then back at her. “You want me to get that? I can be charming. I can tell her I’m a respectable young man with a 401k and everything.”
Alexis picked up the phone, the weight of it familiar yet entirely different. She took a deep breath, the diamond on her hand glittering with a steady, determined light. “No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’ve got it. But you’re making me another coffee. And it better be strong. I’m about to explain to my mother why her daughter is engaged to an internet Goku and going live on stage about it tomorrow.”
He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
As she swiped to answer the call, steeling herself for the cheerful, bewildered interrogation that was about to unfold, she felt his hand, warm and sure, rest on the small of her back. A silent promise. A united front.
The outside world was crashing in, but here, in their temporary safe house, they were already building the gates.
The outside world was crashing in, but here, in their temporary safe house, they were already building the gates. Alexis’s “Hi, Mom” was met with a high-decibel stream of questions that made her hold the phone slightly away from her ear. Mark busied himself with the coffee machine, pretending not to listen while catching every other word.
“Yes, it’s true,” Alexis said, her voice shifting into the calm, measured tone she used for difficult explanations. She walked toward the window, the cityscape a grid of calm order contrasting the chaos on the line. “No, you haven’t met him. It’s been a whirlwind, but it’s real.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because when you know, you know, Mom. Yeah, even then.”
Mark placed a steaming mug on the wide concrete windowsill beside her. His fingertips briefly grazed her lower back, a silent anchor. She leaned into the touch.
“A statement? Well, actually, we’re doing an interview tomorrow. At the convention.” She paused, listening to the concerned squawk from the receiver. “To control the story. Yes, I’m sure. He’s right here, do you want to–” She pulled the phone away, looking at the screen. “She hung up.”
“Parental disapproval achieved in record time,” Mark said, sipping his coffee.
“Not disapproval. Panic. There’s a difference.” Alexis picked up her mug, the heat seeping into her palms. “She’s just imagining the tabloid headlines. ‘Pre-Law Student Snares Internet Celebrity in Shock Convention Engagement.’ My grandma will clip it from the supermarket check-out aisle.”
“We’ll send her a better one. ‘Howard Scholar Accepts Proposal from Local Man.’” He nudged her shoulder with his. “You okay?”
She exhaled, a long, slow breath. “I will be. Now. Tell me about this interview plan before your phone explodes.”
They moved to the plush sectional, laptops and phones arrayed on the low glass table like tactical equipment. The cozy chaos of the room felt different now—a war room. Mark’s manager, Jiden, was patched in on speaker, his voice buzzing with a harried energy.
“Okay, damage control is holding, but it’s a thread,” Jiden said. “The convention director is apologetic. And desperate. They’ve agreed to your terms, Alexis. Your moderator, your approved questions, the donation. They just want you two on that stage.”
“Who’s the moderator?” Alexis asked.
Mark scrolled through his contacts. “There’s a culture writer, Vanessa Tilly. She’s sharp. Did that profile on the anime voice actor union. She doesn’t do fluff.”
“Get her.”
Mark nodded, firing off a text. “Done. She’s in.”
“Now, content,” Jiden continued. “We need to map the narrative beats. What do we lead with?”
Alexis watched Mark’s face slip into its professional mask—focused, analytical. This was the Mark who built an empire from skits and streams. “We lead with the truth,” he said. “Not the timeline. The feeling. We say we met through mutual friends, discovered a shared passion for the culture, and things progressed privately.”
“They’ll want details. How did he propose?” Alexis said, playing devil’s advocate. “That photo is everywhere.”
Mark’s eyes met hers, and the professional mask softened. “We tell them the truth about that, too. The chaos, the feeling of being overwhelmed. That in the middle of that noise, the only thing that made sense was this.” He reached over, tapped her engagement ring with his fingernail. It made a soft ping.
“It’s vulnerable,” Jiden said, skepticism in his voice. “It gives them something to pick at.”
“It’s human,” Alexis countered. “If we give them a polished, PR-approved meet-cute, they’ll shred it. They’ll find the holes. But if we give them the messy, real emotion of it… it’s harder to attack. People connect to overwhelmed. They’ve felt it.”
Silence hung on the line for a beat. “Alright,” Jiden conceded. “Alright, I see the angle. Lead with the humanity. Then, pivot to the future. You,” he said, meaning Mark, “talk about balancing public and private life. You,” meaning Alexis, “talk about your career, your studies. Solidify the narrative that this is two whole people choosing each other, not an influencer chasing a trope.”
Alexis’s phone lit up with a notification—a calendar alert for her Constitutional Law midterm. A spike of pure, academic anxiety cut through the media strategizing. She had readings, case notes, a practice exam to review. This was her real life, pressing in.
Mark noticed the shift. “What’s the conflict?”
“My real life,” she said, waving the phone. “This is a day-long thing. Travel, hair, makeup, the interview itself, the aftermath. I lose a full study day. That’s a tangible cost.”
He didn’t dismiss it. He nodded. “Okay. So we optimize. We get Vanessa’s questions in advance. We script nothing, but we bullet-point our key messages. We minimize the ‘get ready’ time. We use the car ride to the convention for you to quiz yourself. I’ll be your Socratic method patsy.”
A small, grateful smile broke through her worry. “You don’t know the first thing about the Commerce Clause.”
“I’ll learn. I’m a quick study.” He turned back to the speaker. “J, we need the question list by tonight. And a guaranteed hard out. Ninety minutes, max, from stage arrival to stage exit. We’re not doing meet-and-greets, no fan photos after. We leave clean.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
After Jiden clicked off, the silence in the condo felt heavy, charged. The plan was set, the logistics falling into line, but the reality of tomorrow sat between them, huge and glittering and dangerous.
“Are we doing the right thing?” Alexis asked, her voice quiet in the spacious room.
Mark leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Right thing? I don’t know. It’s the only play we have. Letting it fester is worse. This way…” He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “This way, I get to look at you, in front of everyone, and tell them you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. On my terms. That part feels right.”
The raw honesty of it dismantled her final wall of anxiety. This wasn’t just crisis management. This was a claim.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay.”
She opened her laptop, the glow illuminating her face. “Then let’s get to work. I want to draft our talking points. And you,” she said, pointing at him, “need to think of a non-cringey way to describe how you felt when I said yes.”
He grinned, that unguarded, private grin. “I’ll just tell them it was like finally landing a perfect combo in a fighting game after a hundred failed tries. Sublime. Satisfying. Makes you want to do a whole victory lap.”
She threw a couch pillow at him. He caught it, laughing.
For the next few hours, the outside world receded. They crafted bullet points on a shared document, debated phrasing, practiced answers. They ordered tacos that grew cold on the box. They argued about how much to mention the ring, the photo, the screaming crowd.
The fear was still there, a low hum beneath their ribs, but it was joined now by a steady, determined pulse. They were building their gate, word by chosen word.
As night deepened, the city lights glittering like a mirrored sky below, Mark saved the document and closed his laptop. “Enough. We’re prepared. More than.”
Alexis stretched, her spine cracking. Her mind was split—half full of contract law precedents, half full of their carefully curated vulnerability. She felt stretched thin, but solid.
“What now?” she asked.
He stood, offering her his hand. “Now,” he said, “we take our one day. Or,” he checked his watch, “what’s left of it. No more planning. Just us.”
She let him pull her up. “And my terrible taste in pizza toppings?”
“We can debate that tomorrow. Tonight, we’re ordering extra pineapple just to spite the internet.” He led her away from the table, from the screens, back toward the bedroom where their story had turned, toward the simple, profound quiet of just two people in a room, the gates secured for now, the storm waiting for morning.