Back at the house, Ethan sprawled lazily across the couch, limbs draped like he owned the place.
His grin lingered, though softer now, as if savoring a private victory.
"Leave before I get back," Ethan mocked under his breath, mimicking Gabriel's clipped tone. He chuckled. "Sure, Angel. Whatever you say."
His eyes roamed the room, calculating.
The corner of his mouth tugged higher.
What's the fastest way to drive him insane? He tapped a finger against his chin. "Stay put. Obviously."
He pushed himself upright, padding toward the kitchen, humming as if he belonged there.
Every step was deliberate rebellion. "Can't throw me out if I never leave," he muttered, opening cabinets with idle curiosity.
Pausing, Ethan leaned against the counter, head tilted.
The thought of Gabriel serious, distant, pretending not to look pulled that grin back onto his face. He exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh. "Oh, Angel… you're in trouble."
The silence of the house pressed in, but Ethan filled it easily, already scheming how to anchor himself here, how to make Gabriel keep noticing.
Because if there was one thing Ethan knew for certain, it was this: once Gabriel started seeing him, really seeing him, there'd be no going back.
Ethan slumped back against the couch, drumming his fingers against the armrest, eyes darting around the apartment like the walls were whispering strategies.
What the hell am I supposed to say to keep him from tossing me out? His lips curved into a crooked grin. "Angel, if you kick me out, those kidnappers are gonna turn me into confetti," he murmured to himself, testing the excuse out loud. "Nah… too dramatic. He'll see through it."
He sighed, dragging his bag closer. The zipper rasped open, and out came the phone he'd sworn was gone. The truth? He'd never lost it. Just killed it before his old man could track him down.
"Sorry, Papa," Ethan muttered, pressing the power button. "Not your good little soldier anymore."
The screen blinked to life and immediately lit up with a buzzing call.
Ethan froze, thumb hovering, then cursed softly. "Damn it…" He answered anyway.
"Ethan?!" The voice on the other end cracked with panic. "Where the hell are you, man? Your dad's going insane—he's got people tearing our clubs. What did you do this time?"
Ethan rolled his eyes, flopping sideways on the couch. "Relax. I didn't rob a bank. I just… ran away."
"You what?!" his friend choked, then burst out laughing. "Oh no, don't tell me—you got cold feet because Daddy picked you a groom? Bro, are you a runaway bride now?"
"Shut up," Ethan snapped, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "You think it's funny? He's trying to tie me to some guy I've never even seen. Like I'm cattle to be auctioned off."
His friend wheezed through another laugh. "Come on, you'd make a pretty bride. White veil, flowers in your....."
"Say that again and I'll block your number." Ethan cut him off, glaring at the ceiling. "Listen to me. Do not tell him we talked. You hear me? Don't you dare."
"Alright, alright, chill," the voice said, though amusement still laced the words. "Your secret's safe. But seriously, Ethan, you're playing with fire. If he finds you...."
"He won't." Ethan's tone sharpened, but beneath it was a flicker of something else—fear, maybe, or just the ache of being cornered. He lowered his voice. "I'm not going back. Not this time."
The line went quiet for a beat. Then his friend sighed. "You're insane. But fine. I didn't hear from you."
"Good." Ethan ended the call, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him. He exhaled, long and shaky, before that grin crept back again. "Sorry, Papa… I think I just found myself a new hideout."
His gaze drifted toward the kitchen, where Gabriel's presence still lingered in the air.
Ethan tapped his chin, eyes gleaming. "Now all I gotta do… is convince Angel to keep me."
Ethan tossed the phone back into his bag and rubbed his palms together. "Alright," he whispered to himself, eyes narrowing with mock-seriousness. "Operation: Find What Angel Wants."
He pushed himself up, wincing slightly at the pull in his leg, but it didn't slow him.
He prowled through the little apartment like a detective in a cheap noir film, whispering his own narration as he went.
"Tall, dark, broody type. Clearly single. No pictures on the walls. Kitchen stocked like a guy who eats to survive, not to enjoy…" He opened a cupboard, found cans stacked like soldiers, and snorted. "Figures. No fun in here."
He crossed to the shelf by the door, running his finger along the spines of a few books stacked haphazardly. Manuals. Old case files. A leather notebook with no label.
Ethan picked it up, flipped it open, and groaned when he found nothing but neat handwriting and lists. "God, you're boring, Angel. Not even a scandalous secret romance novel hidden around here? Tragic."
He padded into the bedroom next, pausing at the foot of the bed. Neat. Too neat. Sheets pulled tight, corners tucked in with military precision.
Ethan tilted his head, a grin curving. "Oh, so that's the type. Control freak. Likes order. Hates chaos…" He leaned against the doorframe, eyes gleaming. "Which means me staying here will drive him insane. Perfect."
He opened a drawer, found a row of ties rolled up like they'd been ironed into submission.
Ethan plucked one out, draped it around his own neck, and struck a pose in the mirror. "Look at me, Angel," he murmured, smirking at his reflection. "Already wearing your things."
The thought lingered longer than it should have, softening his grin into something else.
He touched the fabric, thumb brushing the silk, and muttered, "You don't even know it yet… but you're mine."
The sound of the city filtered in through the half-open window, pulling him back.
Ethan tossed the tie onto the bed, pacing now. His chest was tight, like he'd swallowed more than he meant to.
He raked a hand through his hair, shaking it off.
"Alright, focus. He's cold, but he cracked when I pushed. He hates being soft, but he can't help it." Ethan flopped onto the couch again, sprawled out, plotting like a king on his throne. "I just need to find the one thing he actually wants. Then…" His grin widened, wicked and boyish all at once. "Angel's mine."
Ethan sprawled on the couch only a heartbeat before springing back up again. Sitting still wasn't in his nature.
His eyes roved the small apartment with the restless energy of someone convinced treasure was hidden in plain sight.
"C'mon, Angel… what's the crack in your armor? Everybody's got one," he muttered, pacing toward the dresser again.
The drawers gave nothing—shirts folded like they'd been measured, socks paired with ruthless efficiency.
No fun. No clue. Ethan slammed one shut and grinned. "God, you're so predictable it's almost sexy."
Then, as he turned, something caught his eye—half-hidden on the far shelf, a box pushed behind a stack of files.
Not neat, not labeled, not aligned. Messy. Out of place.
Bingo.
Ethan tugged it out, brushing off a thin layer of dust, and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a small cluster of things—nothing expensive, nothing loud. A photo. A lighter. A watch with a cracked strap.
He picked up the photo first. A younger Gabriel stood stiff in uniform, a nun beside him, smiling bright as sunlight.
Ethan tilted his head, studying the way Gabriel wasn't smiling at all, but his hand still hovered close to hers, protective in a way he probably didn't even notice.
Ethan exhaled slowly, softer than he meant to. "So you're not just stone and muscle after all, huh?"
He set the picture down carefully and thumbed the lighter, flicking it open, closed, open again.
No flame sparked, but it fit into his palm like something used often once upon a time.
He slipped it back, but the watch stayed in his hand longer.
The strap was worn, the kind of wear that came from years of habit. Whoever it belonged to… mattered.
Ethan swallowed, setting it back in the box with a gentleness he wouldn't admit to if anyone asked.
He closed the lid and slid it almost exactly where it had been—almost.
He leaned back, hands on his hips, whispering to himself with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Got you, Angel. You're human. You've got a past, a soft spot. And I'll find it."
Flopping onto the couch again, he stretched out like he owned the place, blanket kicked over his legs.
His grin widened as he stared at the ceiling, plotting. "Operation: Make Angel Mine… officially underway."