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He can’t help but wonder exactly how much Mal’s done this. How many people he’s been with. When he started experimenting with things beyond vanilla. How long it took him to figure himself out and learn what he likes. How to get it. Because despite Rowan’s own confidence when it comes to sex, it’s obvious that Mal’s light-years ahead of him in the BDSM scene.

But Mal seems fine with Rowan being somewhat lacking in experience. If anything he seems almost eager to show him the ropes, and Rowan can only hope that the trend continues the more they do this. Hopes he doesn’t reach a plateau and make Mal lose interest.

Rowan starts scrubbing himself clean and thinks that really, it’s exactly that kind of thought he’s always needed to kick his competitive nature into overdrive, his determination to be the best fucking Dom Mal’s ever had.

Tonight Mal had clearly enjoyed himself. He seemed to oscillate between pushing back against and obeying Rowan’s orders, which to be honest, Rowan’s not sure is a good or a bad thing. He’s going to have to do some more research later and talk to Mal about whether he should be aiming to keep him in subspace for the whole session, or if it’s normal to dip in and out of it. So far he’s really only seen short glimpses of it. First at the gangbang and then a few times earlier tonight.

For now he assumes that it’s normal to slip in and out of that submissive headspace, especially since they’re still getting used to each other. He dwells on that, knowing that at the very least he’s not making up their chemistry. They seem to fit , and that thought carries Rowan through the rest of his shower.

When he gets to the bar this time, exactly twenty minutes later, Mal’s already waiting for him.

THEY FIND themselves at the same diner as before—Sheila’s, Rowan notes, the name making sense after meeting the woman herself last week. This time Mal declines his “usual” when Sheila asks him about it, instead ordering a burger and fries, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and a slice of apple pie. Rowan orders a turkey club with chips, and they claim the same back corner booth as last time.

Once again, Rowan ogles the large amount of food when it comes. He’s not one to judge how much or how little food someone eats—God knows he’s had his own issues with food throughout his life, not only from growing up poor and having to scrounge when he could, but also when he was actively fighting his mental illness and his meds. But it does make him worry that Mal is purposely starving himself. He’d said as much before the gangbang, and Rowan’s not his parent or guardian, but he doesn’t want it to be something that Mal thinks he has to do before their scenes.

“Do you…,” Rowan starts, then trails off, unsure how to phrase his question without sounding patronizing. His eyes sweep Mal’s features, sharp but with full lips and cheeks, his body toned with muscle and a layer of fat, minimal as it is. He looks healthy, but Rowan knows far too well that health isn’t only skin-deep.

“What?”

“Do you always… fast all day before scenes?”

Mal looks taken aback by the question, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Fuck no, man. I love food.” As if to prove his point, he takes a hulking bite of his burger, chews quickly, and swallows. “Only did it for the gangbang ’cause you never know what you’re gonna get. How rough the people’re gonna be, how they might react. People don’t like to talk about it, obviously, but accidents happen, and that shit’s awkward enough with one person, never mind ten.”

Relief floods through Rowan.

“Okay. That’s good.”

That earns him another single raised eyebrow from Mal.

“Just had to make sure you didn’t think I expected it or anything. I don’t want you to pass out in the middle of a scene.”

“Been doin’ this long enough to know how to take care of myself, man.” Mal’s tone is clipped. Serious.

“Right, yeah,” Rowan says immediately. “Sorry, didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.”

He gets a grunt as the only response as Mal scoops up a large spoonful of soup and slurps it loudly.

They eat together in silence, same as last time. It’s not awkward, exactly, but Rowan feels like he’s one strike away from blowing this whole thing. He dives into his food, equally as delicious as his meal last time had been. The diner is definitely a hidden gem, and he’s thankful it hasn’t been driven out of business by a smoothie bar or yoga studio as places like this often are in the Back Bay.

When Mal has finished most of his food, he surprises Rowan by pushing the slice of apple pie toward him, the scent of cinnamon filling Rowan’s nostrils.

Still, he questions, “Uhh…?”

A quick eye roll from Mal has Rowan’s face heating up. “Try it,” he says. “Shit’s like crack, I swear.”

The scratch of the plate against the table as Mal nudges it closer to Rowan feels a bit like an olive branch after the awkwardly tense past few minutes, and Rowan’s all too happy to take it.

He plucks his unused fork from the table and scoops off the point of the slice, making sure to get some of the fresh whipped cream neatly piled on top. He can feel the snap of the crust as his fork cuts through it and see the amber filling start to topple out onto the plate before bringing it quickly to his mouth and stuffing the bite in.

At once his tongue is bombarded with apple and cinnamon and allspice and butter and a dozen other things he can’t even begin to describe. Hands down, it’s the best pie he’s ever had, even beating Addison’s famous handmade desserts that all their coworkers rave about.

“Holy fuck,” Rowan says before he’s even swallowed.

“Told ya.”

There’s a small smile playing on Mal’s lips that reaches his eyes, and that tiny look alone is almost sweeter than the apple pie itself. He grabs his own fork, scoops up a large chunk, and shovels it into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed at the first taste like Rowan suspects his own had. Rowan puts his fork down on his plate, assuming Mal had only intended on having him try it.

“You don’t want more?”

“Oh, I didn’t think you wanted me, yanno, double dipping.”

Mal gives him a flat stare as he takes another bite. “Just had your tongue in my ass ’n your dick in my mouth, man. ’M not worried about cooties .”

Once again, Rowan feels his face burn but immediately digs in for another bite as if the act of eating will help the flush dissipate from his cheeks faster.

“’Anks,” he mumbles, mouth full. Then, when he finally swallows, “You were pretty adamant about the ‘no kissing’ thing last time. I didn’t wanna overstep.” Even though he’d had Rowan’s literal spit in his mouth during the gangbang, somehow sharing food seems more intimate than that.

Mal pauses, fork halfway between the plate and his mouth, and bites his cheek quickly before releasing it.

“That’s different,” he says, quieter than Rowan would have expected. “Too personal.”

“I get it.”

And he does. As much as he’d love to get his lips on Mal’s, kissing is personal. More so than sex, sometimes. Though if he ever does get the chance to kiss him, God knows he’ll take that privilege and fucking run with it.

When the pie is nothing more than miniscule flakes of pastry on the plate, Rowan figures it’s time to bring up what he’s been wanting to talk about this whole time.

“So, what’d you think?” He can’t help the nerves tingling through him in asking, despite the fact that he’s still here and Mal hasn’t kicked him to the curb yet.

“About tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“It was good. Fuckin’ great , if I’m bein’ honest, ’specially for a first scene, but I think we can do better as we ramp shit up.”

Nodding in agreement, Rowan adds, “Yeah. I don’t mind vanilla stuff, but I’m definitely looking forward to some’a the stuff we talked about last time.”

“Mmm. We’ll stick with exploring some kinks for now, maybe work in some restraints next time.”

Rowan doesn’t want to dwell on why, but relief floods through him at hearing next time. Because there’s gonna be a next time. And fuck if that doesn’t nearly get him hard again right here in the diner. That and the image of Mal being restrained by something other than loose clothing.

He takes a—hopefully unnoticeable—shaky breath, reminding himself to get a grip. It’s not like he’s not gonna get another chance at fucking him. They just established that that will very much be happening.

“I meant to ask earlier, but what do you wanna get out of our time together?” Rowan tries not to sound too much like he’s quoting from the BDSM material he’d found, but Mal sees right through it.

“Did some research, huh?” Thankfully, he doesn’t sound put out by it. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Practice is the best experience, obviously, but there’s a shitload’a books out there on it if you wanna get really deep in it.”

“Really?” Obviously there’s books on it. Idiot , Rowan thinks at himself.

Mal nods. “Yeah. Read a bunch of ’em.”

“You like to read?” He doesn’t know why that surprises him. Mal’s clearly very smart and well-versed in this stuff.

Mal’s lips twitch to the side like he’s chewing his cheek again. “Yeah. Audiobooks, though.”

“Oh, cool. I can never concentrate on those. They put me to sleep.”

“Yeah, well….” He clears his throat. “I can text ya a list of books if you want.”

“That’d be great, actually.”

“As for your question,” Mal starts, pausing to take a sip of his water. “I wanna get outta my head. Let someone else make the decisions for a change since I do that shit enough every day. And I wanna not feel guilty for likin’ what I like. Had some shit Doms in the past that tried to make it seem like wantin’ to get pushed around in bed made me a bitch the rest’a the time.”

There’s a story there, and Rowan wants to press, but he figures Mal is still more willing to share his food and his body than his past.

Rowan simply nods in understanding. As much as he’s a stickler for being in charge of things, there have definitely been times in the past where he’s wished someone else would take the reins and tell him what to do. And while there’s not as much stigma around topping as there is bottoming, anything that strays even slightly from vanilla sex is looked down on by some people.

So he gets it. And he’s glad Mal told him.

“How ’bout you?”

Blinking, Rowan’s brain stalls. “I, uh… guess I never really thought about it….” He winces. “I know that’s a shit answer.”

Mal gives him a shrug as he dumps a few ice cubes from his water into his mouth and crunches them loudly. “Better than you makin’ somethin’ up.” Then he stuffs one of the few fries left on his plate through his lips, and Rowan’s not even sure he’s finished chewing his ice yet. “Don’t gotta figure it out right now long as you’re not actively disliking the shit we do.”

“No, I—” Rowan starts, then pauses to rack his brain. He wants to be able to give Mal an answer, something more concrete than I dunno . But what does he want from this, outside of some good— great —sex with a hot— gorgeous —guy?

He thinks about his past, about the clubs and the drugs and the booze and too many nameless men. About flying off the rails and losing control and being so sick but not knowing it. About his diagnoses and his family’s desperate, relentless attempts to keep him stable, keep him alive, despite the hell he gave them for it.

With all that in mind, he finds that the answer to Mal’s question, to what does he want, comes to him easier than he thought it would.

“I’ve kinda hurt a lot of people in the past. Family mostly, but exes and strangers too. Not physically, but emotionally. I wanna make someone feel good for a change. Be the one takin’ care of someone and worrying about them instead of myself. I mean, I kinda do that shit every day at work, but there it’s… clinical, I guess. Not really personal, even though I do care about all my patients. And I obviously like bein’ in control, think that shit’s obvious by now, but I like havin’ to work for it, not just be given it ’cause someone feels bad for me. Makes me feel like I have a purpose, I guess.”

Done with his speech, he finds Mal looking at him curiously. Like he’s a puzzle he’d thought he’d finished but found a dozen more pieces to and doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Rowan can only hope that when he figures it out, he’ll like what he sees.

“I get that,” Mal says eventually.

While Rowan hadn’t exactly been seeking his approval in his answer, it feels good to have some semblance of it nonetheless.

Then Mal adds, casual as ever, “Sounds like we’re a good match.”

And fuck if that doesn’t release the floodgates of… something in Rowan. Some tingling warmth he doesn’t know how to name emanating from his core and radiating out to his limbs, pooling neatly in his fingertips and making them twitch where they sit on the table. He tries to hide the unintended gesture by wiping his fingers on the paper napkin he’d balled up next to his empty plate, but Mal’s amused-looking smirk tells him he wasn’t all that successful at hiding his reaction.

Sue him. He’d been thinking the same thing, and to have the sentiment echoed back is overwhelming. Rowan lets himself bask in the feeling.

They fall into another comfortable silence, each picking at the scraps of their food. Right before midnight, a shared look passes between them, a mutual You good? that has them both stacking their plates at the end of the table and gathering their things.

Barely a minute later, the same busser as last time comes to their table to collect their empty dishes, once again assuring them that it’s on the house. As they slide out of the booth, Mal sighs and reaches into his back pocket, but Rowan stops him with a hand on his elbow.

“I got it. You paid last time.”

Mal doesn’t protest, simply nods his thanks.

“But uh, I have no idea how much any of that cost,” Rowan tells him.

“Twenty-eight fifty,” Mal replies instantly.

Stunned, Rowan asks, “You just… know that?”

“Been comin’ here forever, man. Give her a good tip.”

And with that, Mal heads to the door, raising his hand in a wave to Sheila across the diner as he does. He pulls out a cigarette while he’s halfway out the door and quickly lights it before the door is even fully closed behind him, the flame glowing bright among the streetlights and the neon signs hanging in the windows.

Then he’s disappeared from view, and Rowan approaches Sheila at the counter.

“Hi, Sheila,” he says.

“Hi, honey. How was everything?”

“Great! The pie especially. Probably the best I’ve ever had.”

Sheila’s eyes light up at the compliment. For a split second, she reminds him of his mother in one of her manic baking sprees, making something deep inside Rowan ache until he shoves the feeling down so he doesn’t do something crazy like ask the woman for a hug.

“Glad to hear it. You need somethin’ else?” she asks.

“Oh no, just wanted to pay.”

“Bah,” she exclaims, waving him off with an exaggerated arm gesture. “I told him no.”

“I appreciate it, but Campbells always pay their debts.” He pauses, thinking back to the diner last week when she’d asked his last name, and rolls his eyes. “Hank excluded, obviously.”

She huffs a laugh at the last bit, clearly knowing it to be true somehow, but nonetheless seems to relent and pulls out her order pad to scribble down their orders before sliding him the slip across the counter. Exactly like Mal had said, the total inked at the bottom is $28.50, tax included. Something a lot like admiration sparks in Rowan’s chest. This feeling, he doesn’t try to push away.

He hands Sheila two twenties and decides to ask one of the two main questions he has right now. “Can I ask why you don’t charge us? Or… Mal, I guess.”

Her connection to Hank can wait, far less intriguing than her connection to Mal.

Her lips pull back into a closed-lip smile, though the kindness never leaves her eyes. “Mal’s done a lot for me,” she says, plugging their order into the surprisingly modern-looking register and slotting Rowan’s bills inside. “I’ll spare you the details, but he’s a good boy. One’a these days I’ll get him to stop payin’ me again.”

She holds out several bills and coins to take as change, but Rowan waves her off. Rowan doesn’t really know what Mal’s idea of a good tip is, but he only has forty bucks in cash on him, so that’ll have to suffice. It’s over twenty-five percent anyway. With a grateful smile, she stuffs the cash in the lidded tip jar that’s surprisingly full.

“I doubt that,” Rowan tells her, getting the sense that Mal wouldn’t take any kind of charity from her—or anyone, for that matter—unless he was truly desperate. Kind of like Rowan. He wonders if Mal’s Southie too.

His brain finally catches up, dwells on the again in her last statement, and wonders if there was a time when Mal was truly desperate and sought out Sheila’s help. He figures if Mal ever wants him to know whether that’s true, it’ll have to come from the man himself and not from Sheila.

Sheila chuckles through her nose. “Me too, Rowan. Have a good night, okay?”

“You too.”

Rowan exits the diner into the humid night and sees Mal leaning against the window, cigarette dangling loosely down by his side, eyes fixed on the light-polluted sky. The fluorescent neon glow from the signs hanging in the window illuminates his profile in a pretty collage of red and blue, melding into purple across his temple. Briefly, Rowan’s taken aback by the sight of him, practically glowing like he had been when he first saw him tonight, and he’s frozen in place, drinking in the view.

When Mal notices him, he doesn’t comment on the deer-in-headlights response. Instead, he wordlessly holds out his cigarette.

As Rowan gets his limbs to move and takes a deep drag, smoke filling and burning his lungs, he thinks he may have found a few more puzzle pieces too.