Page 17

He pulls out completely, thrusting in to the root and withdrawing fully again. Driving every inch of his cock into the slick heat of Mal’s hole.

“C’mon.”

“Told you, Mal. I’m gonna fuck you how I want.” Two sharp snaps of his hips. “Gonna get my cock nice and wet, then shove it down your fuckin’ throat and make you quit bitchin’.”

“ Nnggg ….”

Rowan drives into him, balls slapping obscenely against his ass.

“Can beg if you want, though.” Rowan locks eyes with Mal, who snaps his gaze up from where it had been dutifully trained on Rowan’s cock. “Might get ya somewhere.”

And he must be desperate, cock pink and hard and leaking precome all over Rowan’s fingers, because he barely wastes any time before whispering, “ Please ….”

The best sound in the fucking world.

“There you go. Such a good slut.” Rowan rewards Mal and stops torturing himself, slamming his hips into him at full force.

The slap of their bodies is loud and slick and nearly a better mix of sounds than Mal’s gasped moans.

“ Fuck ! There….”

Rowan switches from full-length thrusting to short, fast strokes over Mal’s prostate, bending his knees to angle up and drive the tip of his cock into the sensitive spot. And fuck, it’s doing as much for him as it clearly is for Mal, the other man flushed and panting beneath him, legs shaking where they’re propped on Rowan’s shoulders.

Barely a minute later and Mal’s entire body is trembling, no doubt straining with the effort of holding the position and from the assault of Rowan’s cock on his prostate and his hand stroking him in firm tugs.

“Fu-fuck… gonna… need— Rowan !”

God, it’ll never get old. Hearing Mal gasp his name.

“C’mon, Mal,” he goads, slamming into him with a force that nearly has his own vision whiting out. “Lemme feel that ass tighten.”

“Fuuuuck!” Mal cries, ass clenching wildly and cock spurting forcefully enough to paint his own pecs in come.

“Yeah, God, that’s it.” Rowan strokes him through it, the sight of Mal covered in his own come bringing back delicious memories of him from the gangbang. “Fuckin’ filthy. Look at you.”

And Mal can only whisper another “Fuck…” before Rowan’s pulling out and letting Mal’s legs fall to the floor and his back fall onto the bed.

Rowan climbs up as well and hauls Mal onto his knees, then positions himself between them, lying back but half propped up on one elbow. Mal widens his stance, arms still bound behind his back, and moves to dip down to take Rowan’s cock into his mouth. But Rowan stops him, swiping his hand through the streaks of come on Mal’s chest and stroking himself to coat his own cock in the mess.

Then he grips Mal’s hair and tugs him down so his mouth is hovering inches above his cock, lying flat against his belly.

“Taste yourself on me.”

Mal lets out a fucked-out little whine and leans down to lick a hot, wet trail from Rowan’s balls to the tip of his cock. He licks him several times more, cleaning his own come off Rowan’s cock and moaning with each swipe of his tongue.

The sensation is nice, but it pales in comparison to the sight of Mal swallowing his own come. Of him pausing each time before he slips his tongue back into his mouth to show Rowan the white streaks coating the pink. He mouths at Rowan’s cock the best he can without the support of his hands, knees widening to allow him to dip down farther.

“C’mon, suck me,” Rowan growls, lifting his cock with his free hand and slapping Mal’s cheek with it until the other man opens his mouth and turns to catch the head between his lips. “There ya go. Didn’t think I’d need to tell a cock slut like you to do your fuckin’ job.”

There’s some kind of garbled response in the back of Mal’s throat, but Rowan grips his hair to keep him from lifting off.

It’s clear that Mal’s struggling in this position, his balance thrown off without the use of his arms.

Rowan pulls him off his cock, the wet pop dulled by the thrumming in his ears, but he asks, “Color?”

“Green,” Mal responds instantly, lips slick and red.

Satisfied, he shoves him back down. And Rowan can see that Mal is still hard and dripping between his legs, still moaning and breathing ragged breaths through his nose as he sucks Rowan’s length. Barely the first few inches, actually.

“Took all of me last week. You outta practice already?” Rowan taunts.

Mal merely grumbles something in the back of his throat in response, a brat even with his mouth full. Rowan swings his leg around and shoves at Mal’s lower back with his heel, pressing him farther down onto his cock.

Mal sputters and chokes, swallowing around Rowan’s cock, driven deep into his throat, the spasming muscles sending a spike of pleasure through Rowan.

“Mmm, fuck , that’s better.”

As soon as Mal widens his stance and pulls back enough to catch his breath with a fucked-out sounding groan, all bets are off. Rowan grips Mal’s hair tight, guiding his mouth as he fucks up into it. And Mal rolls with it, mouth suctioning impossibly tighter around him, hot and wet and perfect.

Rowan wants nothing more than to scrunch his eyes shut and get lost in the feeling, but he can’t keep his eyes off Mal. Not only because he needs to make sure he’s still okay. But also because his cheeks are flushed and his hair is sweaty and he’s absolutely fucking gorgeous. Rowan brushes his thumb across his cheek, willing him to look up at him.

Eyes bright and shiny and—

That telltale heat swoops through Rowan as he sees the first prickles of tears in Mal’s eyes.

Still waitin’ for you to make me cry. What Mal had said at the gangbang. Except he didn’t think it would happen so soon. But it’s not enough. He wants the tears to fall.

He thrusts deeper, pulling Mal’s nose flush with his pelvis, cock sliding down the back of his throat.

A muffled cough, then— there .

The first tear, a perfect fat drop pooling at the inner corner of his left eye. It catches the light as it rolls over the lower lid and runs down Mal’s flushed cheek, leaving a pearlescent streak in its wake before it disappears beneath his chin. The next drop pools and falls quickly, rolling off Mal’s sharp nose and landing in Rowan’s pubic hair—mixing with Mal’s spit and Rowan’s sweat.

It’s filthy, and Rowan’s so fucking hard and about to burst with the need to come.

“Look at me,” he says, voice a rasped whisper.

Mal pulls back off his cock an inch or two to crane his neck up enough for his golden eyes to lock onto Rowan’s, and Rowan feels the breath leave his lungs in a swift whoosh that has him inhaling sharply.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, like Rowan knew he would be. Eyes wet and shining and starting to turn red around the rims, but pupils still blown wide—a testament to how turned on he is. How much he loves this. Perfect .

“There you go,” Rowan tells him, unable to hide the reverence in his voice. Unwilling too. “Knew you’d look fucking perfect crying on my cock.”

As the tears form and spill, form and spill, Rowan stills Mal with a hand in his hair. With the other, he swipes at the tracks running down his cheeks, gathering the remnants of the liquid on his thumb and pushing it into Mal’s mouth alongside his cock. Rowan feels more than hears the other man’s moan—the vibrations traveling from his cock to his hips and making him cant up into Mal’s talented mouth, slick with spit from laving his tongue over Rowan’s thumb like it’s a fucking lollipop.

Rowan can’t settle for imagining the taste. Pulling his thumb back out, he wipes again at Mal’s cheek, replacing the tears with Mal’s spit. He sucks his own thumb into his mouth, the saltiness of Mal’s tears and his own precome mingling into a bitter taste that hits deep in Rowan’s core.

The reaction from Mal is instant, ragged breaths pattering against Rowan’s pelvis and eyes nearly rolling back in his head as he resumes sucking Rowan with a newfound fervor.

Rowan doesn’t know exactly what about the gesture got Mal’s blood pumping—having Rowan’s fingers in his mouth or swapping spit or simply the fact that Rowan’s managed to make him cry after only two sessions—but hell if he isn’t gonna do it as often as possible.

Mal lets out a strangled whimper as Rowan thrusts up into his mouth, cock once again hitting the back of his throat. Balls tightening, belly clenching, thighs shaking on either side of Mal’s face as he works furiously to bring Rowan off, and in no time—

“ Fuuuck , that’s it. Gonna….”

The only acknowledgment Mal can give him is a soft “Mmm” as his eyes roll back then close tight, the remainder of the tears that have formed spilling over in a pretty cascade, and…

That does it.

Rowan’s hips jerk as he erupts into Mal’s mouth, unsure if his own groan or Mal’s is louder.

Gripping the back of Mal’s head, he keeps him there, jacking his hips to get deeper inside, keep feeling that warmth and that suction that’s driven him wild from the start.

And Mal moans right on through it, keeping his eyes open and lasered onto Rowan’s until he swallows, the back of his throat rippling around Rowan’s cock.

Rowan’s breath leaves him in a rush as his body stops vibrating and he comes down from the high of his orgasm as Mal sucks him clean. Cock finally softening, he pulls out of Mal’s mouth, a trail of spit still connecting the tip with Mal’s slick lower lip that nearly makes Rowan get hard all over again. The way he gets Rowan going is insane .

Rowan sinks down onto his knees, face-to-face with the flushed man as he runs a hand through Mal’s sweaty hair. Tilts his head up. Locks eyes with him and sees the blown pupils start to shrink, hazy look slowly dissolving to clear caramel-gold.

And he wants to kiss him.

He can’t ; he knows that. But fuck, Rowan’s gotta be a bit of a masochist, because having to deny himself that is easily the hardest thing he’s done, especially when Mal’s lips are pink and slick and parted just so.

“Okay?” Rowan asks.

Mal nods, blinking slowly and rolling his shoulders.

And Mal’s still hard.

“You want the cuffs off, or do you want me to get you off again?”

“Cuffs,” Mal tells him, voice low.

Shuffling behind him, Rowan quickly unclasps the latch between the cuffs, freeing Mal’s hands. One at a time, he raises Mal’s hands and removes the cuffs, the fur slightly damp from the thin sheen of sweat that’s accrued from their session.

Once Mal is free, he rolls his wrists and shoulders, tilts his neck from side to side. Rowan holds the back of his elbow and helps him to his feet, guides him to the bed and lets him get comfortable on his back before he slicks his hand and brings Mal off again in smooth, slow jerks.

When he’s panting and sated, Rowan helps him come down.

A privilege he still can’t quite believe he gets to be a part of.

THEY’VE MADE going to Sheila’s diner a tradition of sorts, and it brings a welcome sense of familiarity to their sessions, coupled with an anticipation that has Rowan floating the entire walk there.

Because here, tucked away in the corner booth under the fluorescent lights, Rowan can actually get to know Mal’s mind rather than his body. Here he’s more than a bratty sub—he’s a wholeass person that Rowan’s been dying to get to know since he first locked eyes with him at the gangbang three weeks ago.

And sure, he knows some of what Mal likes sexually. Knew some of that shit before he’d even spoken two words to the guy, so it’s easy to think he knows a lot about him. But so far everything he’s learned has been carefully curated, filtered, sterilized almost, in a way that makes him realize he doesn’t know the other man at all. It’s like he’s still getting Malcolm, this caricature that he’s sculpted to present to the outside world so he doesn’t have to get too close with anyone.

Rowan wants to know Mal .

The guy who’s friends with the Monroe twins and Jeremiah and a sweet old lady who runs the diner they’ve come to frequent.

The guy whose tattoos are equally delicate and threatening.

The guy who shares pie and cigarettes with an almost-stranger without batting an eye.

That’s the guy Rowan wants to get to know, and he has no problem admitting that, even after only two scenes alone with him.

“SO, WHAT’S the verdict?” Rowan asks, pouring the packet of oyster crackers into his tomato soup.

“Was good,” Mal replies after he finishes a bite of his sandwich. But he doesn’t bother to look up from his food, diving in for another bite immediately.

It’s a relief, but it does little to dispel the feeling of being a kid and waiting on his teacher to pass back the test grades.

“That’s good. I’m glad, I mean.”

Fuck, he’s such an idiot. He shoves the corner of his grilled cheese into his mouth after dunking it in the tomato soup. But the bite of food, delicious as it is, isn’t enough to keep him from opening his big mouth again.

“Was uh… there anything you didn’t like? Or that I could do differently?”

In reality he knows that it’s good for them to talk about this shit. Get everything out in the open so there’s less chance for miscommunication and dissatisfaction and so they can learn each other and keep getting better every time. He suspects that the twinge of embarrassment in asking will fade eventually.

For the first time since they got their food nearly five minutes ago, Mal looks up, an amused smile on his face.

“You this much of a teacher’s pet in school too?”

The embarrassment becomes a full-on deluge, Rowan’s ears and face and neck undoubtedly flushing to clash with his hair.

“Not… I mean, I just—”

“Relax, Red. Just fuckin’ with ya. Woulda been concerned if you didn’t ask that at some point.”

Rowan exhales a heavy breath and unclenches the facial muscles he didn’t know he’d clenched in an effort to chill out. Hell, less than an hour ago he had a mind-blowing orgasm with a smokin’ hot guy and is currently eating homemade grilled cheese and tomato soup, and he’s tenser than a guilty defendant on trial.

“I liked everything you did,” Mal says, as if sensing Rowan finally relax.

And that… well, it’s got Rowan feeling all sorts of things he doesn’t want to name right now. All of them soft and warm and pleasant.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. You stuck to the acts we talked about beforehand. Checked in when you thought I was telling you ‘no’ or thought it was too much. Kept the dirty talk to shit I told you I liked.”

A thought strikes Rowan even through Mal’s praise of his performance.

“When I said I was gonna slap your face and you told me to do it, what’s….” He pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase his question. “We were obviously in the middle of the scene, so like… how much can I take what you say during that time seriously? I mean, I obviously wasn’t gonna do it right then, but is that something you’d be open to me doing in the future, or was that just heat-of-the-moment type shit?”

Mal sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, wetting it with his tongue. “In general, you should assume that anything we don’t explicitly talk about is just dirty talk. Kinda like you sayin’ you’d leave the room if I didn’t comply. We both know it’s not gonna happen, but it’s hot. The face slappin’ thing, though… I did mean that.”

God, Rowan feels his cock jump at the thought. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You were right for not doin’ it. We’ve only talked about spanking and impact play on less sensitive areas. Legs and chest and ass like you stuck to tonight.”

Rowan is glad he wasn’t too tempted to give in to that desire earlier. “I read one of those books you recommended. The Loving Dominant. Said some people write up an actual contract for this type of stuff.”

“Yeah,” Mal tells him. “I have with Doms in the past who wanted everything written out. ’S fine if you wanna do that—we can draw somethin’ up in writing. I never thought it was that necessary since the shit I’m into isn’t overly intense. Nothin’ that could cause significant pain or situations that could be traumatizing or anything.”

From what he’s read and from his few scenes with Mal, both their interests do fall on the more vanilla side of the BDSM landscape. “No, I’m good. Fine with talking stuff out. Just still need to check when things happen that I obviously haven’t dealt with before.”

Mal nods. He lets a beat of silence linger, a thoughtful look on his face, before telling Rowan, “You get it. Usually takes people a lot longer to suss this shit out, but you’re good at readin’ me. If I felt like you weren’t getting it or you needed a firm set of boundaries, I’d say we should write something. But that’s not the case.”

There’s that flush again, this time spreading all the way down to his fucking toes with a cascade of warmth that has nothing to do with the redness of his skin.

“It helps that you’re pretty open about what you like,” Rowan tells him.

Mal grunts noncommittally. “You’d think so. Had some Doms in the past who’d flat-out ignore obvious cues, let alone subtle ones.”

Rowan’s not surprised. He thinks back to the man he’d helped at the club barely more than a month ago. How his partner hadn’t noticed all the signs of someone slipping out of consciousness, some of which should be obvious even to an untrained eye.

“Used to it from work, I guess,” Rowan tells him.

“Didn’t know paramedics fucked their patients,” Mal quips back, amusement in his eyes.

“Only the hot ones,” Rowan jokes. Mal’s tiny side smile feels like a victory before he continues, “Nah, I mean that, like, half the time the people we help are either unconscious or close to it, so you kinda have to be good at reading body language and shit if they can’t tell you what’s wrong.”

Mal hums thoughtfully. He stuffs some BBQ chips inside the corner of his sandwich and takes a bite, the crunch of it reminding Rowan that his oyster crackers are probably soggy in his soup by now.

As Rowan’s scooping them out with his spoon, Mal says, “The one thing I’d say is that there were times when you could’a gone further.”

Rowan raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmm. Not complainin’, but you could’a made me work for shit more. Not given in so easily.”

Rowan shifts in his seat. “Pretty fuckin’ hard denying you anything , Mal.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Rowan wants to kick himself. Because that’s a whole lotta too much too soon that’s probably going to make Mal uncomfortable. Hell, it makes him uncomfortable with how sincere it is.

But thankfully Mal blows right past it. “Push and pull, man. I get off on being denied shit, and you get off on doin’ it. The payoff’s more satisfying havin’ to work for it.”

“Yeah,” Rowan tells him. “I know. Just… need to get outta my head.”

Maybe there’s something off about Rowan’s tone, because Mal’s eyes narrow a fraction before he speaks again. “You feel guilty or anything?”

It seems to come out of left field, and Rowan’s sure the surprise shows on his face. “Guilty? No… why?”

“Not anxious or depressed or anythin’? Now or last week?” Mal presses.

Mal couldn’t possibly know about his depression, but even with the moments of uncertainty he’s felt so far being Mal’s Dom, Rowan knows that nothing he’s felt with him even comes close to those days of feeling like the absolute scum of the earth.

Rowan shakes his head. “Nope.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Mal takes another bite of his sandwich, then speaks with his mouth full. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t droppin’.”

Oh . Right. He’d been so focused on Mal the past two sessions that Rowan hadn’t even considered the possibility of dropping himself. Of the two of them, it is more likely that the newbie would be more emotionally compromised after a scene than the seasoned pro.

Regardless, there’s a flutter in his chest at Mal’s concern.

“Oh,” Rowan says. “Kinda forgot that was a thing, honestly.”

“Less common than sub drop, but it happens.”

Mal meets his eyes, and the intensity that Rowan sees there turns the flutter into a full-on palpitation.

“You start feelin’ like that after our scene’s over, tell me. Or text me if it’s later in the week or somethin’,” Mal tells him, voice serious.

Rowan wants to say thank you and he wants to say I like learning this stuff with you and he wants to leap across the table and kiss the tiny fleck of mustard off the corner of Mal’s lip because sure, Rowan’s clinically mentally ill, but he’s also apparently fucking crazy and way too into this guy he’s basically only hooking up with.

What he says instead is nothing, and what he does is nod and take another bite of his grilled cheese.

Mal mirrors his nod, seemingly satisfied. “Anyway,” he says, “don’t be afraid to push me more’s all I’m sayin’. Gotta trust yourself that you’re not gonna fuck it up. But that’ll come with time. Already pretty damn good at it for a newbie.”

That same rush of tingling warmth he’s felt countless times tonight spreads through Rowan once more.

Mal was right. You can learn a lot of shit from books, and Rowan has so far, but nothing beats actual experience. And nothing feels better than hearing your sub say you did a good job . The irony isn’t lost on Rowan—that as the Dom, the one who’s supposed to take care of Mal and tell him he’s doing a good job, the opposite feels just as good.

A two-way street.

Chocolate sauce on pizza.

THEY WORK through their meals, snippets of meaningless conversation sprinkled in.

Mal unzips his messenger bag to check something on his phone, Rowan catching the light glinting off the metal clasps of the cuffs he’d unceremoniously tossed inside after their scene.

“Is there anything of the club’s that you actually use?” Rowan asks, recalling that Mal said he mostly brings his toys and equipment.

“Eh,” Mal shrugs. “Not really? Basically just the rooms and benches and shit. People are fuckin’ gross, man.”

Rowan thinks that the club isn’t nearly as gross as it would be if it weren’t in a fairly posh neighborhood. In fact it’s been pretty spotless every time he’s been there. Though he does remember the thorough toy cleaning and maintenance instructions he’d read in the book earlier in the week and thinks that Mal’s probably right despite Rowan’s recollection of the club’s toy-cleaning standards when he’d signed up.

Still.

“Must be kinda used to gross, though,” Rowan comments. “You’re Southie, right?”

Mal’s eyebrows quirk up.

“Your accent. I am too.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. Lived on Hampton Street.”

“Huh,” Mal says, looking thoughtful and—if Rowan’s reading it right—a little impressed. “Lived, like, a mile from there. On Baker.”

“Damn, small fuckin’ world.”

A smirk settles on Mal’s face. “Knew you seemed like a scrappy fucker.”

Rowan snorts in the back of his throat. “Why, ’cause I was gonna fight that guy at the gangbang?”

“Just in general. Don’t really take shit from what I’ve seen so far.”

With a shrug, Rowan replies, “Yeah, guess so. The result of being the middle of six kids.”

“Fuck, I thought Savaryns bred like cockroaches.”

“Don’t think that’s the right expression.”

“Whatever, Red.” Mal tilts his bag of BBQ chips up and empties the crumbs into his mouth, crunching loudly. “Left that shithole so I didn’t have to deal with that shit anymore. Bein’ fuckin’… dirty all the time. Usin’ other people’s stuff. Can finally use my own shit and not hafta share it with anyone.”

Rowan’s heart gives a little kick in solidarity, having felt the exact same when he’d moved into his own place after having to share everything he’s ever touched his entire life.

“I get that,” Rowan tells him. “Kinda seems like a waste of money, though. Why even go to the club at all? Why not bring people home with you?”

“Keeps shit separate,” Mal grumbles. “I don’t need some random guy comin’ over to my place when we’re just fuckin’.”

Rowan tries not to take that personally. He gets it. They’re not dating. They’re just fuckin ’. Even if he is a step above some random guy , at least in his own opinion.

“Makes sense,” Rowan says instead.

They sit quietly for a few more minutes, but there’s a gnawing something inside Rowan that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

But he shoves the feeling aside, remembering that he’d been meaning to ask Mal something about what he’d read earlier in the week.

“Have you always been a sub?”

If the shift in topic surprises him, Mal doesn’t let it show. “Pretty much. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Curious ’cause you wanna try it, or you wanna know why I like it?”

Maybe someday Mal’s perceptiveness will stop catching Rowan off guard.

“Why you like it. I mean, I know I like being in control and shit and that I get off on pleasing people, but I don’t think I’d like submitting as much.”

Mal hums softly. “Think I kinda scratched the surface before, but I like shutting my mind off for a bit. Not having to worry about normal day-to-day shit and just existing. Pass off the choices to someone else. Someone I know won’t fuck me over.”

It makes Rowan’s cheeks tingle that Mal can already tell that about him from a few sessions together, and he can’t help the smile it brings to his face.

Mal continues, “It’s more than physical for me. Obviously shit feels good, but being comfortable enough to admit that I like giving up control and to actually do it takes that pleasure to another level. ’S like… being free , y’know?” He takes a deep breath, making his nostrils flare out. “Used to have to hide a lot. You’re Southie, so you gotta know what that’s like.”

“Yeah,” Rowan replies. Even if he’d been pretty open about his sexuality, he still had his fair share of run-ins with local homophobes.

“So doin’ this feels more like my authentic self, if you wanna get all psychological about it. Makes the pleasure more intense knowing I’m safe and am gonna be cared for even if I fuck up or don’t meet the other person’s expectations or whatever.”

Rowan wonders what it is about Mal that makes him almost downplay his knowledge about this stuff. Wonders if it’s that lingering Southie mentality that it’s not worth shit to be emotionally aware or smart in ways other than what relates directly to life on the street.

He hopes he finds out one day.

They settle into a short silence, the clinking of dishes and the muffled coughs of the few late-night patrons and the sizzling of the grill filling the air between them. Rowan glances toward the counter and sees Sheila adjusting her name tag, reminding him of another thing he’d wanted to ask Mal.

“Oh hey, I meant to ask you the other day, but do you want me to call you Malcolm at the club? Like in front of Camilla and Jeremiah or whatever?”

Mal bites his lip, rubs at his eyebrow. “Don’t really give a shit, but…. Yeah, prob’ly.”

The yeah tells Rowan that he does, in fact, give a shit. At least some part of him does.

“’Kay. Is there a… reason for it?”

Again Mal fidgets. Bites the inside of his cheek. Averts his gaze. He’s clearly uncomfortable about it, and Rowan quickly backtracks, not wanting to scare him off.

“Don’t hafta tell me if you don’t want. Was only curious,” Rowan says.

“Not exactly dinner conversation, man,” Mal replies in a low voice, not looking up from his food.

“That’s cool. Sorry.”

That urge Rowan has to pry is intense, but he shoves it down. Apparently not far down enough to stop his next question from tumbling out.

“Have you had all your Doms call you Mal, then?”

“Just—” Mal starts, stopping himself.

The Just you hangs in the air between them for a long moment. Unspoken, yet palpable. Visceral in a way that has Rowan’s blood rushing in his ears and his belly churning.

“Uh… no.” Mal continues. “Felt weird havin’ you call me Malcolm, so….” He trails off, far quieter than he had been during his long explanation.

“Oh. Cool.”

Cool. Like Rowan’s heart isn’t hammering a mile a minute, thinking about the way Mal had blushed so beautifully when Rowan had called him Mal during their first scene. He tries not to let it get to him. Not to make it so obvious that Rowan knows that Mal thinks of him as different somehow.

Not some random guy , even if in this tiny way.

WHEN THE bus girl comes to take their empty plates, Mal asks her to bring them a slice of key lime pie and the slip. She nods but insists that Sheila said their meal is once again on the house.

Mal grumbles and asks her for a blank order slip, which she rips off from the pad tucked inside her apron and leaves to fetch their pie. He takes out a pen from the front of his messenger bag and quickly scribbles down their orders and the prices from memory, pie included.

“Be back in a sec,” he says, grabbing his wallet and swiftly sliding out of the booth.

Rowan watches him make his way toward Sheila and slap the bill on the counter in front of her, presumably along with some cash. The old woman doesn’t even flinch, simply sighs and continues filling the pastry display with muffins and scones. Rowan can’t hear their conversation, but he sees Mal plant both hands on the counter and dip his head forward as if exasperated. Eventually Sheila seems to relent, punching their order into the register and taking Mal’s money.

Rowan’s dying to know what the story is there, but his wandering thoughts are halted when the bus girl places a delicious-looking slice of key lime pie and two forks on their table.

Rowan thanks her, waiting for Mal before he digs in. He paid for it after all. The least he can do is wait for him. It’s easily more restraint than he’s had to display all night, remembering how good the apple pie was last week.

When Mal returns, Rowan gives him a questioning look, but the other man shrugs it off with a shake of his head.

AS THEY work through their dessert, they make light conversation. When prompted, Rowan tells Mal about all five of his siblings in turn, highlighting their best qualities rather than dragging them to a stranger. In turn, Mal tells him about his job and that he’d gotten his associate’s degree in bookkeeping when he was in his mid-twenties, something he casually mentions no one in his family had done before.

Small things. Normal things. Nothing nearly as heavy as the subjects they’d broached earlier, but still Rowan has to fight to keep the smile off his face.

When they finally part ways in the parking lot of the club half an hour later, Rowan’s jaw and cheeks ache from the effort.

Tonight felt good. Tonight felt like progress in cracking that titanium shell that Mal has around everything that’s not strictly related to physical pleasure. Rowan only hopes that things keep going this well.