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ROWAN’S NEXT two scenes with Mal go as well as their first two. They use the cuffs both times, Mal jigsawing into near impossible positions that get Rowan’s heart thudding and his dick throbbing. They test out the glass dildo that Mal had shown him before their first scene together, which pales in comparison to the silicone beads they’d used the second time, and a set of clover nipple clamps that make Mal keen the loudest he ever has. Rowan had dutifully filed that particular fact away for later use as soon as Mal nearly came from Rowan tugging on the chain connecting his overly sensitive nipples.

It really is amazing that after only four sessions alone with him, he already feels in tune to Mal’s desires. To his body. His reactions. Like the way his thighs shake when he’s on the verge of coming, or the way he bites his bottom lip when Rowan strokes over the tip of his cock. The way his eyes roll back any time Rowan’s hands ghost over his neck.

He never thought he could be so completely and thoroughly satisfied with a sexual partner. Even in the past with hookups or fuck buddies or the couple of people he’s referred to as his boyfriend , he’s never felt like this. Just… gratified in every way. And sure, he’s never delved this deep into his sexuality before, so there’s obviously an element of newness that explains some of it, but the rest is solely Mal.

And yeah, there isn’t a romantic connection between the two of them, but there’s something . Not a friendship yet, but definitely a kinship, if anyone uses that word anymore. Two boys from the South End who overcame some shit, got out, and now get to live their lives the way they want. At least that’s true for Rowan, and he assumes that’s pretty close to Mal’s story from the snippets he’s told him.

Dirty. Closeted. Abused, probably, in some way or another.

The hallmarks of too many kids in the South End, though many of them wind up on the streets or in jail or six feet under. They don’t make it out like Rowan did. Like Mal did.

Somehow their paths never crossed when they were growing up, but Rowan wonders what it would have been like if they’d known each other. Would they have been rivals? Friends? Fuck buddies? Boyfriends? It makes his head spin thinking about the smallness of the world and about how someone who lived a mile away from him growing up carved out his own path in the world and still somehow wound up at the very same club as him.

He wonders, too, if he’d even have stayed a member of the Menagerie at all if he hadn’t been picked by Mal that first day. Would he have found someone else to spend a few hours with instead? Would he have committed to being someone else’s Dom? Or would he have gone home empty-handed and canceled his membership the next day?

It’s all a little too much to think about. For now, Rowan counts his lucky stars that he gets to have this.

ROWAN FINDS himself looking forward to their diner “dates” almost as much as their actual scenes, because that’s when he learns the most about Mal.

He doesn’t like tomatoes— No fruit should be both sweet and bitter. Shit should be illegal.

He actually enjoys his job as an accountant for some sort of tech company that Rowan doesn’t completely understand— Pay is decent and my bosses are actually smart enough to listen to me when I tell ’em they’re wastin’ money on somethin’.

He is capable of having a friendly conversation, as long as he gets something in his ass first— Don’t ever get a tattoo on your hips, man. Shit’s fucking painful. Yes, way more painful than the ribs, Saint Mary.

And in turn, Rowan tells Mal as much about himself. As a middle child of six, Rowan’s never really liked being in the spotlight. He doesn’t tend to offer up much information about himself unless there’s a specific goal in mind, but with Mal, it’s effortless.

As easy as when he used to have meaningless conversations with his brother Jay in their childhood bedroom, passing a joint back and forth. But now it’s meaningful conversations with Mal in Sheila’s diner, passing whatever dessert Sheila whipped up that day back and forth.

He tells Mal about how he became a paramedic—how he loves helping people and making a difference, even though his job can be stressful and mentally draining at times.

He tells Mal more about his siblings—Aubrey and Jay and Clara and Rory and Marc, each with their own set of quirks that are as frustrating as they are endearing.

He tells Mal about how he wants his next apartment to have a balcony so he can grow tomatoes— They are good, what the hell do you mean you don’t like them?

He doesn’t tell Mal that he’s clinically depressed. As much as he wants to let Mal into his life, some things aren’t meant to be shared casually over strawberry shortcake.

SOMEWHERE IN between the second and third sessions—Rowan absolutely does not know the exact day without looking back at the message—they’ve started texting more. Not really Hey, how was your day type things , but little things. Mostly kink-related things, but conversations nonetheless. That first week alone, they talked four times, on and off for several hours throughout each day.

And it made him so fucking glad and honest-to-God giddy that he wonders if he really is a teenager with his first crush and not a twenty-seven-year-old man with a membership to a sex dungeon.

Don’t get him wrong, Rowan knows he’s being an idiot—expecting something more to come of his conversations with Mal, which would theoretically then bleed into his scenes with him. It’s beyond wishful thinking, and pretty dishonest if he’s being frank. Because he’s wanting something more than what Mal wants to give him, more than what they’ve established they’re going to give to each other.

Every time Rowan had a friends-with-benefits situation when he was younger, Aubrey had always warned him that it would end badly, that someone would catch feelings and shit would get awkward and one or both of them would get hurt.

Clearly, he hasn’t learned from his big sister’s advice.

He should nip this shit in the bud and probably go out and fuck some other people to get over his hang-up on Mal. But… he doesn’t want to . And that is what scares him more than anything. The fact that his notoriously high libido is satisfied with only one hookup per week is astonishing, even with his usual daily jerk-off sessions still intact. There’s something there about quality over quantity, but Rowan doesn’t want to let himself think about that for too long.

But as well as things are going, there’s one frustrating caveat to all of this. To the texting and whole “getting to know one another” thing that still keeps Mal out of arm’s reach. It’s that for the most part—when they’re not within the confines of the diner—Mal really only seems to want to talk about sex. And look, if that’s all Mal is willing to talk about? Rowan’s gonna talk about sex. A lot.

On a random Tuesday afternoon, he texts him the first thing that pops into his head.

[RC] What’s your favorite position?

[MS] prison guard

His response is immediate. He knows Mal works from home, but it’s still a pleasant surprise that he’s paying him the attention he should be paying to Excel spreadsheets.

[RC] ???

[RC] Never heard of that

[MS] you did it last week

[MS] prison-guard-07.gif

The gif of straight-up porn catches Rowan off guard, though it really shouldn’t given who he’s talking to. But now that he sees it, Rowan does remember it well. Mal on his knees with Rowan fucking into him from behind, holding his arms tight to his lower back as if he were in handcuffs. It was hot as shit, and Mal definitely seemed to enjoy it.

[RC] Ah, gotcha

[MS] or on my knees with my face pressed into the bed

[MS] like riding a lot too

[MS] my actual favorite though is missionary while i’m gettin choked

[RC] Too bad we can’t do your actual favorite

Rowan’s not expecting a reply to that.

[MS] yeah

[MS] got big hands man

[RC] Should have you ride me again though. Haven’t done that since the gb

[MS] yeah

[MS] next saturday?

[RC] Definitely

Rowan thinks the conversation is over, but Mal follows up with a less-than-common question of his own.

[MS] what’s yours

[RC] Assume you mean for topping? Guess it depends

[MS] yeah. depends on what

[RC] If I’m fucking someone I care about or not

[MS] why does that matter

[MS] fucking is fucking

[RC] Thanks Shakespeare

[RC] It does matter. To me at least

[MS] sap

[MS] so what you only fuck people in missionary if you love them

Well. No, but it does feel more special that way. But he’s not gonna tell Mal that. They kinda-sorta fucked that way during the gangbang, but that was about as far from romantic as you can get.

[RC] Not what I meant

[RC] I like missionary or spooning the best if there’s feelings involved

[RC] And just doggy if it’s a casual thing

[MS] you got a different favorite for bottoming

[RC] I don’t really do it enough to have a favorite

[RC] Probably riding though so I can still be in control

Rowan doesn’t tell him that it’s been over a year since he last bottomed, and even longer since he really enjoyed it.

EACH TIME his phone vibrates or lights up with a message from Mal, it gets Rowan’s heart racing. Standing in line at the grocery store, winding down from a run, folding laundry… normal, everyday things are made all the more enjoyable when he sees Mal’s name on the screen. Every conversation throughout the week is a tiny sip of Mal that Rowan drinks in like a man lost in the desert—tiding him over long enough to make it to the oasis of Saturday night but never enough to fully quench his thirst.

[RC] You ever been fisted before?

[MS] what the fuck

[MS] why

[RC] Sorry, just read something about it and was curious

[MS] once

[RC] No shit?? Did you like it?

[MS] fact that i only did it once should speak for itself man

[MS] but no not really

[MS] wasn’t that bad i guess. the stretch felt kinda like a big toy, but the guy kept wiggling his fingers and it was weird as fuck

[RC] Jesus

[MS] that’s not something you wanna do is it?

He can practically hear the grimace in Mal’s tone, and it makes him smile.

[RC] Fuck no

[RC] The gaping aspect can be kinda hot, but I don’t like it to that extreme

[RC] Reminds me of this guy with a prolapsed anus we had to drive to the ER once

[MS] you know you fucked up if it don’t go back in on its own

And was that a… joke?

Like an actual, unprompted, ha-ha joke?

God, Rowan likes him so much .

DESPITE HIS best efforts to keep himself under control these past few weeks, Rowan’s blossoming… whatever on Mal is so embarrassingly obvious that even Addison has picked up on it and hounds him relentlessly because of it.

She catches him texting Mal on one of their rounds, turning his phone out of her view so she can’t see the photo of the new vibrating plug that Mal bought.

“That your ‘booty call’ again?” she asks, not even trying to hide the smugness in her voice.

“Shut up,” Rowan tells her, because he is a mature adult fully capable of keeping his emotions in check and not a hormonal teenager.

“You’ve been seeing this guy for, like, a month now, Rowan. That’s not a booty call anymore.”

“We fuck once a week. Saturday at eight. That’s a booty call.”

“Uh-huh, and me and Char are just roommates.”

“You’re married to them. And that’s different,” Rowan shoots back.

“Domestic partnership,” she corrects. “But no, the point stands.”

“We’ve only fucked, like, five times so far. It’s nothing serious.”

But he wants it to be. Not going steady serious, ’cause it’s way too early for that, but he’d be a filthy liar if he said he didn’t want anything more than what they’ve got going on right now. Or at least a shot at something more.

Hell, he’d settle for a kiss.

“I can count on zero hands the number of times I fucked someone five times and didn’t end up dating them for at least a year,” Addison says matter-of-factly.

Rowan bristles, unsure exactly why he’s being so defensive about the whole thing. Well, he knows why. Despite that they’ve started talking more between sessions and spending longer and longer at Sheila’s diner at the end of their sessions, he has no idea if Mal feels anything between them or not.

They’ve got great physical chemistry. Their bodies fit together in a way that feels effortless and, well, special for lack of a better word. Hell, Rowan’s had some great sex in his life, but it’s never been like this. Easy. Fun. Deeply satisfying during and after. And all that while sober , for fuck’s sake, which is more than Rowan can say for many of his past hookups.

“It’s different with guys,” Rowan says instead.

“I know you don’t believe in that sexist BS.”

Rowan sighs. “No. But even if I did want something else—which I don’t—we agreed on a casual thing. And I’m not gonna ruin fantastic sex ’cause I caught feelings.”

“Fantastic, huh?” Addison laughs.

“You have no idea.”

“Well, you better lock that shit down before someone else snatches him up.”

“Again, not gonna happen.”

“You never know,” Addison insists in a singsong voice.

Her refusal to drop the subject is getting on Rowan’s nerves.

“I do know. The only thing we talk about is sex. We don’t hang out outside of hookups, and we don’t even kiss when we’re fucking.”

He leaves out the fact that their fucking requires much more vulnerability, communication, and trust than what she’s probably assuming.

“All right, all right, down, killer,” she says.

Mercifully, a call comes in right then, abruptly ending their conversation. Rowan’s never been so glad for someone to be injured.

THE CALL is Rowan’s least favorite kind. Domestic abuse.

They race to the scene—a narrow, rundown house on the outskirts of the Back Bay. Two police cars light up the dismal gray area with flashing blue lights that always make Rowan’s nerves fray—a harsh reminder of all the times he’s run from those exact lights in the past and the one time he couldn’t.

He pushes aside thoughts of police and actions that aren’t entirely his own and climbs out of the ambulance with Addison in time to see a burly man being handcuffed against a squad car.

On the porch steps is a young woman, early- to mid-twenties, maybe, hunched in on herself and staunchly ignoring the police officer trying, presumably, to take her statement.

But Rowan has authority here.

“Paramedics! Clear the way,” he calls.

The cops begrudgingly make way for them and hover a few feet away as Rowan kneels at the woman’s side. She’s thin and pale, her long, straight black hair splayed across her shoulders and casting a dark curtain over her face.

Rowan does a quick external exam of what he can see, noting that she’s cradling her arm in her lap.

“Hi, I’m Rowan. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

She shakily holds her right arm out. “Just my arm.”

Rowan quickly pulls a pair of gloves on, asking, “No head or back injuries?”

“No. Aside from….” She gestures to her left eye.

For the first time, she looks up, and Rowan is struck by her eyes. Teary, rimmed red, mascara starting to run down her cheeks, a bruise already starting to form around her left eye socket.

But shockingly golden. Bright and piercing even brimmed with tears.

Fuck, she looks exactly like Mal. Her coloration, slim build, facial structure… down to her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. And of course those gold fucking eyes. So similar to the ones that Rowan had made cry a few weeks ago for an entirely different reason that it nearly makes him forget himself.

“Can I…?”

She nods, brushing back the bangs covering her forehead.

Rowan gently prods around her temple and eyebrow with his thumb, careful not to hurt the already swollen area.

“This’ll be a nasty black eye in a couple days, but there’s no external bleeding or broken bones, so there’s not much I can do about it at the moment. Can I see your arm?”

Once she extends it, Rowan slowly turns her palm face up.

But he pauses, seeing the small tattoo inked inside her wrist. Two curving snakes, one larger and curled around the smaller of the two. Similar to what Mal has on his calf.

It can’t be… can it?

Mal hasn’t said anything about any siblings, and Rowan hasn’t asked, still too worried of overstepping. But as he thinks about it, he remembers something he’d said at the diner after one of their first sessions when Rowan mentioned being one of six kids: I thought Savaryns bred like cockroaches.

Rowan can’t help but wonder if she’s a sister or a cousin of Mal’s.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Amy.”

She doesn’t offer a last name, and Rowan doesn’t pry, despite that he’s itching to.

“Do you want to tell me what happened to your arm?”

As she talks, Rowan lightly prods her arm with his fingertips, feeling the bones of her forearm and wrist, mentally cataloging each as he feels it.

“My boyfriend… he just gets upset sometimes. He drank too much tonight. And I said….” She sighs deeply, shaking her head before continuing. “He hit me. Grabbed my arm and pushed me. I shouldn’t have… should’a just….”

She sighs again.

“It’s okay, Amy. It wasn’t your fault,” Addison tells her, a comfort and solidarity that, as a man, Rowan can’t provide.

She nods, wincing with a light hiss when Rowan touches one spot on the side of her wrist.

“I don’t think anything is broken, but you may have a bad sprain. I can put a brace on it for now, and we can take you to the hospital to get it looked at, or you can go yourself if you don’t want the medical expense of the ambulance ride.”

The worst thing about his job is seeing the defeated look in his patients’ eyes when he mentions the ambulance cost. Sometimes he doesn’t. Not if it’s a life-or-death situation. But something like this, where it’s clear that the person will be okay for a while and where they look like they’d be crushed with the cost of it, he makes sure to let them know they’re not obligated to go with them.

“I’ll be fine. ’S not the first time this shit’s happened.”

Her face hardens. Clearly, she’s tougher than Rowan initially thought. Again, he’s reminded of the now-familiar scowl he’s grown to look forward to seeing every week.

Addison gets a cold pack from her kit, snaps it to activate it, and hands it to Amy.

“Here,” she says, gesturing to her eye. “It’ll stay cold for about an hour and will help reduce the swelling and bruising.”

The half nod she gives Addison confirms for Rowan that this really isn’t the first time this has happened, and that she’s probably well aware of how to care for her injuries.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? Somewhere else?” Rowan asks.

It’s not his job. But Rowan knows too well that the cops don’t give enough of a shit about people like her to do anything to help.

She nods. “Yeah. I’ll call my brother. Can stay with him.”

Rowan’s head is swimming.

“Okay, that’s good. You have a way to get there?”

“He’ll come get me. He always does.”

It’s as good an answer as he can hope for. He puts a temporary brace on her wrist and tells her to take some ibuprofen to help keep down the swelling, and to get to a doctor as soon as she can.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

Not for the first time in his career, Rowan wants to squeeze her shoulder or pull her in for a hug and assure her that it’ll be okay, but it’s not his place. Definitely not in a case like this.

“No problem” is what he says instead, before packing up his kit and heading back to the ambulance with Addison.

ON THEIR drive back, Addison asks him, “You okay?”

Rowan’s caught by surprise. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Kinda zoned out there for a minute looking at her arm. Seemed like you knew her, maybe.”

Goddammit. He really needs to work on his fucking poker face.

“I don’t know her,” he says. “Just reminded me of someone. I hate those calls.”

Addison accepts his reasoning, and they ride in silence the rest of the way back to the station.

ROWAN DOESN’T hear from Mal at all the next day, a Thursday, which until about a week ago, wouldn’t have been unusual. But he can’t stop thinking about the young woman with the probably-sprained wrist and the same piercing eyes as Mal. Nearly the same tattoo, if in a different location.

It’s definitely not a coincidence, right? Or is his mind so overflowing with thoughts of Mal that he’s started to seep into every aspect of Rowan’s life? Seeing connections where they aren’t? Every shade of brown and gold morphing in Rowan’s brain to fit the shade he’s constantly thinking about? There’s some phenomenon that has to do with that, but Rowan can’t be bothered to look it up.

He wants to text him. Wants to breach their mutual understanding of just-fuckin’, just-sex talk, and ask him how his day was with the hope of finding out if his suspicions are true.

Is Amy his sister? Did Mal pick her up and let her stay with him? Is she still at his home? Did she make it to a doctor? Has this happened before? It seemed like it had, recalling Amy saying, He’ll come get me. He always does when Rowan asked if she had a way of getting to her brother.

He doesn’t text Mal.

Instead he goes for a run, each step pounded into the pavement tamping down all the questions rattling around in his head.

ON FRIDAY night, Rowan receives a text from Mal. His stomach drops, thinking he’s going to be canceling their session for some reason, but is relieved to see that isn’t the case.

[MS] wanna switch things up a bit tomorrow if you’re cool with it

[RC] Sure, what do you have in mind?

[MS] want to try out more praise this time. been great with the meanness but not feeling it for tomorrow

The past few weeks, Rowan’s been gaining more confidence in his ability to be a mean Dom—and his enjoyment of it—but this is something new. And honestly it’s not like it’s gonna be all that difficult, he doesn’t think. Getting to tell Mal how good he’s being for him outside of aftercare? Yeah, that shit’s gonna be a breeze. Rowan practically has to bite his tongue during their sessions to keep himself from blurting that stuff out and ruining the mood.

[RC] Yeah definitely

But it can’t have been a spur-of-the-moment decision that Mal wanted this now. He’s told Rowan before that he’d only ask for it when he was in a certain headspace, and Rowan wonders if it has anything to do with Amy—if they are related, after all.

[RC] Any reason why?

It takes Mal a long few minutes to respond.

[MS] just some shit goin on

[RC] You wanna talk about it? Either now or during our scene tomorrow?

Rowan had read that some subs like working through shitty days during their scene. But Mal’s answer comes immediately.

[MS] no

Right. Too personal. Just fuckin’. Rowan gets it.

[RC] K

[MS] wanna try out some edging too

He lets the quick change of subject pass, intrigued by the prospect of edging Mal. By now Rowan definitely has a good enough handle on getting Mal to come and knowing his tells for them to try edging, and he’s immediately on board with it.

[RC] Definitely

[RC] You mentioned a fleshlight last time we talked about edging, want to use that too?

[MS] yeah that’d be good. got one of those clear cock sleeves and a vibe i can bring

[MS] and a blindfold if you’re cool with it

That’s a new one. He’s about to question it when Mal’s explanation comes through.

[MS] usually like to do that when there’s more praise than normal. blocks everything else out

[RC] Yeah sure

He’s read enough about sensory deprivation to know that it can make everything much more intense—physical feelings and emotions alike. But in the back of his mind, Rowan does wonder if Mal doesn’t like making eye contact when someone tells him he’s being good.

[RC] Do you like/want to be tickled when I’m edging you?

[MS] no. just pull away before i cum

[RC] Got it

[MS] some people like or need it, but i hate being tickled

[RC] Glad I asked then

[MS] might want to use the cuffs again too, but not sure atm. you mind if we figure that part out right before?

[RC] Fine with me, just lmk

[MS] cool

Rowan sends Mal a thumbs up emoji.

[RC] Enjoy the rest of your night

You sure you don’t want to talk? he wants to send.

He doesn’t.

[MS] you too

“YOU’VE BEEN coming here over a month now, right?” Jeremiah asks as he places a foaming glass of beer in front of Rowan.

It’s a slower Saturday night, the music turned down to a level that allows easy conversation across the bar.

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason. It’s nice to see Malcolm stick with someone again. Leave some for the rest of us for a change.” He laughs.

Rowan huffs a short laugh of his own. “You guys all talk about him like he’s a mythical creature or some shit. He’s just a guy.”

If Rowan’s directing that particular message to himself rather than to Jeremiah, no one needs to know that.

But the smile never falls from Jeremiah’s lips, and the glint never fades from his coffee-colored eyes, and Rowan gets the feeling once again of being dissected.

“You like him.”

Rowan nearly spits out his drink. Having Addison clock him is one thing, but someone so close to Mal? Someone who knows him, who’s friends with him? Yeah, that shit’s a little too close to home for comfort.

“I like fucking him,” Rowan clarifies, purposefully not taking another sip of his drink to avoid looking like he’s hiding behind it.

“Course you do. Everyone likes fucking him.”

“So… what? The fact that I keep showing up for some great ass means I have a crush on the guy?”

Jeremiah holds his hands up in mock surrender. “No need to get defensive about it.”

“I’m not.”

Like he wasn’t defensive about it with Addison all week. Jesus Christ, he really is in deep.

“Reading people’s seventy-five percent of my job, honey,” Jeremiah tells him, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child rather than something supposedly secret to a grown man. “Got it written all over those big green eyes of yours.”