Page 24

A huff is Mal’s only response, earning him a quick succession of sharp spanks on both asscheeks.

“Fuck! Can’t….”

“Don’t give me that shit. I don’t remember you being this much of a pillow princess when you had ten cocks waiting to fuck you. Mine too much to handle?”

Some unintelligible grumble comes from Mal’s throat, and Rowan slaps the side of his thigh.

“What?”

“ No .” After a beat, “Not too much.”

“Didn’t think so. Fucking cock slut like you is made for this. Now move .”

Mal pinches his shoulder blades together and clenches his hole in short, fluttering pulses before arching his back and crashing his ass against Rowan’s hips, impaling himself fully.

“There ya go. Keep goin’.”

The slap, slap, slap of skin and sweat and lube is deafening as Mal’s speed builds, thigh and back muscles rippling with every sharp thrust.

Rowan’s in fucking heaven.

But as much as Rowan likes seeing Mal work for it, he’s been in control a little too long. He grips his hips like a vise, pulling him back roughly on his cock over and over until a hoarse, wet scream is ripped from Mal’s throat.

“That’s it…. Take my cock so fuckin’ well,” Rowan tells him. He spanks him roughly, not content with the redness disappearing from Mal’s ass from his earlier barrage.

Alternating thrusts and spanks has a wall of heat building inside Rowan brick by brick, Mal’s gasps and grunts threatening to make it come toppling down in an instant.

“N-no one…,” Mal mumbles out of nowhere.

Rowan pauses his thrusts, a spike of concern dampening his lust as he dips down over Mal’s back. “What?”

“ Unh , don’t stop….”

With a deep thrust, Rowan picks up a slow but forceful pace. “Tell me what you were gonna say.”

A quiver runs from Mal’s shoulders down to his thighs, but he stays silent save for a soft litany of moans.

“C’mon, Mal. Tell me.”

“No one— fuck … no one fucks me like you….”

Rowan has to clamp down on the base of his dick to stop from coming immediately. And unexpectedly, for the second week in a row. His pride would never recover if his stamina got worse over time with Mal. As it is, his heart’s having a hard time keeping up with the stutter step that it’s beating into Rowan’s ears.

“Yeah,” he agrees after the near miss, fucking his full length in at a bruising pace. “And no one ever will.”

He doesn’t mean it to sound so possessive, but fuck if it doesn’t get Mal’s hole clenching deliciously around him.

Without breaking the rhythm of his hips, he unclasps Mal’s hands from one another and gets in another few deep strokes until Mal’s arms thud onto the bed. Only when he hears Mal’s soft gasp does he pull out and flip him onto his back, sit on his haunches, and inch forward until the tip of his cock teases at Mal’s hole.

They lock eyes, and Mal’s chest is heaving, a faint flush on his pecs and hips that makes the black ink of his tattoos shine. He’s fucking beautiful.

As Rowan slides back in, there’s a palpable shift in the air that’s ambrosia on his tongue, and he knows the scene isn’t going to end nearly the same way it started.

“Touch yourself.”

Mal grasps his red cock and starts furiously jerking off, clearly on edge and nowhere close to matching Rowan’s languid rhythm.

“ Slowly. ”

“Rowan….”

“C’mon, Mal. You held out longer than this last time.”

It’s risky, bringing up last time . But fuck it, he’s gonna lay all his cards bare.

“Wanna feel you when I come.”

Mal’s slack jaw and the way his hands forcibly slow around his cock tell Rowan his gamble paid off. As Rowan fucks in, Mal’s hand pumps up, fingers flicking over the tip. Out, down, their eyes never leaving each other. It’s the hottest moment of Rowan’s entire life, and the sweat mussing up his hair trickles down his temple and drips onto his clavicle.

The slow pace has his toes curling underneath him, and he knows he could come from this alone. Easily. Gladly .

But he still wants to wreck Mal. Show him that yeah , no one else will ever fuck him as good as Rowan can.

He hooks Mal’s legs over his elbows and lifts his lower half completely off the bed, pulling a soft “ Fuck …” from him.

“Tell me when you’re close.”

It’s like his hips have a mind of their own as they piston into Mal. He doesn’t feel the sting of his hip bones crashing into the back of Mal’s thighs or the strain in his arms or the kink that’s going to develop in his neck from constantly shifting his focus between Mal’s hole and cock and face.

“Fuck, fuck! Oooh fuuuck !”

“That’s it, just like that,” Rowan pants between thrusts, heat rising to boiling in his core and balls tightening.

“Gonna…. Rowan , I—”

“Yeah, yeah , come with me, Mal.”

It only takes the slightest clench of Mal’s hole around him to get Rowan emptying inside the condom with a groan, rhythm and composure completely shattered.

When Mal comes all over his own chest, the look on his face is nothing short of cathartic. Relieved in a way that Rowan can’t help but think has more to do with the simple fact of having an orgasm. And when he has to bite his bottom lip to keep a grin from spreading, Rowan’s chest glows golden.

WHEN ALL is said and done, they lie together on their backs, side by side on the bed. Rowan stares at the ceiling lights that bathe the room in cool white luminescence and make the gold pinstripes of the wallpaper shimmer. He lets himself catch his breath for a moment before propping himself up on one elbow, turning to Mal.

“How do you feel?”

“Mmm… good. Sore,” Mal answers quietly, eyes lightly closed.

Gently, Rowan lays a hand on Mal’s chest, the dip between his pecs molding perfectly to his fingers. As if he’ll startle him, he lets Mal get accustomed to his hand on his skin for a moment before gliding across his body, touch little more than a whisper across his skin.

Like last week, he’s afraid of making things awkward or, worse, letting his actions veer too close to romantic. But as Mal leans into his touch, all doubt flies out the window, and Rowan knows that he can’t let his budding feelings for Mal get in the way of proper aftercare. Mal needs softness after impact play. He told Rowan that during their initial talk, and unless that need changes, Rowan’s gotta do it. Even though this is the first scene they’ve done that has really required it, it’s not exactly a hardship.

In fact, it’s easy. So easy, even after the emotional sucker punch a couple of hours ago, that it should be concerning. But Mal’s sticky-warm skin has completely fucked Rowan up from the inside out, and each sweep of his hand over the planes of his chest and the curve of his hips and the swell of his biceps has a million tiny cracks forming and threatening to burst Rowan at the seams.

In hushed whispers that don’t even echo in the stark room, Rowan talks Mal down, by now a familiar process. Rowan’s heart swells, knowing that he’s done this enough times to even out Mal’s breathing in a matter of minutes.

Even then, with Mal lying still beside him, Rowan doesn’t stop the light touches. It feels good to be able to touch him like this—like he’s wanted to for the past few weeks but has never had an excuse to. He knows how intimate this is and how much more intimate it could be if there was anything more to their relationship than sex. For now he lets himself have this as long as Mal will let him.

Rowan’s hands wander, and he finds himself idly tracing the thick lines of the tattooed heart emblazoned with LISA on Mal’s rib cage because it’s safer than running his fingers over the skin where his actual heart lies.

“Who is she?” he asks before he can think better of it.

To his surprise, for the second time tonight, Mal sighs deeply but answers, “My mom.”

“Are you close?”

Mal reaches his right arm across his stomach, hand coming to rest atop Rowan’s as he presses them both to cover his tattoo. The touch is electric and far more intimate than Rowan would have believed possible for such a tiny gesture. He pulls it away before he speaks but doesn’t move Rowan’s hand from the spot, letting him soak up the warmth of his body through his fingertips.

“We were when I was a kid, yeah. Lost touch when I got older ’cause of a buncha bullshit.” He pauses, and Rowan watches his nose wrinkle. “She died last year.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Mal.”

“’S fine. Been long enough now.”

“Still.”

They lie in silence for a few minutes, Rowan continuously stroking whatever soft piece of skin his hands happen to land on. At this point he’s not sure he can blame it on aftercare anymore, but Mal hasn’t said or done anything to stop him.

He thinks about his own mother. His own messed-up relationship with her. After what Mal shared, Rowan wants to give something of himself back, even if it isn’t the whole picture.

Before he knows it, he’s speaking.

“Mine was a mess. Bailed when we were little and left my older sister and brother to take care of us all. Then showed back up every once in a while like nothin’ happened. Tried to be a perfect mom for however long whatever pills she was taking that day let her.”

“Sucks, man. She still doin’ that?”

“She died a few years back.”

“That’s rough,” Mal says, as if his own hadn’t passed far more recently. “Sorry to hear.”

Rowan shrugs. “Brain finally gave out on her.”

“Drugs?”

“Sorta. She uh….” Don’t tell him. What if he figures it out? It’s been a rocky week, but tonight has completely turned things around… kind of. Don’t tell him don’t tell him don’t tell him— “She had pretty severe depression. Never really took her meds regularly ’cause they made her a zombie. Took just about everything else, though.”

He waits for Mal to say something. Some remark that will tell Rowan how he feels about the whole thing. A trial run that he hadn’t even planned on. A soft opening. The one good thing about his penchant for blurting shit out is that it’ll help to gauge Mal’s reaction and determine whether Rowan ever tells him that he’s just like her. Well. Not just , but close enough.

It’s like the air has all been sucked out of the room and shoved into Rowan’s lungs, filling him up and waiting to burst out.

But mercifully—

“Genetics fuckin’ blow, man.”

Rowan exhales for what feels like a full minute as relief washes over him. For now it’s enough. Enough to suggest that maybe Rowan can tell him about his condition one day without fear of being outright rejected or looked at completely differently. A pleasant warmth settles into his belly where before there had been nothing but permafrost.

Mal climbs off the bed, and Rowan thinks he’s going to get ready to pack up, but he slips on his briefs, tosses Rowan his own, and climbs back on the bed.

He sits with his legs crossed, knees high and arms perched on top. Gold eyes train on Rowan as he sits up and shimmies into his own underwear. They don’t bother to put on anything else.

“What’d you think?” Mal asks him after a long moment of nothing but a soft stare at Rowan.

“About the scene?”

“Yeah.”

The question catches him off guard, something that seems to be happening a lot lately with Mal. It stings a bit too, Rowan’s mind wandering down a rabbit hole of questioning why Mal’s talking to him about this now and not at the diner like they’ve done every other time. After how much Mal’s already opened up to him tonight, Rowan would be nothing short of devastated if their trips to Sheila’s came to an abrupt end. Truthfully, he sees the diner dates as a part of his own aftercare as well as Mal’s.

“It was good.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts, willing his mouth not to say it was worse—even if only a tiny bit—for having to use condoms. “Different” he settles on. And because he doesn’t want Mal to think the worst, he tacks on, “It was hot as hell seeing you like that.”

“Got pretty into it yourself,” Mal notes. “You ever done that before?”

“Not anything long like that. Just a bit with… y’know, hookups.”

He forces himself to meet Mal’s eyes after he says it, catching the tail end of a wince from him. The tiniest scrunch of his eyebrows, but it’s the only sign tonight that Mal has shown recognition of his other exploits. Or maybe it’s for some other reason entirely—Rowan’s having a hard fucking time reading Mal tonight.

“Was good. First time, most people don’t know how hard to go. Or how long.”

Rowan tosses him a smirk. “Thought you’d know by now that I’m not most people.”

The corners of Mal’s lips pull back into a closed-mouth smile. “Yeah. Figured you’d remind me, Narcissus.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Rowan laughs, leaning over and shoving at Mal’s knee. “I have a text from you from last week declaring yourself the World’s Best Bottom.”

“Don’t even tell me it ain’t true. People would commit crimes for my ass.”

Rowan doesn’t doubt it. Some days he feels like he’d commit a felony for the chance to see Mal outside of the club or diner. To have him visit him at work or go out for a drink outside their normal meetups.

But he rolls his eyes to keep the mood light. “Do you have aloe or something for your world-famous ass?”

“Why, you offerin’ to give me a rubdown?”

“Think I just did. I did bring some in my car, though, if you actually need any.”

Mal’s face softens for a beat before settling on something that looks a little too fond, making Rowan glad he mentioned it.

“I’m good. Got some at home.” He eyes Rowan’s hands where they’re splayed on his lap. “Need some for your hands?” he jokes.

Rowan laughs. “Nah. You’ve got a peach of an ass. Was like spanking a cushion.”

“ Tch . You say that like it’s an insult, Campbell.”

“Just the opposite, Savaryn.”

THEY TALK for nearly two hours, by Rowan’s estimate. About the scene, about the shibari class, about possibilities for future meetups. The occasional sprinkling of other nonsexual topics. It’s only when Rowan checks his phone to make sure they haven’t gone over their time limit that he sees they’ve only got twenty minutes till midnight.

“You still up for a diner run?” Rowan asks. “It’s pretty late.”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ starving. And I told Sheils I’d get you to eat something besides rabbit food one’a these days.”

There’s a flutter in Rowan’s chest at the thought of Mal mentioning him to Sheila, even as he says, “You’re one to talk, Bugs.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your little bunny teeth.” He bites his lip teasingly with his top teeth.

Mal kicks him off the bed, but before Rowan stumbles off to his feet, he catches him smiling, his front teeth digging into his bottom lip in a much more adorable and genuine way than Rowan had demonstrated.

“I saw that!” Rowan laughs.

“You didn’t see shit, Doc. Put those fuckin’ gray sweatpants on and let’s roll.”

AT MAL’S gentle nudging, Rowan orders a bacon cheeseburger with waffle fries but draws the line at the chocolate milkshake that Mal adds to his own order.

Mal heads to their usual booth, and Rowan surreptitiously orders a piece of carrot cake for them to share while they wait for their food. Sheila smiles knowingly and slides the plate across the counter to him, along with two forks.

“Jesus…,” Mal huffs when Rowan places the slice of cake on the table, complete with a layer of white frosting topped with an orange-and-green carrot.

But he grabs a fork before Rowan has even fully sat down in the booth, stabbing it straight through the center of the carrot and taking a chunk out of the side. He shoves it fully in his mouth, cheek bulged out to the side as he chews. It’s cute, and Rowan knows he shouldn’t find it cute that the same mouth that licked his own precome off of him is struggling to contain a sweet dessert, but he does.

Rowan digs in with his own fork, and the cake melts on his tongue. Sheila really is a culinary genius.

He and Mal go for another forkful at the same time, and Rowan quips, “Looks like I got you to eat rabbit food this time.”

Mal stabs him with his fork, the tines leaving four white dots on his hand that disappear before Rowan’s laugh fades from his lips.

WHEN THEIR food arrives a short while later, Rowan has to admit that the burger looks and smells delicious. He squirts a large pile of ketchup on his plate, watching in horror as Mal squirts zigzags of ketchup directly on top of his fries.

“You’re such a barbarian,” Rowan comments.

“All goes to the same place, Red. More efficient this way.”

They eat in relative silence, save for the occasional jab at how the other is eating despite there being no classy way to eat the greasy, messy burgers. All the same, Rowan watches with rapt attention every time Mal’s tongue darts out to collect a bit of sauce from his lips.

It feels weird to be at the diner and sharing a meal when they’ve already discussed their scene. Every other time that’s been more or less the main reason to come here—to wind down and hash out anything that didn’t work and figure out what did, all while getting some much-needed calories back. And while they’ve gotten considerably more comfortable with having regular conversations that don’t revolve entirely around sex, thanks to their frequent texting, in-person is still a different story.

But it isn’t awkward by any stretch. Rowan thinks that Mal might actually be the easiest person to talk to he knows, aside from Jay.

As they eat they toss back snippets of conversation. Mal snatches some of Rowan’s fries off his plate even though he still has plenty of his own. In turn, Rowan scoops up the tomatoes that Mal picked off of his burger and left on the side of his plate.

The meal and the atmosphere and—most importantly—the company are soothing in a way that fills all the spaces in Rowan’s body and mind. There’s a soft rock song playing on the jukebox that Rowan doesn’t recognize until he hears Mal softly humming the chorus.

Ah, “Summer Breeze.” He’s not even sure Mal knows he’s doing it until his eyes meet Rowan’s over Mal’s chocolate milkshake. And Rowan knows he’s smiling like an idiot—can feel his cheeks start to hurt from it. Quickly, Mal clears his throat and wipes his already-clean mouth with the back of his hand.

The display is enough to make some deeply buried part of Rowan awaken and long for something he never thought he’d get to have. Someone to come home to, someone to cook with, someone to wrap his arms around at night. Something that goes beyond the shallow things he’s called relationships in the past. A life. A love . And fuck, Rowan wants it. It isn’t clear how long he daydreams of it, but the song has changed at least twice by the time the bus girl drops off the check at the table.

“I’ll get the bill,” Rowan says when Mal goes to grab the slip. “You paid two times in a row a couple weeks ago.”

Rowan’s half standing and about to slip out of the booth to pay when Mal’s quiet voice stops him.

“She wanted to name me William,” Mal says, apropos of nothing, that same distant look in his eyes from earlier in the evening threatening to bore a hole through his plate. As if sensing Rowan’s confusion without even looking up, he adds, “My mom.”

“Oh.”

He hums absentmindedly, eyebrows raising as if he’d suddenly realized that he’d blurted out something inappropriate. When he looks up at Rowan, his expression melts from worried to neutral, apparently seeing no judgment or shock on Rowan’s own face as he sits fully back down in the booth.

“How did she settle on Malcolm, then?”

“She didn’t,” Mal scoffs. “My old man did. Larry.”

It’s the first time Mal’s mentioned anything about his father since all those weeks ago when Sheila hinted that he wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen. Something about not judging someone for the sins of their father, she had said. Rowan waits, sensing that Mal has more to say.

“She came home with a blank birth certificate. Course Larry wasn’t at the hospital. Mom said she liked William, and that they could call me Billy for short. Larry said he wasn’t gonna have a son with a bitch name. Said everyone would call me Willy , and that his son wouldn’t be a fag.” He pauses momentarily to shake his head. “Plot-fuckin’-twist, I would’a been one no matter what they called me. But Malcolm was the name of some dead relative or whatever, and he thought it sounded tough, so he made her write that.”

“And Larry isn’t a bitch name?” Rowan jokes, attempting to lighten the mood. Though he files away Mal’s father’s name in the back of his mind in case it ever comes up again.

Another snort from Mal, but he continues talking, easily the most he’s spoken in a single sitting. “He was a fuckin’ idiot.”

Something about the vulnerable half confession makes Rowan want to push, a lingering question in the back of his mind from weeks ago left unanswered by Mal’s story. “So how does using your full name at the club come into play?” Rowan asks, dots still not quite connecting.

“Kind of a… fuck you to him, I guess,” Mal tells him after a minute of semiawkward silence.

Maybe it’s the familiarity of the diner that gives Mal the courage, or maybe it’s the way he’d opened up about his mom, or maybe it’s something he’s been holding back for so long that the dam had to burst at some point , and Rowan’s the unknowing recipient of it.

“Felt like retribution or some shit… goin’ by my full name at the club. Like he’d have a fuckin’ meltdown if he knew his favorite son was gettin’ railed by a bunch of dudes who all only knew him as Malcolm. Just kinda stuck with it after that.”

His favorite son. Meaning Mal has brothers at least. The jury is still out on sisters with shitty boyfriends. Rowan wants to ask but doesn’t dare push his luck too far. Not when Mal’s actually opening up about himself.

Whatever the case, Rowan chooses his words carefully. “The first time we came here, Sheila kind of implied that he’s a dick.”

Mal snorts, quickly covering it up by chugging the last of his water. “Piece’a shit’s more like it.”

“Mine was the same,” Rowan confides, bolstered by the knowledge that all of their parents were terrible.

“Yours was an abusive racist homophobe?” Mal shoots back, brows flat.

Rowan’s face reddens. “Oh… uh, no. Just a regular old drunk and liar and thief. Sorry. Sucks.”

“Yeah, well…. He croaked a few years back. Rest in fuckin’ pieces.”

He knows deadbeat dads aren’t exactly a rarity, but the fact that Mal seems to share the same sentiment about his dad as Rowan does about his own is weirdly comforting.

“You ever actually tell him?”

“What, that I was willingly gettin’ gangbanged on the regular?” Mal’s eyebrows practically hit the ceiling. “ Fuck no , man. Homophobe or not, that’s the kinda shit you don’t tell your parents.”

“ Jesus , obviously not.” Rowan shudders at the thought, but in reality, he thinks both his parents wouldn’t bat an eye if he told them about any of his sexual exploits. “I meant that you’re gay.”

Mal sniffs and looks to the side, avoidant. But “Yeah.”

When he doesn’t add anything more to it, Rowan hedges, “Didn’t go well, I’m guessing?”

“Fuckin’ understatement….”

Again, Rowan thinks he isn’t going to keep talking on his own, but he’s not sure if this is something he should let lie, or if he should let his curiosity win out and push for more detail. But even if he doesn’t share anything else, Rowan can piece the picture together himself. Homophobic, violent dad finds out his favorite son is gay? Pretty much a recipe for some bad shit. He’s thankful that even for how shitty his own parents were in their own ways, they never made him feel ashamed of who he is.

Shockingly, Mal does continue, after a long bout of silence. “Beat the shit outta me for it. Was fuckin’… seventeen maybe? Told me before I became a man , I had to come on a fag-bashing run. Like it was a fuckin’ normal family tradition.”

“What, just pick any gay guy you see and beat him up?”

Mal pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Some new family moved in, couple blocks from us. Larry somehow found out the kid was gay, or he prob’ly fuckin’ assumed he was for whatever reason. Couldn’t’a been more than, like, fourteen for fuck’s sake. Told him I wouldn’t do it, and he called me a pussy and demanded to know why.”

“Shit,” Rowan says, stunned. “A fuckin’ kid ?”

“Yeah. I fuckin’… lost it. Told him he was a fuckin’ psycho and that if he wanted to bash a fag so bad, he’d have to start with me.”

Rowan’s eyes widen, quickly followed by a rush of sadness, pride, and fear mixed all together in an ugly cocktail that makes Rowan’s stomach lurch.

“Jesus.”

“Mmm. Got a few good ones in on him at least.”

At least. As if a few punches were worth whatever hell Larry put him through both before and after Mal’s confession. Even though he’s still practically a fucking stranger , that instinct to want to protect him—even retroactively—surges up and makes Rowan’s fingers shake.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Mal.”

Mal simply rolls his eyes, but not unkindly. “It’s fine, Dr. Phil. Was a long time ago, and I’ve already been to therapy and shit for it. ’M good.”

The therapy comment surprises Rowan, but pleasantly so. When he thinks about it for a moment longer, though, it makes sense. Mal seems remarkably levelheaded in the way that only working through your childhood traumas with a professional can achieve.

“HAVE ANY plans this week?” Rowan asks idly on their walk back.

There’s a warm breeze drifting between them, and the stars are out in full force, the sprinkling of dim lights as bright as they can be in the light-polluted Boston sky.

Mal quips, “Yeah, icing my damn ass.”

“Oh, fuck you! You asked for it.”

“Got a bag of peas callin’ my name.”

“I’ll bet you twenty bucks you don’t actually have a single vegetable in your house, Bunnicula.”

“You’re one to talk, Casper. Do you got anything that comes in a box or can?”

“Think I have some bags of mixed nuts layin’ around.”

“ You’re a bag of nuts.”

If only Mal knew how close to the truth that statement actually was, he might not be joking around with Rowan like this.

“Great comeback. I see your talent stops with numbers, Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare was a douchebag,” Mal states definitively, like he knew the guy personally, and he went to the grave owing Mal money.

“What could possibly make you think that?”

“Anyone who wears frilly collars and leggings is a douchebag in my book.”

“So everyone in the sixteenth century, then?”

Mal snorts in agreement.

“And besides,” Rowan continues. “Pretty sure all your jeans are leggings with how fuckin’ tight they are.”

“Can’t deny they look good, though.”

“Got me there.”

Mal stuffs his hands in his pockets, and Rowan idly wonders if he’s cold in only his joggers and tank top.

“You?” Mal asks.

“Me what?”

Rowan doesn’t have to turn his head to see Mal’s eye roll. “Plans?”

He chooses to not acknowledge that Mal didn’t actually tell him if he had real plans or not.

“Working. Seven to three every day.”

“What, no one’s allowed to get hurt outside those hours?”

Huffing a laugh, Rowan says, “Nah, if they do, they’re fucked.”

“Some paramedic you are.” Mal shoves him gently in the arm, making Rowan stagger a foot away before bouncing back with his own light push.

“I’m fantastic at my job, dick.”

“Fantastic dick, that’s for sure.”

Rowan laughs again but takes the rare compliment. “Going to babysit my brother’s two kids on Thursday too. Caleb and Jacob.”

“How old?”

“He’s a year older than me.”

“Wh—no, the fuckin’ kids . Jesus, Red.”

Rowan’s face turns about as bright as the nickname.

“Right. Uh, Caleb is three, and Jacob just turned one.”

“Sounds like a fucking nightmare.”

“I love ’em. They’re cute as hell at that age. How ’bout I send you a pic of us?”

Mal’s quiet, mouth snapping shut from whatever reply he’d been about to make. Like maybe he realizes at the same time as Rowan does that that’s toeing a line that they’d agreed to set in stone at the beginning of their sexual relationship. Even after opening up somewhat about their pasts tonight, it’s still another step closer to that line.

“The fuck would I want a pic of your ugly mug for, huh?” Mal says eventually, but it’s soft.

“Could send you a dick pic instead,” Rowan offers, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood.

“That’s more like it.”

By the time Rowan looks up to catch Mal’s profile against the yellow streetlights, they’ve reached their destination. And this time Rowan hesitates. Every other week, there’s been a clear decorum dictating how they should separate—a wave, a chaste see ya . Last time, a one-sided hug.

But for the umpteenth time tonight, Mal surprises him by dipping into a quick side hug that has every nerve on Rowan’s right side lighting up before he’s across the street and shouting, “See ya next week, Firecrotch.”

As far as partings go, this one is much better than the last, but somehow it feels much worse.

AS ROWAN lies in bed that night at nearly 2:00 a.m., once again staring at the blank expanse of his ceiling, he doesn’t know what to think about anything. Mal’s attitude toward him has been a fucking roller coaster this past week. Crawling up, spiraling down, and throwing Rowan for one loop after another. He only hopes that Mal opening up to him tonight means that he’s started to trust him with more than his body.

Though that trust apparently comes at the cost of his body. The new physical barriers that they need to have in place for the foreseeable future is an unfortunate price to pay for getting closer to Mal, though it’s one Rowan’s almost glad to pay.

But what keeps him awake long into the night is wondering if he’ll ever get to have both simultaneously. Eventually he falls into a deep sleep, dreaming of jasmine petals fluttering in the wind.