Page 26

THE REST of the week, Rowan agonizes over whether to get Mal a birthday present. It wouldn’t be weird, he thinks. They’re friends. With benefits, sure, but Rowan’s comfortable saying that even if they don’t really hang out outside of the club, he considers Mal a friend. Probably his best friend if he’s being honest. Which says as much about their relationship and how well they get along as it does about Rowan’s lack of a social circle.

He lays back in bed, scrolling absentmindedly through Amazon, finding nothing but cheap junk he thinks Mal would scoff at. It isn’t until he gives up and Googles birthday gift for fuck buddy that he finds a site that makes his eyes light up.

Perfect.

THE SATURDAY of Mal’s birthday rolls around, and Rowan has never taken longer getting ready in his life. He feels like a teenager going to prom, primping and pruning and going through his entire wardrobe to find the perfect outfit.

Eventually, he settles on gray semiformal slacks with a black button-up and his casual oxford shoes. The address that Mal had texted him was for a club in Cambridge that Rowan’s never heard of, but from the photos online looks fairly upscale. It’s a little surprising, given Mal’s penchant for shitty beer and small-town diners, but he has a feeling it wasn’t Mal who made the final choice.

He spends what feels like ages getting a perfectly smooth shave and taming his hair for the humid night. With nearly half an hour to spare and a tornado ravaging his insides, Rowan sets his GPS and heads for the club.

He arrives at the same time as Jeremiah, Camilla, and Clover, and when he sees them in the foyer, he’s glad he put so much effort into his appearance. For all Rowan’s self-confidence, this group is unnaturally beautiful and dressed to the nines.

If Rowan didn’t know that Clover and Camilla were twins, he’d never have guessed it from their wildly different appearances tonight. Camilla is sporting her signature long silvery hair, pinned back and flowing to her mid back. Her makeup is nothing short of full runway glamour, all sparkles and bold dark colors. She’s sporting a slinky dark green dress with one bare shoulder and one full-length sleeve.

Next to her, Clover’s natural blond waves and subtle makeup are more reminiscent of old Hollywood starlets. This is the first time Rowan has seen her without her customary tailored business suit, though the navy-blue jumpsuit she’s wearing and classy silver jewelry still give her that same air of authority Rowan has come to associate her with.

Jeremiah is in black slacks and a black mesh top accented with large maroon fabriqué roses. The look is completed with bold accent jewelry in both silver and rose gold, and his hair in his typical flawless sponge curls, his fade newly tidied since that last time Rowan saw him.

“Rowan!” Camilla beams when she finally sees him. “It’s so good to see you in the real world!”

Rowan laughs. “Hey, everyone. Good to see you too. Not gonna lie, though, it’s a bit weird.”

“I’m glad he actually invited you,” Clover chimes in.

“I know!” Camilla says.

“We had a running bet going,” Jeremiah says casually, as if their topic of conversation isn’t sending sparks down Rowan’s spine. “Speaking of, Clove, you owe me twenty bucks.”

“Damn, I’d hoped you’d forgotten. I’ll buy your first drink,” she concedes.

“And mine!” Camilla adds cheerily, slapping her sister on the shoulder.

“You shouldn’t even get one seeing as I was the one who finally convinced him,” Jeremiah adds, directed at Camilla.

“Okay, okay, we’re making Rowan uncomfortable,” Clover says in a chastising tone.

He hadn’t even realized his face felt hot until she’d said it, but he’s glad for her distraction. After all, he’s never been one for being in the spotlight. But even with the lighthearted teasing at his—or really, Mal’s—expense, Rowan likes them all more than he already did.

They make small talk until Mal shows up ten minutes later, causing Rowan’s jaw to hit the floor. He’s dressed in all black, tight, ripped jeans accentuating his shapely legs and—though he can’t see it right now—surely hugging his ass nicely. He’s got on a black button-up shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hint of his toned chest and his tattoo, accentuated with a thin gold chain. A chic-looking belt and his black boots complete the look, and goddamn, Rowan’s seen him in all sorts of outfits by now, dressy and casual alike, but he looks hot as fuck , and Rowan wants nothing more than to jump him right in the middle of the club.

But from behind him emerges someone that makes Rowan’s jaw hit the floor for a different reason as he does a double take. And not because of her similar all-black attire, an oversized blazer with the sleeves cuffed to her forearms showing off the long-sleeve lace top underneath and revealing the twin snake tattoo he’d seen that had instantly reminded him of Mal.

It’s the woman he’d helped with the injured arm several months ago. What was her name? Amy?

“Holy shit, you’re that EMT,” she says, mirroring Rowan’s thoughts and shaking her long, messy ponytail off her shoulder.

Rowan’s shock at seeing her and at her recognizing him months later is enough to keep him from correcting his title.

“Wait, how the fuck do you two know each other?” Mal interjects instead of any type of greeting.

She leans into Mal’s side. “Mal, he was with the ambulance when Jared….” Rowan connects the dots at the same time Mal does.

“No shit? Small fuckin’ world. Well, Campbell, this is my sister, Bitchface. Bitchface, this is m—Campbell,” he crudely introduces them.

“Amy,” the woman says, holding out her hand and glaring at her brother. “And it was Rowan, right?”

Rowan’s surprised she remembers, but, “Yeah. How’s your arm doing?” he asks, shaking her hand gingerly while his own is nearly crushed with her firm grip.

“All good. Was just a sprain.”

“And, uh….”

“He’s gone,” she says, inferring Rowan’s next question. “Rest in fuckin’ pieces.”

Rowan’s eyes widen. He doesn’t put it past this firecracker of a woman to actually kill someone. Or to sic Mal on him on her behalf. The sour look on the man in question’s face tells Rowan he might not be too far off on that line of thinking.

But potential felonies aside… holy shit . Everything about the scene when Mal kissed him makes sense: Why he’d gone radio silent for days in a row before requesting more praise than normal. Why he’d been so distracted that he’d done something outside his normal boundaries. Why he’d slept with someone else afterward.

He doesn’t yet know how close Mal and Amy are, but hell, if any one of Rowan’s siblings got abused like that, he’d be a fucking mess too.

“Mal! Happy birthday, darling!” Rowan hears from behind him.

For a moment, the name that Camilla calls doesn’t register with Rowan, being so used to hearing her calling Mal Malcolm .

But when it does , Rowan’s stunned into silence. Everything makes sense now. These aren’t just random people that Mal happens to see on a fairly regular basis when he’s at the club. These are his friends. His family . Of course they’re going to call him what he wants to be called. His stomach twists as if he’s on a Tilt-a-Whirl at the thought of what that makes him to Mal.

As everyone hugs and wishes Mal a happy birthday, Rowan catches snippets of conversation.

“Hey, sweets,” Jeremiah says to Amy, hugging her tightly. “Jules said you two had a good time seeing Lizzo?”

“Fuck yeah, she was incredible. Your sister’s wild as hell, though. Can drink me under the table.”

“Don’t tell me that,” he says with a laugh, though he looks secretly proud.

Rowan’s not sure how Amy fits in with the rest of Mal’s friends, doubting that she’s a member of the club herself, but it goes to show how close Mal is with both her and his friends.

“Speaking of…,” Amy says, eyeing the group. “Why are we not drunk yet?”

“Shots!” Camilla declares, slinging an arm around both the Savaryns and tugging them off toward the bar.

And with that, Rowan’s crowded around Mal at the bar with one shot of tequila burning his throat, six thunk s of empty shot glasses ringing in his ear, and two golden eyes boring holes into his own.

“Happy birthday, darling!” Clover shouts, giving Mal a side hug.

Jeremiah flags down a bartender, leans across the bar, and whispers something to her. She smiles and, a moment later, places a shot glass with shimmery blue liquid straight down in front of Mal, adding a shot of something clear on top. With the whoosh of a blowtorch, the shot bursts into a deep blue flame before the bartender pours on a lighter yellow drink and the fire erupts into a sparkling, crackling blue-orange flame while the drink transforms into a swirling sea of bright purple.

“The fuck is this, Jer?” Mal shouts, picking it up and holding the flaming purple drink two full feet away from his face.

“A phoenix. Quick, make a wish!”

As Mal bows his head to blow out the flame, lips puckered into a sweet O shape, he once again locks eyes with Rowan. The cheering around them as the fire is extinguished with a puff of air is completely lost on Rowan, gaze focused solely on the cords of Mal’s neck as he throws back the shot.

“Tastes like a fuckin’ flower…,” Mal says, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips as he slams the glass onto the bar top. “All right, someone get me a real drink!”

As if by another feat of magic, an old-fashioned materializes next to Mal’s hand, Camilla winking at him across the top of what looks like a Long Island. Everyone else orders, Rowan settling on a beer on tap, and gets their drinks with loose fives and tens tossed onto the bar top for each one.

“I got us a table and started a tab,” Jeremiah calls to the group, ushering everyone to a secluded table with a small white Reserved—Savaryn placard on it. Prime real estate, being so close to both the bar and the dance floor.

The music is something vaguely synth-pop that Rowan would normally hate were it not for the alcohol already working its way through his bloodstream and loosening his metaphorical tie.

“So how did you guys actually become friends with Mal?” Rowan asks no one in particular, settling down in between Mal and Amy.

There’s a cacophony of laughter, and the man himself launches into an explanation, as if to set the record straight from the get-go.

“First time I went to the fourth floor, I decked a fucker for gettin’ too rough and ignoring safewords.”

“Decked him? Mal, you nearly put the guy in the fucking hospital ,” Camilla says, but it’s with a proud twinkle in her eye.

“He fought back! The fuck was I s’posed to do? Bend over again?” Mal takes a deep drink of his old-fashioned, picks out the orange zest and flicks it onto the table. “Fuck that .”

“So I knew him from scening with him, as I think you figured out at the shibari class a few months ago,” Camilla says. “Then he near-paralyzes another member and—”

Clover continues, “And after that little incident, Mal waltzes straight into my office, this horrible, bloody cut on his eyebrow and knuckles to match, and goes, ‘Yo, Dandelion, shit’s gotta change around here.’” Clover and the others pause to laugh. “We sat down with him the very next day to make some major changes and renovations to the club.”

“Like what?” Rowan asks, curious.

“The policy against more extreme types of play was probably the biggest,” Camilla says.

Choking and breath play , Rowan mentally fills in the gap. He’s a little surprised given Mal’s apparent love of choking, but it does make sense from a business standpoint.

“Yeah,” Clover agrees. “Along with vetting new members, making sure people respect safewords, and requiring monthly STI screenings.”

Rowan can practically feel Mal’s flush next to him, and it’s cute as hell that he’s embarrassed. The little swoopy feeling in Rowan’s stomach rears its annoying head.

They chat for a while, idly swapping stories of the club and their personal lives and whatever else happens to come up. It’s nice. A sense of friendship and belonging that Rowan hasn’t felt in… well, ever , if he’s being honest.

He used to be popular in high school before he dropped out for some half-baked plan of joining the military at seventeen using Jay’s identity. He used to be sane before his brain freaked out on him and made him start seeing things that ultimately made him go crazy and landed him in a psych ward. From then on he’s had… nothing. No one. Except his siblings and too many exes who never really meant anything.

Now, he has…

“Mal,” Jeremiah starts seriously. “In honor of your birthday, we’ve got to do the customary—”

“Fuck no!” Mal interjects.

“Aww, c’mon, Mal! We have to!” Clover adds.

A quick glance to Rowan tells him that whatever custom they have, it’s not a good one. Or at least it’s an embarrassing one that Mal doesn’t want him knowing about. Rowan’s immediately on board.

“I’m game for whatever it is,” he says.

“Never Have I Ever!” Camilla shouts, clapping along with each word like a cheerleader.

The laugh that bubbles out of Rowan’s chest is genuine, and he knows that with this group, this high school game is bound to be wild.

“Jesus,” Mal mutters.

“Who goes first?” Rowan asks.

Jeremiah answers for the group. “Birthday boooy!”

Next to him, Mal groans. “Fuckin’ clowns…. Fine. I’ve never—”

“You gotta do it right!” Amy interrupts at the same time as Clover starts booing “Noo—”

“Fuckin’ fine ! Never have I ever …,” Mal lilts mockingly, “graduated high school.”

Everyone but Rowan drinks, and he’s immediately as red as the lights currently illuminating the dance floor, assuming he’s going to be judged for his lack of typical education. Or worse, asked why he had to go back for his GED a couple of years after he should have graduated.

“No shit?” Mal asks. “How the fuck’d you become a paramedic?”

Shrugging, Rowan answers, “GED.”

“Up top, Campbell.”

Rowan returns the surprising high-five. “You too?”

“Mmm,” he hums, swirling his old-fashioned.

“Southie solidarity!” Amy cheers, taking her own sip.

“The fuck? You graduated in the top like… ten percent, bitch. Made sure’a that shit.”

Oh? That perks Rowan’s ears up, piques his interest. Any shred of Mal’s history that he can learn about, he’ll lap up like an eager puppy.

“My turn!” Camilla says. “Never have I ever bartended.”

“That’s dirty, baby doll.” Jeremiah glares, taking a drink.

A drink that Rowan mirrors. ’Cause he has bartended before, even though he wasn’t legally old enough to do so. Or in his right mind.

“Rowan! Where did you bartend?”

Camilla’s voice is far too chipper for the story that accompanies the answer to that question.

“Uh, a bar when I was younger. Nothing exciting.”

He’s gotta learn to lie better. That sounded dodgy as shit.

“Okay,” Clover says, thankfully drawing away the attention from Rowan. “Never have I ever waxed any part of my body.”

“Oh, come on!” Amy complains. But thankfully Rowan doesn’t drink alone—he’s got Jeremiah, Amy, and Camilla on his side.

“Looks like you and me are au naturel , Mal!” Clover laughs.

Amy barks a teasing laugh. “Please, I’ve got more hair on my chest than he does.”

“Ey! Ain’t there a rule against shitting on me on my goddamn birthday?”

“Speaking of…,” Jeremiah says with a smirk. “Never have I ever been shit on.”

“Like by something besides an animal or a human baby?” Rowan asks, making the table erupt into laughter.

There’s an awkward pause as everyone looks around to see if someone drinks, but when no one does (thankfully, in Rowan’s humble opinion), they burst out laughing once more.

“All right, no more gross shit until we’re drunker!” Amy declares. “Never have I ever made out with a woman.”

A communal shrug has every one of them taking a sip.

“Seriously?” Amy looks around, baffled. “Et tu, Rowan?”

“It was a one-time thing,” he explains.

“Same,” Mal says.

Clover flashes her brilliant smile, adding, “Not for me! Dunno who you thought you were playing with, Ames.”

The thump of the music is drowned out by the beginning of tipsy laughter.

ON THEIR second round of drinks—everyone else ordering another cocktail while Rowan sticks with the first beer he’s had since the tequila earlier—the game turns predictably dirty. It’s a welcome distraction from Mal’s thigh pressed heavy and warm against Rowan’s own, far closer than he needs to be for the size of the table.

“Never have I ever… given a blowjob,” Clover smirks, watching as the rest of the group groans and takes a drink.

“Well, that’s fuckin’ dumb,” Mal grumbles. “How ’bout… never have I ever worked at a sex club.”

Clover, Camilla, and Jeremiah all drink with a roll of their eyes. While everyone is distracted, Rowan takes a tiny swig of his beer, avoiding Mal’s eyes when he senses him staring at him.

But—

“Really?” Amy interjects, words slightly slurred, apparently not having any of the tact that the rest of the group does when slightly intoxicated.

Something a little too close to shame makes Rowan’s fingertips swell as he clinks the beer glass with the side of his fingernail.

“Yeah,” he confesses, attempting to sound nonchalant. “It’s a long story.”

And not one I particularly want to tell in front of all these tentative new friends , he thinks. Or Mal.

He knows that, most likely, no one here would judge him for his past—for being out of his mind and on too many unprescribed pills to name and fucking everyone in a ten-foot radius—but the self-doubt runs deep in his veins, and some habits are hard to break on a whim. Hard to share during a silly game.

“We’ve all got our skeletons,” Jeremiah says, absentmindedly thumbing at the crook of his elbow.

The gesture is a familiar one to Rowan—something he’d seen countless times when nameless men used to offer him something stronger than weed or booze or ecstasy or coke. Something that would Make you feel like you’re floating, baby. He shudders at the memory. And he’d never have guessed that Jeremiah used to use, but he’s glad that he seems to have gotten out.

“My turn,” Clover says, breaking the tension. “Never have I ever… gone skiing.”

“Who the fuck has ? We’re in the middle of the city,” Mal quips.

No one drinks, and the group laughs after a round of curious eye contact.

“All right, you’re up, Red,” Mal says, any semblance of order they’d been following at the beginning of the game now completely shattered as they bounce around the circle, calling one another out randomly.

“Hm… never have I ever… owned more than one dildo.”

“Oh fuck you,” Mal retorts, taking a deep drink.

To his surprise, the rest of the group drink as well.

“Looks like I’m in the minority on that one,” Rowan laughs.

“Fucking did not need to know that, Mal,” Amy scoffs, face scrunched in disgust.

“You think I wanted to know that about your skanky ass?”

“Oh, fuck you, dick!”

“That’s what the dildos are for, bitch.”

Jeremiah intervenes with a laugh, “Settle down, you two. Cam, you haven’t gone in a while.”

“Hm… never have I ever stripped for money,” Camilla says, grinning wickedly at her sister.

“You bitch,” Clover says, taking a quick swig of her drink. “I was in college and broke !”

Rowan would kill for either of those excuses as he takes his own sip, the beer now gone warm from how slowly he’s been nursing it. Fuck. Tonight is really dredging up a lot of shit that he didn’t think would come up ever . He knows, logically, that he could lie, but well…. He’s never been very good at that particular skill.

“I’ll be damned, Campbell,” Mal says next to him. “Is there anything you haven’t done?”

Rowan shrugs, trying to play off his racing heartbeat as indifferent. “Guess not.”

“And you never stripped for me?”

“Uh….”

Because what the hell does he say to that, other than We don’t really do that, Mal , or I gladly would as long as you weren’t paying me anything .

They’ve sexted plenty of times now, sending each other pics and videos with barely a second thought anymore, but stripping is… deliberate. Deliberately intimate , Rowan guesses. Even with his history of doing it “professionally” when he was a coked-out teenager, he’d promised himself years ago that if he ever did it again, it would be for someone he wanted to show off to and not to put food in his belly or poison in his veins.

Not as part of a nonromantic just fuckin’ arrangement.

But thankfully, Jeremiah swoops in and saves the day with “Never have I ever been in a gangbang.”

The rest of the Menagerie employees howl with laughter and bang on the table, chanting for Mal and Rowan both to drink.

“Fucking gross , Mal!” Amy squeals, pretending to avert her eyes as if Mal’s going to get ravaged right in front of her.

“I fuckin’ told you not to come, skank!”

The Savaryns continue their bickering, but the rest of the game goes by largely without incident. Thankfully without any more skeletons of Rowan’s smashing through the layers of closets Rowan’s locked them in.

Rowan learns that Mal is allergic to grapefruit—which Rowan drinks with in solidarity due to the interaction the citrus has with his meds—Camilla is older than Clover by seven minutes, even though she acts like the younger of the two, Jeremiah has his master’s in psychology but prefers bartending, and Amy used to run track in high school, among many, many sexual things about everyone, most of which Rowan probably shouldn’t know.

Only when Mal announces that he needs another drink does it end, and another round of drinks materializes by their side without the excuse of a game to sip down.

“OH, THIS is my jam !” Camilla squeals as the opening melody to some pop song pumps through the speakers, reaching across the table and waggling her fingers at Amy. “Come dance with me, love!”

“I’ve got you, birthday boy!” Jeremiah claims Mal, dramatically twirling out of his stool.

“Looks like that leaves me and you, Rowan!” Clover grins, taking a somehow still elegant sip of her cocktail despite the three she’s had already. “Lezz-a-gay!”

Her impression of Super Mario makes the whole group explode into giggles as the table empties and half fumbles their way to the dance floor. Pairing off, they each take on their own distinct style. Realistically, he knows they’re probably all good dancers, but they’re here to have a good time, pride be damned.

Clover is a riot. The song playing is some kind of pop-rap mashup, and she bangs out hit after hit of terrible dance moves, starting with the Egyptian and working her way to the sprinkler. Rowan laughs and mirrors her, occasionally throwing in his own freestyle that has the both of them grinning and out of breath.

Next to them, Amy and Camilla are taking things a bit more seriously, at least attempting some kind of conventional club dancing, all swaying hips and pumping arms. It makes Rowan smile when eventually they give up on being serious and start undulating and attempting to moonwalk.

Inevitably, Rowan’s gaze shifts to Mal and Jeremiah. He finds them doing something a little too close to grinding. They’re not even touching , for fuck’s sake, a respectable gap between them for Jesus, but it still makes a mean, sour swirl of jealousy rise in the back of Rowan’s throat that nearly kills the pleasant buzz he has going on.

“All right, quit hogging him!” Camilla calls out, dragging Mal away from Jeremiah to waltz with him, horribly mismatched to the current rock song playing.

From then on, Mal bounces between each of them, arms flailing wildly and legs stomping out of rhythm no matter what type of music is playing. He’s intoxicating to watch as the gorgeous smile blossoms on his face with each and every song, each and every dance move. From little sways of his hips to tiny shimmies of his shoulders, Rowan can’t take his eyes off of him.

When he finally gets to Rowan, his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, and the tips of his neatly coiffed hair are damp with sweat, and he’s fucking beautiful. But like everyone else, he thrashes around wildly a meager two feet from Rowan, and even with his erratic and silly movements, Rowan can’t stop watching. It makes a grin break out on his own face as he dips down into a low squat, bouncing back up a little too close to Mal and shimmying in front of him.

He’s literally been inside the man countless times by now, but his heart still flutters at being in such close proximity to him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be over the butterflies that have taken up permanent residence inside his chest ever since he met Mal all those months ago.

With static and sound driving their group closer together, they form one giant mass, goofily bouncing and swaying to whatever song comes on next. For each one, someone knows all the lyrics and belts them out, the rest of the group forming a sad semblance of a mosh pit around them and providing off-key backup vocals.

It’s the most fun Rowan’s had in a long time, limbs loose and head empty in a good way, feeling the music pulse through him and let him breathe for the first time in a long while despite the humidity on the dance floor.

BACK AT the table, it’s only Mal and Rowan, and he has to admit it’s nice to get him alone for a bit, the rest of the group seemingly content with continuing to dance. It’s like a little sanctuary for the two of them.

“You a lightweight or somethin’, Red?” Mal asks, clearly having noticed that Rowan’s still sipping on the dregs of his first—and only—beer of the night.

It’s obvious that Mal’s a little tipsy. He’s not at the point where his words are slurred or his gaze is unfocused, but there’s a slight slowness and a looseness to his movements that tells Rowan he’s got a pleasant buzz going.

So maybe this is the perfect time to tell him about his mental issues. Maybe he’s inebriated enough that he won’t think too hard about it. What’s that saying? Drunk words are sober thoughts? Maybe it’s the best way to gauge how Mal will feel about Rowan’s depression with booze loosening his tongue. After all, he’d already seemed chill about it when he thought Rowan was talking about his mother having it.

But at the last second, words on the tip of his tongue, he chickens out. This isn’t some past trauma that he dealt with long ago and has had plenty of time to recover from. This is something he still deals with on a daily basis. And it’s something that could absolutely make Mal think differently about him. It wouldn’t be the first time Rowan’s lost someone over his diagnosis, and he can’t bear the thought of that happening with Mal.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“So uh—” Mal takes a piece of ice out of his empty drink and chomps on it loudly. Watching his mouth work on the cube is distracting, but Rowan manages to catch the tail end of him asking, “—all that shit true? During the game?”

Rowan sighs heavily, but for all Mal’s opened up to him the past few months, Rowan figures he owes it to him to give him something back. “Yeah.”

“Can piece it together. You don’t gotta elaborate.”

“It’s fine, just… went a little crazy when I was younger. Working underage in clubs, bartending and dancing, and uh….” The words don’t come as easily as he thought. But somehow, in the darkness of the bar and the way Mal’s lit by the dim light of the lamp above them, the sincerity in his eyes… it feels easy. “Workin’ the back of the house. I wasn’t in a good place back then. Lost in a lotta ways and couldn’t really get out. It took my whole family staging an intervention to get me some help, and I finally got my shit together, got my GED, and managed to work up to getting my job. Straightened my shit out.”

“Glad ya did,” Mal tells him when he’s done his mini spiel. No judgment whatsoever in his eyes. “World’s a better place with you helpin’ people.”

“Thanks, Mal.”

“Fuckin’ Superman….”

Rowan lets out a weak laugh, but he’s truly touched by Mal’s words. It warms him more than any alcohol he can’t have ever could.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe you met my sister before,” Mal mutters, thankfully changing the topic and not pressing Rowan for any more details of his past escapades.

Rowan follows his eyes where they’re trained on Amy and the rest of the crew dancing. Flashes of red and yellow and blue lights that illuminate each of them like a strobe light, one after another after another.

“Wasn’t exactly in the best circumstance, but….” He reaches over and scoops out an ice cube from Mal’s empty drink, thoughtfully chews on it, and tastes the bitter bite of whisky. “Y’know, I thought she might’a been related to you.”

“The fuck? How?”

Rowan shrugs. “You look a lot alike, for starters.”

“ Pft . I take offense to that, Campbell.”