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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got it. You paid last time.”

Mal doesn’t protest, simply nods his thanks.

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

“Twenty-eight fifty,” Mal replies instantly.

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Sheila,” he says.

“Hi, honey. How was everything?”

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

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

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

“Oh no, just wanted to pay.”

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