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.