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.