Mal unzips his messenger bag to check something on his phone, Rowan catching the light glinting off the metal clasps of the cuffs he’d unceremoniously tossed inside after their scene.

“Is there anything of the club’s that you actually use?” Rowan asks, recalling that Mal said he mostly brings his toys and equipment.

“Eh,” Mal shrugs. “Not really? Basically just the rooms and benches and shit. People are fuckin’ gross, man.”

Rowan thinks that the club isn’t nearly as gross as it would be if it weren’t in a fairly posh neighborhood. In fact it’s been pretty spotless every time he’s been there. Though he does remember the thorough toy cleaning and maintenance instructions he’d read in the book earlier in the week and thinks that Mal’s probably right despite Rowan’s recollection of the club’s toy-cleaning standards when he’d signed up.

Still.

“Must be kinda used to gross, though,” Rowan comments. “You’re Southie, right?”

Mal’s eyebrows quirk up.

“Your accent. I am too.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. Lived on Hampton Street.”

“Huh,” Mal says, looking thoughtful and—if Rowan’s reading it right—a little impressed. “Lived, like, a mile from there. On Baker.”

“Damn, small fuckin’ world.”

A smirk settles on Mal’s face. “Knew you seemed like a scrappy fucker.”

Rowan snorts in the back of his throat. “Why, ’cause I was gonna fight that guy at the gangbang?”

“Just in general. Don’t really take shit from what I’ve seen so far.”

With a shrug, Rowan replies, “Yeah, guess so. The result of being the middle of six kids.”

“Fuck, I thought Savaryns bred like cockroaches.”

“Don’t think that’s the right expression.”

“Whatever, Red.” Mal tilts his bag of BBQ chips up and empties the crumbs into his mouth, crunching loudly. “Left that shithole so I didn’t have to deal with that shit anymore. Bein’ fuckin’… dirty all the time. Usin’ other people’s stuff. Can finally use my own shit and not hafta share it with anyone.”

Rowan’s heart gives a little kick in solidarity, having felt the exact same when he’d moved into his own place after having to share everything he’s ever touched his entire life.

“I get that,” Rowan tells him. “Kinda seems like a waste of money, though. Why even go to the club at all? Why not bring people home with you?”

“Keeps shit separate,” Mal grumbles. “I don’t need some random guy comin’ over to my place when we’re just fuckin’.”

Rowan tries not to take that personally. He gets it. They’re not dating. They’re just fuckin’. Even if he is a step above some random guy, at least in his own opinion.

“Makes sense,” Rowan says instead.

They sit quietly for a few more minutes, but there’s a gnawing something inside Rowan that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.