But he wants it to be. Not going steady serious, ’cause it’s way too early for that, but he’d be a filthy liar if he said he didn’t want anything more than what they’ve got going on right now. Or at least a shot at something more.

Hell, he’d settle for a kiss.

“I can count on zero hands the number of times I fucked someone five times and didn’t end up dating them for at least a year,” Addison says matter-of-factly.

Rowan bristles, unsure exactly why he’s being so defensive about the whole thing. Well, he knows why. Despite that they’ve started talking more between sessions and spending longer and longer at Sheila’s diner at the end of their sessions, he has no idea if Mal feels anything between them or not.

They’ve got great physical chemistry. Their bodies fit together in a way that feels effortless and, well, special for lack of a better word. Hell, Rowan’s had some great sex in his life, but it’s never been like this. Easy. Fun. Deeply satisfying during and after. And all that while sober, for fuck’s sake, which is more than Rowan can say for many of his past hookups.

“It’s different with guys,” Rowan says instead.

“I know you don’t believe in that sexist BS.”

Rowan sighs. “No. But even if I did want something else—which I don’t—we agreed on a casual thing. And I’m not gonna ruin fantastic sex ’cause I caught feelings.”

“Fantastic, huh?” Addison laughs.

“You have no idea.”

“Well, you better lock that shit down before someone else snatches him up.”

“Again, not gonna happen.”

“You never know,” Addison insists in a singsong voice.

Her refusal to drop the subject is getting on Rowan’s nerves.

“I do know. The only thing we talk about is sex. We don’t hang out outside of hookups, and we don’t even kiss when we’re fucking.”

He leaves out the fact that their fucking requires much more vulnerability, communication, and trust than what she’s probably assuming.

“All right, all right, down, killer,” she says.

Mercifully, a call comes in right then, abruptly ending their conversation. Rowan’s never been so glad for someone to be injured.

THE CALL is Rowan’s least favorite kind. Domestic abuse.

They race to the scene—a narrow, rundown house on the outskirts of the Back Bay. Two police cars light up the dismal gray area with flashing blue lights that always make Rowan’s nerves fray—a harsh reminder of all the times he’s run from those exact lights in the past and the one time he couldn’t.

He pushes aside thoughts of police and actions that aren’t entirely his own and climbs out of the ambulance with Addison in time to see a burly man being handcuffed against a squad car.