Eventually Mal sits up, elbows resting on his knees and staring straight ahead.

“Okay?” Rowan asks gently, sitting up beside him and trying to catch his eye.

All he gets in response is a quiet, “Mmm,” and no eye contact.

Rowan knows well enough not to push him, even though he wants nothing more than to have a giant Undo button that he can slam to go back to the beginning of the night. But that’s not gonna happen—he has to deal with the present.

A quick trip to the supply table and Rowan returns to Mal’s side to see him now kneeling on the bed, but not doing any of his usual stretches.

Mal accepts the water bottle, taking a single tiny sip. But when Rowan holds out the damp washcloth, he shakes his head. The thorn inches deeper. He wants to clean off the come he can see coating Mal’s cock and the lube between his legs and the sweat on his forehead, but…. He knows Mal’s stance on Rowan helping clean up afterward.

Then again, he also thought he knew his stance on kissing, so he’s at a bit of a loss.

“Do you wanna shower?” he asks, hoping to keep some semblance of normalcy to the end of their scene.

“Yeah.”

“By yourself?”

There’s a dazed-sounding huff of a laugh, which Rowan takes as another good sign. “Yeah, ’m good.”

Mal slides off the bed and makes for the door, turning back and grabbing his clothing almost as an afterthought. Rowan follows him into the hallway, both completely naked, and makes sure he sees the door to one of the few private bathrooms he’d only recently learned about close behind Mal.

Rowan returns to the Gold Room, mind completely on autopilot. He does the fastest cleaning job he’s ever done and picks up the rest of Mal’s things, packing them neatly away in his black messenger bag. When he sees Mal’s phone poking out of one of the side pouches, he pauses.

And pauses. And waits for his brain to decide what to do. Snoop or don’t snoop. Like he’s in a video game and his choice will have consequences.

Because he’s fucking worried, and he can’t stop thinking about the young woman, Amy, who looked so much like Mal, and the timing of everything that happened a couple of days ago and then everything that happened tonight.

He snoops.

Presses the wake button on the side only to find a lock screen with one new notification of a text from “Bitchface” a few hours ago that says Ok. Rowan almost misses the background at first glance—a nearly all black photo with a silver circle in the middle highlighting the barrel of a gun pointing straight ahead, a thin wisp of smoke rising straight up. Eerily similar to Mal’s chest tattoos.

Rowan quickly puts the phone back in the case and zips it shut. Message fucking received.