He skips his own shower, instead splashing some water on his face and putting on a fresh coat of deodorant in the locker room. As soon as he’s done, he stations himself outside the private bathroom stall and waits for Mal to come out.

THEIR CUSTOMARY walk to Sheila’s diner is awkward in a way it’s never been before. Mal’s completely silent save for a few snuffles that don’t sound enough like the tearful kind to warrant Rowan asking him anything right now.

He’s lost enough in his own thoughts as it is.

Why?

Does Mal think Rowan gets off on taking advantage of people?

Why?

Will this be the last time they meet up?

Why?

Is he unknowingly walking toward his final hour with Mal?

Why, why, why?

Or, on the other hand, will this change things for the better? Will Mal be more open to kissing for real now that the proverbial bandage has been ripped off?

Will they ignore it altogether?

No. Rowan can’t let that happen. If for no other reason than because communication is so fucking important. And, a little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like a younger, more optimistic version of himself supplies, I don’t want this to end.

It seems like a lifetime until the familiar neon sign comes into view and they’re finally entering Sheila’s.

“You go sit,” Rowan tells Mal. “I’ll get some food. You want your usual?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Rowan goes to the counter and waits for Sheila to come to him from the kitchen, her customary easy smile etched on her face.

“Hi, honey. What can I get for you?”

“Hey, Sheila. Can I have Mal’s usual and a grilled chicken sandwich on wheat? And some waters, please.”

“Of course.”

She scribbles their orders on a slip—by now thankfully having given up on attempting to give them free meals—and glances over Rowan’s shoulder to where Mal’s sitting.

“Everything okay over there?” she asks, as if her perception is so strong that she can tell something is off by the slope of Mal’s shoulders.

Rowan glances back to see that Mal’s head is in his hands, shoulders visibly tense even from the short distance away. “Yeah, it will be.”

At least he hopes to God it will be.

Sheila accepts the admittedly cryptic answer, hands him two red cups of ice water, and retreats back into the kitchen. Mal still hasn’t told Sheila anything about their relationship, so he’s not willing to divulge anything more to her without Mal’s knowledge.

He returns to the table, slides into the booth across from Mal and nudges the cup of water toward him.

“Thanks,” Mal mumbles, immediately burying his face in the cup.

Rowan studies him. Tries to analyze every move he makes in the hope that it will shed some light into what Mal’s thinking. What he’s feeling. There has to be something, right? Some reason for Mal falling into him like he had and for whimpering when Rowan had pulled away and put a stop to it. But he doesn’t know if that something is going to be something he wants to hear.