“No, it’s fine, Mal,” Rowan tells him at a more reasonable volume, shoulders hunched up to his ears. “I’m not against kissing or anything. Actually kinda love it, but not if you’re not into it too.” He stops to fiddle with his napkin, scrunching it up in his hand. “I just….”

“What?”

“Feel fuckin’ guilty for, y’know, blowing during it.” His cheeks burn, and he can’t force himself to meet Mal’s eyes. “You were so out of it, and I feel like shit for basically getting off on it. I don’t normally….”

He trails off when he sees Mal nodding in his periphery, clearly understanding what he was going to say. I don’t normally get off on hurting people.

Somehow, despite the roiling in his stomach, the confession feels good, like a weight has been lifted off his chest. No matter how Mal reacts to it, he’s glad to have this conversation rather than let it tear him up inside. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to tell him how badly he’d wanted to cup his face and lick into his mouth and kiss him senseless. He’s gonna take that shit to his grave.

“Not your fault, man. Shit’s obviously emotional for the both of us, even if no feelings are involved.”

The statement hits like a punch to the gut, plunging that thorn of worry straight into his heart.

“Right,” Rowan manages.

He’d been worried about this—his chaotic and confusing feelings not being reciprocated. Pretty definitively assumed that was the case too. But to actually have it spelled out, black and white? Far worse than he’d imagined, even in his worst-case scenarios.

He clears his throat, quickly shifting to a topic that feels a little less like swallowing hot coals. “Do you wanna start planning our scenes more?”

Mal takes a deep breath and shifts his gaze to the side, like he’s considering. “Not sure that would’a helped. Let’s just stick with what we’ve been doin’.”

Business as usual, then.

They’ve talked about it, cleared the air a bit, but for all intents and purposes, they’re gonna sweep this shit under the rug.

Pretend it never happened.

“HEY,” ROWAN says as they’re approaching the club, nudging Mal with his elbow. “Text me if you need anything, okay? Or call, whichever.”

“Yeah,” Mal replies, though there’s a flatness to his voice. He kicks a pebble on the ground, hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers as they’ve been during the whole walk back.

“I’m serious. Doesn’t matter when.”

“I know.”

Rowan tries to catch his eye, but Mal’s gaze remains firmly downcast. And when they reach the front doors, Mal immediately turns to head to his car.

“Mal,” Rowan says quickly, catching his shoulder before he bolts.

Thankfully he doesn’t, and lets himself be turned around to face Rowan. When he finally meets Rowan’s eyes, there’s nothing there, and it makes something inside Rowan shrivel.