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.

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.