Rowan wants to punch a wall. He wants to tell Mal that when he stops hearing from people, it’s usually because they’re on a bender or in jail or dead. He wants to flat-out say he’s worried and pissed and fucking hungry for a real kiss after the tantalizing taste he’d gotten.

But as his string of fleeting exes would attest to, he’s never been great at communicating emotions.

[RC] I get if you’re busy or whatever but it takes 2 fucking seconds to send a text

[RC] I thought you dropped or something

[MS] it takes more than a stupid fuckin mistake like that to make me drop

Hearing Mal call the kiss a mistake again, even if it is technically true, feels like a virtual slap in the face.

[RC] You looked like you were in a fucking trance when we left Mal

[RC] What was I supposed to think??

[MS] you don’t think fuckin anything. i told you i was fine

[MS] we’re not boyfriend and girlfriend here

[MS] i don’t owe you shit

His aggression catches Rowan off guard. Apparently Mal’s done being on the defensive. Rowan can practically feel the steam coming out of his own ears as he types out his reply.

[RC] No shit we’re not a couple. But you do fucking owe it to me to tell me you aren’t gonna jump into traffic if the reason for it happened with me

[MS] it woulda happened with anyone. you’re not the hot shit you think you are

[RC] I DON’T think I’m hot shit, I was fucking worried asshole

[RC] Just because you’re the club bicycle doesn’t mean you get to ride all over me

Rowan regrets the text the second he hits Send, and Mal’s response takes two full minutes to pop onto his screen.

[MS] fuck you campbell

There isn’t anything Rowan can say after that.

He knows it’s unfair to call Mal a slut when his own wild teenage years aren’t too far behind him. Kinda loves that he is, if he’s being honest.

And he doesn’t want to leave it like this, but alongside the new cloak of shame hanging over him, there’s still a bubble of anger toward Mal floating around inside him. It may be growing smaller and weaker by the minute, but it’s there nonetheless.

He throws his phone to the other end of the bed, watching it tumble uselessly over the bunched-up comforter and clatter to the carpet below. He needs to clear his head. He grabs his running shoes and doesn’t bother changing out of his current set of sweatpants and T-shirt before heading out the door at nearly eleven at night.