While Rowan’s been thinking of their visits to Sheila’s diner as dates for a while, it’s really only been a placeholder word in his mind. A stand-in for “a fundamental way to refill their depleted energy levels” and “a part of their mutual aftercare sessions.” But now… neither of those options is a viable excuse. It’s simply the two of them choosing each other’s company over being alone.

When their food comes, Rowan’s stomach gives a demanding growl.

“Can’t believe you eat this shit regularly,” Mal grumbles, food stuffed to one side of his cheek as he chews a bite of his salad.

“Literally no one is making you eat salad, Mal.”

“Didn’t wanna deal with your judgyass stare if I got a cheeseburger.”

Rowan huffs an incredulous laugh. “Why the hell would I judge you? And since when do you care?”

“I don’t care, Firecrotch.”

It’s the least believable lie Mal’s ever told. Still, Rowan finds it cute that Mal values his opinion enough to try to eat healthier.

“’Sides…,” Rowan muses, plucking a crouton out of his wrap and crunching it. “You look good stuffing your mouth with meat.”

Mal chokes on a bite of salad, a tiny spray of dressing dusting the table between them.

“Jesus Christ…,” he mutters, pawing at the mess with a handful of napkins.

“Wow, didn’t think that’d be enough to get a reaction outta you.” Rowan laughs, helping Mal move glasses and condiment dispensers to clean between them.

“Fuck you, man.”

But his clipped tone is betrayed by the small smile Rowan can see playing out on his lips, pink and soft-looking in the early afternoon light.

Mal sucks his fork clean, jabs it straight into the strawberry cheesecake, and takes a big bite, spurning his earlier green-eating attempts in favor of a delicious dessert. It’s a little mind-boggling how comfortable he and Rowan have gotten with swapping bodily fluids when they’ve never even properly kissed.

Rowan can only laugh, set aside his own actual food, and dig into dessert alongside Mal.

ROWAN’S FUCKING horny. Ever since he had lunch with Mal two days ago, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him. He won’t lie, he is satisfied with hooking up with Mal once a week, but fuck if he doesn’t want more. At this point, he’s not even interested in hooking up with anyone else. He wants more Mal. Always more Mal.

His cock throbs in his briefs, and goddamn, it’s only been a couple of days since he saw him and a couple of hours since he last texted him, but that itch is back that only Mal seems to be able to scratch.

Before he knows it, he’s got one hand down his pants petting at the soft red curls above his cock and the other typing out a message to Mal.

[RC] Can I send you sth?

[MS] assume it’s somethin dirty if you’re askin permission

[RC] Yeah

[MS] better be good campbell