With the way Mal mewls and clenches around him and comes only a heartbeat after Rowan fills him, he doesn’t seem to care either.

THE FIRST week in August has the heat rising to sweltering even in the late evening, and Rowan is thankful for the cool air inside Sheila’s diner. By now, Rowan has had every dish on the menu—and some off, thanks to Mal’s connection with Sheila. He decides his favorites are the turkey burger and the tomato soup with grilled cheese.

“So, uh…,” Mal starts, breaking their otherwise quiet meal. He fiddles with his milkshake straw until Rowan meets his eyes. “’S my birthday next weekend.”

Rowan’s ears perk up. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmm.”

For a moment, Rowan’s heart sinks, but he asks, “So do we need to skip next week?”

“Yeah, but…. Was gonna see if you wanted to come out.”

“Out?”

“Goin’ to a bar with Camilla, Clover, and Jeremiah.”

There’s a swelling in Rowan’s chest that should absolutely concern him.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

Somehow, his voice remains unaffected despite the rushing in his ears.

“Cool, I’ll text you the details.”

Rowan grins and snags Mal’s milkshake to take a quick sip, the cold liquid on his tongue doing nothing to quell the heat simmering in his veins.

THE REST of the week, Rowan agonizes over whether to get Mal a birthday present. It wouldn’t be weird, he thinks. They’re friends. With benefits, sure, but Rowan’s comfortable saying that even if they don’t really hang out outside of the club, he considers Mal a friend. Probably his best friend if he’s being honest. Which says as much about their relationship and how well they get along as it does about Rowan’s lack of a social circle.

He lays back in bed, scrolling absentmindedly through Amazon, finding nothing but cheap junk he thinks Mal would scoff at. It isn’t until he gives up and Googles birthday gift for fuck buddy that he finds a site that makes his eyes light up.

Perfect.

THE SATURDAY of Mal’s birthday rolls around, and Rowan has never taken longer getting ready in his life. He feels like a teenager going to prom, primping and pruning and going through his entire wardrobe to find the perfect outfit.

Eventually, he settles on gray semiformal slacks with a black button-up and his casual oxford shoes. The address that Mal had texted him was for a club in Cambridge that Rowan’s never heard of, but from the photos online looks fairly upscale. It’s a little surprising, given Mal’s penchant for shitty beer and small-town diners, but he has a feeling it wasn’t Mal who made the final choice.

He spends what feels like ages getting a perfectly smooth shave and taming his hair for the humid night. With nearly half an hour to spare and a tornado ravaging his insides, Rowan sets his GPS and heads for the club.