Rowan orders a turkey-bacon and avocado wrap, which makes Mal scoff a little and mutter “Hipster…” under his breath.

Shockingly, Mal orders a salad. A buffalo chicken salad smothered in bleu cheese dressing, but there’s at least some green on his plate. Rowan wants to think he’s having some kind of positive effect on him.

With a smile, Rowan orders a piece of strawberry cheesecake for them to share.

“Your eyes are so fuckin’ green,” Mal says after a beat of silence.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Don’t mean to be a little bitch, just… never seen ’em in the sunlight before, yanno?”

Yeah. Rowan knows.

“Was thinking the same about yours earlier,” Rowan confesses, butterflies burrowing into his belly.

It all feels a little too much like a high school date for Rowan’s liking. Not that he ever really went on any of those when he was that age, his love life limited to risky hookups with the few gay or questioning guys behind the bleachers in high school.

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.