Specifically the heated, glazed-over look he gives him over the rim of his beer bottle. How his fingers slide along the curved neck of the brown container, slick with condensation.

Rowan’s waiting for it. Some sign that Mal wants it as bad as Rowan does.

But it’s gotta be Mal. It’s his birthday after all.

Ask me. Ask me, ask me, ask—

There.

With a glance over his shoulder and the quirk of one neatly sculpted eyebrow, Mal has Rowan excusing himself from the knowing stares of the twins. Has him trailing Mal into the bar bathroom, an invisible string tugging at his chest and winching him forward.

They shouldn’t do this. Even as his legs carry him forward, Rowan knows they shouldn’t do this. They’ve been sexting at least once a week between their scenes, but this is…. Well. It’s crossing a big line from just fuckin’ to… something else. There’s hardly an ounce of blood left in Rowan’s brain to think about what that something else might be, which means it must be a good idea after all. Even if a bar bathroom is a far cry from the comfort of a bed, this will be the first time they’ve hooked up outside the confines of the Menagerie.

And fuck, he wants it.

The second the door to the bathroom swings shut, a tattooed hand latches on to his shirt and drags him into the largest stall. Their hands are a blur between them, fumbling to get each other’s jeans unbuttoned and relieve the mounting pressure that had built up earlier on the dance floor. The stall door creaks open, hitting Rowan in the shoulder. He slams it shut and flicks the lock, attention immediately back on Mal as he shoves him against the door.

A spark zaps between them when Mal presses their foreheads together, ragged breaths mingling across the tiny gap between their lips.

“Tell me your words,” Rowan demands, ripping his gaze away from Mal’s mouth.

Mal’s fingers still on Rowan’s zipper, face pulling away as he looks up at Rowan, lidded eyes widening.

And fuck, did Mal not think this was going to be a scene? Was he expecting a regular hookup? Through the fog in his brain, he realizes that he may have fucked this up entirely.

But Mal answers after a tiny, shaky breath. “Green’s good to go, yellow’s pause, red’s full stop.”

“Good.”

As soon as Rowan works open Mal’s button and zipper, he spins him in place, pressing his chest against the stall door and hearing it rattle on flimsy hinges.

“Unh….”

Fingers raking against Mal’s lower back, Rowan shoves his jeans down over his ass, revealing lacy white panties that stretch tight across his cheeks.