“Holy shit…,” Mal whispers, pulling out the jock and examining the fabric.

It’s solid black with golden threads woven through the back and thigh bands, the pocket in front outlined in the same golden thread in an intricate pattern. When Rowan found the site, he’d pulled out his credit card on the spot and selected a pattern that would both complement Mal’s complexion and—inevitably—remind him of the Gold Room. Of Rowan.

Mal’s stunned into silence, running his thumbs over the straps and holding it up in the dim yellow light provided by the streetlamps. Even in the low light, Rowan can see the thread glimmer.

“Figured I should finally pay you back for that one I shredded during our first scene,” he explains when Mal doesn’t respond further.

Rowan remembers the day fondly, though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t harbored a twinge of guilt this whole time for having ruined Mal’s clothes. Even though he had said he could ruin it.

“Thank you, Rowan,” Mal says finally.

It’s the sincerity and the breathiness in his voice that gets to Rowan as much as it is the fact that this might be the first time Mal has actually used his name outside of sex and not one of his many nicknames for him. It catches him so off guard that it takes him a long moment to realize that the warm feeling encompassing him isn’t just pleasure at the name, but rather Mal’s chest pressed against his own and his arms wrapped tightly around his back.

It’s far from the first time Mal’s hugged him of his own accord, but those other times had been fleeting, with barely any contact. This is intimate, if Rowan dares call it anything. Somehow, their bodies pressed flush together like this feels more meaningful than every time they’ve been connected sexually. But before Rowan can even properly enjoy the hug or fully respond back to it, there’s a sharp inhale, and Mal releases him.

“See you next weekend, yeah?” Mal says, backpedaling toward the other end of the lot where his black Charger is parked.

“Yeah. Happy birthday, Mal.”

THE WHOLE night replays in Rowan’s mind like a film reel. Grainy and slightly out of focus but loaded with unforgettable images. Unforgettable feelings too. The way Mal felt pressed against him on the dance floor and in the bathroom stall and in the parking lot. The way he’d shared bits of himself with not only his closest friends and family, but with Rowan too. The way he hadn’t judged when Rowan had shared some of his own sordid past.

They’d said their goodbyes in the parking lot less than an hour ago, but Rowan hears his phone vibrate on his nightstand.

[MS] can still feel you

Fuck, Rowan wants to say. You can’t just say shit like that, Mal.