But hell, Mal probably should have told Rowan straight-up that he didn’t want to do a scene if that was the case, and Rowan would have been perfectly fine with that and adjusted accordingly. Wouldn’t have pushed as much, maybe. Been so rough. Not that it was a particularly hard-core scene in the slightest, but still.

The only thing that Rowan can think of to explain Mal’s confusion is simple: Mal was expecting a regular hookup and did a mental double take when he thought Rowan wanted to do a scene. Which means… would Mal be open to regular hookups outside the confines of the Menagerie? Outside their Dom/sub arrangement? Fuck, Rowan would love that. For months now he’s been lamenting the fact that he can’t see Mal more often. That he can’t fuck him more often—every goddamn day like he wants to. Like Mal deserves.

And he’d finally thought the perfect opportunity came up to be more than what they are, and Rowan unknowingly screwed the pooch and slid them back down the hill of intimacy they’ve been steadily climbing.

But Mal had seemed so normal after they fucked. Rowan’s body can’t forget the way Mal had rested his forehead on his shoulder, caressed his hip. The way he’d been all smiles when they’d returned to the group. The warm feeling of his arms around him after Rowan gave him his present. The texting afterward. The planning for the future, a full year in advance.

So now he’s all confused again. Hates feeling like this more than anything. So unsure when he’s used to being in control or, at the very least, having a decent understanding of what the hell’s going on in his life. But now…. It’s nothing short of emotional whiplash, and Rowan does not know how to handle it.

The next thing he knows, Rowan’s in his car and driving aimlessly, hoping to find something like an answer to his confusion somewhere on the pavement of Boston’s rigid streets. Twenty minutes later, he finds himself staring up at the unlit marquee lights of the Menagerie. It’s undoubtedly closed now, but the thought of going inside makes his head spin, and he knows it wouldn’t have helped him.

So he turns around, intending to go back and sulk at home like he should have been doing all along, when the smell of bacon wafts in through his open window and another familiar sight comes into view.

Sheila’s diner.

Fuck it. He pulls into an empty spot that thankfully doesn’t require him to parallel park and makes his way into the all-too-familiar diner with the jingling of a bell.