The blue threads continue to pile up as Rowan asks, “But everything else was the same besides that?”

“Yeah. It was the same shit we always did. Talked to me the same way when we were actively scening as he did the other night. Fuck, you talk to me like that. Just… felt different. Wrong, I guess. Can’t explain it, man.”

Rowan thinks that he probably can.

“So where do you wanna go from here?” Rowan asks.

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean for us. I don’t want to jump straight back into any intense stuff this weekend if either of us is gonna be rattled.”

“Yeah, prob’ly a good idea. Do….” Rowan can picture him shaking his head. That pretty pink flush he gets every once in a while coloring his cheeks and ears and neck.

“What?”

There’s a deep breath before Mal speaks again. “Do you wanna grab a drink or something on Saturday? Same time?”

Rowan’s head spins. He has to lie down fully on the couch to prevent himself from falling back onto it. Like a date? echoes in his mind, but he forces himself not to blurt this particular thought out loud.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Rowan Campbell has successfully played one thing cool in his life so far, and he thinks it earns him a congratulatory pat on the back. He’d do it if he could get his limbs to move.

They talk until Rowan’s phone is hot against his cheek and his battery threatens to give out. When they finally hang up, it’s close to midnight, and Rowan barely manages to pry off his work uniform before crawling into bed.

ROWAN BREATHES as deeply and evenly as he can while he gets ready to go out with Mal.

This time there’s no good excuse for why they’re going out other than to spend time together. No birthday, no getting to know one another’s kinks, nothing. They could have easily skipped a week or two entirely and not seen each other, though the thought of that makes Rowan’s stomach lurch. He hasn’t gone without seeing Mal at least once a week since they started their arrangement several months ago, and the thought of it happening now—even hypothetically—is a little too painful for him to bear.

They meet outside the bar, a decent little hole-in-the-wall in the Back Bay, somewhere that seems much more suited to Mal’s liking than the club they went to for his birthday. The floor’s only slightly sticky with beer, with the occasional peanut shell or two strewn about, dark walls filled with signed photographs of famous patrons, and some rock song playing over the speakers. The bar is fully stocked with every type of liquor, from cheap brands to the top-shelf stuff that Rowan isn’t sure he’d ever be able to justify buying.

“I’ll get a table,” Rowan says to Mal. “Grab me a beer? Whatever doesn’t suck.”

Mal salutes him. “One Bud Light, comin’ up.”