“I’ll kill you if you get me a Bud Light, Mal.”

Mal only laughs and stalks toward the bar.

Rowan finds them a table for two tucked away in a corner, much like their usual spot at Sheila’s diner. The dim overhead lights cast the area in a warm yellow glow. A few minutes later, Mal appears by his side, placing a bottle of beer in front of each of them.

Mal had gotten him a Blue Ribbon, and he has to laugh as Mal takes a sip of his own beer.

“Thought I said something that doesn’t suck?”

“Bitch, I know it’s your favorite,” Mal says, flicking the side of the bottle. His nail makes a tiny tink! against the glass that has Rowan grinning.

“What’re you drinking?” Rowan asks, not recognizing the silvery label or the dark liquid inside.

“Some kinda local stout,” Mal says, turning the bottle so Rowan can read the label. “They only sell it in-house, but it’s pretty good. You wanna try?”

“Sure.”

Mal slides the bottle over to him, the glass bottom making a skriiitch noise across the wooden tabletop, a ring of condensation streaking along the way.

When the near-black liquid hits his tongue, Rowan’s first inclination is to grimace at the heaviness of it, and he hears Mal laughing gently as he tilts the bottle back farther. Tries not to think too hard about how it had Mal’s lips wrapped around it moments ago as a more pleasant aftertaste of coffee settles in his mouth.

“First sip’s always fuckin’ weird, but it’s got a good aftertaste,” Mal tells him.

Nodding in agreement, Rowan slides the bottle back to Mal and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “’S good, though.”

“Kinda weird not being at the club tonight,” Mal says after a few moments.

Rowan hums. “What’s the longest you’ve been away from it?” he asks, knowing that Mal’s been going there for a long time, practically since the moment he was old enough.

“Few months. After Steven fucked off to Florida, I took some time off.”

“Wow,” Rowan says, slightly awed.

“What?”

“Just, that’s not that much time to take off after, what, almost ten years?”

“Seven. That a problem?” The challenge in Mal’s narrowed eyes is obvious.

Rowan feels nervous sweat pebble up on his forehead, something that’s never happened with Mal. Leave it to his stupid mouth to fuck things up.

“No! Definitely not. Hell, you know most of what I did when I was younger, which is worse than having consensual sex at a BDSM club for years.”

Thankfully, Mal’s eyes soften. “I guess.”

For once, Rowan’s glad that his sordid past gives him an out. He looks around for a distraction, taking another long pull on his beer.

“You play pool?” Rowan asks when the couple previously occupying the table clears it.

“You sure you wanna take me on? I’m pretty good,” Mal replies cockily.

It makes Rowan’s heart pitter-patter in his chest.