Rowan snorts out a soft laugh, the first time he’s done so in well over a week. It feels good to laugh again. To laugh with Mal again.

“And you’ve been… fuck, the best Dom I’ve ever had, so I dunno what you were worried about, man,” Mal adds.

The sincerity of the statement makes a puddle of warmth ripple in Rowan’s belly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just… tell me next time, yeah? If this happens again.”

“I will,” Rowan promises.

He remembers the promise he made to himself all those months ago: That if his disease ever compromised their arrangement, he’d tell Mal about it. And he did. Even if not as quickly as he would have liked, he did still manage to keep his word. Rowan takes his own promises very seriously, having grown up without a lot of that in his life—words meaning things.

“Can I…,” Mal starts, trailing off as if he’d bitten his lip.

“What?”

“Can I see you? Today? If you’re up for it.”

Rowan takes a shaky, surprised breath. “Maybe not today. I’m kinda… kinda gross. Haven’t really showered or anything in a few days,” he admits. Though by now it’s been at least a week. “Tomorrow, though?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” There’s no judgment in Mal’s voice, for which Rowan is eternally grateful. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” Rowan replies, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“See you, Red.”

“Bye, Mal.”

WHEN TOMORROW comes, Rowan wakes with a sense of peace that he hasn’t felt in weeks. A calm that he feels in his body as much as in his mind. Equilibrium restored. A large part of that, he thinks, is due to finally telling Mal about his depression. It feels like a ten-ton weight lifted off his chest, leaving him so light that he may float off into space.

He downs his newly adjusted pills with a glass of water from his nightstand that he doesn’t remember putting there. He’d called his doctor right after he called Mal yesterday—which really shows where his priorities lie—and she’d only been slightly worried. It wasn’t that bad of an episode, all things considered. He’s had much, much worse in the past—to the point where he’d been close to actually trying to off himself—and the fact that he was still kind of on top of his meds when the depression really started to set in had helped. It can never be completely avoided, something it had taken him a long, long time to come to terms with after he was diagnosed, but it can at least be mitigated.

The warm shower water feels glorious on his skin. As he lathers his body wash and scrubs himself clean, he rinses away the sweat and the grime and the shame of being bedridden for a week.

It’s always the first step to feeling better after a depressive bout. The first step to feeling human again. A nice long shower.

The second step is human interaction.

Mal.