With two simultaneous shakes of their heads, Rowan and Mal heave mutual sighs of relief.

“How’d he look yesterday?” Rowan asks, curiosity rising.

“Oh, his nose was definitely broken. You did a serious number on him,” she laughs. Probably inappropriate for the club manager, but what-the-fuck-ever.

“Good,” Mal replies for them both. “Should’a hit him again.”

“Enrico had to wrestle him out the door with how much he was putting up a fight.”

“Damn. Enrico’s a big guy too.”

“Mm-hmm,” Clover agrees. “We had a short but to-the-point conversation. Once his temper calmed down, he seemed to realize what he had done, even if he was unapologetic about it.”

Her eyes harden, and Rowan knows that she would have the same reaction even if it wasn’t one of her best friends who this happened to.

“Guy’s a piece of shit. Can’t believe I never saw it before,” Mal laments.

“You did nothing wrong, Mal,” Rowan tells him, reaching across to lay a hand on his knee.

“Agreed.” Clover nods. “It’s a difficult situation, but I think the both of you handled it the best you could. We have a few legal issues to deal with on our end, but nothing either of you has to worry about. For all intents and purposes, it’s done and dusted.”

Rowan hums thoughtfully. In truth he probably could have not resorted to physical violence, but well, fuck that guy. He wasn’t going to sit idly by while Mal was being subjected to something he didn’t want.

“Thanks, Clove,” Mal says.

Rowan gives his own thanks, and the pair of them walk out of the club with Clover, who locks the door behind them.

Clover pulls each of them into a hug. It’s warm and sincere, a comfort that Rowan appreciates, and he finds himself relaxing into it. She smells like lemongrass and pear, like she did when they’d danced together on Mal’s birthday.

The night that probably started this whole situation in the first place.

When Clover leaves, Rowan and Mal stand outside the door to the Menagerie, taking each other in.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Mal asks, surprising Rowan.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

They set off with no particular destination in mind, quiet for the first few minutes. It’s chilly enough out that Rowan’s glad he brought his green jacket with him—Mal’s got his own light denim jacket on, the rustling of the fabric drawing Rowan’s focus as they walk.

The Back Bay passes them by, all quaint brownstones with wrought-iron fences and yoga studios and cafés decorated with flowers and handwritten chalk signs. Eventually the buildings fade away and small patches of lush green greet them, lit by the early morning sun. The foliage has only begun changing, greens shifting the slightest bit to umber and yellow.