“I think that’s the hardest I’ve ever come,” Mal says, voice still hoarse.

Rowan laughs. “Gonna have to do this more often, then, if you wanna top it.” He props himself up on one elbow, turning to Mal. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmm,” Mal hums softly. “Good. Great. Knew you’d be fuckin’ perfect at it, Red.”

“I’m glad. Was really hot seeing you like that.”

“Ditto.”

Rowan caresses Mal’s neck softly with his fingertips, the red welts in the shape of his fingers already starting to take shape. He knows they won’t last until tomorrow—he wasn’t choking him that hard—but they’ll last for a few hours at least. Rowan’s tempted to ask if he can take a photo to remember this night and everything that it’s entailed so far.

Mal’s breathing slowly returns to normal, along with his pale complexion. Rowan watches the rise and fall of his chest, focusing on the solid lines of his tattoos with each exhale and on his musculature with each inhale. In profile, he’s beautiful. All sharp nose and delicate eyelashes and high cheekbones and mussed hair with traces of sweat drying at his temples.

They lie there in silence, occasionally sneaking glances at each other. Rowan continues his touches along Mal’s chest and arms and neck if for no other reason than he wants to touch him. Wants to still be connected to him in some way. The only sound in the room is the gentle, soothing pitter-patter of rain hitting the windows outside, and Rowan thinks he hasn’t ever been this content in his entire life.

“Think I wanna change my safewords,” Mal says after a long few minutes of nothing but slow and steady breaths.

“Yeah?” Rowan replies, curious.

“Yeah. Use actual words instead’a colors.”

The admission surprises him. Rowan remembers something about Mal saying he didn’t need to think about his old math teacher when he was in bed, which is why he uses colors in the first place.

“How come?”

Mal hesitates, rubs at his eyebrow with his index finger before meeting Rowan’s eyes. He rises up on one elbow, partially leaning over Rowan, the look in his eyes unreadable but determined.

When he answers, his voice is softer than Rowan’s ever heard it before.

“’Cause now I associate red with you… and I don’t ever wanna think of you as a bad thing.”

A lump forms in the back of Rowan’s throat that doesn’t seem to want to go away no matter how much he swallows around it.

“Mal….”

“You always keep your promises?” Mal asks in a whisper.

“Always.”

It doesn’t register with Rowan why he’s asking until Mal’s free hand comes up to cup Rowan’s cheek, warm palm gently resting on his skin.

Time moves in slow motion.