ROWAN LETS himself take a few deep breaths inside the foyer before he presses the button to be buzzed into Mal’s apartment building. From there, it’s a quick elevator ride and he’s face-to-face with Mal’s door. It takes him a good minute to quell his nerves to knock, and Mal must be wondering if he got lost.

In a matter of seconds, Mal’s flinging open the door, looking comfortable in a plain white T-shirt and black sweats, but with an eager glint in his eye.

“Hey,” Mal greets.

“Hey,” Rowan replies, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes, kicking them off to the side where a shoe mat lies filled with Mal’s boots and sneakers.

Mal gestures to the space around him, adding, “Well, this is it. I’d give ya a tour, but there’s not much to see.”

Mal’s apartment is clean and tidy. Almost suspiciously so. Like he’d shuffled everything around a dozen times and eventually shoved anything out of place into some too-full closet that’s going to spill everything the moment it’s opened. It’s a pretty standard layout, the front door opening into the living room with the kitchen off to the left and a short hallway, where presumably the bathroom and bedroom are, to the right.

The walls are apartment-standard white, the furniture all shades of black and brown and gray, made of leather and soft-looking fabric and dark-stained wood. He doesn’t have a kitchen table, but there is a small island off one end of the counter that has two wooden barstools tucked in underneath it. Rowan pictures Mal eating breakfast here in the morning, and it fills him with a sense of warmth.

“Want a beer?” Mal asks, shuffling off to the kitchen before Rowan replies.

“Sure.”

Rowan steps further inside, taking in his surroundings.

It’s minimally decorated, some framed movie and band posters comprising the majority of the decorations. A couple of unframed candid photos of Mal and Amy and the staff of the club strewn about the twin bookshelves in the living room, curled at the edges. What looks like an urn next to a small black-and-white photo of a young Mal and a dark-haired woman Rowan doesn’t recognize. On top of the photos, there’s a plant or two here and there, mostly succulents and low-maintenance plants by the looks of it, one pothos in particular vining all along and down the side of an end table in the living room. There’s a small desk in one corner with a beast of a computer on the floor and three monitors side by side on the desktop, which must be where Mal does his work.

It’s cozy and simple. It’s Mal, and part of Rowan still can’t believe he’s being let into this side of Mal’s life, so different from the gilded glamor of the Menagerie.