Malcolm nods with his eyes still closed, then clears his throat. He blinks up at Rowan, the gold catching him off guard as Malcolm’s pupils shrink in the light and make something stir in Rowan’s rib cage.

“’M good, man.”

Rowan watches him for a few seconds more, trying to gauge whether he’s actually okay or not. He watches Malcolm’s abs flex as he reaches his arms above his head in a stretch, the popping of his spine audible even over the chatter of the men and the shuffling of their clothes as they dress.

There’s nothing to suggest he isn’t okay, at least not right this second, so Rowan rolls off the bed, wincing at the mess he picks up along the way, and crosses the room to the supply table. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge as well as two washcloths, wets one in the sink and tucks both under his arm when someone slaps him on the back.

Startled, he whips around to find Leg Day grinning at him.

“You were so hot out there, dude.”

Out there, like they had a pickup game of basketball rather than a fucking gangbang.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Any chance you wanna meet up next time you come? I’d love to try that thing out for myself,” he says, flicking his eyes to Rowan’s still very exposed dick.

He’s hot. He is, even with his skinny legs and the frat boy thing he’s got going on, and Rowan wants to kick himself for what he’s about to say, but he’s gonna say it anyway.

“I’m not really lookin’ for anything right now.”

The guy laughs. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious, dude. No one comes here looking for the love of their life.”

Rowan’s eyes wander over to the bed, to where Malcolm is now sitting up straighter and stretching his neck from side to side. He said he didn’t want anything serious, but really, the guy talking to him isn’t who he wants. Rowan watched him all night, watched everyone all night, some more than others, inevitably, but no one as much as Malcolm. God, how could he? That would be like going to some museum and looking at the pedestals instead of the sculptures or the frames instead of the paintings. It wouldn’t make sense.

And when Malcolm’s gaze sweeps the room and lands on Rowan’s before snapping away, he can’t help but wonder again if the feeling is mutual.

“Sorry,” he finally says.