He barely registers the guy leaving, only catching the tail end of his “Whatever, dude,” when he sees the Van Damme look-alike approach the bed, hover, say something to Malcolm. The little pang Rowan felt earlier in his chest migrates to his stomach, barely more noticeable than a mosquito bite, but there and persistent and making Rowan pay attention. Malcolm shakes his head, and the other man leaves with the start of a scowl on his face.

What…? Had he been propositioned the same way Rowan had and turned the guy down?

The wetness seeping into his skin from the washcloths he’d tucked under his arm snaps him back to his senses and reminds him of why he came over here in the first place. Shaking his head at himself, he discards one of the washcloths, now both damp, and grabs a dry one before returning to the bed.

“Here,” Rowan says, cracks open the seal on the bottle of water and hands it to Malcolm.

The other man looks at him with wide eyes, slightly parted lips. Like Rowan handed him a bar of gold he’d mined and smelted himself rather than a bottle of water he’d gotten from the mini fridge a few feet away.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Rowan can’t help but watch the pretty bob of his throat as he chugs nearly the entire bottle. When he’s finished, Rowan hands him the washcloths. Normally, he’d do it himself—clean up his mess, so to speak—but Malcolm is still a stranger, even if he’d been filled with Rowan in more ways than one, and that’s something that some people find too personal.

He gets the same incredulous look as before, but Malcolm takes the washcloths from him and wipes his face, Rowan turning to get another bottle of water to give him some semblance of privacy as he starts wiping down the rest of himself. When he returns, Malcolm seems to be finished, pulling on his briefs straight from the floor with little finesse.

“Do you need anything?” Rowan asks, handing him the other water bottle. “I mean, aftercare-wise?”

He takes the water with a nod and replies, “’M good.”

Rowan waits a beat, eyeing him again to make sure he actually is okay after such an intense session. But the other man doesn’t give him any indication that he needs or wants anything else from him.

That’s that, then.

The swell of disappointment in Rowan’s chest at Malcolm’s silent brush-off stings more than he cares to admit. He’d hoped that he’d done enough to get his attention—made an impression worthy of a second go and maybe more after that.