Rowan watches him exit the room—still in nothing but his briefs—admiring the way his back muscles flex as he walks. He feels a stirring in his groin, like he hadn’t come twice in the span of a few hours. He can’t help but wonder if it’s the newness of Mal that’s getting him going like this, or if this is what it’s going to be like as long as they’re… whatever. Dom and sub. Fuck buddies. Though Rowan’s pretty sure you need to be buddies first before the term “fuck buddies” is actually appropriate. Right now they’re just people who have fucked and are going to make plans to fuck again.

Probably. Hopefully.

The point is, Mal’s hot, and Rowan already wants more.

When he hears the door to what is presumably the changing room slam shut, Rowan realizes he’s been standing by himself in the Black Room. He tugs at his shirt, regretting having gotten dressed now that he’s going to be out in public again. He’d planned on going home, showering, and passing out for at least ten hours, but Mal had completely changed those plans. And Rowan’s immensely looking forward to spending more time with him, but he feels gross, having only given himself a cursory wipe down before he’d put his clothes back on.

He heads to the bathroom down the hall, marveling at the warm cream-colored walls and soft lighting and cleanliness. Rowan hadn’t been expecting a gas-station bathroom, exactly, but this is some five-star hotel shit.

Mercifully, a basket full of travel-size toiletries sits on the sink counter. Rowan washes his hands, splashes some cold water on his face—careful to not drip onto his shirt—and towels off with one of the rolled hand towels stacked in neat rows. He takes a miniature bottle of mouthwash and gargles with the entire thing, spitting it in the sink after a minute or so. There are a wide variety of deodorant sticks and sprays, including the same Old Spice that Rowan uses at home. He applies a fresh coat, smooths out his shirt, and pockets the rest of the tube, not wanting to waste it.

Somehow, his hair is still mostly fine despite everything that happened tonight, so he simply wets his fingertips and flattens down the curls at his temples that are starting to get a little too long to be left ungelled.

Returning to the lounge, he sees that there are still a decent number of people milling around, which isn’t surprising since it’s only around midnight on a Saturday night. He wanders to the bar, seeing that there are several empty barstools and that Jeremiah is still working.

“Don’t you look freshly fucked,” Jeremiah says to him with a devious twinkle in his eyes as Rowan plants himself on a barstool. “I take it you got in?”