Mal shoves his free hand in his jeans pocket and starts walking down the street at a quick pace, making Rowan once again have to take a few half-jogging strides to catch up. He’s thankful for his long legs being able to keep pace with Mal, who would put the old ladies who power walk in the mall to shame. If he hadn’t been there himself, Rowan almost wouldn’t believe this is the same guy who got fucked—and DPd—by ten others. Barely a hitch in his step.

Rowan pushes down the surge of heat he can feel building again, and thinks that Mal is going to be the death of him.

It’s only a five-minute walk to the restaurant, which they pass in comfortable silence. The place is little more than a tiny diner with a neon Open 24/7 sign flickering in the window and a rusty bell that dings when they enter.

Something bluesy is playing on the jukebox, and the air is filled with the telltale smell of fried food and something that might be cinnamon. A plump older woman with rosy cheeks and salt-and-pepper hair in neat pin curls is wiping down the counter when she notices them enter.

“Mal, baby!” Her voice is a soothing low rasp with a hint of sweetness to it.

“Hey, Sheils.”

“The usual?” she asks once they reach the counter.

“Yeah, please. And whatever he wants,” Mal says, gesturing to Rowan.

“Uh….”

Rowan frantically looks up at the overhead menu, consisting of two large blackboards with specials handwritten in chalk. He has no idea what Mal’s usual is, though he has to admit he really likes the idea of him having a “usual” at a small place like this. A Mom-and-Pop type place like you’d see every couple of blocks in the outer limits of the city.

“What can I get ya, hon?” the woman asks. Her name tag reads Sheila.

Fuck, right. Food.

His eyes flit across the menu, seeing typical diner staples and breakfast items served until noon.

“Uh… I’ll have a BLT and fries, please.”

“What kind of toast?”

“Wheat?”

Sheila nods but doesn’t write down his order. Rowan always had to write stuff down when he worked at his sister Aubrey’s diner, even a simple order like that, so he’s impressed.

She fills and hands them two large plastic cups of ice water and tops off the coffee of the lone man at the opposite end of the counter before disappearing into the back.

Mal takes both drinks and nods to a round booth in the back corner of the diner. “C’mon.”

They sit opposite each other, the cushioned seats much more comfortable than Rowan would have expected. Mal takes a few deep gulps of water before setting the cup down on the table with a thunk.