It strikes Rowan that this is probably weird. Being here in a diner with a guy he’d fucked with nine other guys with the intention of getting to know him better so he can fuck him again. Mal’s not saying anything, but the silence aside from the overhead music is driving Rowan a little crazy, so he racks his brain for something to say.

“You come here often?”

He winces. It sounds like a bad pickup line. Mal merely raises his eyebrows at him and leans back against the booth seat, exhaling hard through his nose.

“Yeah. Usually once a week.”

“After you go to the club?”

“Yeah. Haven’t been in a while, though.”

“How come?”

Mal rubs absently at his eyebrow. “Long story.”

“Oh, okay.”

He wants to point out that they have time for a long story, but it’s the universal sign for “I don’t want to talk about it” that has Rowan stopping himself.

They sit in silence while waiting on their food, and it isn’t uncomfortable, but Rowan’s dying to ask him anything about himself. As it is, the only sounds audible over the faint jukebox music are the sizzling of the grill and the occasional clanking of plates and silverware. But he wants to try to make Mal laugh again. Wants to find out what else he’s into and how this thing is going to work between them.

And despite the silence, Rowan decides this is definitely weird as hell. Being here with a guy he’d done a bunch of filthy shit with, watching him pick at his nails and occasionally take a drink of water. It’s like he’s a completely different person in the club versus outside of it.

Rowan wonders if the person he’s seeing now is Mal. Not Malcolm. In the club, he’d been loud and bratty and crass and witty and everything that made the connections in Rowan’s brain light up like a Christmas tree.

Now he’s calmly quiet, fidgeting every once in a while, locking eyes with Rowan for a moment before hastily pulling away to stare into an empty corner of the diner. Rowan thinks about what Jeremiah had told him about Mal—about Malcolm—when they’d been chatting at the bar. Quiet. Bit of a sourpuss. Outspoken.

It seems pretty accurate from what he’s gathered so far. But he wants to know more. Know everything.

It should probably worry him that he’s already so intrigued by the guy, so desperate for any scrap of knowledge about him. But he checks in with himself, and he’s not angry or restless or desperately horny—well, no more than usual—like he is when he’s about to go through a major depressive episode, so he’s okay.

He’s curious, is all.