And he’s about to ask Mal what he does for a living or make some kind of small talk when Sheila’s suddenly next to their table balancing four plates on her arms.

“The usual for Mal,” she says, placing down a stack of banana pancakes, sausage links, bacon, eggs, home fries, and marble rye toast cut into triangles.

“Thanks, Sheils.”

Rowan’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull, not only because it’s a fuckton of food, but also because apparently this woman likes Mal so much she’s willing to make him breakfast food well outside the cutoff time for it.

She places the final plate, a thick BLT with a pile of steaming fries, in front of Rowan.

“And a BLT on wheat for…?”

Mal answers for him. “This is Rowan.”

“Rowan…?”

Rowan clears his throat. “Campbell.”

“Campbell?” She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you related to Hank by any chance?”

Fuck. Leave it to Hank to somehow infect a small diner all the way in the Back Bay with his bullshit.

Rowan heaves a sigh, hoping he’s not going to be chased out with a broom or, more likely, a shotgun. “Unfortunately. He’s my dad.”

“Ah. Well. Can’t be helped, I suppose. I know well enough not to judge someone for the sins of their father.” Sheila squeezes Mal’s shoulder as she says it, while keeping her eyes on Rowan. “You seem like a nice enough boy, Rowan. I hope I’ll see you around again.”

“You too.”

Rowan is confused as hell by the entire exchange. When Sheila leaves, Rowan looks to Mal with an, “Uhh….” but the other man shrugs and stuffs half of a sausage in his mouth.

“Haven’t eaten anything but a protein shake all fuckin’ day,” he says, as if in explanation, barely chewing the food before grabbing his utensils to roughly cut up his pancakes then drown them in syrup.

“Really?”

Mal gives him a You serious? look while shoveling up home fries with his fork. Oh. Yeah, duh. Rowan had already almost forgotten what they’d done. And how much prep it takes to do a big bareback scene like that, or do any kind of anal play really. Usually douching is enough, but apparently Mal hadn’t eaten all day as an extra precaution.

“Oh. Right.” He feels the heat creep into his cheeks and forces himself to focus on his own food instead, suddenly famished.

While it’s hard to screw up a BLT, he has to admit that this particular sandwich is delicious. Fresh-tasting produce, a pile of crispy bacon, bread that’s soft in the center and crunchy on the outside. The fries are good too—not overly greasy or salty like a lot of places make them—and with some sort of spice blend on top that makes him wolf them down about as fast as Mal’s devouring his own food.