Stephan spends most of his night thinking about it. The accident, he would call it, except it wasn’t really an accident. They were both entirely sober and functioning when it happened. So why did it happen?

It wasn’t like there was some sort of extended flirting that led up to it. Besides which, Stephen has rebuffed his fair number of advances in the past week—hell, the past day. He is not interested in a relationship, casual or long-term. Or at least, that’s what he thought. Not that he has really thought about it much lately. His routine of work, drink, and attempts to sleep is all he’s known for the past five years. It was all he cared about, at least until Rowan showed up in town and turned everything on its head.

He was starting to hate Rowan back after the man’s inadvertent push and the way Stephen had gone out and gotten too drunk. Stephen felt like he had been pushed to the edge, all of Rowan’s questions stinging like arrows when he was already insecure about the state of his relationship with Melissa and Jordi. Everything was spiraling downward—losing his comfortable job, the security it gave him, and the time he spent trying to keep himself on stable ground.

And then Rowan tried to offer some sort of help. Stop pushing back. People are going to want to help you. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before, when Melissa first tried to intervene, but somehow, this was different. As if Rowan actually cared, which made no sense, given the fact that the man had seemed so resentful of Stephen up until that point.

Maybe it’s just because it’s been so long since anyone, outside of family and the friend he has in Jen, has shown a real concern for him, an unbiased interest in the fact that he’s clearly not doing well. Rowan’s reminders weren’t gentle and they weren’t unnecessarily harsh; they were just true. Somehow, that seemed to reach him.

He’s still not sure where they stand. Things had thawed between them enough for their shifts to become even a little friendly but then the kiss happened—sudden and unexpected. Not that he can’t tell that Rowan is attractive; that much is obvious at first glance. He’s even willing to entertain the thought that, if he weren’t such a mess, he’d probably be interested in what little there is to offer between them. After all, Rowan is leaving in less than a month.

But the fact still remains that he’s supposed to be focusing on himself and making money for Jordi, however unhappy he is at the moment. His drinks at the bar are his methods of numbing, not flings with strangers he barely knows. Yet something tells him that if it happens again, he might not have such an easy time running away.

* * *

He shows up to work with far fewer drinks than he’s had in his system for a long time. Years, even. He only had one or two the previous night and his head is thanking him for it, the world sharper by the tiniest degree. It’s almost like he feels energized, which is ridiculous, because he should be feeling some sort of low-grade withdrawal. Instead, he’s left with a pleasant feeling of being less zombie-like than usual.

“Morning. Did you shave?” Jen teases when he shows up at the back door, juggling a thermos and several other items in her arms. Stephen just snorts, relieving her arms so that she can unlock the door.

“I always shave. It’s not my fault it grows a centimeter per second.”

“Oh, yes, you man,” Jen says, dramatically throwing the door open, “And your majestic man beard!”

Stephen finds himself wondering if Rowan is dramatic like her or if maybe he’s not, having to live with Jen for most of his life. He stops the train of thought, realizing it’s a little too close to home after what happened the last time he had a shift with Rowan.

They set about opening procedures until the phone rings. Jen sends Stephen a bemused glance, frowning as she picks up the phone.

“Why is she frowning?”

Stephen almost jumps when Rowan murmurs by his ear. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, a shiver running up his spine. Stop.

“I mean, the entire town knows when we open,” Stephen says, trying to play off his nervousness with a smile. “It’s weird to get a call this early.”

“Maybe it’s someone from out of town?”

The question is posed simply and from anyone else, Stephen might have accepted it as just that—a question. Except Rowan says it with a raised eyebrow, his tone so even that it’s almost robotic. He’s being a little shit, Stephen realizes, the thought making him want to laugh. Rowan, the suit from a big city, is a cheeky little fucker. It makes Stephen giddy with excitement—he feels like he knows something secret now. Something no one else really knows, or will, given the short time Rowan has.

“They’d have to look up the store and then they’d see the hours,” Stephen says seriously, staring hard at Rowan. There’s a moment where Rowan just stares at him and Stephen thinks I’ve gone too far, he really hates me again now, but then Rowan smirks and chuckles, turning away to finish setting up for the first batch of croissants.

He feels like a stupid teenager again, giddy with excitement from making a crush laugh. It’s embarrassing how accomplished he feels, getting Rowan to loosen up the tiniest bit. He resolves to make a point of it, hoping he can get the man to relax during their shifts together. It would be nice to be able to talk, he thinks, even if only for a short time. Maybe we could even go to the bar together, he thinks, the idea seeming less disastrous than it had the first time he’d suggested it. Now that he knows Rowan better, he thinks it would be good to get him outside of a work setting. He has no clue what the man likes outside of work; maybe it would help them both. Maybe.

“…I’m going to need your help,” Jen announces, rushing back into the kitchen, biting her lip. Rowan glances at Stephen, a long-suffering expression of defeat settling on his features.

“With what?” Stephen asks, bracing himself.

“The Charleston family wants cupcakes. Today.”

Stephen groans, leaning his full weight against the table, and Rowan looks between the two of them. The man’s mouth flattens into a line as he prepares himself and then, to Stephen’s shock, he doesn’t ask Jen. He asks Stephen.

“Who are the Charlestons?”

“Well-to-do family from the biggest church in town. They have a daughter, Ellis, who is eight and could either be a nightmare or a godsend when she grows up. They’re also pretty notorious for their house parties, which are apparently invitation-only and planned two weeks in advance.”

“That…sounds…interesting,” Rowan finally finishes. The wrinkle in his nose says he doesn’t really approve. Stephen smiles.

“Yeah. They’re nice, sure, but a little oblivious to the outside world.”

“Well, they’re hosting a soiree and they need cupcakes,” Jen sighs, tucking a pen behind her ear, “Apparently, Donald thought Susan ordered them and she thought he did, so there you go.”

“Okay. So, how many?” Rowan asks, tipping his thermos to take a sip of coffee.

“Three dozen. Vanilla honey, raspberry cream cheese, and cocoa.”

Rowan chokes when Jen says three dozen. Stephen shakes his head, patting the man on the back sympathetically. Maybe he lets his hand linger a little too long but that’s nobody’s business but his own.

“Okay, how do we do this?” Rowan says, shoving his cup aside as he starts to rub his eyes in preemptive exhaustion. It’s not so much a question as a statement, Stephen notices, because it looks like the man is running mental math.

“Keep up with the normal flow,” Jen says, directing the order at Stephen, “and Ro, I want those cupcakes in top shape. You know the drill. I’ll deliver the haul at around six o’clock, which means I’ll probably be roped in until closing.”

“We’ll lower the flags for you,” Stephen jokes, already backing into the pantry to grab what he needs for the day. He gets the feeling it’s going to be a stressful one.

By eleven o’clock, Rowan is in the middle of making the second dozen while the first cools and Stephen is juggling three different pastries at once. The shop is bustling at the front end; Jen is on her toes, easily managing the flow of customers with the help of another cashier. It feels like they’re just on the precipice of not having enough help; everything is tense and new trays go out to the front just as the old ones are finished.

“Is that Mrs. James at the front?” Rowan asks, whirling from the pantry with a new bag of sugar. He sets it at Stephen’s elbow, quickly moving to check his cooling tray of cupcakes.

“I’m sure,” Stephen says, shaking his head. “She won’t let Jen hear the end of it if I don’t say hi to her.”

“Really? Why?”

“She, uh…likes attention,” Stephen winces at his wording, trying to figure out how to clarify, but Rowan just snorts.

“Oh, I got that part. Why do you entertain her? Or anyone, really?”

“Why? I…guess I like the attention, too,” Stephen manages, feeling a little sheepish. It’s nice that people act like they need him, he thinks, even if it’s only for superficial conversation during pastry runs. He likes feeling like people look forward to talking to him. Sad, he knows, and not a good enough substitute for having Jordi around, but at least it keeps him sane.

“Everyone likes to feel important,” Rowan agrees, his expression softening, and Stephen momentarily pauses his efforts to roll dough out. He thinks caring looks good on Rowan, even if the other man seems to try not to care most of the time.

“What about you? I’m sure you’re important in your workplace. Is it okay to be away this long?”

Rowan looks surprised—pleasantly so, Stephen hopes. The man pauses for a moment while mixing the icing for the first batch of cupcakes, preparing the tray.

“I’m just an animator at a video game company. There are several of us. I may be a veteran—the second-oldest employee—but that doesn’t mean I’m indispensable...not that Dean would fire me. It’s just…it was easy for me to take a break. I don’t usually.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Stephen says, smiling to take the edge off, “Jen doesn’t take a lot of time off, either, but then it isn’t usually this stressful here.”

“I guess I’m just bad at living outside of work,” Rowan grimaces, spinning a cupcake with a practiced hand as he swirls icing over it.

“You? Really?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Rowan mutters. He seems to draw back minutely, shoulders closing as if he’s said too much. Stephen quickly tries to think of a way to backtrack.

“It just seems like you’re good at being…I don’t know, functional? I mean, you have a career and a place to live and you seem self-sufficient. Like you don’t really need anything or anyone.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Rowan finally admits, “Everyone needs connections. I mean—I have friends at work. And I like to visit my family, although I haven’t done that enough recently.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m not nearly as put-together as you are. I should probably be taking notes.”

Am I laying it on too thick? He’s not even sure how receptive Rowan is to conversation. Stephen wonders for a moment if maybe he drew things out, making the other man talk when he’d rather be silent. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though. Even after his little stumble, Rowan is still more relaxed than he’s ever been around the shop before. It makes Stephen more comfortable with drawing things out.

Just as he’s thinking about what to say next, Stephen notices Rowan tugging at the corners of a bag of flour. He stops his work, hands pausing over the mixing bowl.

“Be careful, the edge—” he starts to say, a hand moving to gesture, but then Rowan yanks and the bag makes a loud pop, flour diffusing over the table in a tiny cloud. Rowan freezes, wide-eyed, white dust sticking to his lashes as he blinks furiously. Then he coughs.

“Oops.”

Somehow, the scene is so ridiculous that they both start laughing. They’re coughing, too, waving hands in the air and covering their mouths with the crooks of their elbows, dissolving into fits of giggles as the flour falls like snow onto the table.

“If you wanted flours you could have just asked,” Stephen manages, laughing as he coughs the last of the dry dust from his throat.

“That was a terrible pun,” Rowan chokes out, dissolving into a coughing fit even while he’s still grinning like a fool. “I can’t believe you would do that to a man who’s already down.”

“Well, just let it mill around in your mind a bit,” Stephen adds, practically collapsing onto the table as he laughs. “You’re looking a little pastry there, you sure you don’t need a break?”

He doesn’t know how long they stand there laughing before the doors to the kitchen swing open suddenly, Jen appearing with a suspicious expression. Stephen immediately bites back his laughter, shoulders shaking with the effort. Rowan ducks his head, hiding in his work.

“I swear to God, if you two destroy the kitchen because you’re too busy making dad jokes, I’m going to put you both on opening duty next week. All week.”

As soon as Jen disappears, they start laughing again. It’s better than Stephen expected—he certainly hadn’t thought Rowan would be this open with him. He wonders if maybe things are warming up between them. Still, his mind keeps going back to that moment—the brief kiss and the way they both ran away from it. Was it a mistake? He can’t help but wonder if Rowan meant it—if maybe he needed something more from Stephen, something to keep him close. Stephen doesn’t want to push, though, because he knows he doesn’t want to make a mistake. Rush in.

They trade a few more bad jokes through the course of the day. Somehow, they manage to move around each other as if they’re used to it. Even the occasional brush is met with more of a small smile than annoyance—Stephen almost backs into Rowan and the man gently stops him with hands on his shoulders, the touch lingering far past the time it should.

Is it just me, or is he making excuses to get close? He can’t tell. It’s frustrating and wonderful all at once; one second Rowan’s asking for help reaching for something and the next Stephen is making excuses to lean over the table and brush against his arm. It’s like whatever compelled their first kiss is drawing them back together, over and over again.

“Everything done?” Jen interrupts them near the end of their exhausting shift, startling both men from their half-slumped positions at the table.

“Yes. Yes—all the boxes are set up in the walk-in,” Rowan explains, shaking himself from his tired stupor to start cleaning up.

“Great. I’ll run these across town. Take care of the shop, okay? I’ll keep in touch.”

They wave Jen off, thankful for the reprieve the end of the day is bringing. Rowan goes to the sink to start washing a few things while Stephen starts returning supplies to the pantry.

“You know, I forgot to pay you back for the lunch,” Stephen says, testing the waters. “If you’d like, we can grab dinner after. I’ll drive you home.”

He wonders if it sounds like a date. It pretty much is, though, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He’s just nervous that Rowan will say no. It wouldn’t be unbearable but it would make their newfound friendship a little less easy.

“You don’t have to,” Rowan supplies, scrubbing at a pan. That’s not a no.

“Least I could do,” Stephen smiles, “and it’d be a welcome break. I think we earned it.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Rowan says, smiling back.

It’s probably the best thing Stephen’s heard all week. He spends the rest of the evening practically spinning around the bakery, a light feeling in his chest, getting everything done ahead of time so that they can leave as soon as they close. Part of him wishes he could shower before going out but he also knows it’s important not to make it into a big deal. He’s not going to make Rowan uncomfortable. It seems like barely a minute passes and then Jen is back, five minutes until closing, looking tired but pleased.

“You both did fantastic,” she announces, sighing as she slumps against the front counter. Rowan is already finishing up at the front end, tables cleaned and floor swept.

“Yes, we did,” Stephen says, winking at Rowan. “In fact—”

“You’re both coming with me tonight. Drinks each, on me,” Jen smiles, stifling a yawn. “Anyway, it’s high time Rowan met some of my friends.”

Stephen freezes. Rowan seems to stop, too, and then his eyes immediately meet Stephen’s. They share a brief, electric moment of communication. Stephen can see the hesitation and guilt in Rowan’s eyes and the way he seems torn between letting his sister down and trying to make both invitations work. Let it never be said I wasn’t a team player, Stephen thinks, feeling the let-down like a small bruise before he covers it up with the knowledge that at least they’ll be together anyway. He’s not even sure Rowan wants to be alone with him.

“Okay,” Stephen says, nodding at Rowan, “but I am not going to get trashed. One and done. I’d like to be able to drive home.”

“That’s up to you,” Jen says cheerily, sliding away from the counter. “Ro?”

“Yeah,” Rowan says, still looking at Stephen, “I’m up for it.”

* * *

It’s not one of Stephen’s usual bars. This one is further away from the downtown center, closer to the city-styled part of Oriole. It’s newer and it seems like most of the people inside are younger; college students and traveling twenty-somethings practically spill over the booths and tables in the place. Stephen feels paradoxically out of place; he’s probably the oldest person there.

Rowan seems a little on edge with the crowd so Stephen decides to take a chance, moving closer to brush his hand against the other man’s. He ducks down a little to speak over the music and chatter.

“I thought we were going to a bar, not a concert,” he jokes.

“You’re not kidding,” Rowan says, raising both eyebrows as he follows his cousin.

Jen’s friends are familiar to Stephen. He waits while they’re all introduced to Rowan—there’s Amy, Ben, Cassidy, and Jordan. Half of them are high school friends while the other half are people Jen met somewhere or the other. As far as friends go, they’ve always seemed pretty nice, if a bit young for Stephen. He’s always a little bewildered by their stories of cross-dating and office drama.

It occurs to him after a few minutes that maybe coming wasn’t the best idea. As the new guy and Jen’s cousin, Rowan is practically absorbed by the group, questions flying at him from every angle. After ten minutes of cross-interrogation, Stephen decides to step in.

“Wanna go grab a drink?” he asks, leaning in to talk. The relief in Rowan’s expression tells him it was the right move.

“Yes,” the man says, immediately following him.

They navigate the crowd easily, slipping through gaggles of students on their way to the bar. At least here, Stephen feels more at home. He’s definitely not in the mindset he usually is, though.

“That was intense,” Stephen smiles, glancing sideways at Rowan.

“God, you’re telling me. Now I know what it felt like for Leo,” Rowan mutters, barely audible.

“Who?” Please don’t say a boyfriend. Please don’t—

“Leo. He’s dating one of my best friends. Long story,” Rowan smiles, leaning against the bar. What does that mean? Stephen wonders what it implies. Does he like people being straightforward? He considers whether he should start making his intentions clearer. It certainly wouldn’t hurt. He reasons with himself that if Rowan isn’t interested, at least they won’t be working together for much longer. It could be simple for the both of them.

“What about you? I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of romances, though not strictly in the office,” he adds, remembering Rowan’s strict propriety the first time they met. Rowan seems to notice the characterization, a little pleased by it. He even blushes a little, trying to hide it by ducking his head for a moment.

“Not really. I never got into dating. Just…too much time, outside of work. I guess it would make sense for me to meet someone at work, then, but I’ve never been interested.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Oh…I don’t know. Too much the same, maybe? I guess it’s just that most animators have a long-term plan and it’s so hard to match up...and we don’t compromise on our plans,” Rowan adds, laughing.

“Well, at least you have one,” Stephen snorts. “My plans consist of trying to make money for bills and not forgetting to check the bread for mold.”

It sounded a lot more depressing than it did in his mind and he almost thinks he’s lost Rowan, his messy life burning under the spotlight again. Instead, he’s granted another delicious taste of Rowan’s laughter. The man shakes his head, leaning forward on his elbows as the bartender takes their orders.

Why does he not hate me? He can’t bring himself to figure it out. By all accounts, Rowan should be disgusted by Stephen. He was disgusted by Stephen, not too long ago. Somewhere along the line, though, the contempt turned into friendship or even something a little more intimate. What the hell could he possibly be attracted to in me? He knows his life is a mess—he has an ex-wife and a kid, for crying out loud. Most single men—much less those younger than him—wouldn’t go within fifty feet of him. Even the strangers in bars never expressed more interest other than passing the time with a drinking partner or having a one-night stand. Having someone actually build up to something like this hasn’t happened since—shit, since high school, he thinks. It’s flattering.

He tries to stay true to his word, nursing the same drink for most of the night, but Rowan goes back to the bar twice—never anything strong, Stephen notices, but Rowan also seems to be unused to drinking because he’s very quickly a little flushed and a lot looser than he’s been for most of the evening. Nothing about his manner seems drunk; he goes slowly enough that Stephen is pretty sure he’s just tipsy at best. Tipsy and a little…closer than usual.

“I’m starting to get a headache, honestly,” Rowan mutters after their second hour at the bar, leaning close in the dim light.

“I can take you home, if you want—”

“It’s fine. It won’t do much good, now.”

“Well, if you still want to get out, we have time for dinner. It’s only…ten o’clock. Ish.”

Rowan grins, leaning into Stephen; his body seems warm. More solid and real than most things—certainly more real that Stephen’s failing imagination. He hopes his blush isn’t visible. Calm down.

“Let’s go, then. I’m starving.”

Rowan says goodbye to Jen quickly, brushing away her protests and questions, and they somehow make it out the front door without being followed. Stephen almost can’t believe it’s happening. It’s not until he’s in the car, turning the key in the ignition, that he realizes his mistake.

“Uh…I don’t think anything is open right now, other than fast food,” he says, staring at the steering wheel. Damn it, Stephen. You can’t even get your offers right. Rowan snorts, laughing easily, patting Stephen’s shoulder with surprising gentleness.

“Hell yes. My aunt and uncle are health nuts and I—no matter how businesslike—do enjoy a good burger.”

It’s a self-aware jab, which Stephen appreciates. He feels less nervous as he turns the wheel, starting down the street. The city is mostly dead, a handful of bars open and a few college students trudging home like zombies.

“Got a preference?”

“Somewhere we can pick up. I’d rather not sit inside a hyper-fluorescent box,” Rowan grimaces, “Do you mind? I mean—I don’t want to just invite myself over or anything…”

It takes Stephen a moment to realize what Rowan’s asking. He’s not just agreeing to food; he’s asking Stephen to take him back to his place. Oh. He panics, wondering if his place is clean. He can’t remember what it looks like for a terrifying moment. Is there even a guest bathroom downstairs? Jesus, when was the last time I vacuumed my couches? Suddenly, he feels much less confident than he did before.

“No. Yes,” Stephen corrects, trying to explain, “it’s fine. I’m not in the mood to deal with drunk teenagers, either.”

He has trouble concentrating while he orders. All he can do is worry—worry that things will go wrong, somehow; that Rowan will be put off by the house or unhappy with Stephen. He can just imagine them eating in awkward silence at his tiny dining room table, wanting the silence to swallow them whole. Before he knows it, they’re pulling up in front of his place, the dark night enveloping the world outside.

“It’s nice,” Rowan says as he jumps out of the truck, carrying their drinks. He looks over the small garden in the front. “What flowers are those?”

“Anemone,” Stephen says, glad to have something to talk about. “Jordi wants me to plant something livelier, like it’ll make me suddenly the happiest man on earth.”

“Blue is lively,” Rowan argues, following Stephen inside, “and they’re pretty. Anemone.”

Please don’t hate it, Stephen thinks, leading the way to the kitchen. He’s not sure what to say. “Welcome to my home, it used to be a lot livelier but then my wife divorced me and my kid went off to college”? Part of him wants to reach for the whiskey in his cabinet to fill the other half of his soda and take the edge off. He knows it’s a stupid idea, though. He didn’t come here to watch you get drunk. By all accounts, he hates it when you get drunk.

“Have you always lived here?” Rowan’s question jerks him out of his stupor and he takes a seat quickly, unloading the paper bag as Rowan pokes his straw into his cup.

“No. I lived in a shitty apartment in college. Melissa and I moved here after Jordi was born and then…I just kind of stayed.”

“Huh. It’s nice,” Rowan smiles, reaching for a fry, “Cozy.”

“Why did you leave? You used to live with Jen, right?”

“Yeah. At first, I just left for college, but then…I kind of stayed gone,” Rowan shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable with the thought.

Great going. Change the subject, Stephen berates himself, trying to swallow his food quickly enough to speak. His mind races. There’s not much he can really say. I don’t even know what the point of this is. Is this a date? Or something? He can tell Rowan is still the tiniest bit buzzed, his cheeks pink and his usual straight-laced posture relaxed. He’s by no means drunk but he’s at least riding the liquor high.

“Must be lonely, living so far from your family. Do you live alone?” An innocuous question, but probably a little probing. Stephen hopes it isn’t going too far.

“I’m not bothered by being away from family, though I do like coming back often,” Rowan says, swirling the ice in his cup. He frowns at it, something displeased entering his expression. “I do live alone. The apartment’s probably too big for just me but it’s not like I can’t afford it.”

“Oh,” Stephen drawls jokingly, “so you’re rich.”

“Of course. I even have someone pour my water for me.”

“And a gold toilet?”

“Please. Platinum is much classier,” Rowan says, grinning. Just like that, whatever tension Stephen feels dissipates. There’s no pressure in the way Rowan jokes with him, all of it casual and easy. He feels no need to talk or come up with conversation; he’s content just to let things happen.

“Must be nice to be rich. Sorry I couldn’t get you a gourmet burger.”

“I demand a taxation of French fries,” Rowan snorts, reaching over the table. Just as his arm crosses, Stephen lifts his and then suddenly the cup between them goes flying over, ice and soda rolling over the table like a tsunami to hit Stephen’s shirt and drip into his lap.

They stay frozen there for a second, wide-eyed and mortified, and then Rowan laughs. Stephen just laughs along, glad it hasn’t ruined the mood, trying to sop up whatever he can with cheap napkins.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan says, still laughing, “I promise I’m not drunk.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stephen says, feigning anger as he gets up from the chair. I usually have laundry down here from when I can’t be bothered to sleep in bed. Maybe there’s a shirt in the living room. “Where’s my other…”

He doesn’t think too much of pulling his shirt off, soaking up what mess he can while considering whether he should change or just shower, and then he hears a small cough and realizes he’s very much half naked in front of Rowan. Who is staring very hard at a spot just to the right of Stephen, blush a little too red to be just from alcohol.

“Oh. Sorry—” Stephen says quickly, ready to unravel the soaked shirt and yank it back on, but Rowan waves a hand at him.

“No, no. It’s fine. Um. What…what are your tattoos?”

Stephen pauses, trying not to smile at the way Rowan’s voice cracks a little. Rowan gets up from his seat, studiously throwing away their trash, trying to help clean up the spilled ice from the table.

“Which ones? I mean, some are older than others. I almost forget I have most of them, since I can’t really see what’s on my back,” Stephen jokes. He moves towards the staircase, wondering if he should get a shirt. Rowan follows and then seems to realize what he’s doing, one foot pausing above the first stair and hovering there. His gaze is questioning. Stephen tries to take it in stride, waving a hand as if he meant for them to go upstairs.

“The rose. On your left shoulder,” Rowan adds, humor in his tone.

“Wow. That one’s pretty old,” Stephen says, thinking back. “It was my third. Got it when I was nineteen—I wanted something to remember a trip I took. I went to California with a class and it was just roses, roses as far as the eye could see. Most amazing thing I’d ever seen. It kind of got stuck in my head. I thought, if I could, I’d love to live somewhere like that. Surrounded by flowers and green.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It was. Didn’t even want to leave. I spent too much time looking and not enough listening—the professor had us write some stupid review of the trip and I couldn’t even do it. Had to ask Melissa to do it for me.” They step into his bedroom and Stephen throws his dirty shirt into the hamper in the corner, turning towards the closet.

Something brushes against his back and he stops, holding his breath. He wants to move so badly but part of him recognizes that Rowan’s hand is on his skin, tracing over some of the tattoos curled there, exploring. He doesn’t want to interrupt whatever is happening, no matter how badly he wants to look over his shoulder. He waits.

“Did they hurt?”

“Most things in life hurt,” Stephen laughs, the sound humorless. It’s a trite saying but he can’t help himself from saying it. It’s true. “That doesn’t make them any less beautiful. And it sure doesn’t make you want them any less. Yeah...it hurt—”

Rowan’s hand curls around his shoulder and Stephen finally turns, heart hammering in his chest. It seems silly, to be so afraid of a guy both younger and physically slighter than him, but he can’t help it. Stephen knows he’s a mess. He’s a man who should be settled down and instead, he has a child and an ex-wife and a drinking problem. The only thing that’s going right in his life right now is his job. He has nothing to offer.

So why is he still getting closer to me?

There are no mops or brooms between them this time. They’re closed off from the world, hidden behind closed curtains and doors and the security of Stephen’s home. This time, when they kiss, it’s not a fleeting exchange. They move heavily, like two planets pulled into the same orbit, just so close to touching. Stephen can feel Rowan’s fingers brush the back of his hand; it’s almost like they’re swaying in place, wanting more but almost unable to follow through.

He doesn’t really care that Rowan tastes sticky, like soda, the faraway bitterness of rum on his tongue. He can’t even bring himself to care that his stubble is probably scratchy because Rowan hasn’t pulled away and they’re moving closer together. Stephen somehow tangles his hands in Rowan’s jeans, tugging carefully at the belt loops because he doesn’t know how far the other man wants to go.

He’s almost shocked when Rowan starts guiding him back towards the bed. He pulls Stephen closer, fingers pressing against bare shoulders, and Stephen takes it as a request. He somehow gets Rowan’s shirt up and over his head—when they break apart, he misses his warmth, hungry for something he didn’t know existed before. He already feels embarrassingly hot, blood rushing in his ears like he’s a teenager all over again. Slow down, he thinks, his mind stuttering as much as his hands, you need to make sure—

“Um—Ro—Rowan,” Stephen tries, reluctantly untangling himself from a kiss, “I need—I need you to wait. Hold on—”

“What? What’s wrong?” Rowan asks, panting just a little, honey-brown eyes lust-hazy as he tries to focus.

“Nothing. Nothing—I just need to know this is okay. I don’t—”

“Yes,” Rowan says without pause, fingers inching along the band of Stephen’s jeans, “I want this. Okay?” He asks carefully, as if making sure Stephen is fine. It’s comforting to hear.

“Yeah. Okay,” Stephen agrees, barely getting the word in before his mouth is occupied again.

God, I forgot how good it was, he thinks, barely remembering to help Rowan out of his jeans. He really has almost forgotten how it felt to kiss someone—how it felt to be touched, outside of casual hugs and heavy arms around his shoulders from drunk people at the bar.

And Rowan knows how to touch him. Somehow, everything the other man does is careful, as if he’s tending to some task that needs his undivided attention. As if he’s making something at the shop, Stephen realizes, laughing a little at the thought. Rowan huffs, pulling away to frown slightly at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Swear,” Stephen grins, draping his arms over Rowan’s shoulders. He likes the way they stand at just the right angle, comfortable and easy. Rowan smirks, maneuvering Stephen further back until he feels the back of his legs hit the mattress.

“Hm. I’ll find out,” Rowan murmurs, still smirking, and then his head dips into the space between Stephen’s neck and shoulder.

Rowan bites and Stephen moans, the sound embarrassingly loud and heady in the empty room. He’s almost horrified by the way he melts at the touch. How long has it been since someone gave me a hickey? Years, that’s for sure. How am I going to hide it at work? He almost laughs again but holds it back, giving Rowan more access as he tilts his head further. He doesn’t care as much about what happens tomorrow as he cares about what happens in the next moment. He’s pleasantly surprised, then, when Rowan finally shoves him back onto the bed, suspended easily above his body as if he’s done it a hundred times before.

And maybe he has. Far be it for Stephen to judge. He honestly couldn’t care less what experience Rowan does or doesn’t have; all he knows is that for once, he’s not drunk and he’s not regretting anything. He is, in fact, filled with the opposite of regret. He’s suddenly immensely thankful that he ever tried to push things a little, even if it never goes past this. It just feels amazing to be wanted again, or to get any kind of attention. He can tell that Rowan isn’t in it for brief satisfaction; they shared dumb jokes over fast food and Rowan is taking his sweet time. Well, he was.

Somewhere in between falling onto the bed and wondering how he ended up in the situation, Stephen was so distracted he didn’t notice Rowan moving further down his body. He ends up almost yelling in shock when he feels the man’s mouth against his underwear, hot and heavy as his fingers brush along Stephen’s hips.

“You—don’t have to—” Stephen tries to say, everything he wants to say getting stuck between his teeth as he hisses and tangles his fingers in the sheets. This is going to be embarrassingly fast, he thinks, trying to pull Rowan back up. He doesn’t want to leave the other man in the dust just because it’s been a while for him.

“I’m going to,” Rowan says, the same impish grin on his face that was there when the man had made a snide comment in the bakery. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

Shit. He can’t even think of a proper way to answer. All he knows is that Rowan’s answer makes his blood rush south, the image of the usually proper man folded neatly across Stephen’s legs making a completely incongruous and irresistible picture. He knows now that he’ll never be able to forget this. He briefly considers that this might change things at the bakery.

The serious side to their encounter is not a problem he’s willing to think about now, though. Not when he’s suddenly exposed to the cold air and Rowan is throwing his underwear in the corner of the room as if it’s been exiled. Stephen can’t look away when Rowan ducks his head, the anticipation brushing down his spine with a shiver. He loses focus as soon as he feels Rowan’s hot mouth against his skin, the sensation blooming like a fire through his body.

He could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s done this and none of them have been with another man. Not that he’s never been interested—it’s just that he and Melissa were young when they started dating and he never really had any other relationships or even flings. Whatever he thought would happen, all he knows is how fantastic it feels. Part of him recognizes he has no way to judge how good it is—after all, it’s been literal years since the last time he had sex—but another part of him knows he’d very much like to do this again.

Rowan moves slowly, carefully, just like everything else he ever does. It’s like what he’s doing is the most important thing he will ever do in life. It makes Stephen warm in other ways, knowing he’s being given the utmost attention.

But he’d very much like to move a little faster. It has been years.

He can’t really think of anything to say so he reaches down, curling a hand around the edge of Rowan’s jaw. He’s thinking of tilting the man’s head up, pulling him away to try and figure out how to say what he needs. That’s his plan, but Rowan seems to think it’s a request and then he takes Stephen even further into his mouth, the small sound of his lips popping echoing in the room. At that point, everything goes out the window and Stephen cries out, reflexively gripping the side of Rowan’s face.

He knows he’s too close to drag things out any further so he pulls Rowan up quickly, enjoying the way Rowan looks hazy and curious, his face red even in the dark room. He thinks he can see Rowan smiling just a little before he drags him closer, trying to explore further than before when he kisses him. He likes the way he can taste his skin and salt in the man’s mouth; somehow, the thought of what Rowan was just doing makes him even more aroused.

When they kiss, he takes the time to reach between them, feeling clumsy but wanting to touch Rowan before he forgets. The moment he finally curls his hand around Rowan’s cock, he’s treated to a low moan. He practically eats the sound as it falls from the other man’s mouth, the tense coil below his stomach tightening just a little more. He feels like they’re connected by the same pulse; every touch and pull is mirrored by the way Rowan rocks against him, breathing heavily until he gives up trying to kiss Stephen, fingers raking against skin. Everything about the way they’re moving is mindless; they’re chasing sensations, the slide of sweat-slick skin and the heat the only things they’re paying attention to. Somewhere amidst the push and pull, he loses track of Rowan murmuring encouragement in his ear—yes, keep moving—and the sound of the bed and their breathing is all that he can hear.

Stephen finishes first, the rush shuddering through his body as he pushes into Rowan’s hand, weak from the force of it. He’s suddenly glad they’re on the bed; he knows if he were standing, his legs would probably have given out beneath him. It’s more intense than he’s used to and the feel of someone else’s hand, steady despite his shaking body, makes him temporarily numb to everything else. Wait, he thinks, mind fuzzy, I have to—He barely moves, trying to turn his attention back to Rowan, and when he finally helps Rowan over that edge, he feels him quiver. He’s not sure whether to keep moving or hold still and settles on leaving a few marks on Rowan’s neck, trying to taste as much skin as possible while Rowan breathes heavily, coming down from his high.

Whatever messy, brief encounter they’ve indulged in, Stephen is glad it happened. He lays against Rowan for a long moment, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex. He almost wants to laugh—it’s like they’re teenagers, rubbing against each other in a brief and explosive encounter. Is that what happens, once you know what you want? When you’re older and you have no time or energy to spend on hour-long sessions during the week? He feels a little stubborn about it—if he does this again, he wants to spend more time on Rowan, exploring more about whatever it is they’re starting.

Will there be another time?

“I should get home tonight,” Rowan finally murmurs lazily. Stephen looks down to see him, cheek pressed into the mattress and eyes closed. He sounds sleepy. Sated.

“Sure. I’ll drive you back. Bathroom’s in here,” Stephen says, wondering if he should offer the shower, but Rowan rolls off the bed with a tired groan and makes his way across the room without saying anything.

He takes a moment to enjoy the view because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to again. He thinks he likes the faint gold to Rowan’s skin and the way his hair looks after rolling around, a tangle of brown waves. His butt is perfectly formed. Stephen wonders again why Rowan ever decided to let this happen. It’s not like he couldn’t do better, Stephen thinks—especially since he’s living in a bigger city. Is it just something to kill time while he’s here? The insecurity creeps up but he pushes it away, reminding himself of how attentive Rowan was. As if he didn’t care about anything but how Stephen was feeling.

Rowan slips out of the bathroom, clothed but still clearly languid from the post-coital high, and he opens Stephen’s closet.

“Thanks for driving me back,” Rowan says, lazily shifting through shirts on hangers. Stephen takes the opportunity to slip into the bathroom, hurriedly cleaning up as much as possible with a washcloth.

“I haven’t driven you back yet.”

“You know what I mean,” Rowan smirks, peering around the half-open door to hand Stephen a clean shirt. “You don’t have to.”

Stephen likes how Rowan is every-so-casually taking care of him in this little way.

“I’d be an asshole if I didn’t,” Stephen says, pulling on the shirt. He’s tempted to kiss Rowan again as he slips out of the bathroom—the man’s mouth is still a little red and the bruises on his neck are starting to pop up.

Except he still doesn’t know how far Rowan wants to take it so he holds back, fishing his keys out of his pocket at he leads the way back downstairs. The drive to Rowan’s family’s place—which, thankfully, isn’t far—is pleasantly quiet. Part of him knows that they both need time apart to digest what happened and decide whether they want to do it again. He doesn’t push the subject, letting the lingering pleasure hum between them in place of conversation.

The lights on the property are all out when they pull in. Stephen puts the truck in park in front of the guest house, unsure of what to say, and Rowan turns to him.

“Thank you,” Rowan smiles, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “for following through and driving me back.”

“Now you’re welcome,” Stephen grins.

“Don’t stay up too late. I’m not cutting you any slack if you show up late to work.”

“Yes, sir.” He watches Rowan unlock his door, waving, and then heads home. He showers and pulls himself into bed before he realizes he’s still smiling.

I want this to last, he realizes, staring at the ceiling. More than anything I’ve wanted before.