Rafe/Malcolm
"All clear, mate."
Bright blue eyes and a head of messy, wet dark hair peered cautiously around the locker room doorway. "You're sure?" Rafe asked firmly.
"Anti-glamour wards are up - which means no more invisible birds in the showers."
With a relieved sigh the Magpie's rookie beater re-entered the lock room clutching at the white towel pulled loosely around his otherwise bare waist. "I really can't thank you enough..." he told the wardsmith, locking eyes momentarily after a lingering glance at the other man's mouth, but Rafe quickly adverted his glance with a little shake of his head. "I mean, really, I don't even know how she managed to get in here in the fir--"
"You're Rafe Kirke, right?"
Rafe blinked at the wardsmith. "Yeah...?"
"Well, I'm Malcolm." The wardsmith held the confused beater's gaze as he approached. Malcolm stopped in front of Rafe and bit down on his bottom lip as he gave the other man a significant once-over with his eyes. "And I think you should join me for tea."
Again, Rafe blinked. "Do I need clothes?" he asked in astonishment.
"Up to you, gorgeous," Malcolm said as he continued past the other man and out the locker room door, brushing his fingers across Rafe's muscled abdomen as he went. "Up to you."
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