The moment you see him, it’s over.

Mal’s standing there, arms crossed, wearing that shirt—tight, stretched just enough to make his chest look criminally good. You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. Instinct takes over.

With all the force of a warrior charging into battle, you sprint up and heave. Both hands land firm, patting, squishing, thoroughly appreciating le titti.

He lets out a startled grunt, but he doesn’t stop you. He just stands there, sighing as you continue your investigation. “You done?”