If she closed her eyes, she could imagine hearing his rapid breathing and heartbeat just on the other side of her door. It would be just like him to come to her in desperation and darkness, broken and ashamed. Anything less, and he'd wrap himself in his tattered pride and deny for the both of them.

She was done with the denial. She was too tired, too torn to pretend any more.

She opened the door, just as he was about to knock. He looked like hell. Hadn't shaved in three days, probably hadn't changed clothes.

"Mal?"

"Just tonight. I promise."

It was a hoarse whisper, meant more to convince himself than her. But given the events of the last 72 hours, she'd take that comfort. She stepped back to allow him inside the shuttle, before securing the door.

She had barely turned back around to face him, when he gathered her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His stubble scratched her skin, but she dared not move, lest she make him retreat back into his own bitter shell. His lips and tongue tasted of the black coffee he'd downed by the potful in the last three days, along with a hint of the cheap whiskey he'd probably snuck in his own bunk.

She pulled back, wanting to look in his eyes. "Mal?"

"Just tonight. I promise."

Almost begging, almost pleading, but still too proud to outright admit the need she sensed radiating through his body.

She should be angry that he'd ripped her favorite nightgown in his haste to undress her. Somewhere inside her, a sharp rebuke about him being a clumsy backplanet clod died. It was just a piece of fabric. It could be replaced. Book and Wash couldn't be.

Three days ago was for the dead. This, here and now, with her sinking down onto him was about the living. About being alive. At some point, he'd reached up and bit her on the neck, drew a bit of blood. The sharp sting made her feel real and whole for the first time since Miranda.

Afterward, after she'd felt him break inside her, she opened her eyes to look at him again.

"Mal?"

"Just tonig