She’d taken to timing Mal's late-night arrival into the mess for tea so that she’d run into him in the narrow corridor. Or rather, brush up against him. Predictably, he'd be a gentleman and let her pass, carefully keeping his body as far from her as the passageway would allow.

"Ladies first," he’d say, after giving a slight bow.

The problem was that she didn’t want him to be a gentleman. She’d spent the majority of her professional career around gentlemen (some who succeeded at it better than others). Gentlemen were deferential, predictable and treated her like a fragile piece of bone china. None of which she either expected or, truth be known, wanted of Mal.

What she wanted instead of his rough attempts at chivalry when she passed by in that corridor was for him to press her into the wall, pinning her in place with his body and his lips. What she wanted was for their need to be so urgent that it could not wait for a proper bed, but was all his hands lifting her skirts as she unfastened his pants, her legs wrapped around his hips as he thrust up into her with all his strength, her hands pulling his head to her unfastened bodice, as his thumb brushed roughly against her. And finally, when neither of them could stand any more of it, shouting their release into each other’s mouth, lest they wake the rest of the crew.

And yet, every time, he played at being a gentleman, treating her like the lady she was tired of playing at being.