Good answer? That was it? THAT WAS IT? Way to open up, Mal. Inara punched her pillow, stretched her legs out, flipped over. Good answer?

Good what? Her eyelids popped open. Answer?

She sat up, her feet fit the floor. Her chest heaved, she clenched her fists. She wanted an honest response from Mal and she wanted it right now. Why didn’t he ask me to stay? Why did he let me go? Why did I leave?

Inara tied her dressing down shut with an angry yank and stormed down the passageway, but what she saw when she slammed into Mal's quarters stopped her cold. He lay stretched out on his stomach, covered from hips to mid-thigh in nothing but a thin white sheet.

Malcom Reynolds was the bane of her existence. He criticized her, demeaned her profession and her position in society. He made her forget her training; control wasn't something she had a great deal of when Mal made her angry. How could anyone love such a maddening man? Why did she?

Her anger dissipated at the sight of his large feet, which hung over the end of the too-small mattress. She approached his inert form, traced the arch of one bare foot with her fingertips, ran them lightly over his heel. Would her touch wake him?

“Mal.” She gently massaged his ankle. “Wake up. We need to talk.”

Mal groaned. His pillow muffled the sound of his sleepy, rumbling voice. "Do we have to discuss this now? Cause I am not wearing a stitch. Shy sure aint something folks know me for."

It’s funny, she thought. Even half asleep, he knows exactly what is on my mind. Inara kept her touch light, teasing. She was tired of fighting it, fighting him. Her fingernails scraped the hairy, rough skin of his calf, skimmed the back of his knee.

"I wanted you to ask me to stay. You didn’t. I'd like to know why." The sheet that rode his hips dipped dangerously low, but not quite low enough.

“Inara?” Suddenly, Mal didn’t sound sleepy in the least. “You’re touching me.”

“It’s about time, don’t you think?” Her fingertips skirted the inside of his thigh.