Work Text:
"Do y'think Simon thinks I'm pretty?"
Mal very nearly drops the gun he's been cleaning, but he hangs on though his fingers tremble. Must've been daydreaming; he didn't hear her come in.
"I'm no kind of expert, little Kaylee. You oughtta ask Inara."
"I'm asking you."
Mal's heart thumps when he looks up, sees the anxious hope in her eyes. "I can't imagine how he wouldn't," he says, finally.
"For real?"
"And for true."
"Shiny," she says. Her smile flares like a sun, stealing his breath, and for an instant he wonders whether they've been talking about Simon at all.