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Commander Charles Tucker III entered the mess hall, all shiny blond hair and merry blue eyes, a stubble on his cheeks and a smile on his lips, the zipper of his uniform pulled down to his navel, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, flashing some chest hair.

At a table near one of the windows Lieutenant Malcolm Reed looked up from his Spartan meal.

Introverted Malcolm wanted to wince because of the impact his friend's mere being there had on every person present in the room.

Dutiful Malcolm wanted to reprimand the commander for the way he walked around the ship on his on duty hours.

Mischievous Malcolm wanted to ask the Southerner where he had left his gold chain that would go so well with his gigolo outfit.

Jealous Malcolm wanted to stop his fellow crew members from looking at Trip in an appreciative and sometimes caring way.

Enchanted Malcolm wanted to walk over to the man he was secretly in love with, run his fingers through the blond mane and kiss the living daylights out of him.

Malcolm did nothing. He just sat there, watched Trip walk over to him and prepared for another agonizing dinner.

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