It takes every ounce of control to refrain from crossing the distance and kissing the laugh right from Crozier's mouth, to taste it on his own tongue and savor it. The sound of it makes his chest fill with warmth, swell with something he still doesn't name. He'd like to hear that laugh over and over again, find ways to draw it out on even their darkest days at sea.

Instead they're here - teasing little touches, the turn of a head and the feeling of eyes on him. Crozier has a way about him that makes his blood burn and make him feel seen at the same time. Both filthy and tender wrapped up in one. Like the tent, like before in this very room, the berth.

Jopson takes Crozier's hand, stepping into place in the dance but closer than they were during the lessons. He presses a hand to the man's side, smoothing over it before he finds a comfortable place for it to rest. The dance could be forgotten for a kiss, but the dance makes his stomach flip, a little flutter of excitement. It's impossibly romantic, dancing in socked feet in the great cabin, and he wonders if he's fallen asleep at the the supper table instead.

"Only if you follow without stepping on mine," he murmurs. "Shall we, sir?"

He starts with the first steps, slower than the dance might be with music, but taking his time, making this moment last. Unlike the proper form for the dance, he links their fingers, squeezing gently.