The dorm bathroom was colder than the rest of the building, as per usual. But it was grayer, more bleak and unwelcoming today to Emma than ever.

Checking to make sure she was the only one present, she opened the stall on the farthest to the left, far away from the door to the hallway. Sitting on the toilet seat, she removed the cardboard box from under her shirt and stared at it for a moment.

How could it have possibly have come to this? One time, it was one time.

But then again, all it took was one time.

She ripped the flimsy cardboard flaps that covered the end of the box and took out the little stick of doom, purple on one end and white on the other.

"Well," she muttered to herself, "here goes nothing."

She stood up, lifted the toilet seat up, and shoved her pants down. The extra-large Pepsi she had drunk earlier was serving its purpose, and before her mind could really catch up to what she was doing, her body was doing it on autopilot. All those drug tests and medical exams she had to take in order to secure her housing had apparently made their impression on her.

Leaving the stall, she held the test in one hand and its container in the other. Before crumbling up the box, Emma read the directions, which said that a two to three minute wait would yield results. Too long a time, she thought as she wrapped it in paper towels and threw it in the trashcan. No one could know that she was going through a scare like this, not that they would particularly care.

She couldn't pace around the bathroom. It would be too nerve-wracking, especially with nobody to soothe her overactive imagination. The last time she was this nervous was when she was waiting for her driver's license results. At least then, her father had seen the horror in her eyes, the possibility of failing all too present in her expression. He had sat down on the hard plastic chair next to her and took her hand in his. Her knee was jiggling with nerves, but she rested her head against his shoulder. In response, he had given her hand a gentle squeeze.

That time, she recalled now, was met with a positive answer.

This time, she was hoping for the opposite.

A shower. That was the solution. A long, hot shower would take her mind off of this… this mess before her, at least for the time being. Sure, showering would make the wait longer than necessary, but maybe if she pushed the inevitable off enough, it would just become a dream, not a reality.

Putting the stick in her front pocket (Which end in her jeans? she debated. The half she peed on or the half that held her future?), she took a quick jaunt a couple doors down, grabbed her shower caddy and towel, and returned to the bathroom. Instead of going for a bathroom stall, she strayed behind the door to the room, to the shower stall no one used because it was behind the door. It also had a tendency to clog up, but Emma could have cared less. As long as she got to shampoo her hair and shave her legs, the stall could've been filled with piranhas.

She reached for the knobs, turning the one labeled hot all the way on while turning the cold one only a smidge.

The immenient threat of tears had her stripped of her clothes and into the Jetstream in record time. Once in the flow of water, she couldn't tell the difference between the tears streaming down her face and the pellets of water hitting her from the shower head. She crouched down, palms to her face, letting the entire jet stream consume her shrunken form. This was pitiful. She was standing naked in the shower of her university's dorm wondering whether or not she was pregnant.

Involuntary sobs wracked her body, rendering her idea of procrastination useless. Nothing would get done if she couldn't even stand up. Realizing that, she screwed up enough energy to step out of the shower, forgetting to turn the mechanism itself off.

Emma took a seat on the small bench just outside the shower, throwing her towel over her shoulders. It didn't cover the majority of her soaked body, but it kept her sopping hair from making her even colder. She shuddered, from the circumstances or the temperature or both, she couldn't tell.

For ten minutes, she sat there crying, knees curled up so her forehead rested on them, eyes closed to avoid seeing her stomach, water still shooting out of the shower. The sounds of her sobs filled the bathroom with nothing but the streams hitting the shower floor to back them up. Inside her head, though, there was a full-on argument.

Just look at the test, she thought. Then, you'll have an answer and move on with your life.

I can't, the other part of her conscience said. I just can't.

You're making yourself miserable. Get it over with. It's more than ready for you now.

No…no, how could this have happened to me?

Nothing might have happened to you, but you'll never know until you look at the test!

I can't do it.

Yes, you can.

No, I can't.

JUST DO IT FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

The gradually escalating internal debacle prevented Emma from hearing the creaking the door to the hallway always made when it was opened. So, naturally, when she heard a hesitant knocking on the shower stall door, she jumped.

"There's someone in here," she stammered hoarsely, unsuccessfully trying to hide her tears.

"I know," a low voice replied. "The water's been running for a half hour, lass. That's why I'm here."

Rubbing her hands across her face, Emma's curiosity got the better of her. Still unstable with shivers, she turned the knobs of the shower, finally cutting the steady streams of water off. The silence in the bathroom was heavy, but the situation was quickly remedied when by her shuffling to correctly wrap her towel around herself and the groan the shower door made when she finally opened it.

The person standing on the other side looked expectantly at her when she gasped. "You shouldn't be in here," she stated, looking behind him and around the room to see if anyone else was going to call him out on it.

"Yes, but you shouldn't leave the shower on," Killian responded smartly. "It's, you know, not green and whatnot."

Her search complete and realizing they were alone, another thought crossed her mind. "What are you doing here?"

What was he doing there? Sure, they lived down the hall from one another, but he and Emma never really had cause to interact with each other. She kept to herself in her room and her roommate Ruby was usually the only person she saw on a daily basis. Killian Jones was always busy being asshole-ish his teammates on the school's boxing team: out every night to drink until the stars saw the sun; conked out every day to recuperate for the next evening's festivities; and, every blue moon or so, actually going to classes, but only if nothing fun was happening that night. Oh, and practice. He wasn't nicknamed "The Hook" because of his affinity for coat hangers or his ability to fish, although she was sure that they both had merit.

No, Emma had seen the YouTube videos all the girls on her floor, in her building, on the entire campus fawned over at least once a week. The guy had an awfully respectable left hook, thus earning his famous moniker. He had a bunch of awards from high school and was already well on his way to doing the same here at their university. Factor in his Irish lilt and his striking features and he had every straight female and gay male throwing themselves at him.

"I wanted to make sure you hadn't drowned or been brutally murdered," he explained. He tilted his head to the side, as if he was just now realizing that her eyes were puffy, her hair wet, and her body enveloped in a towel. "Lass, what's the matter?" he asked quietly.

Emma sniffed. "Look, thanks for keeping an eye out for the planet and everything, but I don't need anyone to keep an eye out for me. It's none of your business." She went to slam the door in his face, but was met with resistance. His hand infamous for its punch halted the door in its path to smash his nose in.

"Now, now there, dear," he calmly soothed her. "I don't mean to pry—"

"That's exactly what you're doing," she interrupted.

An audacious small grin spread across Killian's face. She was a sassy one. He continued, "But I can safely say that enchanting girls like you don't spend their free time weeping in the shower stalls unless something is the matter." He invited himself into the small stall, careful not to brush up against Emma in case she lost her hold on her towel, and took a seat on the tiny bench.

Who did he think he was? Killian Jones might have been able to charm the pants off any given girl on this campus, but she was not interested in the least. Especially in her possibly precarious condition.

If you'd look at the fucking stick, you'd know whether or not it was precarious, that internal voice grumbled.

Shut up, the other one retorted.

He watched her expectantly, then patted the small space next to him. She frustratedly sighed, but heeded his suggestion. Pulling her the edges of her towel close enough to nearly suffocate her, she rearranged herself until she sat as comfortably as she could next to the boxer. She crossed her heels and squeezed her thighs shut. Loose legs like that had already gotten her in trouble.

Or maybe not.

Or maybe so.

Killian hesitantly patted her knee. "Go ahead, love. Lay your troubles out for an open ear," he insisted. He was really too close for her to be comfortable, but it didn't bother her as much as it should have. It was…nice.

Huh, she thought.

Leaning her head back against the stall wall, she closed her eyes and opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. The tears she had managed to suppress since the interaction had started began to sting behind her eyelids. Unconsciously, they started silently sliding down her cheeks.

He was taken aback. Sure, he was prepared for a talkative story that he could care less about, but tears? Weeping? Sobbing? Nope, he had not signed up for this.

But she was inaudible. The waterworks kept coming, getting steadier and steadier, but she didn't make a sound.

It broke his heart. He wasn't quite sure why, but it did.

"Lass, hey," he murmured. "Shhh, it's okay, you're okay." He kept comforting her as he turned his body as much as possible to embrace her. It was awkward, for sure, his one arm around her back while the other laid across her thighs, avoiding the bottom of her towel. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, hoping that the slow friction would calm her. Emma leaned her head, moving it from the wall to his shoulder. She mumbled something unintelligible into his neck.

"I know it might be rough, love, but I'm going to kindly request that you repeat yourself," he quietly ordered.

She took a quivering breath and gulped, "I don't think I am."

"Tell me," he whispered reassuringly. "Let me help you bear your cross, Emma."

The remainder of her composure crumbled at her own name. She started bawling, ugly snotty sounds coming from her nose, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. And Killian just held her, caressing her back and trying to placate her, but never saying a word. She just had to get it all out of her system. It was how his mother had always soothed him when he'd had his heart broken or had his fair share of troubles: a literal shoulder to cry on. And when he was ready to talk, gotten all the tears from their ducts, she had been there.

That's what he would do for Emma. He would be there.

A/N: there is a second part that I will upload when I have time which, due to family celebrations and whatnot, I don't have now. but I hope you liked this part :) byeee