"Where are you from?"

The question rises to Emma's lips unbidden as she studies him across the table that she honestly didn't remember existing until her frantic cleaning haul earlier that day, when he had called and said he had groceries and alcohol and invited her to his apartment to continue her crash course in mixology. She suggested her place instead before considering the mess she lived in, and he had agreed cheerily—making her promise to allow him to do the cooking and hanging up before she could work out a counter-counter-suggestion.

At that point, she did what she always does in a pinch—texted Graham.

Emma: help

Graham: are you dying?

Emma: yes. due to your hesitation i am now dead.

Graham: I'm doing work now, will call later

Emma: when you say doing work do you mean doing regina?

Emma: sorry

Emma: no I'm not

Emma: graham?

Needless to say, she did not hear from Graham—and was left to the next best option.

"Mom… I could use that help cleaning my apartment now, if you aren't busy."

Regardless of whether her mother was actually busy or not, she showed up at her door exactly 15 minutes later, cleaning supplies on either arm and the brightest smile Emma has ever seen eagerly lighting up her face. In under an hour her apartment was shining and practically unrecognizable.

Her mother smiled knowingly at her on her way out, asking if that handsome gentleman from Thanksgiving was her special guest. Emma rolled her eyes with a smirk, pushing her mother out the door with a hug and still another 'thank you'.

He'd turned up exactly 5 minutes before promised, smile perhaps even more eager than that of her mother's—wine in hand and crumpled brown paper grocery bag under arm.

He smiles warmly at the question and she is glad it doesn't appear to seem too out of the ordinary to him.

"I was born just outside London. My father took a job here when I was 'round fifteen, brought my brother and I along with."

She twists spaghetti absentmindedly on her fork as he speaks, trying not to lose herself in the lulling rise and fall of his tones. She peers up at him when his words die out to find he is watching the movements of her hand with a quiet concentration, as if he is caught in a trance.

She drops the fork to her plate and cringes at the sharp sound of metal on glass—hastening to fill the sudden silence that follows.

"God, London. You must miss it."

It seems to break him from the stupor, and he raises his eyes to offer her half a modest smile, a slight haze over the deep blue that tells her he is in a different moment.

"Not the city quite so much as the stars."

She cannot help but shoot up a brow quizzically.

"The stars?"

She immediately regrets the biting sarcasm eating at her tone, but he seems to be amused, or at the least intrigued by the response—own forehead furrowing as a testy smirk comes across his lips.

"Aye. Don't tell me you find stars pretentious as well?"

"It's hard to like stars when you have to stare up at a ceiling-full that your ex put up every goddamn night."

A moment of that pity she despises passes through his expression but it is gone so fast she cannot even be certain it was there.

And then he scoffs.

"Well that won't do."

He is up in a flash and she nearly misses the mischievous twinkle that lights his eye as he pushes his chair back with a scrape that she is sure to hear about from the people downstairs in the morning—moving off to peer sideways down the hall that leads to her bedroom before leading himself down it.

Her brow furrows and she stumbles to her feet to follow, watching as the asshole opens her closet, then her bathroom (which she is certain she has already shown him the placement of). When he finally reaches her bedroom he lets out a soft "ha!"—and slips in, flipping the light switch as if he belongs there.

What the hell.

She picks up her pace, slipping into the room behind him.

He is stood up on top of her bed, head tilted to take in the stars stuck above him. He smirks crookedly down at her when she enters—and with a start she notes he's already taken down a few, sticking them to his handless lower arm.

She can only blink a moment, watching as he drags his attention back to the issue at hand, turning his chin upward and reaching for another star, bouncing up on the balls of his feet to reach and sticking it to his arm when he has freed it.

She groans.

"You could at least take your shoes off."

Dried mud is clearly crumbling off the bottom of his boots and settling into the creases of her sheets and the mess makes her head spin. He has the sense to glance down at the mess and look mildly contrite before smirking at her as she crosses the room towards him.

"First time I have heard something of the likes in a lady's bed." He glances again, pointedly, at the ceiling before looking back at her, "What type of bloody constellations are these meant to be?"

She punches his leg as she reaches the bed but smirks, and he catches her fist and uses it to help haul her up beside him. She stumbles slightly at the force of his pull and the uneven mattress beneath her toes, and he steadies her shoulders.

"Step on my toes and I will fucking rip your eyes out, regardless of how pretty they are."

He swallows back a laugh that very obviously catches in his throat, eyes bright and far too close to hers.

"As you wish—but I've a request in return."

"Not stepping on my toes is non-negotiable."

"Your toes are safe," he touches her wrist gently, smile fading, and she tries not to tense against the brush of his fingers, "Make me a deal, once we remove these blasted stars you will give me an opportunity to show you the reason I am partial to the real ones?"

They are still close and it is not her fault if she remembers kissing him, thinking of his lips on hers and the way she felt so goddamn safe melting into his arms. It is even more certainly not her fault if she might sway unconsciously nearer to him.

If he tries to kiss her, she knows she won't stop him.

For a moment, she thinks he might.

Without warning, the ringing cry of her phone bites out through the silence—vibrating against her ass and practically startling her into stumbling backwards off the bed as she trips over her feet. She lets out an array of curses as she lands (luckily) in a heap on her mattress instead, reaching to grab her phone and pull it to her ear just as it nearly rings out.

"Hello?"

Killian is still standing upright, amusement lighting up the lines of his face as he ducks his head sideways to inefficiently hide his silent laughter.

"Asshole," she mouths slowly, and he only laughs harder, running a knuckle across his forehead and turning his attention languidly back to her ceiling.

"Is this the ghost of Emma I'm speaking to? I was operating under the assumption she was dead?"

Goddammit Graham.

"No, but she is busy."

Killian glances down at her words, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and she kicks at his legs (which are unfortunately just out of her reach).

"Busy doing what? Weren't you in dire need of my assistance?"

"Busy doing none of your goddamn business." She hisses, and Killian blessedly chooses not to respond directly to these words, chest still shaking with quiet laughter.

"Funny, because your Aunt just popped by and left me under the impression you were doing a bartender… lesson."

She clutches at the phone, glancing uneasily up at Killian and hoping her volume is too low for him to make out the words—internally groaning at the incapability of her family to keep anything quiet.

"Oh my God, do you need something or are you just being an asshole."

"The second one."

She hangs up, dropping her phone sideways onto the bed beside her before glancing up at her ceiling, which is slowly becoming sufficiently void of Neal.

"Mm, that's nice."

He rolls his eyes, offering his hand when she reaches and helping her upright again, slow enough this time that she doesn't stumble.

"Rather simple solution, as well," he prods, and she ignores him, reaching for the last star that is still stuck above her and pressing it onto his bad arm along with the rest once it is free, smirking at the night sky pressed among his scars. She lowers her finger from the star, drawing lightly along the lines of skin free between them, almost unconsciously.

"I think you're wrong." She tells him, fingers settling at the end of his scarred arm, slowly raising her eyes to meet his.

"Shocking."

He smirks, but his eyes do not lift from where she touches him, blue clouded as he chews at his cheek.

"The stars would be crap if they didn't have the night sky backing them up and making sure they came out and did their thing every night."

He stays silent, muted longing still touching his eyes as he raises them to hers.

"I'll let you try to convince me still, if you want."

He finally smiles.

"Mills Farm, then?"

Her brow crinkles in confusion around her smile.

"Alright?"

"The sky is clearest on the outskirts of town," he explains slowly. "Say we meet at 2AM?"

His eyes sparkle at the implication and she lets out a small laugh.

"2AM it is."