It's cold on the roof, but Emma doesn't want to head downstairs, not yet. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tilts back her head and closes her eyes, trying to reconcile the dozen different directions in which her emotions have scattered.

Mary Margaret and David are getting married. They're having a baby.

She's not going to lie; it feels weird, and not because she actually felt her ownwomb twinge at the sight of Mary Margaret's blissful smile when she'd announced her news.

Between Killian and Walsh, the last couple of days have been enough of a game-changer as far as her life is concerned. But now, with Mary Margaret and David starting a little family of their own, everything is going to be different.

Emma scrunches her eyes shut a little tighter. They're all approaching thirty and this kind of happy ending was always on the cards for those two, but dealing with rapid change has never been her strong suit.

For one thing, she's going to have to move out. Opening her eyes, Emma stares at the night sky above, her vision blurring with both the cold night air and the sudden onset of tears.

Shit.

She's beyond happy for David and Mary Margaret. She is. She can't wait to be completely overrun by baby shower and engagement and wedding plans and spend hours trawling through social media websites for inspiration and listen to Mary Margaret change her mind a hundred times about baby names.

She's still going to have to move out, though, and she can't pretend the prospect doesn't make her heart hurt.

She's lived in a hell of a lot of places in her life, and not one of those places has even come close to feeling like home the way this apartment does. A sudden, unpleasant thought slides into her head, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't shove it aside.

This won't be the first time she's had to leave a place that had come to feel like home because a baby was on the way. She barely remembers the Swans, but all her life she's carried the knowledge that as soon as they were able to have a baby of their own, they didn't want her anymore.

Scowling, Emma gives herself a mental shake. She's almost thirty now, not three. Mary Margaret and David are her friends, not her foster parents. She thought she'd finally put all that crap behind her, but apparently there is still some part of her that's still three years old and bearing the scars of that particularly stinging rejection.

As the dark sky shakes and shivers above her - stupid watering eyes - she thinks of what Walsh had said the night when he'd proposed to her and she'd found out the truth about him. That she was only kidding herself that she'd really found a home with her friends. That they were all going to leave her in the end.

Emma frowns at the sky, the distant stars seeming even further away. Walsh was a liar and a fraud, but he'd been painfully good at pushing her buttons, right up to the bitter end. David and Mary Margaret love her like she's family, she knows that, but they're going to want a place of their own once the baby comes, and Emma doesn't blame them.

Which just leaves her and Killian.

She rubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to keep the goosebumps at bay. She's loved living in this apartment, but maybe it's time she admitted the real reason why this place has come to feel like a real home.

She closes her eyes again in faint despair. Killian loves her, she knows that. That doesn't mean he's going to want to jump straight into living together, just the two of them. They've only just started dating. God, they haven't even been on a real date yet.

As if the thought has conjured him up like a magical incantation, she hears the familiar, quiet tread of Killian's sneakers on the pavers behind her. She blinks rapidly, relieved that any glassiness can be explained by the cold night air, then tosses a casual greeting over her shoulder. "It's hard to see the stars properly when you're in the city."

She can hear the smile in his voice. "Doesn't mean they're not there, though." He drops a kiss on the top of her head, his mouth lingering on her hair as the familiar scent of him teases her nose, then she feels something else being tugged down on her head.

A quick exploratory hand confirms that he's brought her beanie, and even if it was just an excuse to come in search of her, the gesture makes her chest tighten.

"Thanks."

"Think nothing of it." Dragging a chair closer, he sinks down into it, his legs on either side her hers, his gaze mildly concerned. "You okay, love?"

She hesitates, but only for a few seconds. They've made too much progress this weekend for her to slide back into dancing around how she feels. She reaches for his hand, smiling as he jumps slightly at the first touch of her cold fingers. "I'm just thinking about something Walsh said a few weeks ago."

He doesn't exactly roll his eyes, but she sees the way his jaw tightens at the mention of the other man's name. "Well, there's your first problem."

His palm fits perfectly against hers, and suddenly her fingers no longer feel cold, not with his touch warming her. "It was when he was trying to convince me to move in with him."

He quirks one dark eyebrow at her, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smirk. "One of the many, many times."

She lets that one go as well, because he's earned the right to be a little obnoxious when it comes to Walsh, then takes a deep breath. "He said my friends wouldn't always be around to provide the substitute home I was so obviously craving, that David and Mary Margaret were the type to run off and live happily ever after on their own." His hand tightens on hers, and she quickly goes on, knowing he's two seconds away from reassuring her and she's afraid if she doesn't get this out now, she might never say it. "He also said that you weren't the type to stick around to babysit me, and I'd end up alone."

He stares at her, disbelief shimmering in his bright blue eyes. "Please tell me you didn't believe a word of that tripe?"

Somehow, she keeps talking instead of putting her arms around his neck and burrowing into the solid sanctuary of him. "Well, he was right about one thing." She flicks a pointed hand in the direction of the stairs that lead down to their apartment, trying and failing to stop her voice from quaking. "David and Mary Margaret aren't going to want two extra bodies hanging around once their baby arrives."

The disbelief in his face changes, becoming tender, almost wistful. "As much as it pains me, I do agree with Monkey Boy on that point." Before she knows it, he's lifted their clasped hands to his mouth and his lips are warm against her knuckles. "We both know that David's always had a craving for the whole house-garden-dog scenario," he tells her with a quick grin. "The man's obviously a glutton for punishment when it comes to domestic chores."

Her heart seems to sink inside her chest. She knows he's right, but he still hasn't said anything about what his plans for the future might be, and she finds herself chewing her bottom lip nervously as she waits for him to continue. It will be okay, she tells herself. I've lived alone before and I can do it again. It doesn't mean he doesn't love me just because he doesn't want to -

One hand still holding hers tightly, he fumbles for his phone with the other, the movement interrupting her dismal train of thought. "As to the rest of your ex-boyfriend's absurd prattle, I'm afraid he had it all wrong." He puts the phone on the table between them, its screen glowing in the darkness, then looks at her expectantly.

(If she didn't know better, she'd think he was nervous.)

Squinting at the screen, she silently curses his refusal to upgrade to a model she can actually read without going blind. "What am I looking at?"

His hand twitches around hers as he nudges the phone closer to her with one long index finger. "It's a real estate website."

Her heart begins to pound, but she can't afford to jump to conclusions. Not with him. Not about this. "I can see that, but why am I looking at it?"

His smile is soft and warm and makes her chest tighten a little bit more. "I'm in this for the long haul, love." He leans closer, his eyes locking with hers. "When you're ready, when you see something that takes your fancy, let me know and I'll arrange a viewing."

She stares at him, the faint sound of her pulse thrumming in her ears. He wants to find a place to live, just the two of them, together.

Walsh's words are suddenly the furthest thing from her mind. Instead, all she can think about is what Mary Margaret had said to her in the kitchen.

Happy endings aren't always what we think they're going to be, but sometimes those are the best ones of all.

Mary Margaret always was the smart one when it came to this sort of thing.

She licks her lips nervously, the hope shining in his eyes giving her courage. "Are you asking me to move in with you?" The question comes out a little more panicked than she would have liked, and he clears his throat.

"Well, I prefer to think of it as the two of us moving in together, but yes."

Maybe it's just the cold, but she suddenly feels like her skin is too tight, the blood humming too near the surface. She blinks at him, all her words fleeing in the face of his offer. It's not even a case of being careful what you wish for, she thinks frantically. It's a matter of suddenly being presented with everything you didn't realise you wanted but now you know you want it more than anything. "Just you and me?"

He's not going to leave.

"Yes." He ducks his head, grinning into her eyes as his knee knocks against hers. "A place where we can passionately argue over whose turn it is to make breakfast and which movie to rent to our hearts' content."

He's not going to leave her.

Letting go off her hand, he shifts on his chair until he's sitting right on the edge of the seat, his expression bordering on worried. "Look, I know this is a huge step to take, but-"

Once upon a time, she would have baulked at this step. Not just with him, but with anyone. Once upon a time, this question should have sent her running for the nearest exit, terrified of taking the next step towards the point of no return.

Not any more, though, not when it comes him, and the answer is suddenly so easy that she almost laughs as the words come tumbling out of her mouth.

"February works for me."

Now it's his turn to blink, and she notes with satisfaction that he looks more than a little dazed by her decisive answer. "Does it now?"

"Yep." Her heart is pounding so hard, she imagines she can feel it in her damned eyeballs. Leaning forward, she puts her hands on his knees, the denim cold beneath her palms. "We'll have lived under the same roof for a year by then, so I'll guess we'll know for sure if we can stomach each other."

She's already certain, but there's no harm in being sensible, and judging by Killian's grin, he approves of her plan.

"Just in time for Valentine's Day."

She can't help rolling her eyes, not only because he is just a ridiculous person, but because she loves him so much right now that it's almost embarrassing. "God, who knew you'd turn out to be such a sentimental sap?"

His answering smile is giddy enough to make her wonder how many beers he'd had with David while watching TV. "One likes to observe the appropriate traditions, love, which reminds me." He picks up her hands again, threading his fingers through hers until their palms are flush. "What are you doing for the holidays?"

"I haven't thought about it, to be honest." She's actually thought about it plenty, but it had been in the context of trying to pin down Walsh about their shared plans. She'd never dreamed she'd be having this discussion. "What about you?"

His smile is faintly sheepish. "Liam's been at me to come home for a visit over Christmas."

Emma feels her own smile freeze on her lips.

Oh.

She'd been hoping -

It doesn't matter, she tells herself fiercely. It won't be the first time she's spent the holidays alone. She does her best to arrange her face into something approaching enthusiasm. Shaking his head at her, Killian kisses the back of her hands in turn, his gaze never leaving her face. "Come with me?"

Her smile unfreezes, but it still feels weird on her lips. "To England?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounds small, filled with doubt. "For Christmas?"

"Trust me, they'd love to have you."

It's too much, and her words are all scrambled up in her head. "Killian-"

"I'd love it, too. Not to have you, although that goes without saying, obviously-" To her eternal amusement, he seems to be blushing. "Look, I know it's not the tropical sun and sand you've been dreaming about, but-"

"No, it's not that," she assures him in a breathless rush, because she can't bear him to think that she doesn't want to be with him, but he wants to spend Christmas with her, wants to take her across the ocean to be with his family for the holidays. It is too much, but in the best possible way. "God, this is going to sound stupid," she mutters, wishing she had a free hand to dash away the foolish tears that have come out of nowhere.

As if granting her wish, he releases her hands to reach up and cup her face in his palms, her thumb warm as it brushes across her tear-damped cheek. "Tell me."

They're way past the point of being embarrassed about secrets, and it's with a weird kind of relief that she blurts out the words. "It's just that I haven't spent many Christmases with a real family, you know?"

His throat works as he swallows, his eyes glittering. His hands are warm on her face, his expression open and needing and hopeful. "What's mine is yours, Swan, and that includes my idiot brother and his lovely wife and child."

His words have her eyes blurring again, but this time she doesn't care. "Don't forget the criminally adorably puppy," she sniffs, and he smiles, his fingertips teasing the sensitive skin just behind her ears, making her shiver with something very different than cold.

"How could I?" The space between them vanishes in a heartbeat, his lips warm as they touch hers. He draws back, his mouth curved in a teasing smile. "Who knows how long it would have taken for us to come to our senses if Liam hadn't sent that photograph?"

She doesn't want to think about that, because ten fucking years is more than enough time to have wasted. Shifting forward in her chair, she grips his kneecaps for balance as she presses a kiss of her own to the corner of his smiling mouth. He tastes like salt and beer, and she wants to take a bite right out of him. "We should take a treat to say thank you."

"I agree." He turns his head, nudging his nose against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. "For the puppy, that is. Not for Liam. His ego already knows no bounds."

He's one to talk, she thinks. "Must run in the family." She kisses him before he can protest, and his arms come around her, pulling her onto his lap as though she weighs less than nothing. She takes a few seconds to worry that the ancient wooden chair might not hold both of them, then loses herself in the heat of his kisses and the feel of his hands stroking her back, his murmured words of love warm against her ear, her heart feeling as though it might just burst, because as long as she's with Killian, she'll be home.

Emma jerks awake, blowing her hair out of her eyes, beyond confused as to why a tinny version of Tainted Love is suddenly playing in her bedroom in the middle of the goddamned night.

What the hell?

Beside her, there's a rough groan, then a muscled male arm snakes out from under the covers to snatch the offending phone from the nightstand, and everything comes back in a pleasantly fuzzy rush. It's obscenely early on a Monday morning and, while she might be in her own bed, she's definitely not alone.

She flops down beside Killian, who has burrowed back under the covers once again, having tossed his now-silent phone back onto the nightstand. Grinning, she slips her hand beneath his t-shirt to gently tug on the crisp hair just below his belly button. "What time is it?"

"Six."

His voice is deep and gravelly and does odd things to the pit of her belly. Sliding her hand a little higher, she scratches her fingertips across the sculptured muscles of his chest. "So this is how you used to beat me to the bathroom all the time, Jones? Get up at the crack of dawn?"

"Six is hardly the crack of dawn, my darling little slugabed." He rolls onto his side, trapping her hand between them as he buries his face into the crook of her neck. "Not everyone has such an understanding boss as yourself, Swan."

Closing her eyes, she inhales the scent of him, all sleep-warmed skin and faded aftershave. "What time do you have to be at work?"

There's a heavy sigh from beneath the covers, then he runs one hand through his already messy hair, then proceeds to scrub his bearded jaw with his palm. "Nine o'clock staff meeting."

Emma nestles closer into his side, enjoying the heat of him in her bed. Ordinarily, she'd enjoy nothing more than sleeping until noon on a Monday off work, especially given the frenzy of the last week, but she finds herself willingly offering to join him in getting up early. If that doesn't prove she loves him, she thinks dryly, she's not sure what will. "I can drive you to the train station if you like."

"There's no sense both of us having to get up so early," he protests, his wandering hands completely contradicting his noble protest.

"But I want to."

Beneath the covers, he gently squeezes her ass, fingertips teasing the lace edge of her underwear. "You just want to drive my car."

She grins against his shoulder. "Maybe." Tangling her legs with his, she bites him gently through his t-shirt, an inch below his collarbone, loving the shudder that goes through him. "Or maybe I just want another hour in bed with you."

"Well, when you put it like that-" He reaches for her in a blur of tangled covers, and just like that, he's on his back and she's on top of him, their linked hands pressed on either side of his head and he's looking up at her with a sleepy heat in his eyes that makes her whole body clench in anticipation.

Shifting her thighs, she settles into a more comfortable position, biting her lip at the feel of him beneath her. "So I guess that's a yes to a ride to the station?"

He lifts his hips, the heavy ridge of his erection fitting against her with a precision that has her belly clenching hotly. "A gentleman never refuses the offer of a ride from a lady, Swan."

Apparently, it's never too early for a double entendre when your name is Killian Jones.

She'd roll her eyes, but she's too busy helping him strip off his t-shirt and letting him return the favour with her favourite sleeping tank. She's glad they're in her bed, because that means she can grab a condom from the top drawer of her nightstand without missing a beat, to so speak.

Sleepy, early-morning sex has always been one of her favourite things, and now that she's got a partner who really knows what he's doing, she likes it even more.

Early morning sex makes everything feel like it's in slow motion, blurred around the edges but crystal clear at its heart. Everything is slower, heavier and thicker, from the thrumming of her pulse to the languid touch of his hands on her breasts to the lazy push and drag of his cock buried deep inside her. The slow, deep curling of his tongue around hers, the gentle press of his teeth on her bottom lip. The spicy tang of the skin stretched over his collarbone, smooth and tempting, inviting her to bite and kiss just hard enough to make him groan her name on a shaky breath.

The brush of his soft beard on the nape of her neck, breasts and belly makes every hair on her body stand on end, tightening her nipples to painful points and sending flurries of goosebumps everywhere. The press of his fingertips into the swell of her hips is a wonderful pressure as she rises and falls above him, taking him deeper with every rock of her hips. The quiet groans of pleasure swirl around them like mist in the darkened room, the sighs that brush against her skin with every gasp of sensation.

Everything swells and tightens and then she's coming, pleasure unfurling in a hot rush as he arches beneath her, his cock pulsing heavily inside her, his hands buried in her hair as his mouth finds hers, kissing her fiercely as they fall together.

(She can't help thinking, as she has so often during these last few days, that ten years of foreplay really does have one big freaking silver lining.)

After a long moment of lying boneless with contentment, she lifts one hand and pokes him in the ribs, smiling at the subtle flinch that ripples through him. Mentally filing away the location of the ticklish spot for later use, she drums her fingers gently on his stomach. "Don't go back to sleep, you'll be late for work."

Rolling onto his side, he gathers her in his arms and buries his nose in her tangled hair, his contented sigh warm against her neck. "You should have thought of that before you ravished me so thoroughly, wench."

Grinning, she untangles her limbs from his, savouring the feel of the soft hair on his legs brushing against her skin, then pushes herself up on one elbow. "So."

He beams at her, his fingertips ghosting over her jaw, then the curve of her ear, as if he can't bear to stop touching her. "So."

It might be way too early on a Monday morning, but she feels better than she has in a long, long time. "It's a brand new week."

"That it is." Curling his finger gently around a thick rope of her hair, he gives her a bright smile. "The dawn of a brand new era, one could even say."

She leans into his touch, clucking her tongue teasingly at his declaration. "Always so dramatic."

"I'm a lawyer, love." He presses a warm kiss to the top of her head, still playing with her hair. "They pay me to be dramatic."

"You're not at work now, though," She skims her hand over the jut of his hip, exploring dips and hollows, lean muscles and crisp hair. In answer, he kisses her again, this time his mouth finding hers in a lazy, studied caress that has them both flushed and a little breathless by the time he pulls back.

"As much as I would like to stay in this bed with you all day," he tells her with patent disappointment, "I'm afraid the powers that be would be mostdisappointed if I didn't make an appearance at this morning's staff meeting."

"One day you'll have your own practice," she teases him as she stretches her arms high above her head, her words infused with a soft groan as several muscles twinge pleasantly.

His eyes burn a bright blue trail over her shoulders and the slopes of the breasts bared by a slipping blanket and her stretching routine. "Only if you promise to help me track down all the naughty clients who refuse to pay their bills on time."

"Well, that depends," she shoots back as she flings back the covers and reaches for her robe at the end of the bed, her naked skin prickling at the heat in his appreciative gaze.

He leans back against the pillows, his hands tucked beneath his head. "On what?"

Emma bites her bottom lip, her hands tightening on the robe in her hands, because she wants nothing more to crawl up the bed and sink her teeth into the smooth swell of his bicep. "If you can afford my services, of course."

He grins, a flash of white teeth and dark stubble that makes her insides quiver as if she hasn't just had one of the best early morning orgasms of her life. "I'm sure we could work something out."

In the end, David is the one who gives him a lift to the train station. After their newly returned housemates subject them to a generous measure of ribbing (including such sidesplitting gems such as Emma, you don't usually wear a turtleneck on your day off and Killian, you don't usually sleep this late on a Monday), the four of them manage to share a quick breakfast of toast and coffee without too many awkward silences.

Balancing a plate filled with peanut butter smeared toast, Emma slips into the chair opposite him, a mischievous smile curving her lips as she pushes her sock-clad foot between his. He almost loses his grip on his coffee mug, but he's quick to recover. It's been a while since he's played footsies (as the girls used to call it when he was a lad) under the table with the beautiful woman whose bed he'd shared the night before. And he's never before counted the hours until the working day is over so he can happily bicker with said beautiful woman over which television station to watch after dinner. He shoots her a grin of promise across the small table, and is rewarded by a faint blush staining her high cheekbones.

"Well, this is going to take some getting used to." David looks as though he's torn between being smug that his match-matching lectures have come to fruition and being annoyed that now he has to live with the results of his efforts. "Do you two think maybe you could dial back the bedroom eyes until after I've finished my coffee?"

Killian is tempted to blow his friend a kiss, but he settles for a smirk. Sitting beside him, Mary Margaret flashes her intended a stern glance across the table. "Hush."

Emma's toes brush against Killian's ankle as she turns to offer David a serene smile. "You'll miss us when we're not around to provide you with cheap wisecrack material."

"Miss you?" Mary Margaret's dark eyes widen. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, we, er-" Emma's gaze flicks to his in mute appeal, and he clears his throat.

"The Lady Swan and I have been discussing our future living arrangements, given that the happy advent of Baby Nolan will no doubt bring about some changes in that area."

Mary Margaret's eyes widen even more as she puts two and two together. "You're moving out?"

David is looking back and forth between them as though he's at Wimbledon. "Together?"

"Not until February." Emma gives his ankle a less-than-gentle nudge, and Killian hastens to help smooth over any ruffled early morning feathers. He hadn't banked on having this particular conversation quite so soon, and it feels oddly like being grilled by a girlfriend's parents.

"I know it's unexpected, but rest assured, we weren't planning to leave you in the lurch financially," he reassures David with a quick smile, and the betrothed couple exchange a sheepish glance that gives him pause. "What?"

"Actually, we've been talking about a little place of our own, too," Mary Margaret admits with a faintly embarrassed smile. "We came up with lots of fun ideas about the kind of house we want while we were driving this weekend." Killian literally sees the instant her thoughts turn to Emma. "But that's still ages away, and the last thing we want is for you to feel as though you have to move out." She looks at her friend, her expression tender with worry. "Even after the baby comes, there would still be room for all of us, I'm sure."

Emma laughs. "We'd be living on top of each other and you know it." Reaching across the cluttered kitchen table, she pats the other woman's hand. She flashes Killian a smile that makes his heart feel like it's swelling in his chest, then turns back to her friend. "It's okay, I promise. This is what I want. It's a good change."

Feeling his throat tighten at the obvious happiness in her voice, Killian has to fight the urge to pinch himself. Bloody hell, how it is even possible that she's actually mine?

"I hate to break this up, but it's 7:45am," David announces as he drains his coffee cup, jolting Killian back to reality. "If anyone wants a ride anywhere, I'm leaving now."

Killian seizes the opportunity to let Emma spend her morning relaxing rather than fighting rush hour traffic. "A lift to the train station would be most appreciated, mate. That way Emma doesn't have to lower herself to drive my giant gas guzzler."

David pushes back his chair. "Done."

Emma looks at Killian as he follows suit, her hands still cupped around her half-finished coffee as she mouths a breathy thank you. An odd flush creeps up the back of his neck, and he can feel both David and Mary Margaret watching him with obvious amusement.

"And what are you two going to do today?" David murmurs as he bends down to kiss the top of Mary Margaret's dark head. "Since you're both ladies of leisure."

Emma looks at her friend, obviously pleased by this revelation. "You're not going to work today?"

The other woman grins. "I was worried that we might be late getting home so I put in for a personal day."

Emma gets to her feet, her hand catching Killian's as he passes. "Always so prepared," she quips teasingly in Mary Margaret's direction, then tugs him close enough to brush his lips with a quick kiss. "See you tonight, Jones."

His mouth tingling from the brief contact, his hand tightens around hers to stop himself from a display of rather inappropriate touching. "I'm counting on it."

"On second thought," Mary Margaret muses loudly behind them, "maybe some more privacy would do us all some good."

"Oh, please." He almost feels Emma bristle, but she's grinning as she turns to the other woman. "Like I haven't spent the last ten years averting my eyes from you and Prince Charming out there."

As if to prove a point, she curls her hand around Killian's tie and kisses him again, letting him taste coffee and peanut butter and Emma before pushing him towards the hallway leading from the kitchen. "Play nice with the other kids."

He winks at her as he gathers his wallet and keys from where he'd stowed them on the counter top. "I'm a lawyer, darling. I never play nice."

David's truck has barely made it out of the driveway before the friendly interrogation begins, and Killian quickly realises he's been duped. His friend's offer of a lift was clearly just a ruse to get him alone, and he resigns himself to a barrage of questions for the next fifteen minutes as they crawl through the morning traffic.

"So, you and Emma are already talking about your own little love nest?" David flicks him a sideways glance. "Nice to see you took my advice about picking up the pace instead of trying to take things at an even more glacial pace."

Fifteen minutes of David Nolan being smug, Killian thinks with a silent sigh. How wonderful. "Actually, it was Emma who brought up the subject of her future living arrangements."

"She doesn't feel as though she has to leave, does she?" David frowns. "Like Mary Margaret said, that's the last thing we wanted."

Killian runs his hand through his hair, making a vague mental note that he should really visit the barber soon. "I notice neither of you rushed to convince me that I don't have to push off."

"You're a big boy, you can cope with rejection." David's tone changes from teasing to sombre. "You know why we might be worried about Emma thinking she had to leave."

"Aye, I do." He thinks of Emma's face as she'd told him of Walshs' cruel prediction, and a lump forms in his throat. He decides against telling David that Emma had been fretting about the future. If she wishes to tell them of her concerns, he reasons, that will be up to her. "She suggested February might be an ideal time for us to strike out on our own."

"Just in time for Valentine's Day," David says cheerfully, and Killian grins.

"That's exactly what I said."

David checks his rear vision mirror before changing lanes. "Don't tell me, she accused you of being sappy."

"Of course."

"Nice to know that being in love hasn't made her any less stubborn."

To his dismay, Killian feels his face flush. He's not in the habit of discussing affairs of the heart with such candour so early in the morning, at least not with his old college friend. "Says the man who still holds a grudge against Victor Whale for daring to date Mary Margaret over a decade ago."

David snorts. "You know, I'm tempted to make you get out and walk the rest of the way to the station, but unfortunately we're already here." He manages to find a place to pull up, then waves a jokingly dismissive hand as Killian opens the passenger side door. "Feel free to tell Victor all the latest news next time you talk to him."

Biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from telling David that Victor is not exactly the sort to be envious of news involving a wedding and a baby, he gives his friend a nod. "Will do." He hooks his satchel over his shoulder, then slams the door shut. "Thanks for the lift, mate."

As he'd suspected it would be, the staff meeting amounts to little more than forty-five minutes of swapping horror stories regarding family dinners. He tends to be give a free pass on these occasions, not being a local, so to speak, and he's just settled down to a pleasant session of doodling on a new file pad and mulling over what he and Emma might do this coming weekend when he's interrupted by a familiar, quiet voice to his right.

"You look like you had a nice Thanksgiving."

It's Ariel, looking indecently bright-eyed and cheerful for this time on a Monday morning, a pile of newly created client files sitting on the polished meeting room table in front of her.

Clearing his throat, he flips his notepad over to a clean page. "What makes you say that?"

"You just looked as though you were thinking lovely thoughts, that's all," she says in a rush, nervously toying with the end of her long red ponytail as if she's suddenly worried she's overstepped the mark. "Sorry, that was rude of me."

As is always the case with his relatively new secretary, he's torn between being amusement and exasperation. "I did have a nice Thanksgiving, thank you for asking." As two of the younger lawyers on the other side of the table swap tales of their respective eating prowess, he digs through his memory, searching for the name of the sweater-wearing giant whose photograph adorns the desk outside his office door. "As did you and Eric, I hope?"

Ariel's face turns pink, temporarily clashing with her fiery red hair, her tone becoming almost giddy. "He took me to meet his parents." She smooths her hands over the top of the pile of files, her smile tremulous with the memory. "I was very nervous."

"I'm sure they loved you."

His secretary's face lights up like a beacon at sea. "I sure hope so."

He has the sudden notion she's only seconds away from clasping her hands to her heart and bursting into a song about true love conquering all, but thankfully he's saved by his supervising partner. "Killian, a few minutes of your time to chat about Boyd and Herman?"

He gives Ariel what he hopes is an apologetic smile, then pushes back his chair. "Your office or mine, Kurt?"

The other man waves an easy-going hand in the vague direction of Killian's office. "Yours will be fine."

Kurt Flynn is only fifteen years older than Killian, something Killian often forgets, given the other man's almost fatherly approach to his team. He'd made partner before he was thirty and, on the surface, everything he does is easy-going. Killian's personal theory is that the New Jersey accent has a lot to do with creating that particular image. When it counts, though, he has a mind like the proverbial steel trap and a habit of always assuming the worst of people, even their own clients.

Especially their own clients.

Kurt eases himself into the visitor's chair in Killian's office and runs a hand through his longer-than-regulation hair. "Okay, lay it on me."

Killian gives him a brief rundown on the Ashley Boyd and Sean Herman file, what little there is to tell. He describes Sean's estrangement from his father after a childhood of emotional abuse, his decision to keep his new family as far away from his unhappy childhood memories as possible, and finally young Ashley's unflinching bravery when it came to dealing with her infant child's bully of a grandfather.

When he's finished, Kurt drums his fingertips thoughtfully on the armrests of his swivel chair. "I had a call from a former colleague of mine about this one on Friday," he drawls. "Apparently he's been retained by Sean's father."

Killian looks at him, quite sure his opinion of the lawyer in question is written all over his face. "Albert Spencer, I assume."

"That's him." The other man's tone is mild, but Killian's known him long enough to hear the disdain beneath the words. "He thought it worth his while to whisper in my ear about how the poor family had been through enough yadda yadda yadda."

"And what did you say?"

Kurt smiles, and beneath his benign expression, Killian sees the steely resolve that has lulled many opponents to a sticky end. "I told him we'd see him in court."

"Excellent."

Once Kurt is gone (not before promising to violate several copyright laws and burn Killian a copy of Springsteen's new album), he works his way steadily through his in-box until midday, dealing with the usual post-holiday missives of recrimination and accusation against former life partners. It's a stark contrast to the optimistic mood that had buoyed him along for most of the long weekend, and for once he's glad of Ariel's habit of popping up in his open doorway like a red-haired jack-in-a-box.

Just before midday, she darkens his doorway once more, her knock almost melodic. "Mr Morten called but he said he didn't want to actually talk to you because that would be on the clock."

Killian sighs at the thought of his most tight-fisted client to date. Many clients prefer to talk to his assistant now and then when they call in the hopes of a smaller bill at the end of the day, but this one takes being resentfully frugal to new heights. "And what did Mr Morten want?"

"He wants to know how detailed you need him to be with his financial statements?"

"Please remind Mr Morten that, as I have told him several times, his soon-to-be-ex-wife has engaged the services of a highly effective forensic accountant. " He keeps his tone light, because the last thing he needs right now is a teary secretary. "If he doesn't cop to every single nickel and dime, they will find it. It will then take me five times longer to convince the judge that our settlement offer is made in a spirit of generosity, which means my fees will become absolutely extortionate."

Ariel blinks at him, her smile wavering, and he gives her a nod of encouragement. "Did you get all that?"

"Is it okay if I paraphrase?"

He smiles. "Be my guest."

His phone beeps with an incoming text, and his secretary slips out of view. Peering at the screen, Killian feels a rush of quiet elation at the sight of Emma's name. He'd been tempted to call her several times, just to hear her voice, but had sternly reminded himself not to act like a lad in the flush of first love.

MM talked me into having a girls' day at mall. My feet are in a tub of foamy stuff and I'm about to wear a green mask that smells like seaweed. YOU WISH YOU COULD BE THIS RELAXED, JONES. xo

His grin widens at the accompanying photograph (she really does have lovely calves, his Swan) his thumbs flying over the keypad.

I'll have you know I'm confident enough in my masculinity to sport any number of facial masks made of coloured goo. Do you need me to bring home anything for dinner tonight?

The pregnant lady wants pasta, so I hope you don't mind having pasta.

Takes a braver man than I to go against a pregnant lady's wishes, Swan. X

He composes another new text message, feeling ridiculously nervous as he clicks on his brother's number. It's not as though Liam would refuse him such a request, but having promised Emma a family Christmas, he can't bear the thought of not being able to keep that promise.

Does the standing offer to spend Christmas at yours still stand?

He hits send, then checks the time. It would be just after five in the afternoon in London, and while he's quite sure Liam is still at work, he's also sure his brother would be more than happy for a distraction.

Liam's swift reply reaffirms Killian's insider knowledge of his brother's habits, and he smiles as he thumbs at the waiting message.

Yes, of course. Why? Are we actually going to be graced with your presence?

That depends. Were you planning to put me up in an actual bedroom or in the airing cupboard?

Well, the dog does like hanging out in the spare bedroom, but I suppose we could relocate her to James' room while you're here.

Killian takes another deep breath, then types the words he knows will unleash a storm.

Would it be too much of an imposition if I brought someone with me?

Liam's number flashes on the screen a split-second before the phone starts to ring in his hand, and Killian shakes his head. Obviously, interrogating him by text message wasn't enough for his brother, and he vaguely wonders if it's too early to head out for a lunch time beer. "Hello?"

His brother gets straight to the point. "Please tell me it's Emma and if it isEmma, you're not bringing her as just a friend like a complete prat who can't sort his life out to save himself."

"It's Emma." He feels his face split in a grin at the mere mention of her name, and is suddenly very glad they're not Skyping. "And definitely not just friends."

"Thank God." In the background, he can hear the frantic sound of typing. "Hang on, I just have to update Annie."

Killian blinks. "I'm sorry, are you and your wife liveblogging my life?"

At the other end of the telephone line, his brother is unapologetic. "Technology is a godsend for tired parents looking for cheap entertainment, my lad."

He'd be annoyed at this shameless show of gossiping, but he's in too good a mood. "Surely there's enough reality shite on the telly that you could follow instead?"

"Your adventures are far more entertaining," Liam shoots back, laughing. "Seriously, though. You and Emma?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that another five emails have arrived in his in-box, two from irritatingly pedantic clients, three from even more pedantic opposing counsels. Oh, joy. "Most decidedly."

"Bloody hell." His brother whistles. "Must have been some Thanksgiving."

Once again, his smile feels like it reaches from ear to ear. "A gentleman never kisses and tells."

"Oh, I have to tell Annie that one." More frantic keyboard sounds at the other end of the line, then he hears Liam laugh. "My wife says to tell you that if you stuff this up between now and Christmas, you are no longer her brother-in-law."

"I have no intention of stuffing things up, as your lovely wife so elegantly put it. So I take it there are no objections to having two houseguests for Christmas rather than just one?"

His brother's laugh has a sinister tinge to it. "And miss out on seeing you having to do all those touristy things that you always claim are beneath you? Not a chance."

Killian opens his mouth to protest, then promptly shuts it again. His brother is right. In the past, he avoids the usual tourist traps as much as possible, but if he were with Emma, even queuing for hours get on the bloody London Eye could seem appealing.

Obviously, he thinks wryly, he's even more in love than he realised.

"Duty calls, I'm afraid," he tells his brother as another three emails pop up in his inbox. "Thanks very much for the invite. We'll sort out the details later, yeah?"

"It will be very good to see you, little brother. It's been too long."

There's not the faintest hint of teasing in Liam's tone, and Killian's throat tightens. "Aye, that is has." There have been times over the years when he has felt the weight of every single mile that stretches between Boston and London, and it's heartening to be reminded that his brother misses him, too. "And that's younger brother, if you don't mind."

"Wanker," Liam pronounces cheerfully, and Killian grins.

"What can I say? I learned from the best."

Sprawled on the long bench seat in the coffee shop, Emma admires her expertly painted toenails once more, then reaches for her cake fork. "This was a great idea."

Eyeing the slab of lemon meringue pie in front of her with quiet glee, Mary Margaret smiles. "I thought we could both do with some time out."

Emma digs her fork into her own dessert (tiramisu torte, as if she hasn't had enough coffee today). "Life has been kind of crazy lately."

"That's for sure." Her friend is clearly enjoying a day untainted by morning sickness. Emma's never seen anyone so impressed by a single mouthful of cake. "Can you believe it will be December in a few days?"

"I know." At the thought, Emma's feet seem to shiver in their flip-flops. Maybe it was silly to indulge in a pedicure when boot season is upon them, but then again, she is sharing her bed with a man she suspects will be quite partial to scarlet toenails.

Money well spent, if you ask her.

"Oh, we should talk about our Christmas plans," Mary Margaret tells her cheerfully in between bites. "I thought maybe we could all go tree-shopping, make a day of it."

Emma swallows a hasty mouthful of tiramisu, along with a healthy dose of guilt. Killian's text telling her that he'd broken the news to Liam (and that the London Joneses were very much looking forward to spending some time with her) had arrived only minutes ago while her friend was in the bathroom. She guesses now is as good a time as any to share the fact that the apartment will be short two inhabitants over the Christmas break. "That would be great, but-"

Her friend flashes her a smile of encouragement. "I know you don't really get into Christmas, but it will be fun, I promise."

Emma takes a deep breath. "Killian asked me to go home with him for Christmas."

Mary Margaret blinks, looking faintly confused. "But the two of you arealready home-" Comprehension dawns quickly, though, and Emma finds herself holding the deep breath she'd just taken. She's more sure of Killian than she's been of anything in her life, but that doesn't mean she doesn't still want her best friend's approval. "Oh." The other woman's smile is almost coy. "He's taking you to England?"

Emma grins. With everything still so fresh and newly decided, the words send a thrill of anticipation (and anxiety, she's not going to lie) through her. "Yep."

"You're spending Christmas with his family?" Mary Margaret's green eyes widen. "That's a big step."

Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, Emma carves off another piece of cake with her fork. "So is living together."

"And sleeping together, I guess."

Emma can't help the smirk that curves her lips. "Not always."

As expected, her friend's high cheekbones turn pink at the veiled reference to the existence of one-night-stands. "Well, I wouldn't know much about that."

"Consider yourself lucky." Emma waggles her cake fork in the air. "You found your Prince Charming right off the bat."

Her eyes misting over, Mary Margaret's left hand drops to her stomach, smoothing over her non-existent bump. "Believe me, I know how lucky I am."

Emma stares at her. "Are you crying?"

"Of course not." Her friend shakes her head, then dashes at her eyes with the heel of her palm. "God, it's like having the worst PMS ever, times infinity."

Wincing at the thought, Emma hands Mary Margaret a fresh paper napkin. "At least you're not throwing up today," she consoles, and the other woman hiccups with quiet laughter as she dabs her eyes with the napkin.

"Look at you, finding the silver lining."

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Emma just shrugs. "I guess you've rubbed off on me."

"Maybe." Mary Margaret beams at her, her face still flushed with laughter (and hiccups). "I suspect it's not as much as me as it is a certain other flatmate."

Emma has the feeling that her smile is more than a match for Mary Margaret's. "I have to say, I always suspected as much, but he really is a weird mix of total optimist and complete drama queen."

Her friend quirks a knowing eyebrow. "At least you'll never be bored."

Emma thinks of the last few days, how she's felt more alive than she has in a very long time. "You know, I think you might be right."

Domesticity.

It's such an ordinary term, meant to describe the most ordinary of situations, and Killian thinks it just might be his new favourite word.

The instant he staggers through the door of the apartment just after seven, he feels the tension of the day drain out of him. It could have something to do with the scent of garlic and basil in the air, but he suspects the sight of Emma curled up on the couch with a book is far more responsible for the sudden lightening of his spirits. "Evening, Swan."

Her face lights up. There's no other way to describe it, and it makes his heart soar. Putting her book aside, she climbs off the couch and crosses the living room to meet him. "What time do you call this?" she asks teasingly as she lifts her face to his for a kiss. "I hope you're ready to eat, because the pregnant lady is starving."

"You didn't have to wait-"

This is all he manages to say before she's kissing him, her mouth warm and soft on his, and his brain scrambles until all that's left in his head and blood is her. He hears his satchel drop to the floor with a muffled wuff of leather, then her arms are around his neck and they're kissing as though it's been a year since they last touched each other.

The notion of food forgotten, he cradles the back of her head with one hand and slips the other beneath the hem of her sweater to stroke her back, tasting the sweet warmth of her mouth. She makes a soft sound of pleasure that hums against his lips, pressing her hips into his with a teasing invitation that almost has him staggering backwards with the force of his longing.

Lifting his head, he gives himself a mental shake, trying to break through the surface of the raw lust that's blanketing his thoughts. It doesn't help his vocabulary, though, and all he can manage is a shaky, "Wow."

Her breath coming fast, Emma stares back at him with glittering eyes, her softly parted lips pink from their kiss. Holding his gaze with hers, she nudges his straining zipper with her hip, and he sucks in a sharp breath as she laughs softly. "I guess that old thing about absence making the heart grow fonder really is true."

"There's a reason they say clichés are based in truth, love." He wants very much to adjust the suddenly uncomfortable fit of his trousers, but he fears the slightest touch in that particular area right now might only cause more problems. "I must confess, I could definitely become accustomed to this kind of greeting every evening."

She makes a scoffing sound. "Oh, please." Sweeping her gaze pointedly downward to where he's obviously still rather flustered, for want of a better word, she flashes him a mischief smile of challenge." You couldn't handle it."

"Is that so?" Emboldened by the knowledge that their other flatmates are safely ensconced in the kitchen, he slips his hand between them, letting his knuckles graze her breast. Her pupils dilate in the same instant he feels the tight rise of her nipple react to his touch, and he returns her smile of challenge with interest. "Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

Something dark (and extremely promising) flashes in her eyes as she deliberately leans into his touch, the swell of her breast filling his palm. When she puts her mouth to his ear, her breath hot against his skin, he starts to think that perhaps he will have to concede this point to her, because he is not handling this in any way, shape or form. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"

He closes his eyes as her lips brush against his earlobe. She is going to kill him before he's even had the chance to take her on a real date, and while he'd die a happy man, it seems like a dreadful opportunity to waste.

Clearing his throat, he eases himself away from her, conscious of her smug grin as he picks up his satchel from the floor. "If this is our Monday routine, love, I can't wait for Friday," he tells her in what he hopes is his best devil-may-care voice, as if his bloody knees aren't knocking and his zipper straining.

"Speaking of the weekend-" She steps back too, putting some air between the, but her eyes never leave his. "You still want to drive your car to the beach and look at the stars and forget all about work for a few hours?"

His throat tightens. He'd voiced this rather wistful craving to her over a late night 'tea and biscuits' session months ago, when he'd been in the throes of a hellish week at work and she'd been teasing him about his choice of all-terrain vehicle. That she seems determined to make his wish a reality is both humbling and proof that he is indeed the luckiest man in Boston. "Nothing would make me happier, Swan, but don't you think we might be a little cold?"

She smiles at him, one hand coming up to tug on his tie. "I'll let you borrow one of my beanies."

"In that case, I would be delighted."

The sound of a saucepan lid clattering loudly (and pointedly) onto a hard surface comes from the direction of the kitchen, and they share a conspiratorial grin. "I think mom and dad want us to join them for dinner," Emma snickers as she threads her arm through his, and again his heart suddenly feels like it weighs less than a feather, because how is it possible that this is his life now?

"After you, milady."

Much later that night (after they've defaulted to her bedroom once again), she trails one perfectly manicured foot along the length of his bare thigh, her scarlet red toes dipping between his legs with delicious intent. While he's still capable of speech, he tells her she should indulge in spa days as much as humanly possible, given the exceedingly pleasant after-effects, and her answering smile can only be described as wicked.

"Now that,you definitely couldn't handle."

Tuesday morning proves to be even more of a struggle than Monday morning, and it doesn't get easier as the week progresses. Emma doesn't remember ever having this much trouble climbing out of bed when she was sharing it with Walsh.

Then again, he hardly ever stayed the night at her place, citing many different reasons why they should stay at his apartment instead, reasons that she barely remembers now.

That part of her life seems a very long time ago now.

That's not to say that she's not reminded of Walsh every time she walks through the door of Midas Bonds because she is, but she knows that feeling will gradually fade. At least now she doesn't have to worry that every petty thief she goes after will show up having after work drinks with Walsh in a surveillance photograph.

The next four days pass in a blur, at least during business hours. Every morning, she drops Killian at the train station, where he kisses her so thoroughly before climbing out of her car that she quickly learns to wait until she gets to the office before applying her lip gloss. Every evening, they simply hang out with David and Mary Margaret, doing ordinary things like making dinner or sharing work-related gossip before squabbling over their Netflix choices.

In some ways, everything is just as it was before Thanksgiving.

In every way that counts, though, everything is different.

Every evening, as she walks to her car tucked in the corner of Midas Bonds' tiny parking lot, she feels a thrill of anticipation go through her at the mere thought of going home. To her relief, Kathryn has no out-of-town work for her this week, and Emma's able to achieve hours that could almost be considered normal. As a result she beats Killian home every night. Mary Margaret's teacher's hours usually means that Emma gets to spend a quiet hour or so with her best friend before David swings through the door, brimming with news about his day, with Killian usually making it home by seven.

She had no idea that living with someone, even with a captive audience of two, could be this easy, for want of a better word. If she lets herself think about it too much, it's hard to not feel angry at herself (and Killian too) for wasting so much time. She doesn't want to be angry, or regret anything. She's spent too much of her life doing both those things, so much so that there were times when she thought she'd never feel any other way, and she'sover it.

They sleep in her room every night. He says he doesn't mind and she believes him, but every night as they drift off to sleep, she thinks of February and what it will be like to be in a place of their own choosing, in a bedroom that's theirs rather than his or hers.

She can't wait.

On Saturday morning, he makes good on their agreement. After banning her from entering the kitchen, he tells her to rug up warmly and meet him by the front door at nine. Mary Margaret and David sleep late, and Emma finds herself grinning as she creeps about the apartment, feeling like a kid sneaking out after curfew. Her grin widens when Killian finally appears, sauntering down the hallway wearing her favourite black woollen cap like he's a freaking runway model and carrying a picnic basket she had no idea the household even owned.

"You ready, Swan?"

She kisses him, hard and quick, leaving them both breathless. "You bet."

It's a brilliantly sunny day, but December has definitely arrived, heralded by a bite in the air that turns her nose pink even on the short walk to Killian's car. He offers her the keys, but she waves them away. It's such a beautiful day that all she wants to do is watch the world go by.

It takes forty-five minutes to reach their destination, and they only fight over the music selection twice, a new record low for them. Definitely enjoying some kind of honeymoon period here, she thinks wryly, then determinedly pushes the word honeymoon out of her head, because she might have made a lot of progress over the last ten days, she's so not ready to think about that kind of thing.

The beach he's chosen is more of a bay, but she doesn't care about the lack of waves. It's not as they're doing any body surfing today, after all. Some of Boston's finest examples of classic architecture look over them as they pull up in the small parking lot, and Emma feels a twang of envy as she gazes at them. She's always loved the traditional houses in this area. Too bad they're completely out of her financial league, even as a rental.

Her longing look doesn't go unnoticed by her companion, even as he busies himself grabbing the picnic basket from the back seat. "You okay there, love?"

"I just love those houses." Hearing the wistful resentment in her voice, she gives him a rueful smile. "Not that I'll ever be able to afford one."

"Never say never, Swan." He drapes a tartan blanket (again, something else she had no idea was in their apartment) over his shoulder like he's an extra on an old Highlander movie, then slams the car door shut. "You never know what the future holds."

"Pretty sure it doesn't hold a gigantic mortgage way out of my price tag, Jones," she shoots back as she slides her sunglasses up her nose, but he just gives her a knowing smile that sends a delicate wave of butterflies winging across the pit of her stomach.

"Like I said, never say never." He crooks his elbow at her. "Shall we?"

Killian had been right in his prediction that it would be cold, but there's no wind and the sky and the water are almost as blue as his eyes. Emma can definitely cope with the cold if it means lounging on a blanket on the sand, watching the horizon while an extremely attractive man produces a thermos of hot chocolate and homemade biscuits that he'd apparently created all by himself that morning.

"Are you kidding me with this?" She stares at the biscuits, which are still warm, if the condensation on the inside of the container's lid is any clue. "So this is why I wasn't allowed in the kitchen this morning."

He shrugs, but she sees the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he hands her a plastic mug of hot chocolate. "No point doing things by halves."

A rush of emotion that's way too potent to be simple called affection surges through her, making her pulse quicken and her eyes prickle, and the words are out of her mouth before she even realises she's going to say them. "I loveyou."

He blinks, then gives her a slow smile, tiny lines crinkling at the corners at his bright blue eyes. It's not as though she hasn't said it before, but the heartfelt declaration seemed to take him by surprise. "More than those lovely but expensive houses?"

Her pulse kicks it up another notch. "More than those expensive house."

Putting his hand flat on the blanket next to her thigh, he leans closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "More than that hot chocolate?"

"That depends on how good it is," she murmurs, holding his gaze with hers as she lifts the mug to her lips to take a sip. He's done a good job, getting it almost perfect (needs a little more sugar) and she licks her lips. "More than the hot chocolate."

He leans closer, and she holds her breath, certain he's going to kiss her. He does, but only on the cheek, his lips warm against her cool skin, the scent of his aftershave teasing her nose. "I'm glad to hear it." With that, he starts pulling out paper napkins and loading them up with warm biscuits, and Emma can't help feeling as though he's missed something.

As if feeling the weight of her gaze, he looks up, his expression a study in innocence. "Something wrong?"

She bites her lip. She's pretty sure there's no way to ask why someone didn't return your I love you without sounding like a clingy stalker-type girlfriend. It's not as though she doesn't know that he loves her. It's just she's not used to saying it, and she's not sure how she feels about getting nothing back. "Nothing's wrong."

One dark eyebrow arches, and she sees the gleam in his eyes. "Oh, my darling Swan," he tsks at her, shaking his head. "You truly are an appallingly shoddy liar when you're off the clock." Before she can protest this unfair judgment, he curls his hand around her right one, the hand holding the mug of hot chocolate, and bends his head to hers. "I love you," he tells her in a low, urgent voice that spikes her blood and makes her chest tighten. "I have loved you for a very long time, and I plan on loving you for a very long time to come."

Emma closes her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her head, she thinks that maybe she should start keeping a tally of the number of times he's left her speechless. Right now, though, she'll settle for being here with him on a cold, sunny beach, the scent of his aftershave mingling with hot chocolate and ocean air, his smiling mouth seeming to catch her one-word answer as she lifts her head to kiss him. "Good."