One year, about a month, and some odd days later.

There is bacon grease clinging to her bottom lip, Killian's sweatshirt cuffed around her elbows, and a – a really, really big binder sitting in her lap.

"Mom, this is – "

Killian snorts at the stove, shoulders curved forward, spatula tapping at the edge of the pan. She narrows her eyes at his back. Somehow he has been spared from their fictitious wedding planning, always managing to disappear whenever floral arrangements or crudités are worked into casual conversation.

She found him in the garden shed two days ago, rearranging the old hedge clippers instead of weighing in on live band versus DJ.

("Perhaps I am old fashioned, love, but there is something romantic about a brass band at an outdoor wedding. It is outdoor, isn't it?"

"You want to come inside and say that?"

"Nope.")

She knows if he had his way, he would dissolve from this room entirely – anything to avoid the conversation about – she glances at the binder in her lap, covered in post-it notes and her mother's frantic handwriting – a conversation about boutonnieres. And it worries her a bit. Not his avoidance of it, because God knows she would hide in the garden shed with him if she could. Just that he seems so – jumpy about a fake wedding. They talked about it before they made the trip and agreed that it would probably be best to continue with the fake engagement story rather than the "we lied to you the last time we were here" explanation, but still – it's just –

She knows him well enough by now to know what that shuttered look in his eyes means. To recognize the tension in the line of his back.

He's hiding something from her, and she doesn't like it.

The past year has been great. Better than, really. Being with him is – it's everything she hoped it would be when she allowed herself to think about it. They still spend their evenings at the bar, huddled together over baskets of fries while he forces her to taste test his latest experiment. And he still shoves peanut butter protein bars in her glove box for when she has late-night stakeouts and forgets to feed herself. But now she comes home to him in her bed, his boots stacked neatly by hers at the door. Now she gets to crawl on top of him and wake him up with her lips at his throat, her cold hands pressed beneath his shirt to find his sleep warm skin.

He's still her best friend. He's just – everything else, too.

"I know I got a little carried away, I'm just excited."

Emma flips through the binder, choking a bit on a piece of pancake when she sees the wedding dresses her mom has clipped out. No way is she putting on something with that much tulle.

"When do you think you two will set a date?" She keeps her eyes on the book and not where Killian has gone rigid by the stove. He tells her all the time she's an open book with the way she carried her emotions, but right now he might as well be the whole damned library. She closes the binder, focusing instead on pouring enough syrup on her pancakes to probably cause early-onset diabetes – or something.

Killian resumes flipping pancakes. She forces a smile.

"We're just enjoying being engaged, Mom."

-/-

She corners him later when he's returning from the woods with her dad and Henry, firewood stacked in neat bunches beneath their arms. Henry looks positively gleeful, her dad looks a bit shell shocked, and Killian looks like he's just gone ten rounds with a mountain lion – all flushed cheeks and hair standing on end.

She slows to a stop in the backyard, hands on her hips.

"Is everything alright?"

Henry just cackles, her dad's frown tightens, and Killian drops his bunch of firewood.

She bends to help him collect it, but not before her dad mutters, "We'll discuss this later," without breaking his stride to the house. Henry follows, stepping until he's walking backward, whistling low under his breath and wiggling his eyebrows the same way he does when they FaceTime and Killian emerges from the bedroom behind her shirtless and exhausted, grunting about coffee.

She turns back to Killian, eyebrows raised. "You want to tell me what that was about?"

He keeps his gaze firmly on the firewood he's arranging in his arms. "Henry, uh," he shuffles his feet and goes to scratch at the back of his neck before he remembers he's holding a stack of precariously balanced firewood. She narrows her gaze. "Henry was making jokes at my expense, once again. Nothing to worry about, love."

He stands and pecks her on the cheek before darting off to the house, muttering something about vegetable soup for dinner. He has never once in his life cared about vegetable soup and she can't help it. She can't. A million different scenarios and probabilities running through her head.

How long has he been acting like this? Everything was fine when they left Portland, she thinks. But she was caught up in that last case, and maybe she – maybe she didn't notice that he's not happy. Maybe she doesn't make him happy and –

She forces the thought from her mind and bites at her bottom lip.

Tonight. She'll talk to him tonight.

-/-

It's just – she's used to being left behind. Being the one no one wants anymore. Henry had been too strong-willed to leave her, David and Mary Margaret too god damned nice. Throughout her teenage years and well into her twenties, she waited for the other shoe to drop. For her family to suddenly decide that she was too much of a hassle. Let her know she wasn't welcome at Thanksgiving or Christmas.

And now with Killian, it seems too good to be true. Someone like her doesn't get something like this, right? It's why she had been so hesitant to start something with him in the first place. Because she can't – she won't be able to – if he breaks up with her, she'll fall apart.

She keeps a close eye on him throughout the afternoon. Watches him joke around with Henry, the two of them playing whatever game it is they play on the television in the living room, her dad sitting with his feet up on the recliner by the fireplace. She watches Killian wrap an arm around her little brother's shoulders, shoot her a grin when he catches her watching them. And sure, she probably looks terrifying, lurking the way she is halfway out of the kitchen with a stricken look on her face. Killian's grin falters, and the lines by his eyes tense, and she knows without a shadow of a doubt he's keeping something from her.

So when he suggests quietly after dinner, arms elbow-deep in suds in the farmhouse sink in her parent's kitchen, to take a walk later that evening – she swallows hard and nods.

And when he leads her through the woods, the moonlight guiding them through the towering oaks that line her parent's property, all the way back to the pond with a dinghy tied to the dock, she can hardly breathe.

And when he guides her carefully into the tiny boat, unties it, and rows them out – she digs her fingertips so hard into the palm of her hands she's sure she's drawing blood.

He stops rowing once they're in the middle of the little pond, reaching under him and pulling out the faded sweatshirt she always steals, manhandling it over her head and gripping both her hands in his. He stares at her, blinks once, and then looks down again.

"If you wanted to break up with me, you didn't have to row me out into the middle of this pond," she tries to joke, her heart somewhere in her throat. When he says nothing in response, just looks down at her hands in his, she feels her stomach bottom out. "Oh god, you really are breaking up with me."

He still doesn't look at her, toying with the ring on her finger instead. It glints a bit in the moonlight, and she has to grit her teeth to keep herself from recoiling when he gently twists it off her finger, holding it in the palm of his hand.

She pulls her hands away, crossing her arms over her chest and looking over to the muddy bank. Damn him. Damn him for making her come out on this little boat so she has to sit and listen to his speech about how he – how he still wants to be friends, but this just isn't working for him anymore. All this pretend is too much and he loves her, he just doesn't love her. God, she's been so stupid. He's been acting odd these last few weeks and she's just – she's so stupid to think that he could still want her the way she's always wanted him. She blinks her eyes rapidly and bites at her cheek.

"Emma."

She shakes her head, staring hard at the ripples in the water. She knew it was too good to be true. She knew it. She learned long ago not to trust the things in her life that felt good and right. She eyes the distance from their little rowboat to the edge of the water. It wouldn't be so bad just to topple out. The pond would probably come up to her armpits at most, and it isn't a long walk back to her parents' house. Maybe if she's lucky, he'll fall in too.

"Emma, look at me."

She forces her gaze to meet his, intent on riding this out with as much dignity as she can muster. Even if he doesn't love her the way she wants anymore, she still wants – she still needs him to be in her life. She needs the beer tastings and the quiet conversation and his shoulder resolutely pressed to hers on their brown leather couch. He smiles at her gently, blue eyes crinkling at the corners the way she loves.

She feels like she's going to throw up.

"Why are you crying, love?"

She drags his sweatshirt sleeve across her cheek, letting her eyes dart over his shoulder and back again. "You know why."

He huffs out once through his nose, shifting in the boat until his knees press against hers. A sucker for punishment, apparently, she tucks her feet between his. Fights the urge to lean forward into his arms.

"You know I – " He swallows hard and runs his hand through his hair once, making it stick up every which way. He lets out a disbelieving little laugh and locks his eyes back on hers, smile fighting to pull up the corner of his mouth. "I fell in love with you the first week we met, I think, when you came over to my dormitory to study and fell asleep on my dingy little futon, your hair tangled about your face."

She remembers that afternoon. How she woke up to one of the folded flannel blankets from his bed draped around her shoulders.

"When we were 22 and at that ridiculous tiki bar with the fruity drinks you so loved – I fell in love with you a bit then, too. When you broke that man's nose for touching you inappropriately."

She remembers blood on her favorite green shirt, Killian laughing so hard he fell off his barstool.

"I fell in love with you this morning, when you dropped your coffee and spilled it over the both of us. And Emma, my love, I'm falling in love with you right now, with your ridiculous notion I could ever possibly want to walk away from you."

He takes her hands back in his, and she blinks at him.

"I've been struggling this week because your Mum is planning our wedding and it's – "

"I know it's a lot. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean –"

He squeezes her hands tight until she stops, the metal of the ring biting into her palm. "Darling, listen to me. Imagining you in a white dress, a smile on your face, those snowbells in your hair and your hands, it's – I want that with you. I want it to be real. I want those silly little fried ravioli and the band. But more than that – I want you. I didn't bring you out here to break up with you." He swallows hard, nods to himself once, and looks up at her – his eyes so blue and earnest and heartbreakingly determined. "I brought you out here to tell you a story. About Pyxis."

She blinks. "The compass?"

He nods again. "Aye, the compass."

She frowns, utterly confused. The way he's looking at her, she's – she's having trouble catching her breath. "Okay."

He waits a moment, seemingly gathering himself before he begins his story, voice hushed between them. A secret stolen, just for them.

"Once upon a time, there was a sailor. He used the stars as a guide, learned all the constellations so he would never become lost. He was taught by his brother – " Killian swallows hard around a pause, grips her fingers tight, and gives her a trembling smile. "Taught by his brother so he could always find his way home. Until one day, against all odds, he became lost. There was a storm, you see, the waves ferocious, and he was turned around."

She nods, still confused, but entranced by the way his voice lilts along with the words. The quiet echo of it along the still water.

"But the true trouble was he didn't realize he was lost. He kept on his same path, pretending everything was alright. Pretending – well, pretending that he wasn't being lashed by the storm and that he would make it out just fine. But the winds became harsher the longer the night went on and his tiny little boat couldn't withstand the storm much longer. And to be quite honest, Emma love, he was tired of pretending."

She bit her lip, remnants of a quiet conversation over roast chicken and root vegetables drifting through her mind. Killian's hand in hers.

"And so, he looked to the skies, ready to curse the gods. He couldn't make out any of the stars, no constellations to guide him home. Except for one – one he had never seen before. Pyxis it was called – the compass."

The story she likes best. The one about the compass.

And suddenly, her breath releases, a quiet whisper of white between them. She chances a small smile, gazing up at him.

"You're making this up."

He peers down at her, so much love in his eyes she doesn't know how she ever thought she saw anything else. He brushes a kiss across her knuckles and promptly ignores her statement. "Pyxis – this strange, miraculous constellation – it guided him home safely. All the way through the storm and back to shore."

"That seems lucky."

"Serendipitous you might say," he grins at her. "I suppose you're wondering the point of this story, then."

She shrugs. Curls her hands in the ends of his sweatshirt and presses her forehead to his chest. Delights in the way he tangles his hand in the hair not tucked beneath her hat.

"I didn't bring you out here to break up with you, love. I brought you out here to tell you a story – "

" – a made-up story – "

"A story about a sailor and a compass and a way home. I brought you out here to ask if you would consider wearing this ring not as a farce, but in truth. If you would be my wife, Emma. My way home. Always."

She keeps her forehead against his chest, listens to the steady beat of his heart.

"Yes," she replies once, her throat thick. She can still feel the tears pressing behind her eyes, burning in her nose, but this time they're different. It's the same story he told her parents, a year ago when they asked how he had proposed. He took her out on a boat, out to where she could see the stars, and she stole his sweatshirt and – "Yes," she says again. "Yes, yes I – yes."

He huffs out a laugh above her head. "I suppose you'll be wanting this back then."

She leans back in his arms as he slips the ring back on her finger, tapping it once lightly. She looks up at his eyes and the way he's smiling – a little bit crooked, eyes shining with tears, and she just –

"I love you," she whispers. "I love you so much."

He cups her face in his cold hands, his mouth warm on hers. "Oh, my darling. I have only ever loved you."

-/-

There is bacon grease clinging to her bottom lip, Killian's sweatshirt cuffed around her elbows, and a – a really, really big binder sitting in her lap.

Killian leans over her shoulder, peering at the spread of boutonnieres. His thumb brushes over the side of her neck, where she knows a violent looking hickey is blooming purple against her skin. She blushes when she remembers last night, hushed gasps and his teeth on her collarbone, her knees digging into the threadbare carpet of her bedroom and his skin hot against hers.

("Fuck, Killian, I – "

"That's it, love."

Fingers pressed tight against her hips, moving her against him. A squeeze and then that hand between her legs – pressing, circling – tighter and faster and –

His smile as she unraveled above him, shaking and panting and pressing down into him for more.

"That's it, love.")

"I'm not sure the succulent trend suits me, darling."

Emma shrugs her shoulders, flipping the page from the wild arrangements of cacti to the more traditional spread of roses and peonies. She's about to comment about just pinning some hops and barley to his chest when Mary Margaret comes tearing into the kitchen, robe haphazardly tied, and rips the binder right out of her hands.

"Hey, I was looking at that!"

"This binder was for you last wedding," Mary Margaret mutters, petulant, tossing the whole thing into the metal trash bin by the door. "Your apparently fake wedding. I need to make you a new one."

Emma's jaw drops as David wanders into the kitchen, clapping Killian once on the shoulder before reaching for the coffee pot. "She's taking it harder than I did," he tells Killian, filling his mug.

Killian winces. "I find that hard to believe when you threatened to behead me with a firewood ax."

Suddenly, everything from the past few days makes sense. Emma turns her head and catches Killian's gaze, ignoring Mary Margaret as she rummages through the cabinet under the sink, tossing dish towels and glue sticks over her shoulder.

"You told them?"

"Had to, love," he quips, pecking her lightly on the lips before he returns to frying the bacon. "Needed to do this one properly, didn't I?"

She smiles and burrows further into the sweatshirt, taking the mug of coffee her dad offers her, crunching on some bacon when Killian places it on her plate. She loses herself in the comfort of the moment, her thumb rubbing over her ring, her smile pulling at her cheeks. It's everything she's always wanted. A place to belong. A person to belong to. A home and a family and –

"I'd wipe that look off your face if I were you," Mary Margaret threatens, pulling a stack of bridal magazines from god knows where and slamming them down on the table. Henry wanders in with sleep mussed hair, takes one look at the table, and turns around again. "Now that we have a real wedding to plan, I'm not holding back."

Emma eyes the edge of the binder poking out from the trashcan. "That was holding back?"

Mary Margaret brandishes a glue stick with a mock glare, but Emma can see the smile threatening to break through. The shine in her mom's eyes and the excited shimmy in her shoulders. "Anything else you want to get out in the open? A grandchild, perhaps?"

Emma chokes on her coffee and Killian laughs at the stove.

"One thing at a time, I should think."

He winks at her and something warm and glowy feels her chest. The same thing that's always inflated like a balloon whenever he's caught her gaze.

Something perfect.

Something a lot like love.