This started as a one shot and got completely out of hand. There will be five parts. Lenfaz made me some gorgeous photosets to go with if you want to pop on over to Tumblr and check it out! Thank you as always to evil-isnt-born for A+ beta duties.

Being back in Storybrooke is familiar and it should be comforting, but everywhere Emma Swan looks, she sees the bad choices that landed her in this mess.

Broke.

Living with her parents.

Twenty-five and starting completely over.

If only she could go back in time and tell her eighteen year old self that dropping out of college to follow her boyfriend's band around the country was a terrible idea; that said boyfriend would develop a drug problem, that he would begin stealing to fund his addiction, and that one day she would find herself picking up a payphone – a freaking payphone – to call her father in tears from a truck stop in the middle of Texas with a rapidly swelling dose of reality on her face.

Just over twenty-four hours later, she's back in her father's beat up pickup, the scent of cracked leather and gasoline wrapping around her like a childhood blanket. It's a cool afternoon in Maine, and after the Texas heat, she's shivering before they've even left the airport despite it still – technically – being summer.

And like nothing ever changed, David reaches into the narrow backseat and silently offers her his old flannel coat, his scent mingling with wood smoke on the worn sheepskin lining. Burrowed into the coat, the soft plaid under her nose, it almost seems like maybe coming home is a good idea.

Before her mother's pursed lips and thinly veiled judgments.

Before the not-so-subtle hints that Emma got herself into this mess and it's time to be an adult.

Before the humiliating announcement that Mary Margaret called in a favor and got Emma a job before the week is out.

The job is the last straw, and the end of that conversation sees Emma down by the harbor, desperate for a bit of solitude and peace. Her eyes fall shut as she steps onto the dock, the sun warm on her skin. Summer's lazy days are fading into the golden haze of fall, the brine of the ocean beyond the harbor carrying on the faint breeze. Soon she'll be able to see her breath like clouds of smoke puffing out in front of her with every step she takes, and the brilliantly bright sun she's grown accustomed to several latitudes south will give way to the watery, muted light of winter in Maine.

For now, it's pleasantly hot, the days still clinging to the last of summer, the water sparkling. And if she just keeps her eyes closed, each meandering step along the dock takes her back in time, until she's sixteen without a care in the world giggling over the vodka Ruby Lucas swiped from her grandmother.

Before she met Neal.

Before she couldn't talk to her mother without feeling the woman's acute disappointment.

Before she carried with her the ever-present shame of having been hoodwinked so thoroughly by a man who was supposed to love her, who she gave up everything for.

The sudden loss of her footing and the staggering cold of the water provides an abrupt return to the present.

With a great deal of splashing and sputtering, Emma manages to shove her head above the surface, gasping for air as the frigid water steals her breath. It might be September, but the water this far north is never exactly warm, and after three days of rain, someone might as well have thrown ice cubes into it. Panic rises in her throat at the sensation of steel bands wrapped tight around her lungs, the piercing cold robbing what little breath she has.

"Bloody hell."

Emma squints into the bright sunlight, her thoughts muddled as she follows the voice to a man standing on the dock. With the sun behind him, he's little more than a dark shadow of jeans and a black shirt, but he's there, and she opens her mouth to ask him where the hell all the ladders went, but he's already bellowing what sounds like, Liam, fetch a bloody ladder this instant!

The shout is followed by a splash, another round of colorful cursing reaching her just before warm arms. "I've got you, lass," he says in her ear, and Emma is too dumbfounded to do more than stare into the bluest eyes she's ever seen, the weight of her water-logged jeans dragging against the hold he has on her.

In some far off place, Emma begins to wonder if maybe she hit her head on her way into the water.

There's a flurry of movement, more splashing, more cursing, and then she's being hauled onto the dock, all but collapsing against the person who must be Liam and blinking stupidly.

"Is she drunk?" he asks, his exasperation so clear it cuts right through her muddled thoughts.

"Seems to have hit her head." This voice is gentler, the one that saved her, and she reaches feebly for him. Footsteps on the dock, the dripping of water, and his voice drifts just out of reach. "Let's get her inside and have a look. Might need to run her over to see Whale."

"How did she even fall in?"

"Tripped over the ropes, I suspect from the state of them. I've told Liam to mind them, but the lad has his head in the bloody clouds."

Liam? Emma squints against the pain blooming over her eye. Maybe she really did hit her head, because she's under the impression the man carrying her toward the old boathouse is Liam.

A warm hand against her cheek draws her attention away from the puzzle, the touch gentle. "The water is bloody freezing. We'd best get her dry."

"Best call the sheriff." The voice above her is resigned, weary, as though Emma's mishap with the harbor is ruining his day. If she weren't so foggy, she would have something to say about that.

"The sheriff?"

"Aye, little brother. Don't you know who you've pulled from the harbor?"

"She's…? Bollocks."

It's almost pleasant, the haze that takes over, as though Emma is in a dream world. The conversation taking place above her fades into the low rumble of voices as she's jostled from one set of arms to another, and she sighs, enveloped in warmth. For the first time in a long time, it's okay to relax, to just trust that whatever is going on, she'll be okay.

"What the hell are you doing with my daughter?"

David's voice breaks through the fog, and Emma struggles to focus on her father. He's never been prone to losing his temper, but there's a dangerous menace in his voice, and Emma belatedly realizes she's wrapped in a blanket sitting on a man's lap.

The fact that her teeth are no longer chattering makes it hard to care where she sits.

"Listen, mate, before you get your knickers in a twist, the lass fell into the harbor. We fetched her out."

"She fell in? Emma has been on these docks since she was ten. There's no way she fell in."

"Be that as it may, the evidence would indicate otherwise." There's tension in the answer, a thrum of anger and resentment she can't place, and when he moves to stand, Emma clings to him. She doesn't want to give up this warm, content place where the world can't touch her, where this mysterious man jumped into the water after her. His sigh washes over her, his voice surprisingly gentle as he disentangles her fingers from his damp shirt. "You're all right, love. Your father's here to see you home."

Emma does her best to mumble a reply, but she's too damn tired to form the words. As the world around her fades to black, the last thing she hears is the rare sound of her father swearing.

-x-

"Well, the concussion explains why I feel drunk." Emma would laugh, but it would probably just hurt, so she settles for a slow shrug of her shoulders instead. "Kind of fits, doesn't it?"

"Emma, please." Mary Margaret shoots her a look from the other side of the kitchen island before pushing a mug of cocoa across the counter. "What were you even doing down there?"

She shrugs again, idly dipping her finger into the whipped cream and swirling it around. "I wanted to go check out the bar you got me a job at." It comes out far more bitter than she intends.

"It's not forever." Mary Margaret hesitates, and then sighs as she stirs her tea. "You could go work with your father."

"Seriously?" Emma shakes her head violently, immediately regretting the move as the room wobbles. They've talked about this more than once. "It's bad enough everyone knows I'm back here, living with you guys."

"It's not—"

"Yeah, Mom, I know."

Emma doesn't say the rest – doesn't say that it feels like forever, like she's falling into a bottomless pit of failures and inadequacies, not just the icy harbor. That her mother means well – she always means well – but calling in a favor to get Emma a waitressing job at a tourist bar at the end of the season doesn't really help. They'll probably just lay her off in a month anyway when the leaf chasers have come and gone, but Emma doesn't say that either.

She just takes her cocoa to the couch and watches the returning rain slide down the windowpanes before disappearing under the ledge, one empty promise after another.

-x-

The Dropped Anchor turns out to be the old boathouse, remodeled and retrofitted into a bar with a sprawling deck over the water. Emma stops outside the intricately carved door, wiping her hands on her jeans and glancing up at the cheerful sign. There's something oddly familiar about the place, but telling herself that of course there is – the damn boathouse has been here as long as she's lived in Storybrooke – Emma tells herself to get a grip, straightens her spine, and marches into the bar.

Where she runs smack into a kid with an armload of dirty glasses.

They crash to the ground in a cacophony of shattered glass, and Emma lets loose a string of curses that probably would have made even Neal blush, never mind the kid. "You okay?" she manages to ask the boy, no more than fifteen by her best guess, as she gingerly finds a spot to put her hand to shove herself off the floor.

First she arrives in town with a black eye because she was too stupid to get out of things with Neal before he finally lashed out at her in a blind rage.

Then she falls into the goddamn harbor and has to be pulled out by some guy whose name she doesn't know, earning herself a concussion in the process.

Then she arrives for her first shift at the bar where her mother got her a job as a favor from the owner and assaults the busboy within the first thirty seconds – never mind the broken glasses that will need to be replaced.

To her surprise, the boy laughs, glancing around at the mess. The bar is nearly empty, unsurprising given it's the middle of the afternoon on a Monday. "You must be Emma. I'm Liam."

That gets her attention, but before she can connect the dots, a very familiar voice grumbles bloody hell behind her.

"Christ, Liam, first the ropes and now the glasses!" It's half exasperation and half amusement, and when Emma finally manages to twist herself around, she finds the man who jumped into the harbor after her stooping down to offer her his hand. "I apologize for my brother, lass."

"It wasn't his fault," she replies automatically, offering a weak smile to the boy before getting to her feet, ignoring the hand. She has a sinking suspicion her rescuer and her employer are one and the same, and if she thinks her day can't get any more humiliating, she's very, very wrong. "Look, I'm sorry about the glasses. I'll pay for them. Or something."

The last thing she expects is for him to laugh, his blue eyes twinkling merrily in the soft lights. "No need for that. I'm certain you'll break plenty more if you're to work here."

"I'm not an idiot," she snaps, his amusement at her expense raising her hackles. Being here is already backing her into a corner, and while a tiny, logical part of her knows he means nothing by it, Emma's nerves are hanging by a thread. "It was an accident."

"You seem to be rather prone to accidents. Perhaps we ought to give the insurance bloke a ring?" His lifted brow and knowing smile-bordering-on-a-smirk only irritate her further, and she's about to tell him exactly what she thinks about him and his stupidly blue eyes when a throat clears.

"If the two of you are quite through, perhaps we could clean up the mess before someone cuts themselves?" It's a man's voice, and an exasperated one at that – fully exasperated, no amusement to be found.

It's only when she turns to tell him she doesn't need his help either that Emma realizes it's the other man from the dock. The one who shares the same stupidly blue eyes as her tormenter.

Brothers.

Emma doesn't have siblings. It's never bothered her – most days she counts herself lucky to have parents – but there's something about the way these men interact that makes her suddenly wish for that bond, despite the older one's sour mood.

"Little brother has likely been too rude to introduce himself. I'm Liam Jones." He holds out his hand to her with a welcoming smile that doesn't reach his eyes, nodding at the slightly younger man. "He's Killian. We own the place."

Emma takes his hand, but her eyes dart to the kid now sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan. "Wait, he said he was Liam. Is he…are you his father?" That doesn't really make sense either, considering she's already been told the kid is brothers with the guy behind her, but she has a hard time piecing together the relationship with the duplicate names.

The brothers exchange a silent glance between them, the air suddenly heavy as the kid fidgets. Emma can taste the bitterness of secrets and old betrayals in the air, has lived with those wounds, but she doesn't know what to say to take back her question.

"In a fashion," the elder Liam says after a moment's hesitation, his hand releasing hers and landing on the younger boy's shoulder. "He's my brother. Our father…"

"Had a penchant for drink and a peculiar sense of humor," Killian says when Liam seems unable to find the words to finish his thought. And Emma recognizes that too – the pain and the resentment of a deep-seated hurt, a wound that's never really healed.

"Yes," Liam finally says after an awkward pause, another silent exchange passing between the men that's all shadowed eyes and tight jaws. "Well, now that we've all been properly introduced, shall I show you around the place? I hope you've recovered from your mishap."

Emma nods, carefully stepping over the glass to follow the eldest Jones. Strangely enough, despite his matter-of-fact attitude about her accident serving as a direct contrast to the ribbing Killian was just giving her, she finds she'd rather be teased. But she doesn't look back, despite the fact that she can feel him standing behind her, something about his presence begging her to turn around.

As Liam begins to show her the layout of the tables, Emma very sternly tells herself that whatever attraction she feels is purely a product of Killian hauling her out of the ocean, some sort of biological programming she should ignore. She doesn't need a white knight, and she really doesn't need to get tangled up with her employer no matter how strong the memory of his arms around her suddenly becomes, or how certain she is that the obnoxiously attractive bartender and she are far more alike than she would prefer.

-x-

He isn't there when she arrives for her first real shift, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief as she ties her apron into place and shoves an order pad into a pocket with a pen. She did a decent job of avoiding Killian her first night, forcing herself to resolutely focus on Liam and his instructions despite the increasingly heavy weight of Killian's stare on her back.

But any relief is short lived as the bar starts to fill up and the locals crowd around the one flat screen TV in the place. The Patriots are playing, and Emma doesn't give a shit about football, but most of the people in Storybrooke do. They also give a shit about which beers are on tap, and Emma can't for the life of her remember them all despite there only being a half dozen.

"It's the cider, love. You always forget the cider." Killian grins at her from behind the bar when she arrives with an order for Leroy and his buddies from the quarry. Evidentially he's been watching her or eavesdropping or both. "Isn't your mum a teacher? Apples and teachers, aye? Easy enough to remember."

"Seriously? Can you just pour the beer?" Emma rolls her eyes, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "No one in this crowd cares about cider anyway."

"Aye, this rubbish, probably not. But Liam insists we keep a gluten free option for the wankers infesting the town all summer." Killian's grin only widens as he begins to pour the beers, taking his sweet time about it if she's not mistaken. "But Liam and I brew up a batch every fall, and that, love, that is a very fine thing."

"Whatever you say." Emma rolls her eyes again, pushing her hair off her shoulders and cursing her decision to leave it down. The bar isn't that big, but she's hot from carting beer around – definitely from carting beer around and not at all from Killian's not-so-subtle perusal of her body and blatant invitation.

"We were planning to open a bottle after closing tonight, celebrate a bit."

"And I care because?" she snaps, firmly shoving aside the part of her that would very much like to celebrate any number of things with Killian.

The glance he gives her falls somewhere between disbelief and annoyance, his brows knit together as he concentrates on filling the last glass. "We intended to celebrate your joining us," he finally says as he sets the last beer on her tray, an edge in his voice despite the smile he offers her. "Perhaps get to know each other a bit."

"Oh." Emma flushes as she realizes she's being pretty rude, and for no other reason than her own discomfort with her body's reaction to his proximity. Hooking up with the boss is definitely a bad idea, but pissing him off isn't so wise either, so she plasters a smile on her face and nods. "Of course. Not big on cider but I'll try it."

He looks like he wants to say something else, but she doesn't give him the opportunity, scooping up the tray and hurrying away as fast as she can manage without spilling the drinks everywhere.

But if she thinks that's the last of it, she's very, very wrong.

"How's your head?" he asks the next time she finds herself waiting for another round of drinks for the large group.

"My head?"

He lifts a brow at her, gesturing with his free hand to the bruise faintly visible beneath a thick layer of concealer. "From your dip in the harbor last week."

"I wouldn't have been in the harbor if your brother hadn't left rope all over the dock." Emma ignores that her eyes were closed and it was her own damn fault she pitched herself into the water. Admitting that to Killian won't help anything.

"Even if Liam were to blame for sending you in, I did fetch you out." He sets down one of the mugs filled to the brim and reaches for another, slowly filling it while grinning at her. "A dashing rescue, if I do say so myself."

"I don't need rescuing," she tells him with a scowl.

"Yet rescue you I did." Her glare does nothing to deter him, and unless she's very much mistaken, he's enjoying this.

And she knows he's teasing, knows he's just trying to get a rise out of her, but his words crawl under her skin and stay there, seething just beneath the surface as her blood boils. She's met so many men who don't give a shit what she does or doesn't want, men that won't listen to what she has to say.

Emma is done giving a shit about other people's opinions on what she does or doesn't want, what she does or doesn't need. And if Killian weren't sort of her boss – she's pretty sure Liam calls the shots, but blood is blood – she would tell him exactly where to shove his rescue.

Instead she says nothing, and when he actually looks a little hurt, she expects to feel victory.

But she doesn't.

-x-

"I need to quit," Emma announces after her fourth shot of tequila huddled in a back booth in Granny's diner. She's been there for almost an hour with Ruby and Elsa, and if their drinks were in coffee mugs instead of shot glasses, it really would be like she was a teenager again. "I really need to quit."

Ruby twists her carefully painted lips into a smirk, swallowing her own shot before laughing. "No, honey, you need to stay right where you are. Those Jones brothers are delicious, and you have a front row seat."

"It's not like there's a lot of available jobs," Elsa adds, ever the practical one. Her shot glass remains full in front of her, though to be fair, it's the third shot, and she's never been as quick to drown her problems in liquor as her two friends. "Unless you want to go work with your dad."

"Maybe I should," Emma grumbles, toying with the now-empty glass and debating if another one is really a great idea. The french-fries are sopping up some of the liquor, but she's probably moments away from the fine line between drunk and shitfaced. "Why didn't I stay in Texas?"

"Because Neal is an asshole," Ruby replies at the same moment Elsa says, "Because the people who love you are here." The two woman glance at each other, laughing quietly at their different though no less heartfelt responses to Emma's question.

"Is it really that bad?" Elsa asks sympathetically, taking Emma's hand and squeezing. "I've known the Jones brothers for a long time, and they're both great guys."

"It's awful." Emma groans, dropping her head onto her arm and taking a deep breath. All she can smell is the industrial cleaner Granny uses on the tables, but she stays where she is. "It's miserable," she mumbles, but the words get eaten by the tabletop and Ruby taps one manicured nail against her hair until Emma sits back up, blinking a few times until her friends come back into focus. "He's just so…stupid."

"Stupid?"

"Which one?"

Emma glares at her friends, Ruby's mockery and Elsa's too-innocent question earning her equal ire. "Yes, stupid. Stupid blue eyes. Stupid accent. Stupid flirting from his stupid face." She pauses in her tirade, narrowing her eyes at Elsa. "And you know who. Liam – the older one – he only flirts with you."

"If you can't come up with a better insult than stupid I think you've had enough tequila," Elsa retorts, though her cheeks flush quickly, pale skin hiding nothing. As usual, she completely ignores the implication that Liam wants to do more than serve her up a glass of wine when she stops by the bar after work.

Emma scoffs, snatching Elsa's vodka shot and downing it herself. "I need to quit."

"Just sleep with him and get it over with."

"Ruby!"

"What?"

"That's not a solution!"

"Why not? You said he's hot and he flirts with you like crazy. What's the problem?"

Even in her growing inebriation, Emma can't fathom Ruby's logic. "His brother owns the bar? I work for him? It's weird," she insists, though she's not drunk enough to be able to deny she's trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.

"Only if you make it weird." Ruby grins, running her tongue along her bottom lip. "Just think of all the dirty at work sex. In the stockroom. On the bar. Or on the tables after closing. Or—"

"Seriously?" Emma interrupts, her temper beginning to flare. What is with everyone and their opinions on her life? "You want me to fuck him and then turn back up the next day like nothing happened? With his brothers right there? Are you out of your–"

"I think what Ruby is trying to say is that he might make you happy," Elsa cuts in, leaving Ruby and Emma locked in a silent battle of wills. "And we just want you to be happy." She punctuates her sentence with a jab of her elbow into Ruby's ribs, but the brunette doesn't so much as blink.

"He doesn't make me happy." Emma gives Ruby one final glare and pulls a few crumpled bills from her pocket. "I need to go home. And then quit."

She manages to leave the diner without further incident, but home is the last place Emma wants to be. She's been staying out later and later, walking through town and down by the harbor, out on the seawall, anywhere she can get away from her parents' suffocating concern. They mean well – and she gave them quite a scare turning up with a black eye she refused to explain but wasn't hard to figure out– but Emma can't breathe in their loft. They both want so badly for her to be okay that neither of them can see all that pressure is suffocating her under a mountain of expectations. She can't just snap her fingers and suddenly be a well-adjusted adult, and the guilt at disappointing them is a heavy burden piled on top of her failures.

It's a chilly night, but for the time being, alcohol keeps her warm as she wanders down toward the docks, the lights from The Dropped Anchor spilling merrily onto the boards. She gives the bar a wide berth, heading in the opposite direction. Above her, the sky stretches in a cloudless sprawl of velvety night, and if memory serves, the slips at the far end are usually vacant by this time of year. It's been a long time since she's laid out under the stars with nothing but the lap of the waves and her thoughts for company, but it's a good night to do it again. Maybe the stars have answers.

Except when she reaches the right dock, there's a shadow at the end, and through some instinct that she wishes she didn't possess, Emma knows it's Killian before he turns to see who has joined him in his solitude. "Evening, Swan," he calls, his voice oddly hoarse, as though he's been silent for a long time.

She should walk away, pretend she hasn't heard him, but she's standing there, and their eyes meet, and it's not like it is in the bar where something about him brings out the worst in her. Out in the dark surrounded by the harbor, she's drawn to him, and before she knows it, her boots have carried her to the end of the dock and he's offering her a hand to steady herself as she takes a seat with her legs hanging off the edge, the water shimmering below their feet. She holds onto his hand longer than she should, his bare skin warm against hers despite the chill in the air.

He doesn't say anything, merely offers her a dented flask, rum on his breath. He must smell the tequila on her, but if he does, it doesn't stop him, and Emma figures adding rum into the mix can't hurt anything, so she takes it. Between the cold and the walk, her inebriation level has dropped back into pleasantly drunk and she intends to stay there.

She expects him to ask what she's doing out here, why she's drunk on a Sunday night, why she's such a bitch to him, why why why… but he doesn't. And the silence isn't exactly comfortable, but it's not awkward either, the two of them hovering together in a sort of void where they just exist together in the night.

In the end, the spell is broken by her shiver. He notices – of course he notices – and he offers her the flask again, but he also slides his arm around her shoulders. They're already sitting pretty close together, and Emma shouldn't, but she's drunk and he's warm, and maybe, maybe she does want him. Maybe she wants to curl up in the scent of leather and liquor and the sea and his soap and breathe him in. Maybe she just wants to not care about his brother's vague hostility, or Ruby's insistence that sex would solve everything. So she leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes and relaxes into him, but she doesn't say anything and neither does he.

It could be an hour, it could be two, but eventually a yawn slips out, and Killian stirs beside her. "It's late, love." His voice is rough, quiet and without the usual underlying hint of amusement that seems to perpetuate their conversations. "Allow me to walk you home."

"You don't have to," she mumbles into his shoulder, and neither of them move right away. Emma swears she imagines it, but it feels like his fingers catch on the ends of her hair, stroking the strands with a barely audible sigh.

"Emma." Her name is a whisper and an invitation, his eyes dropping to her lips when she finally looks up. She starts to lean into him, but her balance falters, and in a surprising show of reflexes for how empty the flask is, he manages to stop them both from falling into the harbor.

Again.

He holds on longer than he should, but Emma doesn't push him away, and when he finally does let go, she wishes he wouldn't. Not that she can find the words to say that, and even though his eyes settle on her mouth, hunger deepening his gaze, he doesn't kiss her.

"Shall I drive you home?" he offers, gesturing blindly in the direction of the bar after helping her to her feet.

"You're drunk," she reminds him, swallowing a giggle because hell, she's drunk too. There's a subtle sway to her walk that's she sober enough to notice but too inebriated to do anything about.

"I could ask Liam." Killian sways with her, two drunken sailors stumbling down along the docks.

"You want to…he's my boss." It takes her a second, her fuzzy brain happy to stay in the bubble of tequila and rum and warmth that has been the past several hours with him on the edge of the water, but there's no stopping the train once it's gotten going. She's supposed to be quitting, and instead she had a drunk snuggle with Killian on a dark dock, and he's suggesting they ask his brother to drive her drunk ass home. "Oh…fuck."

"Are you all right, love?"

"Fuck." Emma groans, pressing her hands over her face and wishing the ocean would rise up to swallow her then and there. "Liam is my boss. You're my boss. And I'm drunk. And…"

"Swan, as you just pointed out, I'm a bit pissed myself." His smile is sad, but no less beautiful as the moon catches his eyes, molten silver in the night. "We'll just not tell Liam."

"Which one?"

"Either," he says with a laugh, answering her unintentional question with a shake of his head. "Come along, love. I'll walk you home."

"But–"

"This isn't me trying to seduce you. Trust me, you would know if I was." He raises a brow, and she can see it on his face, the unspoken invitation that says he isn't necessarily trying but he wouldn't be against the idea either. "It's getting chilly and walking will keep me warm while I avoid going home a bit longer, aye? Let me be a gentleman and see you back."

She opens her mouth to argue, but the truth is she doesn't entirely want to give up her time with him, no matter how many alarms are ringing in the recesses of her thoughts. She's going to pay for this. Her next shift with him is going to be unbearably awkward, but that won't change now, whether he walks her home or not.

And she can't quit now.

So she shrugs and then nods, and when his arm drapes across her shoulders like he's done it a thousand times before, she doesn't stop him, doesn't push him away.

They don't talk as they meander through the quiet, dark town. Emma pretends not to notice Killian choosing the long way, and when they're finally standing outside her parents' loft, she doesn't ask how he knows where she lives, either – Emma is very good at not asking questions when she doesn't want to hear the answers.

"Goodnight, Emma." He raises his hand tentatively, and when she doesn't move, he brushes a strand of hair off her face, the hunger creeping back into his eyes a direct contrast to his gentle touch and soft voice. "Thank you for your company this evening."

"You were in my spot," she replies, as if that explains their odd truce or the pull between them – as if it explains why his fingers have found their way into her hair, his palm hovering so close to her cheek she can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"I wasn't aware you owned the dock," he says wryly, arching an eyebrow at her. "Own the whole bloody harbor, do you?"

Emma scowls at him, but there's no true anger behind it. "No. Just that spot," she insists, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. "I spent enough years sitting there. It's mine, and I've had the splinters in my ass to prove it."

"I see." And it seems in that moment, he does – he sees everything about Emma that she's been trying to keep hidden since coming back home; he sees the scared lost girl she's desperately trying to outrun, and yet he's still here, standing on the sidewalk outside her parents' apartment with his fingers in her hair and his lips so close to hers. He doesn't even walk through the wide open door she's left for him to make a comment about her ass.

But when her eyes slip shut, his lips brush against her cheek, his palm cradling her jaw. It's fast, so fast she wonders if she imagined it when her eyes open and he's taken a step back, a tiny smile playing on the edge of his lips.

"Goodnight, Killian." She breathes out his name, lingering with her hand on the door, and the words hang between them as they both hesitate. And she knows, knows if this were her apartment, if it weren't for her parents asleep upstairs, she would invite him in.

But it's not, and she's not brave enough tonight to ask if he lives with his brother, so she twists the knob and slips inside, her heart pounding and his scent clinging to her skin.