Ironically enough, Killian hears her before he sees her. The bell above the diner door chimes cheerily, despite the harsh weather that rages outside. His eyes flutter from his laptop screen to the entrance, eager to catch a glimpse of the only other soul brave enough to venture into his grandmother's restaurant in the dead of New York's winter. She looks young, with innocent features and a seemingly permanent soft blush. She's wearing a heavy black coat to block out the chilled air running through the city streets, and her long, blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail.

His grandmother pokes her head out from the kitchen, and lobs a shout at his cousin.

"Ruby! Pay attention to the customers before I come over there and make you."

The girl in question is bent over the counter, eyes trained on her pocket mirror as she reapplies her dark lipstick. She huffs something that sounds suspiciously like, "Customer, not customers," before pushing her red-streaked hair over her shoulder. She shoves off the counter with a sigh and throws the lipstick and hand-mirror at her cousin.

"Put that in my bag."

Killian grumbles but obliges, stuffing the makeup into her backpack, which is nestled into the corner of the booth he's slouched in.

The blonde customer anxiously fiddles with a menu, and Ruby turns her attitude back to the old woman in the back. Killian stares at the young woman curiously before his cousin's voice distracts him.

"Granny, why doesn't Killian have to work?"

He furrows his brows into a glare and teases,
"Because I've got a real job that doesn't involve complaining to an old woman."

She's only a few years his junior, but manages to stick her tongue out just as juvenilely as though she's still a teenager.

Granny rears her small frame from the kitchen door again, and scowls at Killian.
"What did you just call me, boy?"

He eyes the wash rag that hangs loosely in his grip, remembering summers getting smacked on the back of the head with the dastardly cloth for his bickering with Ruby, and smiles sweetly.

"Nothing, Granny."

She nods sternly and fixes him with another look of warning, before disappearing into the back.

Killian tries to focus on his computer keyboard, and stringing the right words into the sentence he's been stuck on for the last half an hour, but the blonde's nervous shuffling draws him back.

"What can I get 'ya?" Ruby asks kindly, smiling brightly at the young woman. The girl responds with a wavering and tight smile, pointing delicately to an item on the menu.

Ruby nods, scribbling down the order.

"Got it. Anything to drink?"

The woman wrinkles her nose, as if trying to decide, before pulling out a pad of paper of her own, scrawling out a few words that Killian can't see. She flashes the paper to Ruby, who raises an eyebrow but writes down the order nonetheless.

"Hot chocolate, good choice. It's damn near freezing out there."

The blonde nods, before shaking herself and frantically digging the pen back out of her purse.

She adds something to the page, with the urgency of a woman in danger.

Ruby laughs at the addition.

"Noted," She grins, "Have a seat, I'll bring that right out for you."

The blonde blushes and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, choosing to sit in one of the booths closest to the door. The 20 year old psychology student in Killian tells him that it speaks to her potential instinct to run, and some issues with security, blah blah blah. He shakes it off as best he can, because he's got know right to assume anything about this stranger, anyways, and why isn't he finished with the damn article yet?

He can't hold back a heavy sigh as he drags a weary hand across his face, scrubbing his tired blue eyes and mussing his black hair. The blonde seems to take notice, eyeing him briefly before pulling a sketchbook out of her bag, along with some pencils.

The article he's been assigned this week is hardly supporting his many shining credentials, and the jumbled phrases and unfinished clauses speak more to the affect of a bored 28 year old than they do to the 2 time Booker Prize nominee and what the New York Times had called, the 'most promising Hugo Award winning young author the world has known'.

He likes to think that all the flattery comes from his talent with words, but he's not naive. He knows modern media is a system that he's played into, and that it's a game with set rules. He knows that he shouldn't start sentences with "or", "but", "and", "so", or "because". He knows that he's not supposed to capitalize his letters unless they're proper nouns or at the beginning of his sentence. He knows that his low impulse control will allow him to do both things anyway. He knows that he's supposed to use his talent for phrasing to make his words feel important without using tricks like italicization or bolding- but sometimes he gets lazy and it's just so much easier that way. He knows that his editor, Robin, will likely kick his ass for adding any extra trouble. He knows that it'll go down as another episode of "Killian Jones misses the newspaper deadline and proves to be a one-hit wonder author yet again", and the next day will continue without a hitch. He knows he'll trudge into the editorial office with that cocky grin on his face a day late, and insist that this is his best work yet. It won't be.

Killian also knows, logically speaking, that he shouldn't try to talk to the blonde woman that's just hissed and frowned few feet away from him. And, Or, So, Because, But- he decides he'll do it anyway.

"You alright, lass?" He asks her, and she jumps a little, dropping one of the pencils she's been clutching. She meets his eyes for the first time, and Killian can't help but feel a little tug in his gut that whispers something about her. He can't understand what it says- can't put the syllables together in the right order just yet- but if Killian had proved anything in his life, it was that he had a way with words. He'd get it eventually.

The woman nods, green eyes seemingly filled with shining emerald, pink lips quivering slightly, as if she's afraid he's upset with her.

His jaw twitches, and the words are out before he can stop them.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," He began, his leg bouncing slightly, "I just…" He trailed off, and for all his degrees in English and his awards for his writing, he can't for the life of him, figure out what to say.

She recoils a little, and he's fucked it all up, he's made her uncomfortable, he's acted like a creep, overstepped boundaries-

She's writing on her pad of paper again, and stands to hand it to him. He seems stunned for a minute, but his brain (usually faster than a bloody bullet, and since when did Killian Jones lose his train of thought over a girl?) eventually catches up to the rest of his body and he stands to accept it.

When he's a foot or so away from her, he learns that she's shorter than him by a few inches, and she has dusted tapestries of freckles across her cheeks and nose he hadn't noticed from afar. She casts her gaze to her shoes shyly, and he clams up in shame at the realization that he quite likes the smell of her strawberry shampoo, and he'd gotten a little lost in her stare.

The yellowed page is lined and interrupted by her neat handwriting, which is elegantly slung across it. He reads the words a few times over, making sure he got them correctly and in the right places, because who can really remember how to read when this vision is standing in front of them? Killian's never been much of an artist, but he figures that the viridescent glow of her eyes, the golden cascade of her hair, the gentle pink of her skin, and the subtle blue of the sweater that rests under her coat could easily make up a palette of their own.

'I'm okay, just broke a pencil', the note reads, 'Sorry to worry you'.

He breaks out into a goofy grin, and she seems oddly relieved when he doesn't ask her why she's writing all this down instead of just saying it aloud. He turns to his laptop, sliding the screen to face the two of them. Pulling up a new page and closing his article tab without so much as bothering to saving the document, he gingerly types a few words onto the page. She's standing behind him awkwardly, unsure of what to do with herself. In a moment of bravery (or stupidity- synonyms, really, but he can't be bothered to define them) he gently takes her hand and beckons her towards the screen.

'It's quite alright, love. Killian Jones doesn't scare easily.'

She looks from him to the screen warily, as if she hasn't decided whether or not she's going to trust him, and writes down her response. He sees her hand scribble onto her note pad,

'Apparently he talks about himself in third person, too. And it's Emma, not "love".'

He feels a little bit like helium has filled his lungs rather than air, and he's about to float out of his seat. Would she pull him back down to the ground if he did? He turns back to the computer and types some more. As she scans his new words, a smile smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and she can't hide the chuckle that escapes her. She turns to find him waiting with an excited expression on his face, similar to that of a child waiting to see if their parent approved of their work.

Instead of opting to write an answer on her paper, she just shrugs with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes, and moves back to reclaim her seat by the door.

Killian supposes he can count that as a win.

His inspiration seems to be renewed, and he hears his sentences for the article enunciating themselves in his head as he types. He finds himself wondering what the blonde woman's voice sounds like. Then, he considers if she has one at all. Well, of course she does, he thinks, it might just be her hand writing, and he decides he likes that just as much.

He's half way into his re-written article when Ruby shuffles out from behind the counter with a plate of pancakes and a steaming mug of what Killian presumes to be hot cocoa. The red-streaked brunette sets the food down on Emma's table, and the she sighs appreciatively, before halting and looking up at Ruby questioningly. The waitress grins wolfishly and holds up a tiny jar of one of the spices that Killian knows is stored in the back of the diner.

"Cinnamon, per your request." Killian looks up from his work to catch Emma's dazzling smile before turning his head back to the article. Only 6,000 more words to go, and Killian knows every single one he wants to use.

Long after Emma has payed, packed up her sketchbook, and left, Killian is still deep into his writing. He doesn't pull his nose out from the laptop until it's dark outside and Ruby is jingling her keys in his face.

"If you still want that ride home, you better be ready now," she warns, "Otherwise, you're stuck sleeping upstairs in Granny's room."

Killian rolls his eyes but pleads with his cousin anyways,

"Hold on, just one more sentence!"

He finishes typing the last word of the article, making sure to save the document before glancing back at Ruby.

She seems to be holding back a laugh, and his face morphs into an affronted grimace.

"What?" He demands, "What's so funny?"

She just shakes her head through giggles and pats him on the shoulder.

"Remember to lock the front door behind you. I'll meet you at the car, lover-boy."

He doesn't realize until after she's gone outside that his document for Emma is still up at the bottom of his screen. His words are just barely recognizable, certainly to Ruby's K9 perception:

'My apologies, Emma. I'm sure I can make it up to you by buying you a hot chocolate some time. Are you planning on returning any time soon?'

A stupid, full-toothed, utterly childish grin formed among his mess of ginger stubble and scarred skin. He stood and made his way to the car, nearly forgetting to lock up behind him.

—

It's been exactly a week since Killian met Emma. He finds himself completely tuning out what Robin is telling him, opting to stare blankly at the diner door. He pretends he's not waiting for a certain head of blonde hair to wander through, and instead, tells himself that he's keeping an eye out for Robin's wife, who was supposed to meet the two of them by 4:00.

"Are you even listening, mate?" Robin deadpans, snapping his fingers in front of Killian's face. Killian reluctantly turns to look at his editor, before lifting a bored eyebrow and taking another sip of his drink. It's hot chocolate with cinnamon.

"You've got it bad," Ruby had said, "and you've only just met her."

He had scoffed indignantly at that, because, honestly, he just wondered what it tasted like, really, and bloody hell, Ruby, he's talking about the drink, not the woman-

"There you bloody go again! Jones, if you're not going to pay attention than why did you bother coming in the first place?" Robin groaned in frustration.

"I'm sorry, mate," Killian says.

(He's not.)

"Will you at least tell me what's got you so distracted?" Robin begs.

(Not bloody likely.)

"Where is Regina? She's late." Killian deflects.

"Regina is always late, and you've never cared before." Robin points out.

(He's right.)

Killian sighs dramatically and Robin rolls his eyes.

"You're a drama queen, Jones." He insists.

Killian fires back up, sitting straighter and regaining a playful spark in his eyes.

"It makes me a damn good writer, though."

Robin muscles down a smile, not wanting to encourage his friend's ego to grow any fatter.

Killian clues in on it anyways, smirking and leaning forward.

"Admit it, Locksley- that article was one of my best."

Robin scowls, stubbornly refusing to glorify him. Killian is only emboldened further, giddy in his seat.

"I knew it! I knew you'd love it!" He gushes to his editor, and Robin finally collapses into a surrendering smile.

"Fine, fine, it was good." He admits, and can't find the energy to regret it when Killian damn near giggles.

"It's better than good," The author flourishes, "it's-"

Robin interrupts him,

"Bloody amazing, yeah, I know, you arrogant bastard."

Killian laughs heartily, downing the rest of his hot chocolate in one swallow.

Robin's wife plops down next to him, sending a condescending and curious glance to Killian.

"What did I miss?" She asks, and upon seeing Robin's head hung in shame and Killian's infectious pride, she amends her remark, "Never mind, I don't want to know."

Killian shakes his head lightly.

"Good to see you, as always, Regina."

She nods stiffly and turns to her husband.

"Ready to go yet? Roland and Henry are waiting in the car."

Robin kisses her on the cheek and stands, clapping Killian on the back.

"All jokes aside, job well done. In fact, I think that's the first time I've ever seen you submit something early."

Killian hums to himself, not quite sure what to make of that fact.

"Keep up the good work, yeah?" Robin finishes with a hopeful glance.

Killian affirms with a nod of his chin.

"Cheers, mate."

"Cheers."

Robin and Regina are gone before he remembers that while he may be related to the owner, he still does have to pay. Sneaky Locksley had managed to skip the bill. Killian snorts at the thought, considering the man's pay grade is higher than his own. He drops a twenty on the table and makes to stand, but stops before he collides with Emma.

His face lights up as he sees her, waiting for her to finish writing in her notepad to say hello.

She rips off the paper and tucks it into his chest before sitting down in his seat.

'Hope you're not going anywhere- you owe me a hot chocolate.'

He chuckles as he reads, pausing at her panicked grasping at the paper. She's poised to write something else, but Killian has an idea what it is and holds up his hand.

"With cinnamon, aye, I know."

She beams and he goes to place their order at the counter.

Ruby sneers at him from behind the par, whispering in a sing-song voice,

"Lover-boy, lover-boy, lover-"

He interrupts her by asking for another hot chocolate (with cinnamon, of course), and promptly flicks her on the ear. She nearly shrieks at him, but he's perfectly content to walk back to his table as though nothing had happened.

When he sits down, he sees that Emma has taken out her sketchpad again. She's drawing what looks to be a cat, perched low in an alleyway. Her fingers are skillful as they blend the pencil smudges into expertly shadowed definition. He's more than a little awed at her talent- but even more so at her concentration. Her tongue pokes out the corner of her mouth and her eyes don't stray from the page until Ruby delivers the hot chocolate. Emma doesn't even catch the embarrassing thumbs up that Ruby throws Killian, instead dropping her head back in relaxation after taking a sip. Whipped cream coats her upper lip, and Killian suppresses the urge to wipe it off with his thumb.

She's signed 'E. Swan' at the bottom of the page, and Killian gestures curiously at it.

"Emma Swan, then?"

Her gaze jumps to him, as if she had forgotten he was sitting across from him, and she nods subtly.

His face grows warm as he blurts,

"I like it."

She tilts her head quizzically, and he mentally curses himself for his inability to think clearly.

"Your name, I mean," he clarifies, "I like it."

'Thanks. I like my name too.' She writes, and he feels like he's bursting at the seams with an unfounded giddiness.

He takes the pen from her hand (since when does he take without asking? Since when has he completely forgotten he's supposed to use to ask? He can't quite speak or think straight, but the conscious part of his brain is mumbling about Emma, and that likely has something to do with it).

His handwriting is much messier than hers- his brother had always called it writer's hand- but he tries to making it as legible as possible.

'So which blessed soul bestowed upon you the knowledge of hot chocolate with cinnamon?'

Emma seems to enjoy poking fun at his handwriting; she doesn't even have to write anything down to show it. She just snorts at his scribbling and he feigns hurt, only to be quickly dissipated by the resulting clicking of her tongue.

'My mom. She always said it's the best way to have it.'

Killian hesitates before inquiring,

'Said?'

A dark shadow falls over her face, and he's worried that he pushed to far- but Emma takes a deep breath and answers.

'Died a few years ago.'

He nods solemnly, knowing all too well what it feels like to lose a parent.

When he looks up, Emma seems to be searching his face, and he can't figure out what for.

Whatever it is, she seems to have found it, and her expression softens.

'You lost someone too.' She adds.

It's not a question, but Killian feels the need to answer as Emma drinks more of her hot chocolate. He doesn't bother mentioning his father, not wanting to sound like he's trying to one-up her or something- who knows, he's already too anxious and he's over thinking, and maybe his over analytic tendencies make him a good writer, but they certainly don't make him a better conversationalist-

She sets the mug back down on the table with a dull 'thud', reading his words.

'My mum passed when I was little. My brother, Liam, was killed when I was a teenager.'

She peers at him curiously, and that damn smell of strawberry shampoo is back, and that look is so close to being familiar it makes his head spin.

When he was growing up, he'd seen the lot of them. Pity, guilt, sympathy- the whole nine yards. He'd had the 'reassuring' shoulder pats and the uncomfortable hugs from aunts and uncles who hadn't bothered to talk to him since his mum had been diagnosed with the cancer. He'd gotten awkward glances from Ruby when she and Granny had first taken him in, before she learned how to treat his pained expressions and slow movements. He hasn't seen this one in a while, though. He hasn't felt the calming properties of this emotion since his brother- hasn't found a kindred spirit since their long phone calls while Liam was out on deployments.

Played out clear and bright across Emma Swan's face is empathy.

Killian has known how to spell the word love and use it in a sentence since he was a young lad, but he doesn't think he's ever truly understood the meaning. Feeling Emma's fingers grab his is about as close to understanding it that he expects to ever get.

—

If he's being honest, the next few months a blur. At some point, Granny just tells Ruby to stop charging Killian for all the hot chocolate he buys each week, because "that boy wouldn't know the phrase 'pace yourself' if it punched him in the face".

If he's really being honest- though he'd most certainly prefer not to- he does tend to follow his heart through every dead-end whim it happens to take him on. He's becoming quite adamant, though, that Emma Swan is no whim.

It begins with her offering him a ride home.

It's not that he can't catch a ride with Ruby like he usually does. In fact, that's been a constant since his brother died, and Killian had refused to get his license. The young Jones had insisted that he wouldn't need it in the navy, anyways. Then of course, came Granny's pressuring for him to give college a try. He jumped from major to major, considering psychology and philosophy, before ultimately deciding that he'd rather stop studying the nature of people and just comment on it instead. K. Jones was born the minute he dropped out of college, and he had a best selling opinion-based novel within a few years. It was one of the first of its kind, Robin would often would say, bragging about how he was the lead editor on Jones' 'revolutionary work' in the field of not giving a damn about the rules of writing.

Killian's job with the local newspaper is more of a pass-time than anything else. They contact him when they're desperate for a quality piece, and he spends the rest of his energy on his own writing, trying to piece together a subject for his next book.

Obviously, there's no time for him to learn to drive. Ruby taunts him and says that the reason he can't get a girlfriend is that he's nearly 30 and doesn't have a license. Killian doesn't answer, because he's too busy accepting a ride from Emma and working his way to accomplish one of those things.

It's not driving.

Emma's car is a tiny beetle Volkswagen, and while Killian is sure that no color could possibly do justice to Emma's vibrancy and life force, the yellow of the car comes fairly close. He learns that she likes 80s pop, and she learns that he likes classic rock. The more time they spend in the bug, though, the more they realize that they've both come to like classical music quite a bit more than anything else.

Emma's art has slowly started to involve more color. She claims its because she's started listening to Mozart while she paints, but Killian knows for a fact that her best pieces are done when he's on her couch throwing popcorn at her while she works. The dark pencil sketches pave way for the bright splashes of paint and smears of glittering hues that litter her canvases (and when Killian is annoying her too much, his clothes).

He's no expert on symphonies, and isn't sure he really wants to be- but Emma's 25th birthday is coming up and he knows the perfect gift.

The New York Philharmonic symphony season is surprisingly bustling, and the crowd isn't as old as he had expected. Emma clings tightly to his arm- he knows she hates crowds- but a joyful smile is plastered across her marbled features. The pad of paper hangs around her neck on the silly chain that Killian attached to it ('for easy access, Swan', he had written, and 'Your face is looking pretty accessible. I'll alert my fist,' she had scribbled back). He has his own, of course, because 'if I have to look stupid in public, then so do you, Jones'.

He hasn't seen Emma cry before, and really doesn't want to, but when her eyes get shimmery at the last song of the symphony, he feels more than a little proud.

Robin is elated when Killian announces that he's found the focus for his next book, and is more inspired than ever. He refuses to say explicitly what it is, though, and that causes Locksley to throw a tantrum bigger than any that either of his sons had ever thrown.

Killian enjoys it, though- he enjoys waking up fresh with ideas, and scrambling to his laptop to spill them onto the page before they turn to mush in his head. He enjoys texting Emma his ideas, and reading her witty responses to his rambling. He enjoys barging into the diner every week to update Ruby and Granny, despite the both of them being too busy to really listen.

Most of all, though- he enjoys the control of thinking the thoughts to himself before uttering them to anyone else.

Don't misunderstand- he absolutely does not enjoy impulse control. It's a chore, surely, and a skill he's working on- but not fun.

Or maybe it's a little fun, especially when Emma presses her finger to his mouth to shut him up, or knocks the pen out of his hands when he tries to write it down. Perhaps the fun is really more about her giggle and the bad quality of the movies that they watch on her couch every Friday night after their trips to the diner.

But, And, So, Or, Because, even Killian Jones has to admit that it's entirely fun to fall in love with Emma Swan.

—

They've known each other a little more than half a year, now, and it's becoming harder to not drop down on one knee every time he gets the opportunity. They're not dating, or anything- he's just met her sisters (Elsa is a little cold at first, but she warms up to him quickly, citing him as a good man and an even better friend. Anna can barely contain her excitement and is always insisting that Killian and Emma are the epitome of 'true love'. Killian isn't quite sure about that, but he knows that he can spell the phrase with the same amount of letters it takes to tell Emma exactly how he feels).

He's heard about Emma's mother, Ingrid, too. She adopted Emma out of the foster system when she was 12, but a lot of damage had already been done. Emma was an orphan, went into the system with a voice, and came out of it mute. Killian is always insisting that Emma is just as complete without her voice as she would be with it. Emma writes to him that she's thought about it before- speaking again- she just doesn't think she can manage it. She tells him that when she stopped talking, she stopped being a scared little girl and started being her own person. Killian bites his tongue to keep himself from telling her that her voice won't make her weak- that it's still medically possible for her to talk, she just needs the psychological support- but he knows that this is her battle to fight and winning it for her would be nothing short of selfish. He refuses to deprive her of that victory.

She knows about him, too. She knows about Liam's death in the engine failure on the ship he was serving on. She knows about his close bond with Ruby and his brotherly disposition towards Robin. She knows about his deadbeat dad who skipped town the minute Killian's mother died. She knows he hates ranch dressing, and she knows he's obsessed with the "Pirates of the Caribbean" franchise. She knows that he's allergic to peanuts and that writing and wordplay are some of the biggest loves of his life. She hopes that maybe she's got a spot on that list, too.

Killian knows that she's a goofy drunk, and can't hold her pencil straight enough to write. When she manages to quit giggling and form a sentence on the paper, it ends up complete gibberish or otherwise indiscernible nonsense. Killian knows that she doesn't like loud noises, and is deathly scared of bugs. He knows that she'll call him at 3 AM to come to her apartment and kill the spider in the corner of her room because she's too freaked out to touch it and doesn't want to weigh the burden of killing an innocent creature on her conscience ('It's a spider, Emma. It doesn't even have a concept of murder or morality, so I think you're fine.' / 'You don't understand, Killian- what if it has a little spider family and I'm ripping it away from them?' / 'I think you mean I'm ripping it away from them. Unless you'd like me to hunt down its spider family and make quick work of them, too, I'd suggest to try to get some sleep.' / 'You're staying, though, right?' / 'Of course. Can't have the widowed arachnid and her young fatherless children come to get revenge on you in their sleep, can we?' She threw a pillow at him for that).

It's nearly a year since they first met that he works up the courage to ask her out. His palms are sweating and he's shaking his knee anxiously as he waits for her in their usual booth at Granny's. She wears more bright colors, these days, despite the fact that winter is once again rearing its head and she'll freeze to death in pink sandals and a blue camisole. She pays little mind, opting to sit down and start writing immediately. Ruby knows her order by heart, now, and drops off the hot chocolate and pancakes with a kiss to Emma's forehead. The two go out with Ruby's friends for 'girls nights' every month, each of which consist of large amounts of alcohol and the inevitable conclusion of maxing their credit cards. Killian rarely receives the same treatment, preferring to catch a glimpse of Ruby flashing him the middle finger as she sets down his order, which she's been sure to mess up every time. She fails, without fail.

That's actually quite good, he thinks, I should write that down- but Emma is impatiently tapping her nails on notebook paper she's slid over to him, and he stares at her dumbly before remembering he should be asking her out.

'What's wrong?' The paper reads, 'You look nervous.'

He's written a whole note already, and he's compulsively turning it over and over in his hands. It's drafted and edited to say exactly what he wants to say- he just can't bring himself to read it. It seems that somehow, even with the words literally printed in front of him, he can't string a coherent thought together in the face of Emma Swan.

He forces a smile and poises his hand to write, but Emma stops him. She shakes her head, writing first.

'If you're going to tell me that nothing is wrong, then you can save it.'

He gets unreasonably scared when he reads that, because the last thing he wants to do is upset her. For christ's sake, he's trying to tell her… to tell her…

She seems to sense his fear and continues to calm him,

'It's okay if you don't want to talk about it. But I'm here if you do.'

He breathes out steadily through his nose, screwing his eyes shut and begging his racing brain for a moment of clarity. Just one sentence, please. Just one sentence, he begs, give me one sentence that I can say clearly, without looking like a jackass. Something that makes sense. Dammit, anything! I'll even settle for one word-

"Date!" He stammers out, and she raises her eyebrows while a smile twitches onto her face. She looks like she's trying to hold back a laugh.

'Care to expand on that note, Jones?'

He blushes furiously and tucks the pre-written note back into his pocket.

"Date. Uhh… go with me? On one?"

He tries, desperately to save any dignity he might have left.

She licks her lips and doesn't bother fighting the amused grin that's stretching from ear to ear.

'Just one?' She writes, and he nearly chokes on his own spit.

"Well, multiple, actually- I mean, I had hoped…"

He mumbles, and his ears have turned read and he's scratching at his neck awkwardly, and Emma laughs loudly.

Not exactly the reaction he was looking for.

Shame clouds the corner of his vision, and suddenly the room is feeling way too small and his jacket is way to tight, and his arms are a little heavier than they were a minute ago-

'Of course!'

She's waving it around frantically, giggling like a child as she tries to get his attention. She shoves it in his hand and shakes her head playfully, still delighted to see him flustered.

Killian thinks the whole world can hear the sigh he lets out when she takes his hand and laces their fingers together.

—

They don't fight- not really. It's hard to yell at each other when you both have to think about what you're saying before the other person hears it. Or, in this case, reads it.

There's not as much rash decision making. There's not as much aggression and anger- it's really more subdued and unsettling more than anything else.

When they 'fight', they do it for hours, trading notes and heavy sighs until the entire thing is sorted out and they're finished and cuddling on the couch.

It's more than ideal, Killian thinks, because every couple argues and every couple has troubles adjusting, but not every couple uses those 8 letters that Anna had used to describe them. Most use the 8 that Killian had thought of.

And eventually, he does.

He definitely likes kissing her. The first time had been clumsy like firsts usually are, but they'd gotten the hang of it pretty rapidly, trading light and casual comments for flirtations and soft pecks in the morning. He definitely likes the more consuming ones, too- he likes getting drawn into the warmth of her mouth and forgetting his own name, he likes the devotion he feels and the desperation he knows for her touch. It takes a while for him to become fully used to introducing her to people as his girlfriend, because dating felt so much like a thing he'd do as a teenager, and why couldn't he just marry her already?

Oh, right.

8 letters.

That's supposed to come first.

He knows it's true, he just has a hard time saying it. For every word that rolls so easily off his tongue and onto a page, there is another that he can't bring himself to utter out loud. It's not insecurity, he's sure she feels it too- but he's ashamed to say that he's disappointed he'll likely never hear her said it back.

She'd write it, of course, and that sentiment is just as amazing and valuable, to him- but it's not hearing it in her voice. He tries to fix his mentality the way he always does: writing. He drafts and edits, he starts sentences and skips a line and never finishes them, he misspells words just because he likes the incorrect spelling better, dammit, and deletes everything as soon as he's finished.

And that's just it, Killian thinks, he'll happily live in a life of silence if it means he can spend it with her.

She ends up telling him first.

They're at his apartment, and it's really too early for either of them to be up, but they both are anyways. The sun is barely peeking out over the horizon, and Emma is propped up in a chair on the balcony with Killian's robe drawn tight around her with her sketchbook in her lap. He steps out and runs a hand through his tangled hair, shuffling himself into the chair next to her.

It's quiet and peaceful, and Killian is too scared to interrupt it with the sound of him penciling words on his notepad.

She's focused again, with that mesmerizingly intent look on her face as though she's about to redefine an entire language. He knows it's rude to stare, but he can't help it, not when she's looking like that and laughing at the dopey look on his face and setting her sketchbook down to sit on his lap.

They barely make it past 6 AM before he asks what she was sketching. She's got the same shy anxiety in her eyes as she did when he first met her, and he grips her waist a little tighter to remind her that he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

She leans over to grab the sketchbook, and his breath is drawn out from his lungs.

It's him, she's drawn him, with the same scar on his cheek and the same blue in his eyes, the same black hair that desperately needs to be cut, the same old leather jacket he can't stop wearing- and at the bottom, lying atop a galaxy of purples and blues and reds, her beautiful calligraphy twists into the phrase,

'I love you.'

—

He's nervous now.

Of course, he's always been nervous, but this is a big deal.
The biggest deal.

They've been dating for exactly a year, today. They've known each other nearly two.

So, Or, And, Because, But, it's not just an anniversary.

He's got a shiny ring to prove it. It's elegant and sophisticated shined and gently rounded to caress the small diamond that sits in the middle. It's simple, but he hopes (knows?) (definitely knows) Emma will like it. That is, if she says yes. Well, writes yes.

He called Elsa the week before to ask for her blessing. He knows it's a little antiquated, but it's the family that Emma has, and he wants it to be his family too.

In his pocket, he's got the note he wanted to read her the day he was going to ask her out. In his hand he's got the box that holds the ring he wants to ask her to marry him with.

In his head is got a jumbled mess of nonsense words that absolutely do not go in that order, are not spelled that way, and do not sound like that.

It doesn't quite matter, though.

She's meeting him at Granny's.

Any minute now.

She's meeting him any damn minute.

And He's going to ask her to marry her.

At Granny's.

Any minute now.

To marry him.

Her new job with the newspaper doesn't require her to do much talking- or any talking, for that matter. She does the illustrations, has a weekly artist column, gets a decent salary, and has all her own art to sell if she so pleases. His book is almost done, too, so they've got the money to do this. She and Killian live together, anyways, so why is he so nervous?

Right.

4 words.

That he's got to remember in the correct order.

Dammit.

She looks gorgeous as she always does when she walks through the door, greeting Ruby and Granny with a wave, and taking her seat across from Killian.

She looks at him warily, sensing his apprehension, and pulls out her notebook to write- but he stops her. He presses a light kiss to her wrist and locks eyes with her.

"I… well… uhm…" He starts, but that's not how he wants to begin, and every author knows to use a strong hook to get the audience interested, and bloody hell, she's already interested, you live together you git, and Emma has just blinked blankly and he needs to seize this moment before it disappears.

"I love you." He maintains steadily, moving to stand from his seat across the table from her to crouch down in front of her. She already knows what's coming, and he can see that look in her eyes, and she wants to run but she wants to run in his direction, and,

"I'm going to love you for as long as I am capable of any emotion."

He breathes out again, refusing to falter. She grips his hand tighter and he closes his eyes because if he looks at her he'll know she's already sniffling and crying,

"I'll love you beyond that. I'll love you until hell has rained down upon us and the sky has opened up to swallow us whole."

They're attracting some attention now, and some of the other customers have stopped to watch.

"I met you here, and I intend to know you here. I intend to know you everywhere, and anywhere, and always."

She's crying, he can tell, he hasn't opened his eyes but he can feel the tear drops because one has fallen on his hand and she's holding it so tightly.

"Emma," He breathes, and his feet feel like they're turning to ice. His free hand is fishing around in his pocket and he's completely on one knee now, and he doesn't want to rush this but he knows he has to make it quick-

Somewhere across the diner a plate is dropped and shatters on the floor. He doesn't have to look to know that it's Ruby and that the sudden silence from the fryers means that Granny has noticed what he's doing, too.

Well, trying to do, anyways.

"Emma Swan, I can't imagine a life without the promise of your handwriting and I can't wish to feel a touch that isn't yours. I can't open my eyes because I know that the instant I do, I'll just ask you already, and I need you to know that I've thought about this,"

She chokes on a sob, and it takes everything in him to repeat,

"Really, thought about this,"

He sighs when his fist closes around the velvet box. He pulls it out from his pocket and everyone in the diner has officially stopped breathing.

"But damn it all if I don't just have really buggered impulsivity issues," and he opens his eyes to see her clearly. If she could glow any brighter, she's block out the sun.

Killian Jones, the author, doesn't seem so far fetched right now, not as he's looking at this incredible spirit. He thinks that he hadn't spoken or written or thought of a coherent idea until he'd met her.

"Will you marry me?"

When she says 'yes', he doesn't read it. He hears it.