Emma Swan

August

She sits in her rental car, staring out at the small gathering, searching for the strength to open the car door and join them. They're all dressed in black, of course, a melancholy circle of figures, like charcoal smudges against the dark green foliage. They stand closer together than people normally do, as if ignoring personal space will somehow make this occasion less bleak. There may be truth to that, she supposes. Maybe the sharing of grief, this expression of support with other broken souls lessens the pain somehow, but Emma wouldn't know anything about that.

There's never been anyone in her life to help her through occasions like this, to help her understand such futile loss.

Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the car door and steps out into the humid August air. The day is a contradiction; the leaden sky promising a storm, while the atmosphere is thick with heat. Ever since she'd heard the news, all she had wanted to do is bundle herself in blankets and pajamas to beat back the cold that resides in her bones, but the air retains the vestiges of a sticky New England summer, so she'd settled for a simple black dress and sheer black stockings with black flats. She'd pulled her long hair off her neck in a loose bun in deference to the humidity, her normal gold hoops in her ears.

She slams the car door, wincing at how loud it sounds in the stillness. Tucking her keys into her dress pocket, she takes a deep, steadying breath and then makes her way over to the group of mourners.

No one looks up as she approaches, but she doesn't expect them to. They don't know her and she doesn't know them. For a moment she lingers on the edges of the group, her eyes studiously avoiding the coffin they are circled around until her gaze lands on a tall man with dirty blond hair trying to catch her attention. When she finally notices him, he gives her a small, tight smile of recognition and she makes her way to him. He has his arm wrapped around a short, dark haired woman with red rimmed eyes and he whispers something to her as Emma approaches. She looks up then, giving Emma the same sad smile of welcome that her husband had given her. When she's close enough, Mary Margaret reaches out her hand, pulling Emma close to her and her husband before dropping her hand.

Emma is not one for superfluous touching as Mary Margaret is well aware, but she appreciates the gesture all the same and gives David's wife a thankful smile, one that trembles on her lips before falling away. Turning to face the grave, she finds that she still can't look at the coffin, her gaze bouncing off it and up to the gray sky above. God, this is even harder than standing in the receiving line at the funeral home and that had been fucking horrible.

She'd forced herself to glance at him once, thinking that she owed him that much at least.

It was a cliche, of course, but he'd looked like he was asleep. He'd rarely looked that pulled together in life and it didn't seem real to see him with his usually messy hair brushed neatly and his uniform crisp and unwrinkled. Seeing him like that, unfamiliar and still, had made her breath catch and she'd turned on her heel to bolt from the room, finding herself outside the funeral home and trying to breathe through the burning ache in her throat.

Now she squeezes her eyes shut to erase the image of him lying in that damned coffin, picturing him as she'd known him in life with his brown hair a windblown mess over his forehead, his pants always just this side of too wrinkled and his brown leather jacket covering a stain from that morning's jelly donut. He'd been sweet and boyish, a little bit awkward, but in a nerdy sexy way and now there's just a glossy wooden box with a wreath of bluebells placed carefully on the closed top. He'll never smile again, his eyes crinkling up in amusement or try to cajole her to going out on a date with him. He'd been wearing her down, his sweetly inept attempts at flirting slowly starting to break down her cynically built walls.

And now...well, now he's stuck in a box and she's stuck here. Alone, as ever.

It's clear that no one else is going to join their small circle around the grave. David had mentioned back at the church that they'd decided to keep the graveside service small, which she appreciates. The church had been packed, so many people sharing their sorrow and Emma had been on the fringe of it, not able to join in and feeling incredibly uncomfortable for it. She'd felt like she was letting him down somehow by not being able to cry out her anger and pain with the other mourners.

But, then again, he'd known her better than most and he would've understood her inability to embrace her grief.

Her presence here at all would've surprised and pleased him to no end. He's probably smiling at her from wherever people go when they die, shaking his head in disbelief, his deep blue eyes twinkling at her with affection. He'd never held her past against her, never judged her for the wounds that she carries to this day and it hurts to know that there's one less good man in the world, one less friend's kind, understanding heart.

The priest steps up to the grave, head bowed and knuckles white as he clutches his bible in his hands. He murmurs a prayer, one she doesn't bother to follow. She keeps her eyes closed and says one of her own as she imagines him as he'd been the last time they'd Skyped each other, happy go-lucky and excited as he'd told her all about the house he was renovating. He'd sent her pictures, begging her to come and visit.

Just once, Em, please. You'll love it.

She'd refused, of course, because that's what she did. Things got intense, people got close, and she ran. And now, she's left with regret because he's gone and she'll never have the chance again.

"Emma?"

She opens her eyes with a start, turning to her left to find David staring at her, his forehead wrinkled with worry. He looks tired, eyes red from tears that he hasn't bothered to hold back and a couple of days worth of a beard along his jaw. He's probably burning the candle at both ends, trying to find out who committed this heinous crime while still running his sheriff's department, all by himself now.

Glancing around, she realizes that the other mourners have moved away and it's just her and David now. She turns back to the grave to see that the wreath of bluebells has been removed, tossed carelessly into the grass as the winch that lowers the coffin into the ground whirs. Two men stand off to the side, watching the slow descent of the box, heads lowered with respect as they wait to get to work shoveling the dirt into the grave.

As the coffin descends into the ground, she forces herself to look at the gravestone. She stares hard at the simple gray stone, numbness settling into her chest as she reads his name:

Graham Michael Humbert

She repeats it over and over in her head, hoping that one of those times will make it more real to her.

He's dead.

Her friend, the man she was beginning to fall for, is dead.

"Emma," David says a little more firmly this time. She blinks and looks back at him, her eyes filled with tears that blur her vision. Whatever he sees in her face causes him to wrap his arms around her, holding her as they watch Graham's coffin slip down into the dark.

She doesn't cry, but this very well may be the closest she's come so far. If there's anyone who understands her pain, it's David. He had been the one to cajole her into visiting him and Mary Margaret once they'd moved to Storybrooke, inviting Graham over for dinner that weekend to meet her. He couldn't have been more interested in her hooking up with his deputy, had even boldly suggested it during one of her infrequent calls to check in on the Nolans. It had driven her nuts and she hadn't called for a while after that, her stubborn rejection of the suggestion driving a rift between them for a while.

But then Graham had reached out, suggesting she come back to town for a visit, so he could give her an official tour of Storybrooke. She'd declined. He'd then started sending her a joke of the day, some of them actually funny, but most of them not. He'd sent her pictures of the day, finding things that reminded him of her and she reciprocated by telling him snippets of her life, so he could find a corresponding picture. She still had the selfie he'd sent her with a swan swimming lazily in the background behind him.

David had wisely faded into the background after that, letting nature take its course, or so he'd told her when she'd asked him about it once. She hadn't spoken to him for a week after that comment.

As David holds her now, sharing in her heartache, she finally understands why everyone had been packed so tightly together in the church and just now at the gravesite. It's comforting, leaning on each other like this. David's a tall guy, ably built, and she feels dwarfed by his size, smothered against him like he's a big blanket offering warmth against the chill of her sorrow. It's the first time since she'd learned of Graham's death that the world doesn't seem quite so bleak.

"How you holding up, Em?" he asks, starting to rock her gently to and fro in his arms. She finds that the words won't come, so she just burrows deeper into his arms, turning her head enough to stifle a sob into the shoulder of his dark suit. He doesn't say anything further, just holds her and presses a brotherly kiss to the side of her head.

The winch finally stops, the coffin coming to rest at the bottom of the grave. The two workers spring into action, removing the frame from around the grave, packing everything up, one of them picking up the wreath and placing it gently on the corner of the headstone for safe keeping.

"We should go now," David says gently, pulling back far enough to look down into her face. He tilts her chin up, smiling sadly.

"I don't want to leave him on his own," she whispers, bottom lip suddenly trembling so hard she has to bite down on it. She looks anywhere but at David or the grave, not wanting to focus on the tears in his eyes or the gapping hole where her friend's body has been deposited.

"He's not in that box, Em. You know that. He's probably running through the woods on the back of a wolf or something. He's free. Lucky bastard." She sniffles at that, thinks over David's logic. Graham was never happier than when he was out in the woods, running.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," he repeats, stepping back and reaching for her hand.

"You know he wouldn't want you wallowing for him. He'd want you to be happy."

"Happy..." she says, the word foreign on her tongue. Almost being with Graham was the closest she'd ever come to knowing what happy might feel like and now...now it seems so distant again.

"Yeah. Happy," David replies, squeezing her hand to comfort her. She shrugs it off, dropping his hand to wrap her arms around herself as if she can somehow protect herself with a physical barrier. He sees it and sighs, jamming his hands into the pockets of his suit as Emma's walls slowly rise back up. He gives her the space she needs to say goodbye, but he doesn't leave her alone. It bothers her, but she allows it, knowing that it makes him feel better when he's protecting people. It's why he'd made one hell of a cop in Boston and New York and why he's now one amazing sheriff to this little town. It's why he's an amazing husband and father and why he's always been an amazing friend to her. So, she lets him stay even though her default is to be alone with her misery.

It's only when the dirt begins to fall into the grave, landing on the coffin with a dull thud that he finally wraps his hand around her elbow and pulls her backward.

"It's time, Emma. We don't need to see this part." He gently forces her to turn her back on Graham's final resting place. She goes, her feet shuffling reluctantly as she follows his broad shoulders back to their waiting cars.

She doesn't know what catches her attention, what makes her turn her head. Looking back toward the grave, she slows, eyes scanning the woods that surround the graveyard. Not seeing anything at first, she starts to turn forward again, but she can't shake the feeling that there's someone there. Someone watching. Squinting harder, she finally picks out a figure standing in the shadows of the trees.

It's a gray and hazy day, so she's surprised she's able to spot him in the shadows of the forest. It's clearly a he, dressed in a dark suit with a light blue shirt peeking out from beneath, his shirt collar open at the neck. His legs are splayed as if he's balancing against a gale, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants as he stares back at her. Dark hair and the shadow of a beard give him a dangerous appeal even from this distance.

She can't see his eyes, but she can feel them on her. It makes her heart race, gets her hackles up. They stare at each other and the distance between them seems to shrink until she feels like if he whispered to her, she'd be able to hear every word, the yards between them meaning nothing. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge her in any way, but she knows he sees her.

A rumble of thunder rocks the ground beneath her feet, making her breath catch in surprise. She glances up at the sky, breaking their eye contact, and when she looks back, he's gone.

Almost like he was never there to begin with.

David and she head to the loft, driving separately. Emma has the steering wheel in a death grip the whole way as she follows him down main street. There are a lot of people that come to pay their respects, a never ending stream of friends and admirers coming and going. Mary Margaret, David's other half, senses her discomfort and stays by her side as much as she can, but she's the sheriff's wife and a joint host for this event, so occasionally she has to leave Emma to greet people. On one of those trips, she grabs a plate of food, bringing it back to Emma and smiling gently as she encourages her to eat something.

"When are you going back to Boston?" she asks, settling next to Emma on the settee. Her gaze is focused toward the kitchen where an older woman is holding her son, Leo. He's a cute kid, blond with green eyes, a perfect blend of David and Mary Margaret.

"Tomorrow. I drove a rental car, so I need to start early to return it." Mary Margaret nods, turning her focus back to Emma and the plate of food she's holding untouched in her lap.

"Eat," she prods, passing a fork to Emma and patting her wrist gently before she settles against the settee. She waits, watching as Emma begins to pick at the food. "You know, David has a favor to ask you, Emma, and when he does, I want you to think long and hard about your answer."

Emma glances at Mary Margaret, a forkful of food hanging in mid-air as she takes in the hardness of her friend's eyes. She's a teacher here in Storybrooke, in addition to being a wife and mother, but when Emma had first met her, she'd been a cop in New York. That's how David and she had met, serving together and falling in love. She'd given it all up to follow her husband when he'd decided that he wanted a quieter life. Emma hadn't understood Mary Margaret's choice then, but looking around her now, seeing how happy the Nolans are with all of their friends and their young son, she can understand the appeal.

It's maybe what she and Graham might have had...if he'd lived. If she'd given him even half a chance with her heart.

The expression on Mary Margaret's face now reminds Emma of first meeting her in New York. She'd been a scrappy cop, one who didn't mind playing a little fast and loose to survive. It had taken David's calming influence and promise of a home to finally get her to settle down. But she'd never lost the tenacity or the drive that had made her such a good cop. She's clearly not happy about what her husband is about to ask Emma and her opinion shows in the angry glint of her eyes, in the angle of her obstinate jaw.

"What's he gonna ask me?"

"You know I'm not going to tell you that," she responds, eyes flicking up to catch David's glare across the room. It's clear he knows she's not happy about this impending discussion between her husband and her friend, but they've also come to an understanding about it. To the point where she's not going to step on his toes and tell Emma what favor he's about to ask her for.

"Okaaaay," Emma draws the word out, a frown wrinkling her brow as she tries to figure this one out.

"Look, Em, don't agree because you feel like you owe it to anyone, okay? And regardless of what David says, we're fine." An apprehensive knot forms in Emma's stomach at this declaration, her food forgotten as she stares at her friend.

"What's going on, Mary Margaret?"

"I've already said more than I promised I would," Mary Margaret says, standing when she sees David breaking away from his current conversation to make his way over to them. "Just...remember what I said. It'll make sense once you've talked to David." She leans over, wrapping an arm around Emma's shoulders for a quick squeeze before taking her leave.

"Don't worry," Emma says as he approaches. She spears a green bean with her fork, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she shoves it in her mouth. "She didn't tell me anything," she says around the bean.

David crosses his arms over his burly chest, staring down at her with what she can only describe as brotherly concern. It makes her tired, all that concern and worry and attention. She suddenly wants a bed, any bed, with blankets up over her head.

"Did she tell you that I needed to ask you a favor?"

"Well, yeah, she did tell me that much. So, what do you need?"

"Not here. Finish eating and we'll go for ride." He looks at his watch, a quick flick of his eyes down to his wrist and back up to watch her finish eating. It feels like he has somewhere to be, somewhere that won't wait for her to finish the green bean casserole and jello salad that remain on the paper plate in her hands.

She's not hungry anyways.

"Let's go," she says, standing and setting the plate down on the coffee table, dropping the plastic fork into the jello as she goes. Needing to move, to get away from the curious stares and the low, respectful murmuring, she leads David out of the loft. They part the crowd for her, a smudge of black amongst all the other muted, bleak gradations of it.

Isn't it strange that the lack of a color can have shades?

They decide to take David's truck, a massive brown beast that wouldn't look out of place on a farm. He'd told her that once, hadn't he? That he'd grown up on a farm, just him and his mother and twin brother, she thinks, a brother he'd lost a long time ago. It's maybe why he emphasizes family so strongly, insisting over and over again during their friendship that family is important, that they center you and keep you safe, and that there's nothing you wouldn't do for them.

It had always kinda felt like he was insinuating that she's part of his family and that there's nothing he wouldn't do for her. At least, she likes to think so.

"Where are we going?" she asks as she hauls herself into the truck, tucking her dress under her thighs as she settles on the fake leather seat. Buckling herself in, she watches as he throws the truck into gear and maneuvers out of their parking spot and into the light traffic.

"Graham's place," he says, glancing over at her before turning his eyes swiftly back to the road.

She's never been to Graham's place before. He'd been working on it for as long as she had known him. It was a fixer upper when he'd bought it. As they'd gotten to know each other better, he'd started sending pictures as he'd completed different projects. He never sent her pictures of the full thing, just little detail shots with teaser texts of what he'd been working on. She'd gotten the impression that he didn't want her to see it until it was completed. Almost as if he wanted her to see it when she could see it as a home and not just a work in progress.

She'd kinda liked the idea of that and hadn't pressed him to see more than he was willing to share. She was always sure to ask lots of questions, though, since he loved to tell her about his progress. It was one of her favorite things, listening to him talk about the home he was building.

They leave the town proper behind, trees on either side of the road. It's gotten darker since they'd been at the loft, the clouds stormy and threatening toward the horizon. She can hear thunder off in the distance, a stray streak of lightning crossing the sky above them. The humidity is oppressive and David has the windows down, the air conditioning in the truck on the fritz, he explains. It doesn't do much to ease the stickiness, but the breeze feels nice on the back of her neck and along her arms.

It's a fifteen minute drive down the road before David's pulling off the main drag and onto a dusty side road hidden amongst the trees. The forest is thick here, the sky no longer visible through the canopy of branches over the road. It's not paved and they bounce along, David slowing carefully for the occasional pothole.

"Graham lived all the way out here?"

"You know he didn't like being in town. He loved it out here."

"Did he have electricity?" she asks, only half kidding. There's no power lines out this way, at least not along the road they're currently driving down.

"Yes, he had electricity, Em," David chuckles. "Just you wait and see. It's not much farther up the road now."

He's right; they only drive a few more minutes before they break through the tree line. The road turns to asphalt and she thanks the smoother ride. They drive up and over a hill and the sight on the other side steals her breath.

Oh, Graham.

The town of Storybrooke is nestled in a valley, with a lake on one edge of the town and massive snow covered mountains just beyond that. It's green and lush most of the year and cold and miserable the rest. It's breathtaking, if bleak at times, but she's never seen anything quite as mesmerizing as the view laid out before her now. She can see the appeal it had held for Graham.

David slows to a stop, letting her get an eyeful. They're at the top of a gentle slope that leads down to the lake. There are no houses save one that sits right in the middle of the vista before them. It's surrounded by trees, sitting in a shady alcove all its own, close to the edge of the water. It's peaceful and quiet; she can hear the occasional bird chirp through the open truck window, a gentle breeze tickling her cheeks as they sit and stare down at the view.

Looking beyond the house, she's amazed by the massive body of water with the mountains serving as sleepy sentinels just beyond it. She'd never realized before how close they were or maybe, they were farther away when she was in town? Whatever the reason, they're massive here, towering over the lake like rocky guardians. The lake itself is surrounded by the forest, pine and variations of the species everywhere she looks.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, a little catch in her voice.

"Yeah. But wait until you see the inside," David promises, slipping the gearshift into first and taking her slowly down the slope toward the house, leading right up to the garage. He parks, swiftly opening his door to come around to her side of the truck and help her down.

She's staring up the house, heart racing. She knows she's looking at the fruit of Graham's labors, at the house he was turning into a home - for her, she thinks on a guilty sigh - and for the first time in days, she thinks maybe she just might finally be able to cry, to truly mourn the wonderful man that the world lost when he was killed.

The wonderful man she lost.

David keeps his hand in hers, leading her to the simple front door. There's a small porch, a potted plant in one corner with a little watering can next to it. It's a simple facade, a brown that's clearly meant to blend in with the trees nearby. David steps up onto the porch, searching in his pants pocket for the house key. Finding it, he releases her hand long enough to unlock the door and turn the knob, pushing it open slightly before turning back to grip her hand again.

"Ready?" he asks gently.

She's terrified to step through that door, the impending pain of walking into Graham's home tearing at her with long and tenacious claws. They threaten to tear her apart, to separate her from herself in long and bloody strips until there's nothing left. But she nods to David, her chin coming up in determination because she owes this to Graham, to step inside and find out more about the man who would've so readily been hers. If she'd just been able to let him in.

David pushes the door all the way open and tugs gently on her hand as he steps over the threshold and into the silence beyond.

If the view of the lake and mountains had stolen her breath, the view from inside his home shatters her heart. Tears fill her eyes as she looks around, gulps of air passing over her trembling lips.

It's a completely open floor plan, the focal point of the whole space the view out the back to the lake and mountains beyond. There are massive floor to ceiling windows all along the back wall of the house that let in tons of natural light. She can see a massive porch along the back of the house, right outside the windows. The open kitchen is off to the right with a huge island taking up real estate in the middle of the room. There's a table made of a slab of wood, heavy and darkly stained, with five chairs on either side of it. Enough space for friends to share meals with them, for a family to sit around it and laugh together.

The left side of the house is the living room, complete with a large stone fireplace taking up one wall and a flat screen television over the mantel. The largest couch she's ever seen sits in front of the fireplace, a colorful knitted blanket draped over the back of it. She spots a staircase in the back corner of the room, a gorgeous wooden spiral that leads upstairs.

"There's a master bedroom with its bath upstairs and a balcony, too."

"He built this?"

"Well, the house was here before he bought the land, he just fixed it up."

"How?"

"Emma...he's been working on this since we moved here. He spent hours on it, you know that."

"I just never imagined - he called it a cottage, for god's sake!"

"Yeah, well, you know Graham. He was the master of understatement."

David watches as she wanders around the space, her hands lingering over this and that, a glazed look on her face as she takes it all in. She ends up staring out the back windows at the lake. There's a dock out there with a portable fireplace and two chairs on the end of it, just waiting for someone to light the fire and enjoy a beer in the twilight. Resting her forehead on the cool glass, she closes her eyes and tries to wrap her mind around the fact that Graham had been so convinced she'd finally give into him that he'd renovated a whole damn house for her.

"Em?" David says, coming up behind her, concerned.

"I'm okay. I just...I had no idea."

"Yeah, I didn't think you did." She turns back to him, crossing her arms over her chest and cursing her dress. She's used to shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans when she's interrogating someone and that's most definitely what she's about to do.

"Why did you bring me here, David?"

"I swear I'll tell you everything, Emma." He glances down at his watch once more before looking back at her. "We're just waiting for someone to show up. He should be here soon."

"He?"

"Yeah, someone I used to know when I worked in Boston."

Before he'd been a cop in New York, David had lived in Boston for a while, had done harbor patrol from what she remembered. He didn't talk too much about his time there, certainly had never spoken about anyone he knew from living there. But then again, she rarely spoke about her life before New York, so she couldn't really blame him for not sharing any information with her about his time in Boston, could she?

She turns back to the windows, pressing her forehead once again to the glass as she stares out at the water. It's calming and she gives herself up to the quiet, the sounds of David making coffee in the kitchen reaching her ears from time to time while they wait for this elusive friend to appear. As she stares outside, the heavens break open and the rain begins, starting with just a few large plops that darken the wood of the porch, but quickly shifts into a deluge.

"Finally," David mutters as he hands her a ceramic mug. She wraps her hands around it, the steam from the hot coffee curling under her nose. "Hopefully, it'll kill off some of this humidity."

Taking a sip, she hums softly in agreement, turning back to watch the rain. The thunder that had been rumbling in the distance on and off since the funeral is now persistent, lightening streaking the sky above the lake. It's amazing to watch and she thinks that if Graham were here, he'd turn down the lights and pull her down on the couch so they could watch it together. He'd tease her and flirt and...

Well, it doesn't matter what else might have happened because nothing is going to happen now.

David flicks on a light in the kitchen and it pulls Emma from her melancholy "what if" thoughts. Taking a chair at the table, she slides into it, crossing her legs and gripping the coffee mug in one hand as David hovers in the background, his back to her as he continues to wait. She's about to ask him again why he'd brought her here when there's a knock at the door. She sits up a little, curiosity snapping inside her as David rushes for the front door. He yanks it open, the sound of the pounding rain spilling into the room as a man steps quickly inside. He's drenched, dark hair sticking to his forehead, his suit coat wet. Emma stands, coffee forgotten as she stares across the space and waits to be introduced.

David mentions something about getting the man a towel, which he waves off, brushing his fingers through his hair and managing to mess it up horribly. Not that it looks bad on him. He's gorgeous, she thinks, high cheekbones and a well-defined forehead, the dark shadow of a beard on his jaw. The grin he gives David in greeting makes a dimple flit in and out of his cheek and the corners of his eyes crinkle up pleasantly.

"Emma?" David calls, gesturing for her to join them. She does so, smiling at the mystery man as she holds out her hand in welcome. "Emma Swan meet Killian Jones."

Oh, but his eyes are pretty, she thinks as he turns them on her. They're a deeper shade than David's blue, but so vibrant and intense. He grins at her, grasping her hand in his much larger one and despite the storm he'd just made his way through, his palm is dry and warm pressed against hers.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she manages to say, dropping his hand, surprised by the electricity that shoots up her arm at the touch of his skin to hers. Taking a step back, she crosses her arms over herself, waiting for David to explain just who this man is. She flicks her eyes down over his torso and then pulls in a sharp breath of recognition.

The shirt he's wearing - it's light blue and open at the collar, offset by a dark blue suit, one that would look black from a distance. The way he's carrying himself, his stance, his legs braced as if he's standing on the deck of a ship during a storm...she's seen him before.

When she looks up into his eyes, that same spark of electricity that had rolled through her body at his touch hits her again. She can feel the heavy heat of his gaze, of his interest as he watches her. Her breath catches as she realizes that this was the man watching Graham's funeral from the woods. He seems to realize that she recognizes him, his gaze perceptive as he takes in her response. He shoves his hands into his pockets, slouches a little bit, and smirks at her with an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, believe me, love, the pleasure is all mine."