He opens his eyes, feeling that odd sense of disorientation that only comes in the wake of being sinfully comfortable yet knowing you are not in your own bed. The room is in darkness, pale moonlight streaming through the window (not his window, his room faces East), and there is a warm, soft form pressed against him from shoulder to knee.

He breathes out, feeling his eyes widen in the darkness as everything comes back to him in one vivid blur. He's in Emma Swan's bed, and if her bare arse wasn't currently deliciously wedged against his hip, he'd be pinching himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. All the same, he can't help wondering, did the previous evening truly happen, or has he simply spent so many hours fantasising about Emma that the line between reality and fiction has finally blurred?

He stretches, biting back his groan of pleasure as soft sheets (far better than anything he's ever put on his own bed) brush against his skin, and knows that it was all very, very real. He thinks of the delicious silken grip of her body, hot and tight, fluttering around his fingers and his cock, the way she'd said his name when she'd come, how she'd asked him to stay the night.

Emma Swan asked him to stay the night.

Well now, he thinks. This is quite the development.

He lies awake, now painfully aware of the naked woman lying beside him. She's sleeping peacefully, and he's not the type of man to rouse a woman from sleep simply because he's got an itch to scratch. Adding to his restlessness, despite the fact he'd only had one beer the night before, his throat is achingly dry, and he knows he won't be able to get back to sleep until he's gone in search of water. Holding his breath, he swings his legs out of bed, not wanting to disturb his sleeping companion, and pads bare-arsed through her apartment in search of the kitchen.

He finds the chilled water in the refrigerator and a clean glass, and is halfway through slaking his thirst when her soft voice slices through the still night air.

"Help you with something?"

His last mouthful of water almost sticks in his throat. His fingers suddenly all thumbs, it's all he can do to get the glass to the safety of the sink. "Fucking hell, Swan."

"Such language so early in the morning," she drawls as she saunters towards him, her voice heavy with amusement and something else, something much more interesting.

She hasn't bothered to dress either, and there is something so incredibly erotic about seeing her stark naked in the middle of her kitchen that almost brings him to his knees. Which, now that he thinks of it, sounds like a marvellous idea, because there's more than one way of slaking one's thirst. He holds out his hand to her, knowing the moonlight coming through the windows is enough to let her see him. "Come here."

She says nothing as she walks to stand beside him, but he sees the awareness of his intent glowing in her eyes. It takes no effort at all to lift her onto the counter top, her fingernails digging into his biceps as he kisses her breasts in turn, her nipples pebbled tight against his tongue. He kisses his way down her belly, smiling at the way her breathing changes as his mouth reaches the gentle swell of her pubic bone. "Killian-"

"Hush, Swan." He sinks to his knees, drawing her legs up over his shoulders, loving her sharp gasp as he rubs his whiskered chin against her thigh. "Just relax." The tiles are cool beneath his knees, but the heat of her beneath his mouth takes the chill away. God help him, she is more delicious in reality than his dreams could ever have hoped. Salt and musk and sex, her flesh slippery with desire and his kisses, slick beneath his tongue as her body arches above him, her heels drumming a tattoo of exquisite anguish against his back. She mutters his name again and again, the sound of her pleasure rising about the roar of his pulse in his ears, his breath harsh and laboured against her trembling sex. The muscles in her thighs begin to quiver, and he knows she's about to lose control in the very best possible way.

He's right, and she's a bloody glorious sight when she comes.

She's even more glorious afterwards when she wraps her legs around his waist and kisses him until his whole body is thrumming with the need to bury himself inside her, her hand sliding up and down the slippery length of his cock, pulling him hard against her belly until he almost sees stars. "Bed?" He barely recognises his own voice, and his throat tightens even more when her answer is to take his earlobe between her teeth, her breath hot on his skin.

"Yes."

It's not slow and tender this time. It's fucking, pure and simple, and he feels as though his spine is rattling with the force of each thrust. Her fingers are twisted in his hair, her grip almost painfully tight, her mouth as hot and fierce as the tight heat of her sex, her breasts quivering against his chest with every roll of their bodies. It's a race to see who can make the other yield, and when she finally shoves her hand between them where he's buried inside her, her fingers sliding over both herself and his own aching flesh, he senses he's about to lose the battle.

He puts his hand over hers, his thumb finding and pressing, just hard enough to make her gasp and push back against him. Her body stills beneath his, then she's gone, a harsh sob tearing from her as she tosses back her head, taking him with her, her name the only thing he knows as he chases her over the edge of anticipation into the kind of mad pleasure that that's only supposed to come along once in a bloody blue moon, not three times in one night. Blissful, boneless oblivion follows, wrapped in soft linen and soft skin.

The next thing he knows, she's kissing him awake with a mouth that tastes of orange juice and toothpaste, telling him she's been awake for an hour and that she knows he's a few years older than her, but seriously, where's his stamina?

He makes a show of rubbing his eyes, but knows he's already gazing at her like a lovesick fool. "That's like punching someone in the face and then asking them why their nose is bleeding, love."

She makes a face at his analogy, but seems to concede the point. Reaching down, she runs one hand through his hair, amusing herself by making it look even more wretched than he's sure it already does. To his disappointment, she's already dressed, so it appears she won't be climbing back into bed. "Are you hungry?" He grins at that, and she holds up a warning finger. "For food. Seriously, are you that predictable?"

He trails one hand up her arm, fingertips delving beneath the sleeve of her t-shirt. "Admit it, Swan, you'd be disappointed if I wasn't." He sees her swallow hard, then she grabs his hand and lifts it to her mouth, giving his knuckles a quick kiss.

"I'm just reading some work emails, so if you want to use the shower-"

He rubs his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip, and her breath hitches. "Given your fetching ensemble, I'm assuming it's too late to ask you to join me?"

She's tempted, he can see it in her face, but she still shakes her head. "Maybe next time you won't sleep so late." She gently bites his thumb, and she might as well have stuck her hand between his legs, given the jolt of desire that shudders through him. "See you in the kitchen, Jones."

It's hard to feel disappointed when the warmth of her smile makes his skin buzz.

After he's showered and dressed (he didn't linger in her bathroom, too aware of the danger of imagining her joining him amidst the steam) she insists on making him a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast, as if to test his earlier claim enjoying them. When he spies the suspiciously clean espresso machine tucked into a corner, she admits to hardly ever using it, preferring to visit the coffee shop on the next corner, but is happy to let him tinker with it until he manages to produce a drinkable brew for them both.

"So." She eyes him over the top of her coffee mug, her feet bumping against his beneath her wooden kitchen table. "Here we are."

"Indeed we are." He rubs his hand over his beard, his gut tightening at the memory of rubbing said beard against her soft skin. "Did you have plans for today?" Personally, he'd planned nothing more than lazing about his apartment and catching up on some work that could easily wait until Monday, so he can't help his twinge of disappointment when she nods, but her obvious regret takes the sting out of her answer.

"I've got a heap of reading to do for a trial that starts next month, and Sunday is usually the day I call my parents, so-"

"Say no more, Swan." Finishing his coffee, he slowly rolls his shoulders, feeling pleasantly sore in muscles he'd forgotten he had, and suspects he will be thinking of her with every twinge in the coming days. "Are you free next Saturday night, love?"

Furrowing her brow, she taps one finger against her lips, as if he's just asked her to recite the Magna Carta. Bloody, bewitching woman. "Well, that depends. What did you have in mind?"

"I thought I might actually take you out to dinner." He slides his foot between hers, letting his calf rub against hers. A few days ago, the same contact during their rushed lunch had left him shifting in his seat, and it seems this morning will be no different. After last night, he should be sated beyond belief, but it appears his body has other ideas. "And perhaps afterwards I could give you a tour of my apartment."

"I'd like that," she tells him with a smile, and the sight of her lovely face, unadorned by the slightest hint of make-up, her long hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, makes his chest tighten. Perhaps he will still pinch himself after all.

He leaves her apartment just after eleven. Standing inside her front door, she kisses him goodbye three times, and after the third kiss, he literally has to take a step back from her. "Swan, if you keep farewelling me like that, I might never leave this apartment."

A delicate blush steals across her face. "Sorry, it's just-" She lifts her hands, a sheepish smile touching her lips. "I don't know how to do this, remember?"

He grins. "It's quite simple, love. Kiss me goodbye one last time, I'll drag my sorry arse out your door, and we'll see each other at the office tomorrow." He brushes his knuckles across her cheek, knowing his dreams tonight will be on the high-definition filthy side, and he can't say he's sorry about it. "Perhaps we could grab some lunch?"

Her eyes light up, as if such a practical application of their new arrangement suddenly makes everything seem more simple than complicated. "Sounds good."

Two kisses later, he's finally on the other side of the door, leaving her to her Sunday plans and himself to head home and rattle around his apartment, pretending he's not reliving every single heated moment they'd shared. He does manage to compose a text thanking her for letting him share her lovely bed and not frowning on his takeout menu choices, to which she sends a reply telling him that he is very welcome, the leftovers will be her dinner for the next two nights and she's impressed he hung up his towel so neatly after his shower.

His dreams that night are indeed lurid, but at least this time when he wakes with a start at six o'clock the next morning, he knows it's only a few days until he can experience the real deal all over again. Rolling over, he sees he already has an incoming text from one Emma Swan. Grinning, he swipes his thumb over the screen, his eyes widening when his sleepy eyes focus on the words she'd sent him at four o'clock that morning.

Bed's too big. What is this bullshit? Damn you, Jones. x

He flops back onto his pillow, his phone still clutched in his hand, a smile still plastered on his face. She truly is going to be the death of him and, just as he'd told her last night, he'll die a happy man.

And just like that, they're dating.

Dating.

Bloody hell.

It's such a teenaged concept, and yet every time he considers the label, he wants to send out a bloody all-personnel memo informing the world. On that side of things, however, they're keeping a low profile, unwilling to provide grist for the office gossip mill, but that's easier said than done. More than one colleague has given him the universal signal for 'well done, mate' when they've spied Emma strolling through the hallways, and his standard 'no comment' response doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

The first six weeks are what could cautiously be described as blissful. They're both busy, but manage to snatch a lunch hour together at least twice a week. It goes without saying that their email exchange quota is officially out of control, but they're careful to keep their interactions at work as professional as possible. No point entertaining any IT peons doing routine server maintenance, after all. They do indeed have that second date, during which they actually go to a restaurant like mature adults, and afterwards she gets the chance to explore his apartment. Needless to say, they christen a few flat surfaces at his place too (as well as one or two vertical ones) and she declares herself officially satisfied with his king-sized bed as an alternate sleeping location.

The sex, he has to admit, is phenomenal. It's the first time in his life that reality has actually surprised fantasy, and he's still not sure what he's done to deserve such a thing. Throw in that the woman in question is beautiful and prickly and clever and quick-witted and drives him insane in the best possible way, and he's still fighting the urge to pinch himself.

He meets her friend Ruby, who could be described as a perfumed force of nature. Big eyes, big smile, big hair and, he quickly realises, just as a big heart. It's obvious she cares about her friend Emma a great deal and, to his relief, she appears to approve of him, or perhaps it's the smile on Emma's face that meets with her approval. Either way, he's pleased to have passed that particular test.

As for his own friends, well, she already knows his work colleagues. Perhaps it's time he faced the unhappy fact that he'd never bothered to forge a social network when he'd moved to New York. He's not one for self-analysis, but he knows the symptoms of a man who doesn't want to put down any roots well enough.

Perhaps, he thinks, now that he has a real reason to put down said roots, that might change. He knows she's skittish when it comes to commitment (various tidbits regarding her past relationships have gradually been eeked out, usually after she's had a glass of wine) but as the days go past and she shows no sign of turning tail and running, he can't help but that perhaps this is finally it.

Their first relationship hurdle comes just after their six week anniversary. The two week-long business development trip to London and Dublin at Marco's behest is not something he can turn down. It's been in the pipeline for months, this trip to visit several of their international insurance clients, and yet when Marco cheerfully announces they finally have a confirmed itinerary, it comes as something of a shock. Not, of course, that he lets Marco know. "Looking forward to it, mate." He claps the older man on the shoulder. "We'll remind them just how much they need us to keep them on the straight and narrow."

That night, Emma pats him on the head when he breaks the news to her. "I saw the reminder on your phone a week ago," she tells him, shaking her head. "You're really not good with calendars, are you?"

He catches her up in his embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I can't think how it slipped my mind," he shoots back, deliberately scraping his whiskered chin along her throat until she makes that delectable squeak of protest, her skin raised in tiny goosebumps. "Of course, it is possible I've had something else to occupy my thoughts lately."

He flies out with Marco on a Thursday morning, and they spend the next ten days shaking hands and visiting boardrooms and shipyards. At night, they're fed and watered and there's more shaking of hands and making of deals, and while Skype makes being away from Emma almost bearable, it's the longest fucking two weeks of his life. Sitting alone in that darkened hotel room on his last night in the UK, after she's blown him a kiss goodnight and the screen has gone dark, he knows he's officially crossed the point of no return when it comes to Emma Swan. It may only have been a few weeks since they first slept together, but he is so far gone that it could have been six months, six years. He's in this for the long haul, and the sooner he gets home and tells her how much she means to him, the better.

Her text arrives just as he and Marco are heading to the airport, and he pulls his beeping phone from his pocket with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I just need to-"

The older man gives him an indulgent smile, waving away his apology, and not for the first time, Killian wonders how obvious he's being when it comes to his new relationship.

I know you'll probably want to just get home and sleep in your own bed tonight, but I'm offering homemade Mexican food (okay, so maybe it will be takeout) and your favourite half of the couch for some quality home renovation show watching. x

He doesn't have to think twice. After parting ways with Marco at JFK, he stops off at his apartment long enough to shower and check his mail and pack an overnight bag (he has no plants, so thankfully, he isn't greeted by the news of their demise. Perhaps, he muses, thinking of the greenery in Emma's apartment, he should get some, though?). It's just after nine on a Friday night by the time he buzzes the intercom at Emma's co-op, and just when he thinks the jetlag might burrow a hole in his head, he hears her voice. "You really chose me over your king-sized bed? I'm flattered."

"Buzz me up, Swan. I think I have just enough strength to climb the stairs," he tells the intercom. "After that, I can't promise anything."

Her wicked laugh does wonders for his tired soul. "I'll take my chances."

She's waiting at the top of the stairs for him, leaning against her open front door. Dressed in a simple sleeveless shirt and jeans, her feet bare, her hair a messy tumble, she's the best thing he's seen in, well, ever. He pauses on the threshold, almost swaying on the spot after the effort of climbing the stairs. Turns out, he wasn't entirely joking about the jetlag. "Just so we're absolutely clear, you mentioned Mexican food?"

She steps back, letting him pass into the apartment, then closes the front door behind her with a determined thunk. Dropping his overnight bag, he turns in time to see her pursing her lips, one finger toying with the corner of her mouth. "Amongst other things." She steps forward at the same moment he does, resting her hands flat on his chest, his pulse quickening as the subtle heat of her body teases his senses.

"Now then, Swan," he murmurs after a moment's grace, the words feeling thick and slow on his tongue as he smooths his palms over the curve of her hips. Her shirt barely skims the waistband of her faded jeans, and he can no more stop himself from brushing his thumbs over the warm skin of her belly than he can stop himself from drawing another breath. She gazes at him, her lips parting softly, temptation personified, and his voice seems to vibrate in the back of his throat. "Where were we?"

She swallows hard, her hands coming up to rest lightly on his shoulders. He can smell her perfume, a spicy scent he remembers tasting in the crook of her neck and the hollow of her breasts. She smiles, a teasing curving of her mouth, and he feels the shock of it ripple through his body from head to toe. "It's been two long weeks, Jones. Maybe you should refresh my memory?"

Unable to bear not touching her for a second longer, he pulls her closer, sliding his arms around her back, his hands splayed wide across the swell of her bottom. Her arms wind around his neck as she leans into him, her breasts soft and warm against his chest, her hips pressing against his with a precision that makes his blood burn. Burying his nose in the soft tumble of her hair, he inhales coconut shampoo and warm skin and wonders if he will be able to let her go long enough to move away from the front door. "God, I've missed you."

She moves languidly against him, rubbing her cheek gently against his. "You shaved," she murmurs almost accusingly.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

She chuckles, and when she speaks again, her voice quivers softly with laughter. "Did you shine your shoes as well?"

As they both look down at his battered Docs, he grins, wondering how the hell he managed to survive two weeks from this woman. "No. I'll have to remember that one for next time."

Leaning back in the circle of his arms, she studies his face intently, her gaze dropping to his mouth before lifting to meet his. "Would you like something to drink?"

He bends his head and touches his lips to hers, a feather-light touch that resonates through his body like the clanging of a bell. "No, thank you."

Her fingertips press into his shoulders, her exhalation of breath whispering over his mouth. "Something to eat?"

"Maybe later," he manages to say, then he's finally kissing her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her sigh of pleasure and relief and yes, the silent answer to his unspoken question. Her hands are on his chest now, cool fingertips brushing the skin at the V of his shirt, his hands sliding down to cup her demin-clad bottom and pull her against him and he's already hard and aching and he has no idea how he's still standing and breathing when every drop of blood seems to have rushed to one particular spot in his body. So much for not rushing into scratching that itch, he thinks ruefully.

He feels her smile against his mouth, then her hands slide down his arms to tangle her fingers with his, leaning back to look him up and down. Her gaze drops to the overnight bag at his feet, and she nudges it with one perfectly manicured toe. "What have you got in there?"

He grins. "My toothbrush and a change of clothes." And condoms, he thinks but doesn't say. "I'm trying to be the kind of overnight guest who gets invited back."

"That's very considerate of you." She tilts her head, her lips pursing as she studies him, her hands etching lazy patterns on his chest. "My toothbrush is your toothbrush, but I draw the line at sharing my underwear."

"Is that right?" It's not the snappiest rebuttal he's ever uttered, but her nimble fingers are searching for the tiny clear buttons buried in the plaid of his shirt now, and his brain seems to have decided that formulating witty retorts isn't a priority at this particular point in time.

"Mmmm." Leaning forward, she kisses him, slow and deep, her mouth soft and slick and tasting of mint and coffee and everything he's dreamed for the last three weeks. "Come and sit down?"

A few minutes later, he briefly ponders the accuracy of the words sitting down when they're actually lying down, then decides he has far better things to occupy his thoughts, if not his hands. Her couch is just as comfortable as he remembers, the feel of her in his arms just as intoxicating. She laughs as she fumbles with her own buttons, both of them clumsy in their haste, then her shirt is on the floor with his and he's kissing her smiling mouth as he palms the soft weight of her breasts, feeling the heat of her through silk and lace.

She arches into his touch, her hands darting behind her, then the silk and lace falls away and her rose-tipped breasts fill his hands, making his mouth go dry. "I've been dreaming about you," he tells her softly, and her eyes darken with a heat that makes his whole body tighten.

"Thank God for that," she quips shakily. "That makes me feel much less of a pervert."

Blood pounds in his ears as he watches her mouth form the last word. "Emma?"

She slides one thigh between his, almost making him flinch with anticipation. "Hmmm?"

"Bed?"

She smiles, a dark, impish smile that makes his cock twitch. "Here is fine."

Bloody hell. "Let me just get-"

She kisses him, her mouth hard and soft in the same breath, her hands gliding over his belt buckle and his zipper and she's touching him through his jeans and he struggles to hold onto his train of thought. His own hands are busy sliding into her unbuttoned jeans, finding more silk and lace and finally hot, slick flesh that clings to his palm as though it was made for his touch. She mutters against his lips, then presses her mouth against his throat, her teeth teasing his skin. "God, please, yes-"

What the hell had he been trying to say? Condom. Right. "Swan, wait, I have to get-"

"No, you don't." Her hands push impatiently at her jeans and underwear, finally kicking her legs and feet free until she's naked in his arms and he thinks his heart might actually stop if he lets himself look at her for longer than a few seconds at a time. Giving himself a mental shake, he frowns, trying to make sense of her words amidst the roar of his blood and the ache in his flesh.

"Why not?"

She stretches out beside him, her hands visibly shaking as she slips his belt from his jeans and hooks her fingers into his waistband. "I have other plans for you," she says, her smile mischievous, and everything clicks into place in his head.

"Ah." He wants to say more and he will, but right now his jeans and boxers are bagging around his thighs and he wants them gone more than he's ever wanted any piece of clothing gone.

They manage the task together, then there's nothing between them but skin and desire and sliding hands that cup and tease and my God she's shifting down his body, her knees digging into the couch as she trails kisses down his chest and his stomach, her breasts brushing against his straining thighs. He remembers their first time and how he'd stopped her from doing precisely what she's about to do, and he can feel every hair on his body standing on end. She glances up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes, then she takes him into her mouth and he knows that nothing he has ever imagined while he was away from her could begin to compare to this reality.

His hands fist in her hair, his jaw clenching as he gives himself over to a world of sensation almost too pleasurable to bear, the slick heat of her mouth a joyous torment, her clever hands kneading and stroking and Jesus he's almost there already and there's nothing he can do to stop it and he doesn't want to stop it. Time stretches and melts away as her tongue and lips and hands tease and coax and torture, and he doesn't know if it's ten minutes or ten seconds before he's coming hard, his spine arching, his hands tangling in her hair as the room blurs around him, his shout a strangled gasp of mindless pleasure as he's reduced to pounding blood and flesh.

Somewhere in the distance, he thinks he hears her laughing softly. "So, how was your flight?"

His breath still shuddering in his lungs, words are beyond him as he gropes blindly for her, finally finding her bare shoulders, his hands urging her back to him. But she's in no hurry, it seems. He feels the heat of her mouth on his still quivering stomach, her hair brushing over the tender flesh between his legs as she kisses her way back up his body. Finally she's stretched out beside him, looking more than a little pleased with herself, her face flushed, brilliant green eyes glittering.

When he can finally speak, it's hardly his most eloquent speech, but he can't find the energy to care. "That was quite the welcome home, love."

She blushes, and he suddenly realises there's a limit to her self-confidence on this subject. "Thank you."

He runs his hand up one smooth thigh, watching her face soften with pleasure as he touches her, his pulse spiking all over again when he cups the silky heat between her thighs. "However, I can't help feeling there's an imbalance that needs to be redressed." He curls his fingers into the slick warmth of her, the hitch of her breath like music to his ears. "Your turn, Swan."

Their secrets gradually emerge.

She tells him about Neal. He tells her about Milah.

There's a sense of relief in telling of both tales, he thinks, a sense of having gone through hell and come out the other side, burned and bruised, but still breathing.

Afterwards, they mockingly toast their former loves' collective poor judgment in letting such fine specimens slip through their fingers. Emma's liqueur collection is admittedly threadbare, but when he kisses her softly, she tastes of Amaretto and laughter and hope, and he starts to believe there is nothing that they can't conquer.

They fight, of course. Given her stubborn nature and his inability (or so she says) to admit when he's wrong, they fight all the time. They fight over little things (he is never discussing which Bond is better with her again, ever) and ridiculous things like fantasy football and whether couscous is pretentious - idiotic, pointless arguments that are fiercely fought and forgotten quickly. So, when The Fight happens, one Saturday morning two months into their relationship, it blindsides him completely.

They're at his apartment, finishing breakfast, newspapers strewn across his long wooden kitchen table. To his delight, Emma has embraced his love of print media, and each weekend morning contains at least an hour of no conversation and the rustling of newspapers, something that never fails to make him grin like a fool over his scrambled eggs.

The conversation of doom (as he later comes to think of it) begins innocently enough. "Hey, you haven't mentioned that boat you wanted to buy in ages," she murmurs, and he looks up to see her browsing through the classified section. "Did someone else beat you to the punch?"

"No, it's still for sale." Reaching across the table, he picks up her empty plate and stacks it on top of his own. "I just decided the time wasn't right."

She studies him over the top of the newspaper, and he has to fight the urge to fidget. Again, he's so very glad he'll never have to go up against her in court. "But you were so excited about it."

He smiles, pushing back his chair to collect their empty coffee mugs. "Well, my priorities changed."

"Me, you mean."

He looks at her. If she were smiling too, perhaps this exchange could be called romantic, but she's not smiling, and he's not sure why. "If you want to put it that way, yes."

Sitting back in her chair, she presses her hands flat on the classifieds and looks at him with an unreadable expression. If he had to put a name to it, he'd say pained, but that makes no sense. "So, for the last couple of years, your dream has been to buy an old boat and restore it to its former glory, then enjoy yourself on the water in your down time, just like you used to do with your brother."

He clunks the empty coffee mugs on the side of the sink, then turns back to face her. "That's right, but-"

She doesn't give him the chance to finish his sentence. "But now you've met me, so that dream isn't important to you anymore?"

Her tone is oddly accusatory, and something unsettled begins to churn in the pit of his stomach. "It's not as simple as that."

"You changed your tune pretty fast." She folds her arms across her chest.

He stares at her. She's angry with him for choosing her over renovating an old boat, and he can't begin to fathom why. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you met me, and suddenly you didn't care about something you'd wanted for years?" Her voice has changed, there's a hardness there that he's not sure he's ever heard before. "Your priorities changed pretty damned fast."

If he was confused before, now he feels like he's just stepped into an alternate universe. "I simply decided I'd rather spend my spare time with you, love, rather than scraping my knuckles raw doing a boat renovation."

She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape. "You shouldn't have given that dream up on my account."

Every instinct he has is flashing red for danger, but he can't believe she's mad at him, not over something like this. "Swan, what's wrong, what's upset you?"

She scowls down at their used dishes, then finally lifts her head, her gaze meeting his with an angry snap that almost has him reeling. "I told you that I wasn't good at this."

He blinks, struggling to keep up with a conversation that has stopped making sense. "And I keep telling you that particular claim of yours is nonsense." He means his words to be reassuring, but they only seem to make her angrier.

"Don't do that," she grits out. "Don't tell me what I'm feeling is nonsense!"

Bloody hell. "That's not how I meant it." He holds up his hands in surrender, slowly inching closer to where she's standing, her hands gripping the back of the wooden chair so tightly that he can see the white of her knuckles. "Emma, what the devil is happening here? What's wrong, love?"

She looks at her hands, then at the floor, then finally she looks at him. "Thanks for breakfast, but I'm going home."

Turning her back on him, she starts moving about his apartment as though the devil is snapping at her heels. She's gathering up her things, he realises with dismay, and not just her overnight things. The book that's lived on his coffee table for weeks is now tucked under her arm, and when she comes back from the bathroom, she's carrying more than just her toothbrush. "You're running away," he finally says flatly, the words feeling thick and raw on his tongue, and she freezes.

She tosses her toiletries into her duffel bag, very carefully not meeting his eyes. "I just need some more time to myself."

"Now that is nonsense." He moves to stand in her line of sight, willing her to look at him. "You can have more time to yourself anytime you want. We both can. That's the way we've always done this, you know that."

She stops, her head bowed, her hands clenched at her sides. His heart aches for her, his beautiful angry, lost girl. His chest tight with dread, he waits, not quite believing this is happening. "Yeah, well, maybe I want something different."

Her words are like an invisible hand on his chest, shoving him backwards, and the tight rein he's keeping on his temper starts to slip from his grasp. "I thought you were happy."

She shrugs, still not looking at him, and he gives up trying to keep a lid on his confusion, finally letting his anger slip through the cracks. "I'm sorry, did I miss something? Did the infamous Emma Swan relationship expiration date come up without me noticing?" His hands have balled into tight fists, and he shoves them into his pockets. "You know how bad I am with dates, love."

She glares at him, and he knows his words have hit their mark. "You really are incapable of taking anything seriously," she flings at him, and it's as though she's slapped him across the face, her words sharp and stinging. Picking up her duffle bag, she slings it over her shoulder, and he feels his heart drop to his toes, because she's leaving.

She's leaving him.

Panic makes his words trip over themselves in an effort to convince her to stay, but he doesn't touch her, because if he touches her and she pushes him away- "Emma, please, just tell me what's wrong."

"I can't." She's crying now, her mouth a tight, quivering line. "I'm sorry, I just-" She shakes her head, her beautiful face wet with tears he knows she won't let him dry. "I gotta go."

And just like that, she's gone, leaving him staring at the closed door. He could chase her down the stairs, down into the street, but right now, he's not sure his legs would cooperate. Five minutes ago, he'd been happier than he'd been in years, and now his life (and his fucking heart, it seems) is lying around him in bits and pieces, in as much disarray as the dirty breakfast dishes.

Dropping his head into his hands, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if that might stop the heavy sting of tears he can feel pressing behind his eyelids. "Fuck."

He's in love with her. He's fallen as hard as a man can fall, and just when he was thinking they were in the clear, a simple, innocent conversation has shown him that they were anything but okay.

That night, he does something he hasn't done in months.

He gets drunk.

He gets the kind of sullen, slow-moving drunk that only comes when you imbibe the best part of a bottle of whiskey. He calls her cell phone after each new drink, swearing softly into his melting ice cubes each time it goes straight to voicemail. At midnight, when his texts and calls have gone painfully unanswered and unacknowledged, he staggers to bed, not bothering to turn off the lights in the rest of the apartment. His dreams, when he finally falls asleep, are filled with Emma's smiling face. When he wakes, his head is pounding, his mouth filled with sour cotton wool, and his heart filled anew with the memory of her walking out.

A hot shower, coffee and painkillers go some way to ease some of his symptoms, but nothing can ease the ache in his chest. Christ, even his throat hurts. Sitting down at his kitchen table, his hands wrapped around his third coffee, he slumps into the same seat he'd blissfully occupied right before Emma had ripped out his heart (and shown it to him before his legs had buckled beneath him) and tries to piece together exactly what the hell went wrong yesterday.

One thing is painfully clear. When he'd appeared to choose her over the boat, it had touched a nerve, triggered a reaction so raw and emotive that she hadn't been able to find it in her to hear him out. Instead she'd instantly retreated, putting a safe distance between herself and the source of her pain. Which, apparently, was him.

He rubs his gritty eyes, making the usual vague vow to never drink again, but honestly, his aching head is the least of his worries at the moment. If he didn't think she might call the police on him, he'd drive to Emma's apartment and camp outside her front door until she agreed to speak to him. He thinks of how she'd cried, shaking her head in despair as though the thought of trying to explain herself to him was beyond comprehension, and his heart twists into a neat little knot. Just before she'd started to cry, she'd looked at him as though she couldn't bear to breathe the same air as him.

It is, he thinks miserably, just the way she used to look at him.

She maintains her radio silence for the next week - one whole, excruciatingly long week, marginally made bearable by the fact that he's run into the ground with two new cases and the usual diplomatic forays required when ascertaining whether his clients are the ones lying through their collective teeth, or if he's actually acting on behalf of someone with some scruples for a change. He doesn't see her in the office at all, which is unusual, until he does some discreet digging and discovers that she and Katherine are in court this week.

He keeps texting her, of course, only once a day (he doesn't want to give up on her, on them, but neither does he wish to bombard her) and every time she doesn't reply, the crack in his heart widens. The irony would be amusing if it weren't so bloody painful. During business hours he can turn an impossibly convoluted situation into a smooth and – most importantly – legally binding transaction, and yet he has no idea how to start fixing the mess he's made of Emma Swan's feelings for him.

He's never missed his brother more.

If Liam were alive, he would doubtless deliver a swift clip to his younger brother's ear, then tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself and write the girl a heartfelt letter. Killian smiles at the thought (it still hurts his face). His brother had been determinedly old-school, and he has to admit, given that his emails and text messages have achieved nothing, the thought of a handwritten note slid beneath Emma's front door is starting to feel like a good idea.

On Friday afternoon, he finally cracks and calls her office extension. He hears the familiar click that means his call is being diverted to another destination, then a familiar voice answers. "Emma Swan's office, this is Holly."

Bloody hell. As if his life wasn't unsettled enough, now he has to make polite chitchat with his last pre-Emma sexual encounter. "Ah, good afternoon, Holly." He doesn't bother introducing himself – he knows she'll have already seen his name flash up on her phone screen. "I was trying to get in touch with Ms. Swan."

There's a brief pause, then the girl clears her throat. "She's out sick again."

He frowns. "Again?"

"Yes, she was out sick yesterday, too." There's another pause, more pointed this time. "I'm surprised you didn't already know."

He closes his eyes. "Thank you, Holly, I appreciate it." He disconnects before she can reply, then finds himself staring at the silent telephone. If Emma's called in sick, then she's at home. And if she's at home – Taking a deep breath, he pulls a new legal notepad towards him, and reaches for his favourite fountain pen, the one that manages to make his scrawl look almost charming. "Wish me luck, Liam," he mutters under his breath, then he begins to write.

He leaves work dead on time for once, and at six o'clock he's sitting in his car outside her building (amazingly, he'd found a space in front) armed with a handwritten note, damp palms, churning stomach and restless feet. He feels like a blasted school boy, he thinks, and that's precisely the moment that he realises he's a fool, because there's no way he can get up to her front door to slip a note underneath it without her buzzing him up. Swearing under his breath, he gets out of the car, slamming the door. He's bloody well had enough of this stand-off, he decides, pressing the security button for her apartment so hard it's a wonder he doesn't break the damned thing. It takes a moment, but finally he hears her voice.

"Yes?"

His pulse quickens at the sound of her voice, and the thought of a smartarse answer doesn't even occur to him. "It's me."

Silence.

"Emma, please." God, let him get this right. "Can you at least explain to me how I screwed everything up?"

More silence, then he hears a loud sniff. The next sound, the sound of the buzzer being released, is the best thing he's heard in days.

She's not waiting when he reaches the top of the stairs, and she takes her time answering his knock, but finally her front door swings open. He's had six days to perfect his opening line, and yet when his eyes meet hers, all his words flee in the face of an overwhelming swell of relief. His heart lurching, it's all he can do choke out a greeting. "Swan, at last."

Her lips seem to tremble in the face of his relieved smile, then she turns on her heel, walking into her apartment, leaving him to follow in her wake. He quickly steps inside, shutting the front door firmly behind him. "They said you'd called in sick."

"That's right."

He's followed her into her kitchen, and she seems determined to keep him at a distance, constantly moving every time he takes another step. "Got a bad cold," she adds, and he belatedly notices the scratch in her voice and the pink tip of her nose. She's dressed in what he always thinks of (thought of?) as her gym gear, black exercise tights and a long sleeved purple t-shirt, although he doubts very much that she's been running today. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her face is pale, almost drawn, and she still won't look him in the eye.

God, he wants to hold her.

"I've missed you." His voice breaks on the last word, but he doesn't care. All he knows is that seeing her again, even after a few days, is like having the lights suddenly come back on after a power outage, startling in their brightness. "Can we talk? Please?"

She hesitates, staring out the small kitchen window as he holds his breath, then finally she gestures towards her kitchen table. "Have a seat."

A moment later, they're seated across from each other, and he's very careful to make sure his legs don't bump against hers. His heart is pounding, because this is it. This is his one chance to make this right, but first he needs to know what he actually did wrong.

She takes a deep breath, then obviously comes to some decision, because she starts talking without preamble, her gaze trained on where her linked hands are resting on the table. "I spent the first three years of my life with the Swan family. I barely remember them, but apparently I was very happy there."

He looks at the tight lines of her face, and tries very hard to hear everything she's not saying. "What happened when you were three?"

He sees her throat work as she swallows hard. "They had a baby of their own, and decided they couldn't cope with two children."

Oh no. No, no. "They sent you back."

"Yep." She drawls out the word, but it doesn't mask the pain in her voice. "Something new and shiny had come along, and I wasn't what they wanted anymore."

He stretches his hand across the table before he can catch himself. "Oh, Emma-"

She tightens her grip on her own hands, as if to stop herself from reaching for him. "You see, I've seen firsthand what happens when people lose interest in something they used to think they wanted more than anything." She looks up at him, her gaze clear and steady. "People have been disappointing me my whole life. Why should you be any different?"

He feels faintly sick, as though she's struck him. He slowly draws back his hand as the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. His plans for that boat. He'd pushed them aside when Emma had come into his life, which in itself wasn't a bad thing, but to her, it had meant something much more. Something much more sinister. If he'd pushed aside his dream of breathing life into an old boat so easily, perhaps there would come a day when she would be the dream he pushed aside. "Trust me, love, you are worth so much more to me than a few planks of wood and a sail."

Her mouth trembles with the ghost of a smile. "I kept telling you that I was no good at this sort of thing, and you thought I was joking." Her green eyes are glistening with tears, and he feels his own eyes start to burn. "I really wanted it to be different." She licks her lips nervously. "But I can't be with someone when all I'm doing is waiting for the other shoe to fall."

"It would be different with us, Swan." His voice seems to burn in his throat. "It was different."

She shakes her head, her dark lashes wet with tears. "I can't do it. Not to you."

They look at each other for a long moment, and in her eyes he sees the same resolve that's welling up inside him, and he knows he can't win this battle. He would willingly spend a lifetime helping her fight the demons from her past, but only if she wished it. And clearly, she does not.

Feeling as though a jarring step might just shatter his brittle bones, he slowly pushes back his chair and rises to his feet. As much as he's missed her, he can't stay here, not knowing how close he came to getting it exactly right for once, not when she's once again looking at him as though she wants to know all his secrets. "Will you do something for me?"

She sniffs loudly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and the wave of tenderness that washes over him has him clutching at the back of his chair. God. "Sure."

He pulls the folded letter out of his coat pocket, holding it out to her with a faintly trembling hand.

She eyes it warily, then takes it from his fingertips. "What's this?"

"A letter." He walks slowly around to her side of the table, feeling more weighed down by pointless, hopeless grief with every new step. "I was going to slide it under your door, but your security system had other ideas." Leaning down, he presses his lips to her forehead. Her skin is hot beneath his mouth, the familiar scent of her hair filling his nose, and he closes his eyes, committing her to memory. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to read it, if only to humour me."

He has to get out of here, he thinks. As so often happens in the presence of Emma Swan, he feels as though all the air has been sucked from his lungs.

He knows she's crying silently as he pulls the front door shut behind him. Later, the thought will cut him through like a rapier, but right now, though, all it makes him feel is empty.

Walking down the internal stairs and out to where his car is parked has never seemed to have taken so long. As he reaches his car, he dashes his eyes with an angry hand, awkwardly fishing out his keys with the other. God, what is he doing? How can he just walk away, knowing this is the end?

How can he not, knowing she's made her decision?

"Killian."

Just as he's finally found his car keys, Emma voice slices through the still late afternoon air. He leans against his car (there's that breathless feeling again) as she walks slowly up to him, shoving his letter practically under his nose. "Do you mean all this?"

At last, a straight question he can answer with a straight answer. "Every word of it."

Her eyes are red-rimmed as she glares at him, and absurdly, he notices that she's still wearing her little black house slippers. "You love me."

Again, it's a relief to able to smile at her, the truth laid bare between them. "Yes."

"You wished I could have met your brother," she darts a glance down at the words he knows by heart, her voice starting to wobble, "that he would have been so proud of you for picking someone who'd keep you in line."

He nods, his hands determinedly at his sides. "He would have loved you, too."

"You want to make a home with me," she whispers, her eyes glistening, her breath coming in long, shuddering exhalations now.

"Yes." He meets her gaze steadily, but his heart is pounding wildly. "You were, and you are, everything I've ever wanted."

When she rises up on her toes and kisses him, the shock of her touch rips through him like a firestorm. It seems like months, rather than days, and the feel of her mouth on his almost makes his knees buckle. "I'm so sorry," she tells him, her words thick with tears. "I'm so sorry." She kisses him again, pushing him clumsily back against the car. "I love you."

He sweeps her up into his arms, ushering her back towards her apartment, because this is not a conversation for the street. Once she's unlocked the front door, they're in her apartment in a heartbeat and he's kicking the door shut with his foot. As soon as they're inside, he eases her away, cupping her face in his hands, needing to hear her say the words again. "You love me."

She's still crying, but she's smiling, eyes gleaming like polished gems. "Yes."

He kisses her, tasting the salt of her tears, tasting the dark sweetness of her mouth, the feel of her breath stuttering against his tongue something he never thought he'd feel again. Finally, she puts her hands on his chest and gently pushes him away. "You'll catch my cold."

"I don't care." He kisses her again, harder this time, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her so tightly that her feet leave the ground. Which makes them a matching pair, he thinks dizzily as she winds her arms around his neck and whispers again that she loves him, because his feet might never touch the ground again.

He catches her cold.

He still doesn't care (it had been totally worth it) but it's not exactly his finest hour. At his pleading, she temporarily moves into his apartment, just to make it easier to monitor his man-flu (as she so delightfully puts it) and keep an eye on his calendar appointments for him.

She never moves out.

When her lease comes up for renewal, he helps her pack. She's loved her place, she explains cheerfully as she packs yet another box of books, but there's something about being close to the water that wins out every time.

Two months later, he buys the bloody boat. She jokingly suggests he renames it The Lady Swan. He tells her he'll think about it.

(he's already had the lettering designed)

Breathless, Emma ducks behind the closest mirrored column, and he quickly follows suit. "I hate this fucking game." She turns her head from side to side as though she's watching a tennis match, then starts out in exactly the wrong direction. "You'd think that they'd pick something else to torture us with, but no, same old thing as last year."

"Look on the bright side, Swan." He grabs her elbow, steering her away from both a dead end and yet another of their trigger happy colleagues. She really was remarkably bad at laser tag, he thinks with amusement, although he'd never tell her that. "At least we're on the same team this time."

"Right, because that's not distracting at all," she shoots back as his hand grazes the curve of her demin-clad arse.

He winds his arm around her waist, pulling her back hard against him, his mouth against her ear. "Come with me if you want to live."

She glances back at him, her eyes almost rolling out of her head. "That is the worst Schwarzenegger impersonation I've ever heard – wait – where are we going?"

To his relief, he's remembered the layout of this wretched place correctly, and fifteen seconds later, he's pulling her after him into the familiar cramped, dark corner to which he owes so much. Pushing her gently up against the wall, he kisses her throat, tasting salt and perfume and the laugh that trembles through her. "We're hiding in plain sight, love."

"Silly me," she breathes, dropping her laser gun arm to her side as she pushes one long thigh between his. "I thought you were just seizing the chance to cop a feel."

"That too," he agrees unsteadily, his breath stuttering as she pushes her thigh harder against his groin. When he catches sight of her face, the devilry gleaming in those eyes, he knows that the tables have been well and truly turned. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, her gaze dropping to linger on his mouth, then he feels her free hand on his belt buckle, then his zipper, and his blood makes a sudden and enthusiastic detour south. "Why, Ms Swan, I do believe you're finally coming around-"

The sound of laser tag 'certain death' reverberates around them, their vests glowing with matching red flashes. "And you're both toast," Katherine appears in the narrow gap, eyeing them with obvious amusement. "Dishonourably discharged too, by the looks of it," she adds with a wink that makes Killian wonder how much champagne she'd imbibed at the office beforehand.

She whisks herself away, a comically dramatic exit, and Emma starts to laugh. "Thank God," she exclaims, starting to undo the velcro of her laser vest. "Let's get out of this hellhole, sailor."

Sometimes he wishes he'd never bought that bloody boat, but this is not one of them. Her increased usage of nautical terms is, if he's completely honest, strangely erotic.

He helps her slip out of the vest, then curls his arm around her waist, putting his lips to her ear. "Buy you a drink, Swan?"

She laughs, her smile flashing purple white in the crazy fluorescent lights. "I've got a better idea, Jones." Tucking her arm through his, she starts to tug him out of their hiding place. "You can take me back to your place."

He grins. They may have been living together for several months, but he doesn't think the novelty of that particular joke will ever wear off. "Taking the team bonding mantra a little too far, don't you think, love?"

"I'm a team player." Turning, she shoves him back into the darkness, pinning him against the wall with her body. "And I'm prepared to do what I have to do in order to get ahead."

Her throat tastes of salt, her mouth like sin. He allows himself ten seconds of pure self-indulgence, his hands finding the delicious curve of her arse, slowly rocking his hips against hers until he's breathless with wanting her and her fingernails are sharp against his biceps. "In that case, Swan, perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable."

He feels her grin against his neck, then the touch of her hand as it erringly finds his, her fingers threading tightly through his. "As you wish, Captain."