As Emma feared, being in a long-distance relationship kind of sucks.

During the week, they send endless emails back and forth. They talk on the phone during the day and Skype every night. Every Friday afternoon after work, one of them gets on a plane. And every Sunday afternoon, they have to say goodbye all over again.

The time they spend together definitely does not suck. Those snatched days and nights are beyond her wildest hopes, and she knows she's not the only one who has started to dislike Sunday afternoons, because Sunday nights mean flying home and leaving the other behind, and with every passing weekend, it gets harder and harder to face Monday morning alone.

They chat via email and text and the phone, but there are some types of conversations that only seem to happen face to face, though, and it's on their fourth weekend together that she finally finds herself telling him about Neal. She's been thinking about him a little this week, mostly because Ruby said she'd seen him at some party she and Victor had found themselves. According to Ruby, he'd nodded and smiled in all the right places, and the name Emma wasn't mentioned once. It was hard to believe that it used to be the four of them hanging out at those things. It seems like a lifetime ago, especially now.

She knows Killian's been curious about her self-declared bad track record with men, but he hasn't asked a single question about her dating resume. In the end, it's that lack of pressure more than anything else that makes it easy to finally talk about her former boyfriend. It's after midnight on a Friday, they're in his kitchen in Boston, and they've finally staggered out of his bedroom (the Friday nights post-airport pick-up are always a blur of sex and laughter) in search of food and wine. She leans against the pantry door, content to watch him assemble a platter of cheese and crackers and fruit, because the man has beautiful hands, no matter how mundane the task he's performing. "Did you want to grab a bottle of white from the fridge, love?"

"Sure."

Finally installed on his sinfully comfortable couch (she dislikes her own couch more and more with every passing weekend), he flicks the television onto the classic movie channel and turns down the volume to a whisper. Her bare feet seem to have ended up in his lap without her realising it, and he strokes his fingertips along her instep as he hands her a glass of wine, almost as though he doesn't realise he's doing it. "So." She takes a sip of wine, then smiles at him over the rim of her glass. "How's work?"

He chuckles. "Beyond busy." He traces a circle around her ankle bone with one fingertip, and she wonders how the hell that can possibly be erotic, because damn. "They're definitely getting their money's worth out of me this month."

She hadn't wanted to say anything about the faint smudges of weariness beneath his bright eyes, but now that he's brought it up- "You do look a little tired."

His smirk straddles the fine line between playful and indecent. "That's your fault, love." His thumb is now stroking its way up the back of her calf. "Dragging a man into his own bedroom before he's even had the chance to offer you a drink."

She lets her left foot slip further into his lap, almost but not quite brushing her heel against his groin. "I just like to remind you what you've been missing out on all week."

"I know exactly what I've been missing." He wraps his hand around her ankle, but does nothing to move her foot away. "What idiot could possibly forget you, Swan?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Ah, the infamous bad track record." He liberates a piece of aged cheddar from the platter. "What was his name, love?"

Trust him to have already worked out that it was one person, rather than a multitude, who'd messed up her head when it came to dating. She takes a deep breath, then plunges in. "Neal. We meet at law school. I thought we were in love. Able to weather any storm together." She gives him a rueful smile. "You know how you feel invincible at that age."

"I do." The hand around her ankle flexes, and she carefully avoids looking at his tattoo, the one etched with another woman's name. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened? Please don't tell me that there is a man in this world idiotic enough to throw you over for someone else."

"Not quite." As always, his open admiration fills her with a mixture of pleasure and faint disbelief. "When I decided to try to find my birth parents, he freaked out on me."

Killian quirks one dark eyebrow. "And what would such a decision have to do with him?"

"Exactly, right?" Emma stares unseeing at her wineglass. "I mean, I wanted him to be supportive and be there to listen when I wanted to agonise over whether I was doing the right thing or not, but he didn't have to do any emotional heavy lifting." She shrugs. "But all he did was try to talk me out of it. Kept saying that going back into the past was a bad idea and I should be happy with the memories of my adoptive parents. Eventually, it just all fell apart." Funny how she can say these words now without feeling as though her insides are being carved out. "We kept fighting about it, then we started fighting about everything else. Stupid things." She puts down her wineglass, knowing that sauvignon blanc and melancholy are a bad mix. "We muddled along for another year or so, but then he put in for a transfer to NYU without telling me, and when he was accepted, he ended it."

His fingertips are stroking a soothing pattern down the back of her calf, his voice carefully neutral. "Did you ever find out why he was so against you finding your birth parents?"

"A year or so later, I ran into him at a party. He was here visiting some friends." She gives him a wry smile. "Not me, of course." She plucks a few grapes from the platter. "Once I stopped yelling at him, we talked for a while."

"You yelled?" He makes a patently false shocked face. "I find that hard to imagine."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, remember?" Leaning towards him, she flicks his bicep with her fingers, then takes another deep breath. Once she's shared this piece of her history, they won't have to talk about it again, and she can truly put it behind her. "I'd always known he'd had a bad childhood. His mother had died young, and his father was extremely career driven, always putting everyone and everything else ahead of his kid." Killian scowls at that, and she makes a mental note to prod him for his own family dynamics at a later date. "In the end, he left home at 15 and didn't see his Dad for a long time. Just before we met, he'd decided that it had been long enough and maybe he and his dad could make peace. But his dad hadn't changed, in fact he'd actually gotten worse. I never really found out exactly what went down, only that it had been bad."

"Ah." Killian clears his throat. "There was no reason to suppose the same was going to happen to you, though."

She smiles at him. "So diplomatic."

He dips his head in a little bow. "I do my best, milady."

Emma reaches for her abandoned wineglass. "Turns out, when I started talking about all this complicated family stuff, it was a big red panic button for him, and he didn't want to go through that again, even if it wasonce-removed. So I guess, in a way, he did choose someone else over me. He chose himself."

"It does sound as though he had a rough time of it."

"I know. But the thing is-"

She breaks off, because he's looking at her as though he can see straight into the heart of her most hidden of secrets, and maybe he can. "He still made you feel as though you weren't enough to convince him to stay."

To her horror, she feels the burn of tears pricking behind her eyes."Yeah."

He puts down his wineglass, his hands sliding up her legs as he closes the distance between them on the couch. "No matter what happens, Swan, I know one irrevocable fact." Lifting one hand to cup her chin, he kisses her, softly and sweetly. "I will always choose you."

The chaste kiss and gallant words have her heart pounding in a way that makes her feel restless, almost wistful. "Is that right?"

"Cross my heart." His hand slips beneath her t-shirt, stroking her bare breasts with such deliberate intent that it only takes a few seconds before she snaps and climbs into his lap, her own hands sliding into the waistband of his sweatpants, the silky heat of him hardening at her touch, his hips lifting off the couch. "I'd say hope to die," he mutters thickly, "but I'm afraid I might be tempting fate-"

She kisses him then, hard and fierce, rocking against him in urgent invitation, and it's the last thing either of them say for quite a while, their wine undrunk, their food forgotten, and seriously, his couch really is the best thing ever.

He tells her about Milah during their fifth weekend together.

Given what she already knew, she was expecting it to be a harrowing conversation, and she's right. What she didn't expect was to find tears rolling down her own face. Wrapping her arms tightly around him, she presses her cheek hard against his, skin damp with tears, and holds him until they're both still.

He doesn't make love to her that night, and that's okay with her. When she flicks off the light, he draws her impossibly close and buries his face in the crook of her neck, as though keeping her close will keep his remembered sorrow at bay.

She lies awake in the darkness long after he falls asleep, his arm curled around her tightly as though she's a talisman he can't bear to be without, and wonders at which point during the last five weeks she'd fallen in love with him.

The next morning, he tells her that his own father had left their family for another woman, leaving behind a devastated wife and two small boys who only knew that their father had chosen another life over them. He'd only been seven at the time, and since then, his family has always come first. He tells her that he wants to take her to London to meet them, that Liam is going to love her, and she can only pray that he's right, because the thought of making him choose between her and his family fills her with dread.

Not because she's afraid he wouldn't choose her over them, but she's afraid that he would, and that afterwards he would never forgive himself. Or her, for that matter.

Being passed over for promotion stings. Being passed over for promotion in favour of someone she dislikes intensely is just salt in the wound. She keeps her expression carefully impassive, but inside, she's seething. "You're making Tamara Jenkins senior associate?"

"Yes, the board felt she was the best choice at this time."

Emma gazes steadily at her managing partner. "And the fact that she's the daughter of the CEO's girlfriend has nothing to do with it, of course."

"Certainly not." A lightening flash of guilt flickers across the older woman's face, almost too quick to be seen, but not for someone who's spent a lifetime learning to read people. "Next year will be your year, I'm sure of it."

Emma's smile feels tight on her lips. "I'm sure."

She works furiously until 6:00pm, sending a text to Killian as soon as she leaves the office, asking him if he'll be around to Skype earlier than usual. An hour later, she's sitting on her own couch, laptop on the coffee table, trying and failing not to sound as though she's furious.

"I didn't get it."

He must have literally jumped on Skype as soon as he walked through his door, she thinks, because he's loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar as he talks. "That's outrageous."

"I know, right?" He lets her rant for another few minutes, interjecting now and then to ask exactly the right questions, and she suddenly misses him so much she can barely stand it. If he was here, she could wrap herself around him and all the work bullshit wouldn't matter so much. She knows this for a fact, because that's exactly what happens every Friday night.

"You know, they're expanding the Insurance team here." He's thousands of miles away, but his eyes seem to burn into hers through the computer screen. "Word is they're looking to bring a new senior associate on board."

"Wouldn't they just promote from within?"

"Not always." He flashes her a smile that seems intended to both comfort and challenge her. "Perhaps something to keep in mind?"

The unspoken hums loudly between them, and she's almost tempted to ask him exactly what it is that he's saying, but she's suddenly afraid to hear the answer. They've already moved faster than she's ever experienced in any relationship, ever, and she doesn't want to push her luck. "I will." Resting her chin in her upturned palm, she smiles at him through the screen. "And how was your day, dear?"

It's Thursday of their eighth week of long-distance dating, and she's missing him so much that it's become a gnawing in her bones. He's been at trial all week and staying at the office late each night, and their Skype dates have been sporadic, to say the least. She'd been hoping to catch him online tonight, but he'd sent her a text just before eleven, telling her that he was still buried in paperwork and he'd try to catch her first thing in the morning. And with that, there is no point to staying up any longer, so she slips into bed, burying her face in what's become his pillow, and reminds herself that the good moments definitely still outweighed the lonely ones, even if it doesn't feel like it tonight.

Putting her phone within easy reach next to her bed, she flicks off the light. She's been extra busy this week, and he'll be here in one more day, which is nothing in the scheme of things. But tonight, she thinks, just like the old song says, the bed feels too big without him, making sleep harder to find with each passing night, and she thinks almost fondly of the time when she didn't know what it was like to share it with him.

Her phone beeps a moment later, the small screen glowing in the darkness of her bedroom as she reads it. Tomorrow is only a day away. x

Her thumbs fly across the buttons. Quoting Annie at me now? x to you, too. Grinning, she slides the phone under her pillow (something she doesn't plan on sharing with the sender of the message, given his fondness for teasing her at any given opportunity) and for the first time since Sunday night, manages to fall asleep without tossing and turning.

She wakes with a start some unknown time later, confused and startled by the warmth pressing against her back. There's a hand resting on her hip, and one long leg thrust between her own, things that definitely weren't there when she'd fallen asleep.

For the second time, she flicks on her bedside lamp, then rolls onto her side to face the man stretched out beside her. "What are you doing here?"

"Surprise?" Killian gives her a guileless smile, his hand smoothing over the curve of her hip and down her thigh. "I thought I'd check to make sure that key you gave me last week wasn't a fake."

"You idiot." She knows she's probably still half-sleep, but she's pretty surethis wasn't in keeping with his schedule. "Aren't you supposed to still be in Boston?"

His 'who me?' smile becomes something far less innocent. "The trial wrapped up faster than I expected, so I caught an earlier flight." Leaning forward, he kisses her shoulder, his whiskered chin scraping gently against her skin. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I missed you terribly this week."

She might be tempted to point out that he should have called to let her know he was coming early, but a rush of goosebumps seems to have caused every hair on her body to stand on end. Not to mention the fact that he's finally in her bed after a week of being so very far away. Maybe she can let polite etiquette go, just this once, she thinks, then he murmurs something utterly filthy in her ear, and her capitulation is complete.

It's been almost a week since she's seen him, but it suddenly feels as though it's been a year, and it appears she's not the only one whose heart has grown fonder, as the saying goes. As her hands hastily tug at his t-shirt and boxers, he's sliding his underneath her pyjama top, cupping her bare breasts in his palms, his mouth hot on her neck. It's one o'clock in the morning, but she doesn't care. All she knows is that he's here and she wants him as much as he wants her.

The tangled top sheet does nothing to aid their efforts to rid themselves of their clothes, but urgency thankfully inspires dexterity. When he pulls her into his arms, her whole body shudders with delight at the feel of him against her. It's both too late at night and too early in the morning for time-wasting, she thinks, and therefore wastes no time in pulling his mouth to hers and sliding her hand down between them to touch him in a way that has him gasping into her kiss. "God, Emma-"

They move together with the quicksilver grace that never ceases to amaze her, her body rising and falling above his, her fingers threaded tightly through his, the hard heat of him buried deep inside her. It's a languid dance, filled with murmured laughter and touches that explore and reaffirm, and he's the first to fall, arching his back as if trying to lift her higher, his face a picture of long-anticipated joy as he shudders beneath her. She rocks against him, her own release ignited by the throes of his, closing her eyes as pleasure ripples hotly through her flesh and her blood and her heart.

As they lay tangled together - God knows what's become of the sheet – she scratches her fingernails across his chest, loving the feel of the rough hair against her fingertips. 'You've ruined me for anyone else, you know."

Picking up her lazily exploring hand, he presses a kiss to her palm, and she feels his smile against her skin. "I'm counting on it."

Just shy of the three month mark, he takes her out to Sunday brunch and flirts with her shamelessly over French toast and bacon. Afterwards, they walk along the river, wrapped up in their coats and each other and a comfortable silence, until he stops her, his hand gentle on her arm. "Emma, can we talk?"

He's smiling, but the fear still clutches at her heart. With an effort, she swallows it down. "Sure."

He takes her hands in his, his gaze locking with hers. "This isn't working."

She feels as though an invisible hand has pushed on the middle of her chest, shoving her backwards. Forcing the words out through lips that feel frozen, she decides to cut through the jargon, because she doesn't want to hear placatory bullshit, not from him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm no longer content with seeing you only three days a week," he says in a rush, his hands tightening around hers, and she feels the fear start to recede. "I'm greedy, Swan. I want all seven days. And seven nights." Ducking his head, he gives her a faintly uncertain smile. "I was hoping you felt the same, but if I'm mistaken-"

Oh, God. It's the moment of fucking truth and it's come so quickly, she's not ready for it, not ready to hear what he's asking her. "I do. I do feel the same, but how would this work?"

He grins. "I have a few contacts here in Chicago. I'm sure I wouldn't have any problem finding something."

She stares at him as the scope of what he's saying hits her. "But you've just made partner."

He shrugs, as if throwing away such a huge career milestone means less than nothing. "Some things are more important."

"No," she blurts out before she stop herself, her haste making her blunt. "I don't think you should move to Chicago." Hurt flashes in his eyes, and she quickly tightens her grip on his hands, keeping him from moving away. "I'll move to Boston."

"But you have a life here." He looks distressed. "Your friends, your job-"

She feels unexpectedly giddy, but everything suddenly makes more sense than it has in months. "My job is hardly nirvana at the moment, and my friends would be only too glad for an excuse to jump on a place to come and drink in one of Boston's many fine Irish pubs."

She's barely finished speaking before his arms are around her and he's hugging her tightly, almost a carbon copy of the way as he'd hugged her the first time she's picked him up from the airport. "Are you sure?"

"I am." Pulling back, she hooks her hands loosely around his neck, leaning back in the circle of his arms. "God, I thought you were going to tell me that you wanted to end it."

He smiles at her, and she feels the encompassing warmth of it from her scalp to her toes. "Why the hell would I do that, Swan, when I love you?"

She stares at him, her heart suddenly deciding it's had enough of residing in her chest, pounding against her ribs so hard that she can hear the rush of her own blood. She allows herself a few last seconds of clinging to the life where she was afraid to let anyone in, and then she puts her foot over the precipice, free-falling into a brand new world. "That's a happy coincidence."

"Do tell?" His tone is light, almost gentle, but she sees the anxiety in his eyes, and it makes her next words so much easier.

"Because I love you."

He exhales, the corners of his bright eyes crinkling as he breaks into the widest smile she's ever seen him wear. "It's about bloody time."

"Oh, are you serious right now-" She'd punch him for his barefaced cheek, but she's too busy being kissed to within an inch of her life, so maybe next time.

Of course, now that she's done the hardest thing, it's time for the second hardest.

Having dropped Killian at the airport a few hours earlier, she calls her birth parents late one Sunday and invites herself for a visit to their place in Maine, telling them she's bringing her boyfriend to meet them. Afterwards, she sits in a mild stupor, imagining a dozen different scenarios, each of them more awkward than the last. When she's had enough of making herself feel sick with nerves, she picks up the phone again. Killian answers on the second ring, just like her father, and the thought makes her smile. "Hello, beautiful."

He says the same thing every time she calls him, and damn him, the effect hasn't lessened with over usage in the slightest. "Hey there, Jones." She drops onto her bed. "Are you home yet?"

"Still in the taxi, but almost there. Everything alright?"

"That remains to be seen. We're visiting David and Mary Margaret next weekend in Maine."

He sounds beyond amused by her dramatics. "Seriously, love, what's the worst that could happen?"

Groaning, Emma flops back onto her pillows, one hand over her eyes. She may still be getting to know them, but she already knows why that question is particularly hilarious. "Ask me that again after you've met them, okay?"

For a while, she thinks he might actually be right. David and Mary Margaret greet them warmly, her father clapping Killian so enthusiastically on the back that he almost knocks him off his feet, her mother dimpling at him when he shakes her hand gently.

Of course, the jovial atmosphere could be due to the fact that she hasn't told them her news yet.

They're almost finished dinner when Emma feels the nudge of Killian's foot against hers beneath the table. Glancing up at him, she clocks both his smile and the gleam in his eyes, and her stomach flips over. They may have only known each other for three months, but she knows exactly what he's saying to her. Tell them, Swan, or I just might tell them for you.

Putting down her knife and fork, she smiles at both her birth parents in time. "I've got some news for you."

Mary Margaret beams at her, her dark eyes sparkling with delight, dainty hands clasped to her chest. "You're getting married!"

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. "God, no."

Killian gives her an affronted look that she seriously hopes is just teasing, because surely he can't be offended by her being shocked at the thought, because come on. The thought that perhaps he's not teasing sends a weird ripple of panic through her, compounding her already rattled nerves. "I'm moving to Boston."

Her father looks at her, and then at Killian, and she can actually pinpoint the moment the pieces come together in his head. "I see."

"I offered to move to Chicago, but I was overruled by your daughter." Killian returns her father's gaze steadily, a polite smile firmly affixed to his lips. For a few tense seconds, she thinks her father might actually challenge him to a duel for her honour (or maybe an arm-wrestling competition would be more David's style) but then her mother defuses the atmosphere with her usual grace.

"So you'll only be a drive away from us? That's wonderful news!"

Emma grins. "That's right." Her birth mother is one of the most positive people she's ever met, and Emma mourns anew the fact that she's missed so many years of knowing her. "Think of all the airfare I'll be saving."

Her father still seems torn between being happy for her and dragging Killian out to the porch to interrogate him on his yearly earnings and political leanings, but finally he recovers. "It will be great to have you so close," he says with a cheerfulness that doesn't sound completely forced, hesitates, then gives Killian a quick smile. "Both of you."

It's high praise, given what she knows of David Nolan, and it's only afterwards, when she and Killian are installed in the shabby chic spare guest bedroom that she can finally give into the laughter that's been stuck in the back of her throat all evening. "God, David's face when Mary Margaret told him that of course you weren't sleeping on their couch tonight. Did you see that little vein in his forehead popping?" Killian chuckles with her, but he's quieter than usual as he slips off his shoes and unbuttons his shirt, and she has the feeling it's not just because her parents are sleeping in the room next door. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine, love."

Reaching up, she wraps her hand around his wrist, pulling him down to sit on the bed beside her. "No, you're not."

He presses his lips together, then looks at her. "I was actually thinking more of your face, Swan, when your mother incorrectly guessed that we were getting married." He smiles at her, but there's no humour in it. "You looked quite horrified at the notion."

She knew it. He had been upset by her reaction, and the thought makes her chest tighten. Picking up his hand, she threads her fingers through his. "You know that I don't do fast very well."

"I know that." His eyes are trained on the floor at his feet. "And I've been pushing you at every turn."

She bumps her shoulder against his, and he lifts his head. "You haven't made me do anything I haven't wanted to do."

The tension in his face eases, the tight lines near his mouth fading. "I'm glad to hear that."

"I just want to enjoy everything as it happens, okay?"

This time, his smile doesn't make her heart hurt. "Of course."

Leaning closer, she brushes his cheek with her lips, savouring the spicy warmth of his skin. "And just so we're clear, if I did have to pick someone to have an ill-considered nifty-swifty wedding with, I'd pick you."

Again, she feels the warmth of his answering smile sinking into her skin, warming her right down to her bones. "Good."

Just over a year later, she does pick him.

Both David and Mary Margaret cry during the ceremony.

(They never let David live it down, of course.)

At the reception, Liam tells her that she's made his brother happier than he's ever seen him. Taking them both by surprise, she hugs him tightly and whispers a heartfelt thank-you in his ear, and she can't help noticing that his blush is almost identical to his brother's.

They spend their honeymoon surrounded by impossibly blue water and ridiculously white sand, losing hours having languid sex and eating the kind of fruit that you never seen in Boston. Sometimes at the same time, but hey, what happens on your honeymoon stays on your honeymoon, right?

Just after midnight on the first night, he finally reaches up a hand to her face, smoothing back the tousled hair from her damp forehead. They're lying tangled in starched white hotel sheets, their luggage piled carelessly near the window, shoes strewn untidily across the carpet. "You know, I always did enjoy sharing a hotel room with you."

"At least now you get to sleep naked," she shoots back, sliding down one hand to gently pinch his perfectly formed ass. "Don't think I didn't realise back then that you were just faking those pyjamas."

He smirks, his eyes glowing with sated amusement. "Well, I knew you wouldn't have been able to handle it."

"Oh, please, you couldn't -"

"Shut up, Swan." His mouth covers hers in a lazy, sleepy kiss, stealing her teasing words, every shared breath whispering love you, love you, love you, and it's not too fast and it's not too much and it's everything she never realised she needed and, finally, finally, it's more than enough.