AN: Dedicated to Savannah (killiansbuttercup on Tumblr). Also, written for the CS AU Week.

It's three in the afternoon on a Sunday when she finds herself standing in front of an apartment door in New York, holding a small black golden retriever under her arm.

It's three in the afternoon.

On a Sunday.

How the hell did she get here? She knows exactly why, and she hates herself for even thinking of returning the lost dog to his owner. She could have just left him there and went on with her blissful life. But she didn't. (She couldn't – the creature has such a determination in its small body that when he followed her home, waggling his tail until she let him in, she would swear he's some kind of devil's spawn or something.)

It had been easy trying to find the address written on the dog's tag, easy to ask for Graham to check out the name Killian Jones on the police records, if he's anything but a dog owner. Her friend came back to her with a clean file. But she could never be sure…

But it's too late to contemplate that now because she's pressing the doorbell with trembling fingers, hoping, praying to God the owner's not some kind of maniac or murderer or – or –

The puppy squirms under her arm, but she deliberately ignores him. The door opens and she cringes at her inner thoughts as if they're on loudspeaker.

Well, she certainly had not expected that.

It's a man (duh, Emma), he's in a black wifebeater (she certainly does not look at the defined muscles on his shoulders and arms), and his eyes are such a light blue that she has troubles looking in them directly. So instead, she surveys what she could see behind him – a clean apartment, looks like he's alone –

He coughs and she starts.

"Uh – hi, I'm – I found your lost dog – "

The creature barks, which came out more like a squeak than anything, as if on cue.

She finds herself watching as a smile spreads on his lips, as he turns his head to the direction of the sound. She blinks, once, twice, when she realizes that his eyes are not focused on the dog itself but on the general direction of it.

"You found him? You found Liam?" he asks, laughter barely reigned in so evident in his voice. Decidedly British.

"Y-yeah," she starts, and she barely has the word out of her mouth when the dog decides to wriggle out of her grip and jump down to the ground, only to pounce on the man's leg in an overly-excited way.

The man (his name is Killian) crouches down to meet the creature's eager actions, petting his head and cooing in a quiet voice… all the while, keeping his eyes trained somewhere behind her, not looking at anything in particular – oh. Oh. Shit.

"I'm just gonna go," she says, but before she could even turn, he is rising to his feet, catching her arm in a movement so swift, it's surprising for… someone like him.

"Wait, I didn't catch your name," he says, his eyes moving as he speaks. She stares at him, dumbfounded, because her heart is racing, because his gentle grip on her arm is burning her skin like a damn inferno, but most of all, because he looks as if her leaving will cost him a lot.

"It's Emma. Swan. Emma Swan," she stutters, her eyes fluttering as the same attractive slow grin grows on his face.

"Swan," he whispers to himself, as if tasting the name on his tongue – and it is definitely not fair. "Mine's Killian Jones."

"I know," she says before she could stop herself. "I mean, I had my friend check if you're not a murderer or something – just to make sure… you're… not."

She wants to slap herself so hard for that, but her arm is still caught in his grip, and he looks like he's not letting go anytime soon. The blush that had spread on her cheeks would be embarrassing… that is if he could see it. She so desperately wants to slap herself again.

"Impressive," he says, and his voice took on that rough and low tone that has her heart jumping. "Why don't you stay for a while?" he continues, his eyes downcast, and his change of demeanor, from a (sinfully attractive) man to a timid little boy, amuses her.

"I have yet to show my gratitude to you in a proper way." And he's back.

A moment of silence passes between them, and when he felt that she wouldn't run, he releases her arm, and leads her into the small apartment, grabbing his guiding cane from the back of the door, further proving her assumption. The little puppy trudges behind them happily, bouncing on his nimble feet. He makes her tea and they sit across from each other on the kitchen counter.

"Thank you for bringing him home, Emma," he speaks as he puts his mug down.

She takes a few seconds to answer because there's just too much raw emotion in his voice that she has to slowly process it in. "It's… nothing. I didn't have anything to do today anyway."

He raises his head and turns his eyes towards her direction (and her heart squeezes in her chest because he's trying so hard to make it look like he's meeting her gaze, his sincerity emanating off him, nevertheless). "It's not nothing. He's all I have."

Her breath backs up her lungs because it dropped on her like a ton of bricks. His words hit home so hard she has to compose herself – Goddamit. She sees it in those blue depths, feels the brokenness in him, because it's a feeling she knows all too well, and it surprises her how quickly she caught it in just the tone of his voice.

"I – I don't know what to say," she confesses, feeling the need to fill the silence with words so as not to make the situation more awkward than it already is. At least, to her.

"Why don't you start by saying 'yes'?" he tells her as he regards her with a knowing smile, like he's keeping a secret that he is yet to say.

"Say 'yes' to what exactly?" she asks, amusedly.

"To a date," he replies simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to ask to a complete stranger who knows nothing about him, and whom he knows nothing about.

"You don't even know me – I don't even know you."

"Killian Jones, 28, transcriber, dog owner," his voice turns husky and low – and how does he manage turning a simple introduction into seduction? "Single."

She blinks at him and the grin that tugs his lips up tells her that even without his sight, he is very aware of his effect on her.

She finds herself falling into his orbit, caught in his vortex, and she doesn't know how or why – so don't ask her how she got herself into spending half a day with a blind man and his dog, don't ask her how she found out that he was born that way, don't ask her how she got herself into spilling her sob-story of a life to a stranger, don't ask her how she said 'yes' when he asked if he could see her again… because she has no answer other than a carefree shrug.

She decides then that she's done overthinking everything.