good feeling, won't you stay with me, just a little longer?
-Violent Femmes, "Good Feeling"

He doesn't let go.

It's not just Killian – everyone stays clustered close around Emma for a long time, re-adjusting her blankets and bringing her more hot chocolate (with cinnamon) and exchanging stories of the day with Mary-Margaret (she says, "oh Emma," and walks right over for a long hug). Henry sits down on the floor after a while and leans against her legs, head tilted back on her lap. Elsa hovers worriedly overhead, watching anxiously until Emma's teeth have finally stopped chattering. David and Mary-Margaret drag chairs over from the table to sit with baby Neal until there is a loose semicircle of loved ones around her, and Emma drinks her hot chocolate with her eyes squeezed tightly closed to hold back tears. It was already getting dark when they got back, but no one moves for a long time, as the loft slowly heats up again and eyes start to droop.

Emma's the first to break the comfortable silence that has fallen over them. "Elsa," she says quietly, hand stroking through Henry's hair, "you can have my bed tonight."

Elsa tries to protest, but Emma insists, and soon enough David shows her the way upstairs. That seems to work as a signal; Mary-Margaret pushes herself to her feet with a tired grunt, leaning over so Emma can give her brother a kiss before tucking him in for the night and heading over to her own bed. When David comes back downstairs, he helps to hoist Henry up from the floor (his eyelids dragging low, he's near enough to sleep to make no difference, but still hugs Emma and mumbles, "Love you, Mom,") and pours him onto the loveseat. Emma tries to take off one of her blankets to give to the kid, but David shoots her a glare before making do with a couple of coats instead.

He turns out the last few lights, then, and comes close to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight, Dad," Emma whispers, and his smile is so soft.

"Goodnight, Emma," he says, then his eyes shift past her and he gives a little nod: "Hook."

Because he's still there.

Of course, he's still there.

-xxx-

He's been mostly silent, only speaking up once to refuse Henry's offer of hot chocolate with a quiet, "Perhaps another time." It's been hours, by now, and Emma might wonder why he's barely spoken (Killian, who always seems to break the silence) if she didn't already know. If she didn't feel the same.

It's been hours, and Killian hasn't moved away. Hasn't let go once – his arm round her, hand slowly stroking back and forth, the brace of his hook under her fingers, his warm breath against her hair. For the longest time he simply kneeled there, uncaring of how tired his legs must have gotten, until Mary-Margaret brought over a chair. Even then, he only stood for a moment; hand still on Emma's shoulder, never losing contact. When he sat down it was with a gentle tug, pulling Emma back into his shoulder, and he smoothed the blanket over her lap with the back of his hook, and he didn't look away and he didn't say a word.

And neither has anyone else.

No one has said a thing about Killian's presence as the night got later. No one suggested he head back to Granny's, or wherever he's been sleeping, when everyone was tucking in for the night. No one even hinted that he should be anywhere but here right now, because he shouldn't, it's that simple, and now the loft is dark but for the flicker of a few candles and Emma and Killian are still curled up close together. She's surrounded by her family and a woman who, despite nearly killing her today, she thinks she might be able to call a friend, and Killian's fingers are stroking slow against her back, a soothing up and down, up and down.

"I think I'm finally warming up," Emma whispers after a moment, and tilts her head up to look him in the eyes.

"Good," he says, but that's all he says, and he doesn't loosen his grip.

Pulls her a little closer, in fact.

-xxx-

It's another little while before they speak again. Emma's pretty sure that everyone else is asleep by now. She should probably be asleep too, it's late, but she doesn't want to lose this moment. There's a kind of warmth to this sleepy quiet, something beyond the powers of the radiator or blankets or three mugs of hot chocolate in her belly. It's in the family surrounding her, so close that she'd probably feel cramped any other day. It's a type of warmth she's unused too, a cozy, still sort of feeling, that everything is all right in this room, that she has people who love her, so many people, and they're all right here and they aren't going anywhere –

(and he's still not letting go)

and it's only when Killian's forehead dips down to press against hers, that Emma opens her eyes and realizes she's crying. She blinks up at him, and he leans forward a little more, fingers gripping tight at her shoulder for a moment before relaxing back into that steady up-down, up-down rhythm…

Emma tilts her head back and leans up and then they're kissing, heads bent at an awkward angle but lips soft and warm and slow, and his hand on her shoulder slides up into her hair, and Emma grabs onto the curve of his hook and doesn't let go, doesn't let go.

And then suddenly she's shivering again, no longer cold but remembering, remembering being so tired and alone and terrified, in what little part of her brain still felt capable of thinking clearly, terrified because she's lost so much in her life, lost so many people but it was never like this, never Emma fading away and knowing it was forever, knowing she could never have them again. She'd thought of her parents, her brother, Henry most of all – and she'd thought of Killian. His frantic voice through the receiver of Graham's walkie-talkie, his talk of quiet moments, his kiss outside Granny's after coming home, and Emma remembers realizing that she'd always been so afraid of losing him, she'd never thought of him losing her.

She's walked away from him so many times by this point that it shouldn't have mattered, but it did, because back then she'd never acknowledged what was between them, never admitted how much she wanted this, needed this, never really let him in – but now she has, is, wants to, wants this to last, not end in a cave made of ice with him right outside begging to be let in. When it finally worked, when David gave Elsa the hope needed to control her magic and he and Killian pulled her free of her icy prison, Emma fell into his arms without hesitation. She'd pulled him closer and clung tight as well as she was able, aware somewhere deep in her gut that this was the most they'd ever touched at once since the tripwire at the top of the beanstalk. Emma's teeth were chattering and she couldn't feel her limbs but she wouldn't let go this time, wouldn't step back, and Killian carried her to the car, sat in the backseat with his hand cradling her cheek, thumb wiping away snowflakes. He'd been the one to carry her inside, too, and set her in this chair and kneel down next to her and stay by her side and never leave, never once but for when he fetched the radiator.

And Emma – Emma's clung on just as tightly. It's the first time in her life she's ever been so blatant, so selfish about seeking contact with another person, but she can't bring herself to let go. She's the one who wrapped her fingers through his, who leaned onto his shoulder and held on to his brace. She only let go with one hand to drink her hot chocolate, never really straightened up, sent Elsa to her bed knowing there wouldn't be anywhere left to lay down – and even now, the only reason he isn't able to wipe her tears away with his hand like he did in the past is because Emma's leaning on him still, curled into his side and unwilling to move away.

She's shivering now at the thought of making him lose her, and it's the first time in her life she's felt this way, this afraid of hurting someone else simply by not being around anymore. It's terrifying, an ache in her chest that makes it hard to breathe, and she can feel the tears slipping down her cheeks but she doesn't want to stop kissing him, drags her teeth against his bottom lip when he pulls back (a silent plea).

Killian keeps pulling back, though, and for a moment panic flutters in Emma's lungs, catching at her breath – but he stops once his arm is free. Shifts himself further sideways in his chair to face her better, shakes out his hand a little (Emma thinks guiltily of the pins and needles she must have caused) before reaching up to cup her cheek.

"Not bad, for a second date," he says, and his voice is so low, scratchy-soft and his eyes are shining in the candlelight, every minute he thought she was dying etched upon his face (she could destroy him, Emma thinks, terrified) – it takes her a minute to process his words.

When she does, a laugh huffs out of her throat unbidden (and slightly sniffly). "Really?" she scoffs, as quietly as she is able: "You call this not bad?"

"I'll call it good if you kiss me again," he grins, and Emma feels a rush of new heat, low in her gut. For a moment, she thinks very seriously about doing much more – thinks, not for the first time, of simply dragging him off and pressing him up against a wall somewhere. She's done it before, in far less comfortable places than the bathroom of her parent's loft, with far worse men than a pirate who'd trade his ship for her, with far less of a desperation buzzing under her skin to touch his, to kiss him hot and hard, to mark a path from his throat to his thighs. Emma's thought about this before but never as vividly as she does now, almost tasting him on her tongue, feeling his hand gripping in her hair, seeing his eyes rolling shut, hearing him groan out her name low and frantic and heavy with need – and for a moment, she almost does it. She knows he'd follow her, if she took his hand in hers right now and led him to the bathroom, if she told him to be quiet and kneeled down in front of him, and Emma wants it, as much as he would. She wants to give him that, to take it for herself, to break him in a far pleasanter way than by freezing to death.

But she can't, in the end. And not just because of baby Neal, or any of the other light sleepers surrounding them. Emma can't do it because she wants more, more than even that. She wants something better, something entirely unrushed and full of meaning. She wants to give that to Killian, to share it with him – wants a whole night, not just a few rushed minutes. And she knows, knows that isn't going to just happen, knows she can't just wait – because if today's proven anything it's that Killian and David know what they're talking about, with those quiet moments. This is something different, though, something more than just moments. This is Emma, and her own uncontrollable ice walls.

But if Elsa could let hers down, even just a little… then Emma should too. Should try, should make her own moments and not let them slip away. Should kiss Killian again now, because she's thought too long and there's a furrow starting in his brow, pull him closer because it's okay to be selfish, it's okay to want this, he's not letting go either.

Should whisper, when they finally pull back to breathe: "Let's make the third one even better."

"What?" Killian asks.

"Our third date," Emma says, and turns in her chair to snuggle closer. She ducks her head into his shoulder and pulls his arm around her again; closes her eyes, smiling. "I'll take you somewhere classy."

(She doesn't pretend not to hear his breath catch. Squeezes his arm a little tighter, just above the hook.)

-xxx-

Emma wakes up the next morning overheated and sweaty, with a serious crick in her neck and an ache in her back. The sun's in her eyes, her bladder's full, and she really needs the radiator to stop blasting her way now.

Killian's snoring quietly, head resting on her own. His hand is warm on top of hers.

She doesn't move.