Another Tumblr prompt. These things are gold, I tell you. Writing these short little pieces is a bit like stretching when I'm feeling stuck working on the longer piece (which, yes, will start posting soon). Until then, enjoy a bit of fluffiness.

Emma has never been one to ask for help – and she has a damn hard time accepting it when it's offered. But the truth of the matter is, being a single mother is hard.

She doesn't have family to lean on – she doesn't have friends to call to ask for help. She's lucky she has her job, but a seven-year-old son and being a cop don't exactly go well together. It's not nine to five. There is no daycare at three in the morning.

It's with great reluctance she places the ad for a nanny, convinced she won't be able to find anyone and the whole issue will be put behind her. She'll be able to tell her sergeant she tried, she did, but there is no one else to watch her son. She wants this job, but she needs to keep her son safe.

If that means she gets stuck on desk duty until Henry is old enough to mind himself when she's got to work nights, well, so be it.

The interviews go about as well as she expects. She puts them into two basic categories – girls too young and inexperienced to trust with her son when she may be unavailable for hours at a time or women who are from another generation, one that doesn't understand a single woman working a dangerous job all hours of the night.

It was touch and go to start, but Emma isn't stupid. She's a good mom – at least, she thinks so most days. Her son is healthy and happy and cared for. But she wants to be a better mom, provide a better life for her son than she had. So she has to work.

When Killian Jones turns out to be a devastatingly handsome man about her own age instead of yet another woman (they've only communicated through email – she's never heard the name Killian before and she just assumed) she almost slams the door in his face.

"No," is all she says, the door already closing as he sticks his door into the door to stop her.

"Perhaps you might give me a chance to speak with you before slamming the door in my face, aye?" He says it in an especially charming accent, a half-smirk on his lips. She eyes him, taking note of the snug black jeans and leather jacket. He does not look like a man she wants around her son.

But then again, she's just spent a week being told who she is by other people, so perhaps it's a bit hypocritical of her to do the same to him.

Wordlessly, she swings the door to her small apartment open, allowing him to enter and follow her into the kitchen. Henry is playing video games in the living room, and Emma pauses, listening for him before she turns to the newest applicant.

She's shocked to find him both willing and able to fulfill her requests. She's also pleased to find that beneath the leather jacket, he's wearing a plaid button-up like any other normal guy. It softens him somehow, makes his blue eyes offer themselves up like a cozy blanket.

But he's not here for that.

They agree to a trial run of one week, to make sure he's truly okay with her schedule, and that Henry is okay with him. Emma is terrified the first time she goes in for a night shift and leaves her son with him, but by the time she gets home in the morning, he's made Henry scrambled eggs and has him ready for school.

She smiles at him in thanks, grateful beyond measure to be able to kiss Henry on the cheek (Mom, stooooop) and hustle him off to school.

When she gets home, Killian is gone, but there's a note on the counter and a plate of eggs, bacon and toast left warming in the oven.

It's been a long time since Emma has been genuinely surprised by someone, but Killian Jones manages it. She's paying him to care for her son – not for her.

But as they fall into a routine, she keeps discovering more and more the ways that he's trying to not only make her son happy, but to help her. He takes Henry to the grocery store, providing Emma with a receipt and a stocked refrigerator, and Henry likes him so much the boy doesn't even complain like he usually does when Emma drags him through the aisles.

In fact, her son can't stop talking about Killian Jones. Emma can't help but be a little jealous – Henry is her little boy. But she's also struggling to accept that he's never had a dad, and having a positive male role model isn't the worst thing in the world for him.

Besides, Killian is growing on her. He's charming and sweet and he always makes her breakfast when he prepares breakfast for Henry. He would probably drive her son to school, too, and let her just fall into bed when she arrives home, but Emma makes it a point to be home in time for that. It's the one piece of routine she has with the kid, and she doesn't want to give it up.

She doesn't notice at first. The notes grow a little longer (he tells her about Henry, how their night was). The laundry starts getting done. The apartment is cleaner.

But when fresh flowers appear in a carefully arranged vase on the dining room table, Emma stares at them curiously, her thumb brushing across the soft petal of the orchid bloom.

She doesn't say anything, but a week later, there's a vase of pale pink roses. They're nearly the same shade as the sweater she threw on to take Henry to school the day before they appeared, and Killian is already gone, but she stares into the kitchen where his note sits on the counter, wondering.

She decides he's just being nice and doesn't say anything.

It's not long after that he arrives at the apartment to find her miserable on the couch, bundled into pajamas and a blanket, Henry on the other end of the couch as they watch a movie together. "Oh, no…" she groans when she sees him, struggling to sit upright as her fever makes her head spin. "I'm so sorry. I forgot to tell you I'm going to be home tonight with him. I've got the flu or something."

He simply shrugs, letting the door close behind him. "I can still stay, help the lad with his homework so you can rest. Have you had supper?"

Emma glances woefully at the box of saltines on the coffee table, noticing it's approaching five-thirty and she hasn't even considered what to make Henry for dinner. She isn't sure she's got the energy to do more than call for a pizza – mother of the year.

But she's not about to tell him any of that. "No, it's all right. I can manage. You should enjoy the night off. Go out with your friends." Her voice is raspy, and she starts coughing before she can even get all of the words out.

He raises an eyebrow at her, shrugging out of his jacket. He's got on a cotton Henley today, snug against his toned chest, and it's got to be the fever talking, but all she wants is for him to wrap her in his arms, take care of her.

But he's here for her son.

"Henry, lad, have you got any homework?" Killian simply ignores her offer to leave, turning to her son who's looking suddenly guilty.

"A little."

"Aye, a little. Why don't you fetch it and assist me in the kitchen while your mother rests a bit?"

"Okay."

Emma stares at Killian in amazement as her son simply gets off the couch and goes to his room to get his schoolwork without argument or complaint. "You're so good with him," she tells him, a sudden chill going through her as she wraps the blanket more snuggly around herself. "Thank you."

"He's a good lad." Killian frowns at her box of saltines and her box of tissues. "Can I get you anything, love? Have you got medicine? I can run over to the pharmacy."

"I'm okay."

Henry returns before he can say anything else, but she can feel his eyes on her as he leads her son into the kitchen. Emma is too exhausted to do anything more than turn off the TV and fall into a restless sleep on the couch, once again finding herself overwhelmingly grateful.

"Emma." There's a gentle shake on her shoulder, and she blinks her eyes open blearily to see Killian squatted down in front of her, concern in his frown. "Love, you're burning up. What have you taken?"

"Nothing," she mumbles, rubbing at her eyes and trying not to move too suddenly. Moving takes too much of an effort, anyway. "I'll be fine."

He shakes his head, gently helping her to sit up and shoving a bottle of Nyquil into her hands. "Take this. Then eat something, then to bed."

The bottle is cool in her hands, and she fights the temptation to hold it up to her face, slowly unscrewing the cap and taking a swig off the bottle – she doesn't have the energy to measure it. He replaces the bottle with a steaming bowl of chicken broth, siting down beside her and watching her with the same careful observation she's seen him direct at Henry when he's expecting his instructions to be followed.

"You don't have to do this," Emma mumbles, taking a tentative sip from the broth. It's hot and it feels good on her throat – she just can't believe he's doing all this.

"You're sick, Emma. Someone has to care for you."

It's the way his voice catches on the word care that makes her eyes dart to his, confusion she can't blame on the fever overwhelming her. She wants to argue that she's been just fine all these years on her own, but the silence of the apartment suddenly catches up with her, so instead she asks, "Where's Henry?"

"It's after eleven, love. I put him to bed some time ago."

"Oh." She didn't realize how long she'd been asleep, or that at this point, he's stayed purely for her. For hours. "Why haven't you gone home?" she blurts out, unable to stop the question even though the answer is tugging at her from the back of her mind.

"I should think it's obvious by now," he says softly, but he's not quite looking at her, and he's scratching absently behind his ear like she's seen him do only on occasion before – when he's nervous or anxious.

And maybe it is obvious, but Emma is Emma, and it doesn't occur to her that the flowers and the broth and the breakfasts are all connected, all have a lot more to do with how he feels about her than wanting to be good at his job.

So Emma says nothing, but she doesn't tell him he can leave again, and she doesn't argue when he takes Henry to school in the morning.

He surprises her again by returning to the apartment, a bag of groceries in hand. She frowns from her place on the couch at his reappearance, setting down the cup of tea she's been nursing. "Killian, go home, really. I'm okay. I'm sure you have things to do."

He shrugs. "Not particularly." He shifts the bag in his arms, glancing back at her. "I thought I'd make you a bit of soup, if you're feeling up to eating something today."

She's so confused she only nods.

She doesn't go to work again that night, either, but she does convince Killian to go home since she's feeling slightly better. It's a small shock to the system to realize she misses his presence that night, misses his laughter mingling with her son's and the way those baby blue eyes of his linger on her.

The next time she comes home from work, she's running late. She got caught up in a case, and she texts Killian to tell him she's going to be there as soon as she can, and can he please be sure Henry is ready to go?

She walks into a silent apartment, and her heart races instantly. Where is her son?

"I brought the lad to school, love. I didn't want you to have to rush," Killian greets her panicked gaze when she enters the kitchen. He's got his hip propped against the island, arms folded over his chest, and he's looking particularly attractive today in a T-shirt that clings to his chest and a pair of dark jeans.

"Oh." It's all she can come up with as she collapses onto one of the stools, taking a deep breath before turning back to him with a curious eye. "Why are you still here?" She winces, because she's tired and it's come out wrong, and she's rushing to explain, but he just chuckles.

"Emma, you are such an intelligent woman, but sometimes, you are bloody oblivious."

"What's that-"

"Go out to dinner with me. Or let me cook you breakfast one morning, after Henry's off to school. I don't much mind which."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "Like…a date?" He nods, and he scratches behind his ear again, his eyes lowering to the floor before he peers at her through this lashes. "Oh. Um. I…that might be confusing. For Henry."

Killian shrugs, coming around the island to stand next to her. This close, she can smell him, spicy and delicious and all she wants to do is say yes to a date, to whatever he wants.

But this man has become important to her son. She can't mess that up for Henry – and Emma? Emma is excellent at messing up relationships with men.

"It's just one date, love. We needn't tell the lad anything…until you're sure." She doesn't miss how he says you're and not we're.

"I…"

She isn't prepared for him to lean down and kiss her without so much as a warning, his fingers threading into her messy braid and his lips gentle but demanding on hers. She responds without thinking about it, letting him pull her to her feet, press their bodies together, and deepen the kiss before releasing her with a grin that's shy and smug all at the same time.

"I like you," he says softly as he brushes the hair out of her eyes, his attention completely focused on her. It's hard for her to focus, her lips tingling and her body suddenly alive despite how tired she is from the long shift. "I like how fiercely you care for your boy, and your independence, and aye, I even like how completely oblivious you are to a man's attentions." His thumb brushes along her cheek as he says the last part, his grin widening.

"I noticed the flowers," she mutters, a blush forming in her cheeks as she refuses to look at him. "I just…I'm not the sort of girl a man buys flowers."

There's two vases of flowers the next day.

She agrees to a date. And another. And another…until one day, Henry turns around from his video game to where they're talking in the kitchen, Killian's hand on her hip and her smile brighter than it's ever been. "Are you dating or something?" he asks, eyeing them both suspiciously.

Emma jumps away from Killian, but her face is bright red and his is a tad bit pink. He's the one to answer Henry, to shrug his shoulders and reach to pull Emma closer. "Aye, lad. Do you find me satisfactory to date your mother?"

Henry shrugs, turning back to his video game. "Okay with me. You can stop pretending I don't know now. You know. Kiss or whatever."

Killian grins at Emma, tugging her closer as Henry resumes his game. "You heard the lad," he says quietly, bending his lips to hers. He can feel her smile against his kiss, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, and her hips pressing to his.

When they separate, she's still smiling.