You guys have been so kind with your reviews, follows and favourites! Here's the second chapter, drop a review if you've got the time!

chapter two

She's in the middle of correcting a 12 page paper on Attachment Theory, her sixth paper of the day, when she becomes undeniably certain of the fact that she shouldn't have opened that bottle of wine an hour ago - especially considering she's nearly finished more than half of it already and the sentences on the page are all beginning to sound one in the same. She heaves out a deep sigh into her wine glass as she considers how easily half of the theories in the syllabus can be applied to her; evidently, it's kind of ironic, but it's conclusively her fault she opted to dive into Social Psychology.

(She isn't proud to admit that she'd cried more than a handful of times while working on her first research paper over the years - some of those topics had just hit too close to home.)

A break is what she needs, and at this moment, she's glad for Elsa, her assistant professor, who'd opted to take over half the workload for the weekend. She puts down the paper on the coffee table in front of her and settles back into the couch, turning her head slightly to the left towards the window and reveling in the surreal hues of pinks and yellows and blues that paint the approaching dusk.

Emma had found the apartment barely a day prior to her move, stumbling upon a listing on a site she'd sworn she'd visited at least twenty or so times - it was pure luck, in her opinion, because otherwise she'd have to settle into a motel that was at least a half hour drive from campus. This place is an easy fifteen minute walk from Misthaven, something she'd never thought she'd find. Though, in her first week, she'd found that most of the other tenants were either graduate students who split their time between work and research, or undergrads that had large trust funds. Besides the few drinks she's shared with Ruby and Graham after work, it's safe to say she doesn't exactly have a booming social life here.

Her phone chimes from its place on the couch cushion beside her, breaking her away from her thoughts. She swipes the screen to read the text - if you asked her about it later, she'd adamantly deny the smile that blossomed on her face at seeing his name pop up on the screen.

Stop working for a minute and watch the sky, Swan. 'Tis a magical sight you don't witness often in Storybrooke.

Well, she doesn't have a booming social life, but she does have Killian Jones.

The reason she'd texted him the first time, after she'd seen he'd scribbled his number across the coffee cup sleeve, was something she didn't want to divulge herself in. He'd made her smile on one of her worst days (really, the dean had been at her throat about "classroom etiquettes" and "upholding the standards of Misthaven," one of her students had started a heated debate that had sent the class into a frenzy she couldn't control, she was exhausted, mulling over just leaving, had a research paper to continue that she was sure she was getting nowhere with, and overall, she'd just felt so useless), had left her skin tingling without even touching her, and somehow he'd ended up becoming her sort-of friend.

She had less than reluctantly turned into a frequent customer of his cafe ever since. But she'd never tell him that.

(She had felt so stupid when she realised he owned it - never putting two and two together, always too busy bracing herself for another flirty line from him to notice he shared a last name with the shop's. He'd laughed at her then, chiming in a "Aren't you Psychology majors meant to be observant?" over the rim of his coffee mug as he sat across from her and she grumbled as she marked her papers.)

Her phone chimes again in her hand.

Then again, ever since you stepped foot in my shop, I've been witnessing a magical sight nearly every day.

A sort-of friend that has a stupid habit of flirting with her whenever he gets the chance.

You're ruining this amazing sunset by being insufferable.

I am doing no such thing. In fact, I bet you wish I was there to view it with you.

(He's right, but she'll never admit it.) She scoffs, the bastard, she's become so accustomed to his flirting that she can imagine his smug grin against his stubble.

In your dreams, Jones.

Oh, Swan, you've no idea.

She rolls her eyes and tosses the phone back on top of the couch cushions with a smile, opting to watch the last bits of the sunlight dip down into the horizon before sighing and turning her attention back to the papers in front of her.

Every time she perches herself on the soft cushion sofa jutted comfortably in the corner of the cafe, lined directly with the glass wall, he is overcome with the restless desire to storm up to her and kiss her senseless. And today is no different.

It's a Saturday so she's in a pair of light blue faded jeans, and a cream coloured sweater, hair made into an intricate braid that's falling down over one shoulder - she looks as though she belongs. He wants her to stay here, nestled in between the four walls of the cafe that he's come to identify as home. He knows he can't make her, but, as he's said several times before, a man can dream. Until then, he'll settle for the routine they seem to have fallen into of sitting opposite each other every weekend (or alternate weekend, if she's busy), and sharing bits of their week and revelling in small talk that, sure, he's happy with, but wouldn't mind trading for actually getting to know her.

Killian nudges Ariel to let her know he's going on his break and she tosses him a knowing smile that he tries not to blush under. She'd called him out on his admiration for Emma when she'd found him in the supply room, head bent over his phone and face practically split in two with a grin. He was yet to even inform Liam of his new friend - she was his friend, he knew that's what she thought of them - and he'd rather not have his employees darting to his brother with information on his (possible) love life before he even has the chance to process it all.

He sighs heavily. His non-existent love life is not a topic he wants to internally mull over right now. He goes to prepare her a drink (she'd recently taken up indecision when it came to her drink orders and settled on a "surprise me"; she's yet to take that back and he thinks he'll happily prepare every drink known to mankind for her if it came down to it). It's a particularly chilly mid-Autumn morning, so he settles on making a Cinnamon Mocha and reheating a slice of freshly baked apple pie before venturing with the items towards her.

"Good morning, Swan."

She smiles up at him from the paperback she's reading and he's certain his heart halts in his chest.

"Morning," she replies as he places the tray on the table and plops down on the seat opposite hers.

"No assignments today?"

"Nope, all done for the weekend," she states a tad proudly, picking up her drink and taking a tentative sip from it. She smacks her lips together once and turns to him with a curious gaze, "Cinnamon?"

"Right on the dot, love."

She shrugs with one shoulder - a stray curl falls out from her braid and he wants to reach out and twirl it between his fingers - and hums teasingly, "It's alright. Most of the stores do cinnamon in Autumn, so, kind of predictable."

"Bloody 'alright,' I'll have you know that the drinks I make are far better than whatever overpriced chain store nonsense you're referring to," he huffs. It earns him a small smirk from her, and it's not one of her casual smiles that he's become so fond of but it's close, and he wouldn't trade it for anything.

She picks at the apple pie, ever so often humming in delight at the taste of it, while he asks her about the book she's reading. "I got it from Ruby, it's something about fairytale characters with a modern twist. Honestly, anything's better than another one of my student's papers."

"And here I thought you finally ventured out of your apartment to procure the novel from the local bookstore," he smirks as he successfully steals a forkful of apple pie off her plate.

She replies with an unamused groan and tips the mug into her mouth again. Once she sets it down, she mumbles, not meeting his eyes, "I've been busy."

And he doesn't know what it is about that simple statement, but it seems so sad. (And he's obviously already made it his mission to keep her happy, so the underlying melancholy makes his stomach turn uneasily.) He's going to take matters into his own hands, he decides. As a friend, of course. He playfully slams the palm of his hand against the top of the table, making her look up at him as he lets a smile play across his lips.

"That's it, Swan, we need to take you," he points a finger at her, almost touching it to the tip of her nose, "out on an adventure."

He watches as she narrows her eyes at him, either in confusion or distrust, he isn't sure, but all he knows is that there's nothing else he'd rather do than take a trip into town with Emma Swan by his side.

It isn't that she doesn't want to get out of her apartment more often; she does. She's just busy. With work, and her research paper, and she's never exactly been one to parade around streets hunting down bookstores recommended to her by suave yet cocky baristas.

The again, who is she kidding? The real reason holding her back is the fact that Emma Swan has never favoured attachment. The entire notion of sinking her feet into the cement of one place is terrifying. She thinks back to the group homes and the families that almost-but-not-quite adopted her whenever she has an urge to actually become a part of the city she's in.

She's not imposed to exploring, she just doesn't want to be in that inevitable position where she associates bad memories with good places (she has too many of those thoughts when it comes to Boston; and don't even mention Tallahassee).

It's just in her nature to retaliate, to lure herself away from the concept of getting too close too fast. But as she looks over at Killian, dressed in that damn black polo that brings out his eyes with a dark leather jacket thrown on, while he details the "must see" attractions as they drive into town in his black sedan, she reminds herself that moving here was supposed to be a fresh start, an opportunity to reinvent herself in some way. She's been trapped in a loop of a life for far too long and Killian, currently excitedly listing off the best places to eat (he's such a dork, sometimes), is giving her an opportunity to break out of it. Sure, Ruby's tried to drag her along for a drink with her and Graham more often than not, and she's almost given in once or twice before overthinking the whole thing, getting out of the plan by making up work related excuses. The farthest she's gotten from her apartment is to Ruby and Graham's apartment, which is a bit farther off from the campus than hers is.

She does not want to think about why she let Killian grab her hand after she'd finished her drink to pull her up off the table (mid-protest, might she add) and lead her to his car, while she never let either Ruby or Graham even get close to doing the same.

In the 45-minute drive into town, amidst the easy conversation and fighting over which one of them has sole power over choosing the radio station, Emma notes that Storybrooke is rather aptly sized as opposed to it being called a "small town" in the multiple articles she'd read about it online. It's got several streets branching out from one main road, a scattering of shops and houses all surrounded by a lush green of the forest that lays on the outskirts of the main town. Still, she has no doubt that everything would be within walking distance - it wasn't that big. And the way that Killian nods a cheerful hello to a handful of people during the walk from his car to the entrance of the bookstore tells her that either it is quaint enough here that everyone knows each other, or the man is one popular resident.

He holds the door open for her with a mock bow, and she scoffs as she enters The Dusty Jacket. When Killian had mentioned the store to her a week or so ago, she hadn't really thought much about it, chalking it up as one of those usual simple bookstores she's so accustomed to visiting. But her eyes grow wide as she takes in the gorgeous display before her; the meticulous arrangement of wooden furniture, the bookshelves that climb to the ceiling housing a colourful array of literature, a warm aroma of old paper and new carpeting complimenting the glistening sunlight from the window seat piled with cushions on the far left. It's something homely. And she hasn't known homely all too well in her life.

"Belle!" She turns her head at Killian's voice, greeting a petite brunette that's just walked in from the back room. He walks up to her and reaches over to press a kiss on her cheek, "How have you been doing, lass?"

"I've been great," she smiles up at him and Emma, for the life of her, wishes her stomach wasn't turning at the pleasant sight the two make. "But I'm upset with you, you should be visiting more often."

She watches as Killian throws his head back in a groan, "I do have a business to run, you know. But I apologise, I know you miss me whenever I'm not around."

She rolls her light blue eyes at him, and then her attention darts to Emma, suddenly noticing that the two of them aren't the only ones in the shop. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm Belle French, I work here," she walks up to Emma in her towering heels and extends her a hand to shake, voice warm and with a hint of an accent - Australian, she thinks.

"Emma Swan," is all she offers when she takes her hand, a forced smile on her lips.

"Emma hasn't seen Storybrooke yet so I figured I'd show her around," Killian walks up to stand beside her and she notes as Belle's eyes dart between them before she smiles again, telling them to browse the store as they please.

She runs her finger along the spines of a few first editions, noting their mint condition, her stomach still uneasy. Killian's holding a hardcover in his hand, silently standing behind her when she decides to break the silence. "So, you're friends with Belle?"

She's not jealous. That would be ridiculous.

"Hm? Oh, aye, known her since we moved here."

She picks up a novel at random, trying to look busy, "Ah."

When she turns to face him it's to a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin she can't quite place, "Her and my brother have been sort of seeing each other for a while. In fact, they have me to thank for that."

And just like that, she feels like the worst person in the world. She gives him a barely-there nod before quickly glancing back at the blurb on the book in an attempt to hide the flush that no doubt is crawling up her neck. He plucks the book from her hands and places another one in its place with a chuckle. It has something to do with pirates, princesses, and forbidden love; cliché as they come, and yet she finds herself opening the first page and scanning her eyes over the words.

She hears a worn out thump and notices from the corner of her eye that he's slumped down on a small, rustic couch tracing his fingers over the embossed title on the ancient tome in his hand - Tolstoy, she makes out. She faces him completely as he begins speaking in a soft tone. "Belle, she's like family," his fingers scratch absentmindedly behind his ear, eyes remaining trained down, "I don't have very much of those."

It's a strange feeling, recognizing a lost soul. Her eyes dart over his figure, leaning on the sofa arm as his mussed hair flops into his eyes - terrifyingly attractive, but a hint of sadness in all of that exceeding bravado. And true to the pattern she's come to adapt with him, she braves her way to perch down on the other seat of the sofa, her knee inches away from touching his, and doesn't think about it. About how easy he seems to make it, how familiar everything seems with him.

"Yeah," she offers, not out of pity or to sympathize, but because there's some kind of bond that people like them share and for now she doesn't want to think about the consequences, "me neither."