"For the last time, Ruby, I'm not interested in your new sex-on-legs coworker." Emma huffed, turning her glare to her friend.

"And why not? He's hot, he's totally your type. I think you'd get along great. He's even got an accent, I know you're a sucker for that." Ruby rolled her eyes at her. "Just one drink, Ems. Seriously. Your love life is beyond dead in the water."

"And that's exactly how I like it," Emma muttered, taking a sip from her drink.

And it was true. Right now, all she cared about was her work, which, admittedly, was pretty shitty. But she didn't have time or the energy for a relationship, and she sure as hell wasn't about to hand over her heart to some idiot who probably cared more about getting ass than keeping it.

It was Ruby's turn to scoff, but she didn't say anything else, and Emma was relieved. She loved her friend, she honestly did, but she didn't need or want any help finding a man. She had her house and her bug and that was all she needed.

Besides, tonight was girls' night, and they weren't supposed to be talking about guys at all. At least, not ones that weren't in the same bar as them.

"So," Ruby finally spoke, "since that topic is officially off the table, how's the renovation going?"

Ugh. Her friend would find the one other topic she didn't really want to deal with right now. She made a face, and Ruby nodded sagely.

"I wish I could help, but you know it's impossible for me to get time off these days. Granny is working us all to the bone with the holidays coming up." Emma shrugged, swirling what was left of the whiskey in her glass.

"Unless you can lay tile, I really don't think it would matter."

She had been working on the master suite for nearly a year and a half already, but it was incredibly slow going. Contractor after contractor had dropped out after her work went through dry spots, and she'd finally given up and started to work on it herself. It was cathartic, she told herself, to be able to scrub out memories herself, to smash through drywall and throw the sink out the window.

It was cathartic. But it was also hard work, and a pain in the ass, and she hated coming home to something unfinished.

"You know," Ruby began, a smile breaking across her face, and Emma knew that look.

"No." But she talked right over her.

"I bet Hook knows how to lay tile." Her friend wiggled her eyebrows, adding, "I bet he could also help with any piping issues you might have."

"Ugh," Emma groaned, putting her face down on the table. "If you're going to keep bringing him up you're going to need to buy me at least a couple more rounds."

"About that…"

She lifted her head, eyeing her friend suspiciously. She was looking across the bar, back towards the entrance.

"Ruby, what did you do?"

To her credit, the woman in question winced, appearing semi-apologetic.

"You'll like him, I promise."

"Ruby, you did not-"

But she was cut off by another voice, this one distinctly male, warm and gravely and comfortable, coming from behind her.

"Hello, ladies."

And familiar. Fuck.

She could feel her shoulders tense instantly, because she very much knew that lilting voice, the way it wrapped around her name intimately. In fact, she knew the way he wrapped around her, the exact way his fingers felt in her hair or curled around her waist.

Fuck.

Ruby was still wincing a bit, seeming to have picked up on Emma's discomfort, though certainly not the reason why. Emma closed her eyes, not wanting to see what happened next. Because it couldn't be happening, not this, not now.

"Emma, this is Killian," she began, but there was a slight gasp from behind Emma, and surely whatever Ruby saw made her close her mouth, brow furrowing.

"Swan," he breathed, and goddamn it, there it was. Slowly, she peeled her eyes open, only to find him standing there in front of her.

He looked as good as he always had, dark hair swept to the side, bright blue eyes peering at her in disbelief. Yeah, well, she kinda felt like she had a right to hold the market on disbelief after all this time.

"You already know each other," Ruby said, finally, and it sounded dim. But Emma couldn't tear her eyes away from him. Slowly, she lifted her glass, swallowing what was left in one gulp. He winced at her, but remained silent, and she wanted to scream at him to explain, to leave, to disappear and never come back, just like he was good at.

Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to savor the warmth of the liquor as it burned through her.

"You could say that," she eventually said, glancing morosely at her now-empty glass. "He's kind of my ex-husband."

Bloody fucking hell.

He should have known better. Red has never had an idea that didn't get him into some type of trouble, but this takes the cake.

He should have just said no thank you and moved on. Never come to this damned bar, never agreed to meet her friend Em, should have just asked what that was short for, what her name really was.

He should have just thought and known better.

But now here he is, standing in front of Emma Swan.

She's as beautiful as the last time he'd seen her, the strong bend of her shoulders the same as when she'd said goodbye to him on the steps of the courthouse.

The hurt in her eyes is the same, too.

He can hardly hear Red as she excuses herself, something about more drinks and explanations, disappearing in the direction of the bar.

From the look in Emma's eyes, the last thing she wants to do is explain, but to his surprise, she doesn't leave.

Two years ago she would have left, would have probably knocked over her glass and stalked out the door, a threat on her lips if anyone were to dare to follow.

So he doesn't know what to say when she doesn't leave, when she doesn't even look at him again, eyes fixed on the table in front of her. Her hair falls around her shoulders and covers part of her face, no longer in the tight curls she used to wear that made her look like a princess to him. Still, he can't tear his eyes away from her no matter how much he wishes.

He can't leave either, and before he knows it, he's speaking.

"You look good." The words are barely above a whisper, but somehow she hears him, because she looks up, a small grimace passing across her face.

"So do you," she acknowledges with a small nod, and turns back to the pitted and marred wood. Another long silence falls between them, and he wills Ruby to return, because at least her questions would bring words instead of this silence.

But once again, Emma surprises him.

"What happened to teaching at Yale?" She asks the table, and he wants to laugh, wants to tell her I missed you and please can we go back and I came home, but instead shrugs, forgetting she can't see it.

"I missed Boston," he finally says, and her eyes flicker up to him. Hurt swirls in them, and he wishes he could take it away. But she'd made it clear he had no right to her pain.

"So, what, now you work in a diner?" She scoffs at him, and he shakes his head.

"Just until the next semester starts at BU."

She raises her eyebrows at him and picks up her glass, rolling it in her hands.

"That's a step down, Jones. I would have expected you'd go back to Harvard," she bites harshly, and he winces. He does kind of deserve that. After all, Harvard had been everything to him, it'd been the whole reason he'd come to America.

It was the reason for all of this, for everything.

Until it had all fallen apart, until he realized he couldn't stay in this city with her, knowing he could walk into her on the sidewalk or that he could see her bright little car on the street any day and he would break down again.

(He'd left one dream behind because another had left him, and he wants to hate her for it, but he can't. He spent a long time trying to hate her.

It didn't work.)

Her words hang in the air until Red returns with drinks galore, quickly passing Emma another whiskey and him a rum.

He tries not to worry when Emma downs half of hers before any of them can even speak. The pull of his own drink is strong, and he takes a sip, enjoying the way it steadies his nerves. Just like it always does when he thinks about her.

"So," Ruby begins. "Explain."

She glances between the two of them, a pointed look on her face. He turns to Emma, expecting her to speak first, but she remains stubbornly silent, eyes fixed once more on her drink. He sighs and rubs his forehead.

"We met a long time ago. Got married. Got divorced. I moved to Connecticut. She kept the house."

It's as much of the truth as he can say, because technically they could still both go to jail if anyone ever found out what really happened. But it also hurts to remember the first time she'd let him hold her in his arms, the first time she'd let him into her bed. The first time he'd whispered those three little words onto her skin as she slept.

It all hurts if he thinks about it, so he doesn't. He takes another swig of his drink instead. The burn feels good in his throat, almost as good as saying her name.

Ruby frowns at them both now, shoulders hunched as she tries to make sense of it.

"You never told me you were married," she says quietly, and it's clear she's talking to Emma.

The woman in question shrugs loosely, sipping her drink.

"Not much to tell," she mutters, glancing sideways at Killian. "It's not a big deal."

"Well, considering he looks like a kicked puppy and you look like you'd like to drown in a bottle of something very strong, I'd say it kind of is a big deal."

"Don't, Ruby," the blonde snaps, setting her glass down. "It's nothing, and if you'll excuse me, I need to get home." She fumbles with her pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and dropping it on the table before she slides out of her chair, leaving her half-empty glass behind.

The bell on the door tinkles, and she's gone.

Again.

Ruby sighs, and he finishes off his rum.

It feels surreal, moving into this big old house. Her house, now, she supposes; it says so on the deed, Emma Swan, plain as day. A home.

She tries not to think about what she's doing to get it, about the many levels of fraud she's committing. Risking prison time, again, all for a practical stranger.

And this house, she reminds herself. That's what it's all for. A place to settle down, somewhere that doesn't have a rusty bathroom and broken oven. A place for her and the future.

A knock on her door disturbs her thoughts, and she pauses her unpacking to go over and open it.

It's Killian, looking both nervous and excited all at once. She doesn't say anything, just opens the door wider to let him in.

"I start next week," he says, sitting on her bed. It raises her hackles, but she forces herself to be okay. This agreement means a lot more than him sitting on her bed. In fact, she's going to have to learn things about him that are a lot more intimate than she'd like, so she might as well get comfortable with him now,

"We'll need to go to the court before then, get the papers started," he adds, waiting for her to respond.

She takes a deep breath and nods.

He nods back at her, fingers awkwardly playing with her bedspread.

"This will work out fine, Swan," he says, catching her eyes. "One year, and you'll be done with me, and we'll both have what we want. One year, and you never have to see me again."

"I know." She manages a small smile, because in the end, it's going to be worth it. A year isn't that long, not when she's spent twenty six of them moving from place to place. And after this, she'll never have to move again.

His grin is infectious, and he stands, reaching into his pocket for something. He digs around for a moment before producing what he was looking for, holding it out to her.

The shiny metal of the key glimmers in the light.

A future, that's what all this represents. A new life, all in one little key.

She's smiling too when she takes it, their fingers brushing during the exchange.

One year isn't so long, especially when she thinks they could maybe be friends once it's all said and done.

Having a friend would be nice, she thinks, as she watches him turn and leave, shutting the door gently behind himself.

She rubs her fingers over the grooves in the metal, thinking.

Yes, this is a new start for sure.

Emma wakes with a gasp, hands instantly going to her face, trying to scrub away the memories. She hasn't had dreams like this in a long time, not since she started the remodel.

Not since she stopped thinking about the past and started thinking about the future.

Damn him for coming back.

Damn him to hell.

(She doesn't get a wink of sleep the rest of the night.)