He sort of worms his way into her life.

It starts at the little coffee shop right off Sycamore Avenue - the one with the pirates in the window and the hot chocolate made with honest-to-god chocolate shavings. The one that Henry always begs her to take him to but she resolutely saves for special occasions because there is something magical about the homemade whipped cream and sprinkle of cinnamon that demands reverence.

Or something.

It starts at the coffee shop where she intends to meet her mark. His idea, not hers. If it were her idea she'd meet him at the park and beat him over the head with a wayward log because he left his wife and two children with his garbage past and she has a bit of a complex when it comes to that. Henry gives her a high five on the way out the door and tells her to kick assaround a mouthful of cereal and she's so hyped up on bringing this guy down a few pegs that she doesn't even make him put a quarter in the swear jar.

So maybe it is a special occasion.

It starts at the coffee shop when she's scanning for her mark, the smell of coffee and chocolate teasing her nose and making her just that bit more antsy because she promised Henry a cup to go. She gets even more impatient when she spots him, suddenly not willing to go through the usual bait and box bullshit. Instead she strides right over to him where he's sipping at a latte and reading a well-loved paperback and yanks his wrist back, cuffing him to the nearest immobile object. She wants to embarrass this guy. She wants him stuck in this tiny coffee shop with his hand cuffed to the radiator while everyone watches as the cops come in and haul him away. She wants him –

Blue, blue (really fucking blue, god) eyes look up at her in confusion. He pulls experimentally on his arm trapped with the cuff and tilts his head to the side. "Uh – "

A man at the table right behind him darts up – knocks over a chair or two.

"Shit."

The man that isn't her mark grins at her like she didn't just handcuff him to the wall for no apparent reason. "Indeed."

"I'll just – " Her actual mark is leaving a trail of destruction behind him as he makes his way to the door –turning over a table in his haste to get away from her. She'll have to apologize to the owner, probably. Buy at least two hot chocolates, a cookie, and a piece of pound cake on her way out. She winces. "I'll be right back, I swear."

Blue eyes gestures with his mug, arm still incapacitated against the radiator. "By all means, love."

It starts at the coffee shop where she learns his name is Killian and buys him another latte as an apology, laughing off his attempt to turn the latte into an apology dinner instead. It starts with the way her cheeks pink and how she can't get him off her mind in the days that follow, zoning out over the crappy coffee they have in the office and ignoring Henry's pleas to go for hot chocolate, even though he got an A on his book report. She makes him hot chocolate at home instead – even tries to make homemade whipped cream. The sad curdled milk sitting (sliding, really) atop the concoction does not live up to expectations.

It starts in the coffee shop, and continues when she bumps into him at the shelter fundraiser – his arms laden with tennis balls for the myriad of dogs yapping around them. David introduces Killian as one of the best volunteers the shelter has, and when Killian grins wide, chuckling and making a quip about cuffing him to the lamp post, David frowns.

"You two know each other?"

She doesn't miss the way Mary Margaret lights up behind him, mind already whirring at the match-making possibilities, no doubt.

Killian's grin spreads further still, the dimples in his cheeks (fucking hell) winking at her. "Aye. Swan here bound me to the wall and left me for 48 minutes." He says it like it was the best damn thing to ever happen to him and not a potential lawsuit moment and she – she blushes again, the swoop in her stomach making her feel like she just fell in a sink hole.

Mary Margaret looks positively giddy.

It continues with the way she keeps bumping into him after that day – at the grocery, at the park, at the little coffee shop when she finally relents and takes Henry there. He quips something about fate in her ear as Henry yammers on and on and on about some special sugar cookie he is dying to try and she almost believes it. Almost looks up into his stupid blue eyes and believes that this man was meant to tumble into her life.

(Especially as she watches him with Henry, the two of them bent over the big fairy tale book the kid lugs around, whipped cream smeared in matching spots across their noses.)

Mary Margaret is particularly obnoxious about it. "You could do worse than a man who adores your son, owns a sailboat, and volunteers at the animal shelter when he has time off at the docks."

Doesn't she know it.

It continues and continues until she can't quite figure out when she fell for Killian Jones, just that she did.

And she's a little annoyed about it.

"Are you going to Killian's New Year's party?"

She drops her spoon in the sink, not expecting the question. She's been avoiding intentionally going out with Killian for three months now – turning down his multiple (multiple) invites to dinner, coffee, drinks, sailing (Henry had been particularly perturbed with that one), bike riding, sunset watching, and stakeout accompanying. It's not because she doesn't want to. It's because she does. She hasn't gone on a date in probably ten years and to say she's out of practice is an understatement.

She doesn't want to mess it up.

She doesn't want him to go away.

"Uh, I don't think so, kid." She frowns at him over the lip of her mug. She wants to know when her ten-year-old started caring so much about her romantic life. "I thought we were hanging out – doing the whole pizza and movie marathon thing."

"I have plans," he states succinctly, hopping off the stool at the breakfast bar and making his way around the island.

"Do you now?"

"I do. Jake invited me over. He's having a Star Wars-themed thing with some of the other kids from our class."

"So you're just going to abandon your poor mother?" She pouts at him and he rolls his eyes, flicking her arm lightly.

"I'm not because you're going to Killian's party."

It starts at the coffee shop, continues at the animal shelter and the park and the little diner at the corner she's particularly fond of, and ends up with her wearing the denim cut off shorts Ruby got her three summers ago, a heavy coat bundled around her middle as the people of Boston look at her exposed legs with wide eyes as she makes her way down the snowy street.

(Heater's broken. His text had said. Wear your finest skimpy outfit. ;)

You wish.

You know I do.)

She feels stupid until she sees David and Mary Margaret in front of the address Killian gave her when she told him she would come, a barrage of emojis accompanying the note and making her smile. David has on a Hawaiian shirt that has definitely seen better days and Mary Margaret has embraced the impromptu theme, a hula skirt peeking out from beneath her North Face.

"Seriously?"

David frowns at her. "Killian said it was going to be tropical in his apartment."

"Don't tell me – you have a coconut bra beneath that."

Mary Margaret just laughs, not perturbed (not ever perturbed) by her snark. "No, actually. I don't."

She arches an eyebrow with a smirk. "I wasn't talking to you."

David is still grumbling by the time they're standing in front of Killian's door and it's almost enough to distract her from the way her stomach is doing flips – a vague choked feeling pressing down on her chest. She keeps rationalizing by telling herself this isn't a date, but that's not even the worst part. The worst part is –

She sort of wants it to be.

She wants him to stare at her in the way he always does – intense and focused with a just a hint of heat, gaze lingering on her collarbones as his tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek and okay, a lot of heat. She wants to trace the scar on his cheek like she's been itching to for months and she wants him to ask her out again. She wants to say yes this time.

Being brave – it's her New Year's resolution.

That is until he answers the door with a wide grin and a halfway buttoned shirt – the hollow of his throat glistening with sweat and his hair slightly damp.

"Swan," he breathes, and the choked feeling immediately dissipates. "You made it."

David clears his throat like the obnoxious asshole he is. "Yeah, and so did the rest of us."

The tips of his ears turn red and she's sure she's never found him more attractive – standing there blushing, a navy blue t-shirt button up with little anchors all over it halfway open over his chest. And that includes the time he randomly showed up at the station wearing a henley with a bear claw in his hand.

She's got it bad.

"Of course. Lovely to see you both, as always," he opens the door a bit wider, and she's hit with a blast of heat. "Come in, drop your coats, and I'll fetch you something to drink."

He explains to them over margaritas (hers has a little umbrella, god) that the heat clicked on in his sleep and by the time he woke up, it was close to eighty-four degrees in the apartment. He tried in vain to turn the thing off, but it wouldn't budge. Add in a landlord who wouldn't be back until after the holiday and –

"Tropical party it was. I've not been to hell, but I imagine this is what it feels like." His gaze lingers on her exposed shoulders and the long line of her legs and yep – that's the kind of look she wanted when she shimmied the barely-there denim over her hips earlier in the evening, ignoring Henry's knowing cackle and handing over a twenty for pizza for when he got to Jake's. Killian smiles, slow and steady, teeth flashing white. He's right. This is what hell must feel like. "Can't say it was all bad, in the end."

He gets pulled away by more guests arriving and she's grateful for it, willing her heart to stop the mad galloping in her chest. Mary Margaret won't stop snickering and she doesn't feel like an I told you so one margarita deep. She can't just grab him in the middle of a party and kiss him, no matter how much she wants to. She wants it to mean something. She wants him to know that she feels –

Something.

She watches him scratch at the back of his neck, sifting his hands through his hair and tugging lightly. The way he peeks over his shoulder at her and smiles brighter when he sees her staring.

A lot of things, actually.

-/-

She's halfway through her margarita, standing by the window where cold air and snow is blowing into the apartment, watching Killian laugh at something a pretty blonde with a high bun says. There are a lot of people here she doesn't know – a lot of women here she doesn't know – and that whole bravery thing she was chanting to herself as a mantra during her walk over here starts to slip a little. There's a very real possibility Killian has grown tired of chasing her – a very real possibility that he's moved on and accepted that all they'll ever be is sort-of-friends-who-freakishly-run-into-each-other-always.

She frowns into her drink when he laughs again.

"You alright, Emma?" Mary Margaret looks like she's about to start a counseling session on the fire escape, so Emma shakes her head, her hair plastered against her neck with sweat. It is really fucking hot in here.

"Yeah, I'm just – "

Like a gift from the gods, her phone begins to vibrate in her back pocket. She seizes the opportunity to leave this conversation with both hands and gives Mary Margaret her margarita, checking the caller ID and seeing the number for the office blink merrily across.

"I've got to take this." She's already edging away, eyes locked on the door.

"It's a holiday."

"Crime never rests."

"Emma – "

It's easy to not turn back when she's close enough to hear the pretty blonde with no baggage (probably) and no emotional issues (probably) laugh again, Killian's chuckle low and rumbling along with it.

Honestly. She's never been happier for a work call in her life.

-/-

She's an hour into her stakeout before she realizes how stupid she's being.

One, for leaving her coat at Killian's apartment and sitting in her bug in twenty degree weather in a tank top and denim shorts. Two, for leaving Killian's apartment. And three, for negging on her New Year's resolution before the clock even hits midnight.

Her phone buzzes and she sighs, running her fingertips back and forth over the steering wheel. She isn't interested in David and Mary Margaret's attempts to lure her back to the party, or the innocent (not) inquiries of her son. Honestly, she wants to forget this whole day ever happened.

Her phone buzzes again.

She picks it up and right away – it's heart-speeding-up-to-dangerous-levels – just from his name on her screen.

(His name and that stupid picture of him with half a gingerbread man in his mouth, finger crooked in a hook shape and one eye squeezed shut because she had called him a pirate when he stole her phone to put his number in and pirates apparently need a photo to accompany their contact information.)

KJ: Did you leave?

KJ: Are you alright? Is Henry?

She sighs and drops her head back against the headrest.

Four, for doubting his obvious feelings for her.

ES: Everything is fine. I just had a work thing come up. Sorry I left without saying goodbye.

KJ: Ah, well. Come back after? I'll keep the drinks cold.

She stares at the phone, thumbs tapping against the case. The polite decline is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it back, feeling a surge of brave. Maybe she'll have time to not fuck up her resolution after all.

ES: Sure. I'll let you know when I get out of here.

He sends a string of emojis back that she has trouble deciphering so she tosses her phone into the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the bar her mark is supposed to be in, grin on her face.

-/-

The guy she takes down stares at her incredulously as she plants her knee firmly against his chest and drives him further into the snow bank.

"Aren't you cold?"

She smiles, cuffing his arms behind his back.

"Not for long."

-/-

Its half-past midnight when she's finally done booking the guy, firing off a quick text to Killian to ask if the party is still going. She wanted to be there before midnight, maybe press her hands to his cheeks and feel the scruff beneath her palms, trace his smile with her fingertips as the clock counted down. But those hopes are dashed now, so she'll have to settle for an explanation of her behavior these past three months and hope that they can maybe give that countdown kiss another try. Like on a date. Together.

She also really wants her jacket back.

The mantra is in full force the whole way to his apartment, after she finds a parking spot three blocks away, and as she sprints to his building in her shorts and tank. She shivers all the way up the elevator, teeth chattering, and honestly – an overheated apartment with Killian and tequila in it sounds pretty fucking fantastic.

She knocks on her door while jumping on the balls of her feet, palms rubbing up and down the outside of her arms. She can feel the heat from the other side of the door and she only realizes there's a distinct lack of noise as he swings it open.

He smiles at her. She frowns.

"Your party is over."

He kicks the door open wider to let her in and she sighs as the warmth wraps around her. His hair is sticking up at every which angle, his cheeks flushed, and it's a good look on him. She watches as a bead of sweat makes its way down his neck and over his collarbone.

A very good look.

"Aye," he scratches at the back of his neck with a shy smile, his eyes flickering to hers briefly before gesturing to the chaos that is his apartment. There are beer bottles everywhere, little crushed umbrellas on the floor, and a sombrero hanging ominously from the lamp above his dining room table. "It seems it's hard to maintain a buzz while sweating it out almost immediately."

She hums under her breath. If she weren't being brave, she would grab her coat from where it's carefully hanging next to his on the hooks by the door and mutter something about seeing him later. She certainly wouldn't step further into his apartment and start collecting beer bottles, shuffling over to his kitchen and depositing them in the recycling.

It's a good thing she's being brave.

They work in silence side by side but she sees the pleased and slightly shocked smiles he keeps shooting in her direction, letting his fingers graze the small of her back or her shoulder or her wrist every time he passes her in the small space. She likes it – the tension that flares and retreats every time he touches her, the buzz just beneath her skin.

"Sorry again, for leaving. I just – "

"No apologies needed, lass." He smiles at her as he clears away a half-eaten bowl of chips, the end of his shirt caught on the table and exposing the patch of skin just above his waistband. She wants to feel the heat of the skin there – see if it's just as warm as the rest of him. "You came back. That's what matters."

She smiles, feeling the edges of it tremble until she bites her lip against it.

"I have an apology to make as well. When you first arrived, I was a poor host. I should have – "

She waves him off. He is not to blame for her own insecurity. "No, Killian. Absolutely not. We aren't – " She gestures between them with a half-empty beer bottle, staring at his feet instead of his eyes. "We aren't anything."

He takes a step forward, halting her from reaching for another, fingers wrapping around her hand on the bottle. "Aye, I know. But," his other hand reaches for her chin, tilting her face up until she meets his gaze. And oh – she's seen this look before. At the park when her hair whipped across her face and she accidentally got ice cream on her chin. When he sat quietly next to her as she told him about Neal and Walsh and Graham and the string of bad decisions and bad accidents that have left her alone. His thumb brushes over the dent there, eyes following the movement, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But I think you know, Swan. I'd dearly like to be something."

She swallows hard, squares her shoulders. She takes a stab at being brave – for once. "Me too."

The beer bottle he was helping her hold clatters to the floor with a dull thump. It's a good thing he has hardwood, because it probably spilling all over the place. But she can't be bothered with it when he's looking at like that. "Aye?"

She chuckles and nods, palms pressed to his hips. "My New Year's resolution," her cheeks pink at this because she's not used to telling him things – not used to telling anyone things. "It's to be brave. Uh, more specifically to tell you how I feel." She shrugs. "You know it's a shame I wasn't here when the ball dropped because I kind of had a plan."

One eyebrow jumps up, the palm of his hand dragging along her jaw, resting just beneath her ear, his fingertips tangling in her hair and pulling lightly. She's hot again – burning up – and it has nothing to do with the jacked radiator. "Oh?"

She nods, tongue darting out to lick at her lips, her gaze focused on his as he does the same.

"Mmmhmm."

"Well, it's your lucky day, Swan. Because I – " He leans down for the television remote without breaking from her. His beard brushes along the skin just beneath her collarbone and she sucks in a sharp breath. " – had similar plans."

He flicks on the television and she laughs when she hears the countdown start from thirty.

"You recorded the ball drop?"

He shuffles closer, nose brushing hers, forehead damp with sweat. Her fingers press just under the hem of his shirt, nail dragging along his hipbones and he exhales shakily, his warm breath brushing at her lips. His skin is warm here. Scorching even.

"Didn't want you to miss it," he explains. "Plus, Victor did a rather heroic dive off the coffee table around the ten mark so I'm afraid I missed it as well."

"Do over," she states quietly.

"Aye," his fingers tighten in her hair, tilting her head back. "Do over."

She tucks her fingers through his belt loops at fifteen, pulling his hips flush to hers and causing the both of them to stumble backwards a step, the backs of her knees pressing against the arm of the couch. He whispers her name on twelve, shaky and broken andperfect, his name sighed against the hollow of his throat in echo. His hand finds the small of her back at eight and she kisses him at two, too impatient to wait another second.

He kisses her like everything else he does – patient and with gentle care, a lingering heat in the way his fingers tangle further in her hair with a muffled groan when she tilts her head to kiss him harder and her nose brushes his cheek. He tastes like tequila, salt, and frosting from the cake Mary Margaret brought – a bit of champagne, too – and when he nudges her forward until she's sitting on the arm rest, he pulls her forward with the hand at the small of her back, stepping fully between her spread legs and tilting her head to the side – kissing her harder, deeper, hotter.

She may have started the kiss, but he's hell-bent on finishing it. Finishing her if the way his hips are unconsciously rutting against hers is any indication.

She bites lightly at his bottom lip just to see the type of noise he makes and she's not disappointed – the sound something between a growl and groan low in his throat. She drags her tongue across his lip, curious about that too, and their kiss turns messy – tongues wet and hot against each other as he meets her challenge head on.

She pulls back to catch her breath and he slips his hands to the end of her shirt, his mouth to the spot just beneath her jaw that makes a shiver work its way over her shoulders.

"It's, um – " His thumbs brush just below her breasts and her head drops back, chest pressing forward, silently encouraging him to keep doing that. That kneading thing against her with his fingertips that has goosebumps rising along her arms and across her neck, over her breasts and down her thighs.

"It's been a while," she manages around a choked back groan, his hands finally moving to cup her gently, fingers tracing along the lace edge of her bra. She hadn't intended this when she came over, but she can't shake the feeling of right. She wants to feel him against her. She wants to curl against him after. She wants to wake up with him in the morning and see pillow creases against his cheek and take him out on a breakfast date after.

Frankly, she's thinking so many un-Emma-like things that she has to pinch the inside of her elbow to make sure she's well and truly sane.

(She does. She's good.)

"For me as well," he states quietly, seriously, and she tilts her head back to look up at him. She has trouble coming to terms with the idea that it's been a while for him but he just shrugs at her with a tiny, little smile and she knows he's telling her the truth. She can't help the moan that slips from her lips when his thumbs brush over her nipples through the thin material, over and back again and again once more until she makes that choked noise again. His eyes darken and he licks his lips, pulling his hands back to fist in her shirt. "We'll take it slow then, aye?"

"Slow is good," she supplies, the heat of his apartment brushing against her belly and breasts as he carefully drapes her shirt over the back of the couch. She can feel a bead of sweat making its way between her breasts and he must be focused on it too because he catches it on his thumb, rubbing it into her skin in slow, circular movements. She wants to feel that over a bit, and she tries to angle her chest to force his hand, but he just chuckles.

"The bedroom?"

She nods, his erection pressing briefly against the inside of her knee when he kisses her again – slow and deep.

His bedroom is cooler than the rest of the apartment, the windows thrown open to let in the cold air. Snow is starting to accumulate on the inside of her windowsills and she laughs at that – laughs again when he gently guides her back on his bed and the snowflakes drift over her skin, melting in tiny pinpricks of cold against her collarbones and breasts – the tops of her thighs and in the crease of her arms.

"Should I shut the windows?"

He noses between her breasts, wild hair tickling her chin, his teeth tugging lightly on a cup until he can drag it down. Her nipple puckers at the contrast between hot and cold, her back arching when he adds his tongue to the mix.

"No," she likes the way he looks moving above her, knees planted on the bed between her spread thighs, snowflakes catching in his hair. "Keep 'em open."

"I love your laugh, you know," she reaches behind her back to unclasp the bra and fling it to a corner of the room and threads her fingers through his hair, enjoying the way he swallows hard. "God, and I love these, too." His warm hands cup her, squeezing just a bit rough and she likes that. Likes that he feels just as out of control as she does.

She finds the edge of his sleeve, thumb tracing over an embroidered anchor. "Do you think – "

"Yeah," he sighs palm dragging over her stomach to the button on her jean shorts, tapping it once. "These, too."

"What happened to slow?" She laughs, trying to work her way out of the denim that clings to her skin with sweat. He leverages himself off the bed and hops around on one foot as he tries to work his own pants down and off, finally succeeding with a triumphant grin. There's something reassuring about how he's just as out of sorts as she is with this – that he isn't his usual smooth self.

He slows down when it comes to the buttons of his shirt, eyebrow arching high on his forehead, slowly revealing pale skin that she wants to lick every inch of. She suddenly regrets every moment she spent not looking at him because he's – he's really nice to look at.

Her mouth goes a little bit dry when he slips his briefs down over his cock – thick and hard and fuck – it's been a long time but suddenly she's all aboard with not slow.

"There's only so much a man can take when there's a beautiful woman flushed and wanting in his bed."

She feels his words roll over her skin with the snowflakes, settling between her thighs. "Seriously?"

He chuckles, hands smoothing over her calves, up her thighs, spreading her legs for him to kneel between them once more. She's self conscious until his thumb finds her with an accuracy that makes her breath catch. "I assure you, love," he sounds choked, far away, under water as he rubs hard circles where she's wet and aching, knees spreading wider. "I'm quite serious."

She falls quickly – would be embarrassed about it if she wasn't so god damned keyed up for more. He's looking at her a bit shell shocked as he helps her ride it out and she grinds out his name as she grinds against his hand, hips moving in restless little circles.

She's not satisfied. Not by a long shot.

She tells him as much.

"I'm quite glad to hear you say that, love," his grin is just as shaky as hers was earlier, eyes blown wide as he fumbles in his nightstand for a condom. She lets her fingers drift over him as he works, delighting in the muffled curse and his alarm clock tumbling when she grips him hard.

When he's all set, hips pressed tight to hers, snow in his hair and hands framing her face – his cock dragging against her clit with every careful stroke of his hips – she sighs his name.

"Slow?"

She grins. "Slow is good."

He pushes into her with the next grind of his hips and her nails bite half-moons into his shoulders, his name whispered out in broken syllables as he ruts carefully into her – further with every tiny roll of his hips. His thumb drags along her bottom lip when he's fully settled and she licks at the pad, tasting the salt on his skin. When her lips wrap around it and suck, he curses, starting a slow rhythm that has her arching her hips up to meet him.

"Fuck, Emma. This is – " She releases his thumb with a wet pop and his hand immediately goes to her thigh, pulling it tighter over his hip and against his waist. "You are – "

"Yeah, you too." Because she knows what he means. Knows that he's feeling the same pressure in his chest that she is – flames licking at her skin and cold air brushing over her shoulders and his cock sinking into her in a thick slide of heat every time she arches her back and he chases her hips.

It's overwhelming.

It's perfect.

She comes with a hiccupping breath and he groans as she tightens around him, his fingertips pressing bruises into her thigh. Slow is good, but the way he speeds up, thrusts moving deeper against her and the wiry hair along his navel catching on her clit with every downward grind is better – drawing out her orgasm until the heat is pounding beneath her skin, sweat sliding along her hairline and down her neck. He comes with an aborted attempt at her name, rutting mindlessly as he chases his high, and collapses against her with a sigh.

Her hands trace his shoulder blades, his body stifling above hers.

It's overwhelming.

It's perfect.

"Stay?" He whispers, fingers toying with her hair.

Be brave the voice in her head whispers.

She smiles. "Yeah, okay."

-/-

She wakes disoriented – and really fucking cold. The body that's been draped next to her is missing and she can hear him, cursing under his breath as he hops about the room, trying to work the windows down.

"Bloody fucking – " A blanket drapes over her on the bed, thick and cozy and she immediately pulls it over her shoulders, burrowing down into the warmth. Looks like the heater finally called it a day and shot out. She can just make him out as he forces the last window closed, clad only in his black boxer briefs, hanging dangerously low on his hips. He curses against when he stubs his toe on the bed post, and she giggles.

"Isn't funny, Swan," he tucks the blanket carefully around her toes and something in her chest squeezes. He's always so careful with her. No one's ever been so careful with her. "It's bloody fucking cold in this apartment."

She holds open the blanket for him, wincing when his cold skin comes in contact with hers. She slides her palm over his hip and down between his legs, the shudder in her breath already making heat lick along her spine.

"Then let me warm you up."

-/-

He wakes her up in the morning with a whispered Happy New Year against her shoulder, groggy and rough with sleep. They both laugh when Henry texts her and asks if sheand Killian want to meet him for hot chocolate.

She agrees, stealing one of Killian's sweatshirts and smiling into his kiss when he tugs lightly on the hood.

She figures it's a special occasion.