A mix of emotions pass over his face, starting with shock and finding its way to joy; she can't deny her heart flutters a bit at the way his face lights up upon seeing her. But it's not until he breathes, "You're here," that she truly feels it skip.

He rushes down the steps of the precinct, fiddling with his fake hand, where the left should be.

"Yeah," she huffs, averting her eyes before the look in his causes her to fucking swoon or something stupid like that. "I dropped the charges. I wasn't going to leave you there. I know what that's like, trust me. "

(She swears she hears him mumble It wouldn't be the first time, but she can't be sure.)

When she looks back, he's watching her and grinning like a fool. There's something infectious about it, because she can feel her own lips tugging dangerously upwards. "I appreciate that, Swan," he says lowly.

"Don't get too excited," Emma warns, but she can't stifle her own smile before he sees it. "It was a one time thing."

He freezes, looking suddenly so overwhelmingly sad that Emma can't help but feel guilty. She'd only been teasing, hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. But he quickly shakes it, smiling again as if it never happened.

"Well, you are here," Killian—that was his name, wasn't it?—says, raising a challenging eyebrow. "A man could only be so lucky to have you waiting for him."

Emma purses her lips, flattening her expression skeptically. "Do you always talk like this?"

"I can talk any way it pleases you," he says huskily, without skipping a beat. Realizing his connotation, he curses himself, having the decency to look embarrassed. "Apologies, my lady. Old habits."

One innuendo too many should probably be her cue to leave, but there's something achingly familiar about it. So instead she grins dubiously, and rolls her eyes. But she doesn't move.

He notices.

Hesitantly, he continues, "Certainly not that I'm complaining, love, but what…are you doing here?"

She'd been waiting for that, and yet she isn't prepared. "I…"

Killian's expression turns gravely serious, and he steps forward, his good hand anxiously hovering over her arm for a few seconds before making contact. His thumb runs across the fabric of her sleeve, and even if she can't feel it, it still sends chills up her spine and how can a stranger make her feel this way?

"You can tell me, Emma," he says, and strangely, Emma believes him. For the first time since she's met him, she actually believes him. She inexplicably knows she could tell him anything. Her darkest fears, her greatest hopes, anything from the banality of her life to the desire for something more.

It is this sudden sense of trust that has the truth spilling from her lips. "I don't know you. I don't remember you—" His expression falls, her heart twisting at the sight. "—but I think I've been trying to."

Apprehension crosses his face, quickly followed by a dangerous amount of hope, a light in his eyes where there quite hasn't been before. Emma swallows, steadying her breath. "I think I've been dreaming of you. Somehow, I…I can't explain it, but you feel familiar. I think I recognize you, and I don't know how or why, but I can't shake it. Even though I tried. Seriously."

His eyes sear into hers, hanging on to her every word, unwilling to speak, as if afraid he might scare her off. (A valid fear, Emma notes. Of course, he shouldn't know that she spooks easily, but he also shouldn't know a lot of things he seems to.)

She exhales, continuing. "For the past year, I've been having these really intense dreams. Some of them are about this other woman, this woman claiming to be the mother of my son. In some of them, she tries to kill me, and in others she doesn't. It's weird, I don't know. And then in other ones…my parents are there. Or, at least, in my dream they are. They're not that old, but I can't really see their faces, so I don't really know who they are, but…whatever."

Killian remains silent. "And…in some of them…you're in them. You're in most of them, actually. And it sometimes even seems like…we're…I don't know, sort of together—and, maybe you're crazy, or maybe I'm crazy, but maybe what you're saying is true. Maybe."

"Love—"

"No, let me finish," Emma surges, knowing she should be nervous. Should. "What you're asking me to believe is ridiculous. I know that I raised my son, I know that I never gave him up for adoption. I never met my parents. I know this." Her eyes dart to his, bright and burning. "But I also know you're not lying to me. I would know if you were. And some of the stuff you said earlier…it fits. I should think you're just a stalker, but I don't. I trust you, and I can't figure out why. So…I'll drink your stupid bottle of purple tang, but if nothing happens, if I don't get my 'real' memories back—you have to leave me alone. For good."

His breath catches in his throat. "I swear it."

Her hand moves to her pocket, where she's kept his strange purple potion since he got arrested. Her fingers brush it gently, running over the smooth surface before she pulls it out and pops off the cork cap. She looks at him, and will later swear she felt everything around them freeze, the two of them timeless in the city that never stands still.

"Bottoms up," she says, straightening her neck and knocking back the potion.

For a few moments, she is still, stuck in her position. Then, slowly, she lowers the bottle from her lips, dropping her neck, meeting his eyes.

"Emma?" He whispers cautiously.

She stares at him blankly. Then blinks. "Hook?" She breathes, and rushes towards him.

He lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, relief flooding through every pore. He meets her halfway, their bodies colliding, his good hand wrapping around the back of her neck, burying his nose in her hair. "I never thought I'd be so happy to hear that moniker," he murmurs, sighing contentedly.

Finally, after what feels like ages, she pulls back, but quite not out of his arms. She looks at him, eyes full of wonder and surprise and something quite akin to hope. "You found me."

He grins, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. "Does that surprise you?"