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Emma turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could and opened the door to her apartment the tiniest crack—just wide enough for her to press her ear against and listen carefully to… silence. No music blaring or sounds of cooking from the kitchen, and when she crept on noiseless tiptoes to the end of the hallway and peered at Killian’s bedroom door, no light shone beneath it.
Emma exhaled in relief. He had been due to return that morning from his latest expedition, but must have been held up by tides or trade winds or… twist? Whatever. Something. She never could keep all his nautical terms straight, though she could almost hear his long-suffering sigh and see the sardonic look he always gave her when she forgot them before she pushed his face and his voice and him firmly from her mind.
The very last thing she needed tonight was to spend it thinking about goddamn Killian Jones and the way he looked at her and the way he smiled… his eyes... how blue they were and how soft… in those rare moments when he let himself relax around her, when the incessant pull of whatever it was that drew her to him seemed to spark and crackle with tension and despite herself Emma yearned. There in that single beat of their hearts when he would truly look at her… before he tensed and turned away… Emma could swear that she saw things in those eyes that made her heart pound and her belly flutter and sparked her hope to life again, and—and no. That was wishful thinking and she wouldn’t, couldn’t let herself indulge in it tonight.
Not tonight.
(“Hey, Emma.” The soft grip of Graham’s hand on her arm. “Can I—can we—can I ask you something?”)
She unzipped her boots with jerky movements and kicked them off, leaving them in an ungainly heap beside the door the way she knew Killian hated. A tiny, petty provocation but it made her feel better. She hoped it pissed him off. She hoped he tripped over them, hoped he fell on his stupid gorgeous face and—fuck. Emma stopped walking and squeezed her eyes shut. No, damn it, she didn’t wish that. She didn’t want to see him hurt, no matter how much pain he unwittingly inflicted on her just by existing. She couldn’t even bear to think it.
“Damn it,” she grumbled as she stomped back to pick up the boots and line them neatly along the wall with all the others. Damn him. Damn Killian, just—just damn him.
Damn him for being everything she wanted and nothing she could have, for his ridiculous hotness and his soft heart and the edge of danger in his grin—the grin of a marine salvage hunter who’d lost a hand and coped with it by making pirate jokes.
“A crocodile ate it,” he’d tell the wide-eyed children who demanded to know where his hand had gone, smiling reassuringly at their red-faced parents.
“Really?” the children would gasp, and Killian would give a solemn nod, holding up his prosthetic hook to catch the light.
“Aye. And he’ll pay for it too. Just as soon as I catch him.”
Damn him for being so sweet to those children, so understanding. He always understood—far, far too much about too many things. Things like Emma’s walls and how she needed them, like the exact right thing to say and do for every mood she was ever in. He understood everything it seemed, except how deeply it hurt her each time he pulled back from those moments of theirs, dropped his eyes and swallowed hard and muttered some lame excuse then ran away.
Graham, though, he never ran away. He was always there, right at her side, all hopeful smiles and subtle hints and casual invitations to morning coffee runs and working lunches and after-work drinks that he clearly hoped would lead to something with no work involved at all, until finally… inevitably… that very day…
(“So what do you say, Emma?” His tentative smile, the stab through her heart. “Dinner?”)
Tears were pressing hard and hot behind Emma’s eyes as she stumbled into her bathroom to turn on the water in the shower. Her apartment was old, a converted warehouse with rickety plumbing and a creaky water tank that took ages to heat up. She always had to wait after turning it on, a good fifteen minutes before even thinking about taking off her clothes much less stepping beneath the spray. But this day, this goddamned vicious bastard of a day, seemed determined not just to kick her ass but grind her under its heel as well, and so of course the shower head—tenuously attached at the best of times—chose that moment to burst from the wall, spewing icy water haphazardly from the jagged hole it left behind. The spray hit Emma full in the face, drenching her hair and her favourite sweater and the front of her jeans, dripping down her back in frigid rivulets that raised goosebumps on her skin and suddenly it was all just too much, too fucking goddamn much. The tears she’d been barely holding back burst forth harder even than the shower head had, and she sank to the floor of the shower stall and sobbed.
(Graham’s face, oh god his face, the hopeful look in his eyes. David’s eyes, the entire damn sheriff’s station watching her. The lump in her throat. The fake smile, so brittle on her face, the lying words she felt forced to speak.
“Sure. I’d love to.”)
The water soaked her clothes and numbed her skin but even its cold couldn’t dull the ache in her heart. The heart that beat for one man only, and that man was not Graham Humbert.
Why, she wanted to scream. Why now? Three years she’d held Graham’s interest at bay, yet now, today, he makes a move? In the station, her fucking place of work, right in front of everyone so she couldn’t say no. A dick move, and not like Graham at all so why?
Why couldn’t he just have let things be?
Her sobs were wild, unrestrained, tearing at her throat and wrenching at her chest, but she couldn’t care. She was alone, drenched to the skin in freezing water and tomorrow night she had to go out on a date with Graham. She could give herself this one lonely moment of self-pity.
“Swan?”
Fuck. Emma sat up, wiping the tears and water from her face as Killian’s voice sounded again, right outside the bathroom door. “Emma? Is everything all right, love?”
Damn that soft tone his voice got when he was concerned for her, the one that made her want to melt into his arms and never let him go. “I’m fine,” she tried to say, but the words were choked off by a sob and then the door was opening and Killian was there, falling to his knees in front of the open shower door.
“Emma!” he cried. “What on earth’s the matter?”
She shook her head as sobs racked her and before she could fully grasp his intent he was in the shower too, pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms tight around her.
“Shhh, it’s all right,” he murmured as she clutched at him and buried her face in his neck. “It’s all right, love. I’m here.”
He shielded her from the stinging spray as she wept, sobbing out her heartache and frustration and fear, everything she’d kept bottled up inside her for so long. He cradled her like something precious, rubbed soothing circles on her back until the water began to warm and her sobs ceased, until she lay limp and exhausted against his chest.
“Graham asked me out,” she said, after a long silence. His hand stopped.
“And that made you cry as though your heart were breaking?” he asked, his voice harsh. She felt the flex of his neck against her cheek as he swallowed hard. “Did you two have a fight or something?”
“No, I just—I wasn’t expecting it.”
“You weren’t expecting your boyfriend to ask you out?”
“My what?” She pulled back to look up at him, at the confusion laced with anger in his eyes. Anger and… and…
“Did—did you think Graham was my boyfriend?” she whispered shakily.
“Aye,” he replied, in a voice that trembled just as much. “Isn’t he?”
“No! He’s my deputy.”
“I know, but… the two of you are always together, out for drinks and meals, and I—I just assumed.” His eyes caressed her face as the anger drained from them, replaced by something hotter. “So you’re telling me you never—”
“No.” She shook her head, fingers gripping tightly to his shirt. “Never.”
“I—I see. And, um, what did you say? In response to his invitation?”
“I said yes.”
“Ah.” His eyes shuttered again but she clung to him, tugging the front of his shirt until he looked at her, willing him to listen and to see.
“And then I came home and cried ‘as though my heart were breaking,’” she said. “In your words.”
“Do you not—” he drew a deep breath “—not want to go out with him?”
“No. I only said yes because everyone in the station was watching and half of them already think I’ve been leading him on.”
“Bloody troglodytes,” Killian growled. “Leading him on, my arse. From what I’ve seen you’ve been nothing but—”
“I didn’t want to go out with Graham,” Emma interrupted, thumping his chest with her fist, “because I have feelings for someone else.”
He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his wet, flushed skin. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his eyes as hot as the water.
“So who is this man fortunate enough to win your affections?” he growled.
She thumped his chest harder. “Seriously, Killian? Do you really not know? It’s you.”
He stared at her as his throat continued to work, his forehead creased with a frown and a tangle of emotions in his eyes. She waited, breath caught in her chest, as his eyes widened and his brow smoothed, as his hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking across it as she tugged on his shirt and then—and then—
His lips were on hers, hot and wet and hungry, kissing her like she was the breath to his lungs and the balm to his soul, the water to his life. She gasped into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders to pull him closer, closer, as close as they could be, as his fingers caught in her wet hair and his hook dug into her back. Their breaths laboured in air thick and heavy with steam and with lust, their movements hampered by drenched denim and wool and flannel but god, Emma thought, it was Killian and it was her and it was finally, finally them, and—and—
And it was perfect.
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