I.

Unlike her son, Emma hasn't made the long drive from New York to Storybrooke in over three years. Not since she packed up their things and left town two days after Ruth's funeral. It's been easier in the years since to just put Henry on a bus at the start of summer vacation and send him off to spend two weeks with his uncle. To claim being too busy or not able to get the time off work when David asks why she doesn't come along. Going back now feels a lot like giving up. And it probably is, in a way.

She's spent so long being determined to make it on her own. Just her and her kid in the big city, living an unglamorous life but having grand adventures while they do it. David hadn't been happy when she'd picked up and left after his mother died and she doubts he's going to be much happier when he learns the reason behind her unannounced visit. If she hadn't been so completely blindsided she might have been able to come up with a different plan, but Henry was already packed and ready to go and Storybrooke, well…

Storybrooke is the closest she's ever gotten to having a home.

Not that she has any desire to move back permanently. This is temporary, she repeats to herself over and over on the drive. Just a chance to clear her head. There are too many ghosts in the sleepy seaside town to make her ever think about moving back. Too many mistakes. Too many things she should've done and words she didn't say and the chance is gone now, there's no going back and starting over.

New York was supposed to be the place where she could figure her shit out in anonymity. Instead it's sent her from the frying pan to the fire — running away from her adult mistakes and back to the small town that had picked apart each and every one she'd made as a teenager and a too-young mother.

Emma knows full well that she'll never be able to repay the kindness that Ruth Nolan showed her when she bailed her pregnant, runaway self out of jail and hired her a lawyer. She'd barely been able to take care of herself and her son back then, let alone chip away at the debt she owed her foster mother. And then a brain aneurysm stole her away from them, killing any ideas Emma might have had of being able to make it up to her in some far off, misty future where her life wasn't a complete mess.

It's still a mess. It's always going to be a mess, she thinks. But she's picked herself up in Storybrooke once before. Maybe these two weeks will give her the chance to do it again.

Her twelve year-old is dead asleep in the back of the bug by the time they cross the town line and Emma takes a deep breath, guiding the car along the winding forest roads until they finally turn onto Main Street. It's too late now to throw herself on David and Mary Margaret's hospitality so she parks the car just outside of Granny's and kills the engine, counting down silently from five as Henry starts to stir.

"Are we here?" he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Emma smiles, remembering how she used to drive the town's empty roads at night back when he was a baby, hoping against hope that this time he wouldn't wake up when the engine shut off.

"We're here," she says, reaching back to ruffle his hair. He grumbles and tries to swat her hand away and she laughs as she opens her door. "I'm gonna go get us a room. Grab the bags from the trunk?"

"Yeah, okay."

Emma smiles at him again before getting out of the car and heading up the walkway. She might still be a mess, but she must have done something right to wind up with such a genuine and laidback kid. Henry had barely even batted an eye when she told him things were over with Walsh and would it be okay if she joined him in Storybrooke this year, maybe? He'd just given her a hug and asked if she was okay then promised to make sure their vacation together was 'epic.'

Emma isn't okay. She's furious. And humiliated. And furious over feeling humiliated. But Henry worries too much about her happiness to start with, he doesn't need to know that she got taken for a fool.

Neither does David, for that matter. Not crashing at the Nolan house means she has another few hours to figure out what stripped down version of events she'll give to her over-protective foster brother.

She doesn't need help, no matter how well-intended it may be. She just needs to get herself together and get out. That's the plan. The trick will be in not letting the parts of Storybrooke that are wrapped around her heart cut too tight.

It's a beautiful day in Storybrooke, the irksome voice on the radio alarm informs him, and Killian couldn't care less. He has no idea how much he drank the night before — his nightly habit tends to operate on a sliding scale of reasonable to whatever's worse than binge drinking. To his credit, he doesn't black out as much since Liam brought him to Storybrooke (he agreed to come help with the store, he's not going to completely let his brother down when he needs him) but having work to do during the day does nothing to make the nights any easier.

Nights are for her. Night was when they used to stay up until dawn working together, playing with rhythms and melodies and lyrics until the song came alive. Night was when they'd be up on stage with the boys, playing a set or two or three at whatever bar would have them and telling themselves that this one would be their break. Night was when they'd fall into bed together, trying in vain to keep quiet in cheap motels with thin walls. All of his best memories with Milah happened at night and so night is when he drowns for missing her.

It's been over half a year since she died. He doesn't know who he is anymore without her.

One more day, he tells himself. One more day manning the cash and then he can do whatever the hell he likes with his Saturday night. Killian swings his legs over the side of the bed to get up and knocks over an empty beer bottle in the process. It rolls across the room until it hits the wall but he ignores it, along with all the others that sit scattered about the studio apartment. It's not like anybody sees the place to care that it's a mess. His brother let him the flat above the shop after one too many drunken nights crashing at his place with his sick wife and eleven year-old son in the house. But so long as he shows up to work to open on time, doesn't drink on the job, and joins them for family dinners — irritatingly pleasant affairs where nobody talks about Elsa's chemotherapy or admits that Killian is still a grieving, drunken mess — he's mostly left to his own devices.

To be honest, he's not so sure if that's a good thing. But his brother has his own family to worry about and Killian's penchant for public intoxication when he first came to town has not exactly endeared him to the locals.

He showers quickly, the cool water clearing the last of the sleep from his addled and hung over brain. The jeans are the same as he's been wearing all week but he pulls on a clean shirt for appearance's sake. Breakfast is a couple slices of toast slathered in peanut butter and washed down with orange juice — the same bloody thing seven days a week, he broods but he doesn't care enough to bother making something else. Killian locks up and heads downstairs, entering the shop from the back. He flicks on the lights, starts the coffee, and unlocks the door right at nine am sharp.

Atlantic Twine & Net has been a Storybrooke fixture for over forty years, a commercial fishing supplies store with a prime location on Main Street right next to Granny's Diner. His brother kept the name when he bought the place awhile back and has done his part over the years to keep Storybrooke's various fish 'n chips restaurants well-stocked with local fare. Fishing's not exactly Killian's area of expertise, but he's been at it for a few months now and most everyone who comes in knows what they want already. Liam used to join him for a few hours in the middle of the day but Erik is out of school now and no boy wants to spend their summer vacation stuck at their father's work. Killian loves his brother, he really does, but the job is dull and repetitive and kills whatever desire to play is still left in him.

When Liam asked him to come to Storybrooke and help out while Elsa underwent treatment Killian initially stayed in their guest room, an arrangement which led to a series of nasty fights as Liam urged him to move past his grief. His older brother disagreed with seemingly every choice that Killian had made — leaving the band and quitting music, letting the bottle get the better of him, letting his life fall apart over a woman who's been gone now almost longer than he ever had her to begin with.

But Liam has a son. He's got no bloody choice but to keep it together despite his wife's illness. And Killian, well… falling apart is the only thing he's good at anymore.

To admit that it feels strange waking up alone would imply that she slept much at all after checking into Granny's and collapsing on the lumpy mattress. She'd managed to doze in front of the tv for a bit when they first got in, but as soon as she'd actually brushed her teeth and gotten ready for bed her brain had decided that it preferred to be awake. Preferred to turn each and every moment from the last two years over in her head and try to pinpoint all the signs that she'd missed. There must have been clues, nobody is that good of a con artist. But Walsh had been sweet and attentive and so good to her and Henry.

He could afford to be good, she thinks bitterly. He was stealing from her after all.

Throwing off the covers with a groan, she grabs the spare pillow and flings it over at Henry, hitting him in the face with a satisfying thump. Her son jumps awake with an indignant shout and Emma grins.

"Get up, kid. We need to get to breakfast."

The promise of food perks him up and he swings his legs over the side of the bed to pick the pillow up off the floor and throw it back at her. "Granny's?"

"What else? Come on, we've got to get moving if we're gonna beat your uncle and Mary Margaret there."

Saturday morning breakfast at Granny's has been a Nolan tradition since well before Emma first came to Storybrooke and she doesn't expect David to start breaking that tradition any time soon. She and Henry probably spent more time at the diner than anywhere else while they were still living in Storybrooke and stepping inside brings back a rush of memories. Nothing has changed in the past three years, from the faded checkerboard floor to the old vinyl-covered booths. Granny used to love to talk about how she was going to spruce the place up but it was just one of those small town refrains. Like Leroy always being grumpy, or Dr. Hopper always taking the same route at the same time for his dog's afternoon walk. They may as well be civic institutions.

It makes her wonder if her initials are still carved into the underside of the table in the back, or if they've been covered up by discarded gum. Neal had carved the two pairs of letters as they sat and drank milkshakes and plotted their escape from town. She can still remember the heady feeling when he'd taken her hand and guided her as she traced the letters and the heart that encircled them and has to shake her head at the thought. Leaving town and going to the big city was the refrain of half of Storybrooke's teenage population, after all, not just her and Neal.

Henry heads straight to what she assumes is still David's usual table and she slides in next to him so that they're both facing the door and can see her foster brother's face when he walks in.

"Do you think Mary Margaret will cry when she sees us?" Emma asks, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Definitely. You know they're gonna want us to go stay with them, right?"

She snorts. "Four people living in that loft? I think we're better off sticking with Granny's, don't you?"

"Yeah, probably." He sounds fine with it but looks away with a frown and she narrows her eyes.

"Hey," she says, nudging him with her elbow. "I'm sure you can have a sleepover or two while we're here."

Henry nods but she can see him putting his face back on — the same way she does most mornings — and shit, maybe her son isn't as okay with the breakup as he wants her to think.

"Speaking of sleepovers—"

"Emma?"

Whatever Henry was about to say gets interrupted and they both turn to see her foster brother and his fiancée gaping at them from the doorway. Emma slides out of the booth with a grin and is almost immediately wrapped in a hug by David.

"What are you doing here?"

Emma just smiles into his shoulder for a moment before pulling away to hug Mary Margaret. "We thought we'd surprise you," she says as Henry tackles his uncle.

"This is definitely a surprise," the other woman says, squeezing her hands before letting go. Emma doesn't miss the small frown when she notices the diamond missing from her ring finger but ignores it in favour of leading them all back into the booth.

"What time did you get in at?" David asks. He's barely sat down before Ruby comes around with his coffee and Emma waves a hand to brush off the question.

"Late, we didn't want to be a bother."

"Mom dumped Walsh," Henry chimes in helpfully and she scrunches her face up in distaste.

"What happened?"

Emma shakes her head. The last thing she wants is for David to get his hackles up. "It's not important. I just thought a change of scenery would be a good idea for a little while."

He opens his mouth to argue but Mary Margaret steps in instead. "You're welcome to stay with us, you know," she offers. "We might have only been expecting Henry, but we'd love to have you both. We can set up the air mattress, or maybe—"

Emma shoots her son a look out of the corner of her eye and he smirks. "We're good, but thank you."

David looks like he wants to question her again — she can just see them all piling up on the tip of his tongue. Are you staying the full two weeks? You always said you couldn't get time off work, why is it okay now? Why did you leave the man who you were planning to marry? And she takes a deep breath.

"Should we order? Let's order. Who's having pancakes?"

Bloody hell is he glad to be closing up shop for the day.

The thing about running a store in a small town is that most days are the same and the only ones that are any different are the ones where something goes wrong. Killian had spent most of the morning tracking down a missing shipment from one of their suppliers and the rest of the day fending off Leroy's complaints about their lack of his favourite hoochie lure.

(He swears, if he hears the word hoochie one more time today…)

It's not the sort of day that leaves him wanting to go over to his brother's, but family dinners were part of the deal they made when Killian took over the flat above the store so he has little choice. Liam likes to keep an eye on him, and he seems to believe that Killian would subsist purely on rum if not for his nightly, unappetizing attempts to sop up the booze in his stomach.

His brother took over household cooking duties once Elsa started chemotherapy, setting out to recreate the food of his and Killian's youth. Which would be fine if he didn't stubbornly misremember said youth. Despite Liam's claims at being a great cook ("I raised Killian, didn't I? He's strong and healthy enough, if you ignore the last year.") it was Killian who had manned the kitchen growing up. Liam worked to buy the food, but he never got anywhere close to actually putting it on the table.

Which means that nearly every night since he's been in town, Killian has gotten to enjoy poorly cooked dinners and a brother who shuts him down every time he offers a suggestion. Tonight, of course, is no different. Erik eagerly provides the conversation, detailing grandiose plans for his summer vacation, but Killian's in no mood to show interest and watching Elsa push food around her plate turns his stomach. He pushes his chair back from the table about halfway through the meal, setting his plate on the counter with a clang and leaving the kitchen. He means to just take a minute, just a moment to himself away from everyone aggressively ignoring how not fine they all are. He just needs to get the tightness out of his chest before he goes back, makes his apologies, and makes his escape.

He's barely left the room before he hears someone following and that tight feeling turns to frustration before he can tame it.

"Uncle Killian! Uncle Killian, are you leaving already?"

"Aye, lad," he says, tamping it down as best he can and grabbing his coat off the back of the couch. "What is it you want?"

"I was hoping maybe you could teach me how to play guitar tonight. Dad said I'm old enough now, I can use his old one."

The request makes Killian stop dead in his tracks and he turns to look from his nephew to the doorway where Liam is standing watching them.

"You put him up to this, then?" he asks, raising his chin to address his brother and ignoring the bouncing eleven year-old in between them.

Liam frowns and sets a hand on his son's shoulder. "Go back to the table and finish eating with your mum, yeah?"

The change in the boy is immediate and they both watch him leave the room, suddenly fixated on his feet. Killian knows what's coming next and already has a scowl ready when his brother turns and starts in on him.

"Would it kill you to—"

"Don't pin this on me, brother," he spits, cutting him off. "You know I don't bloody play anymore. It's not my fault that you went and put ideas in his head."

"No, you don't play anymore. You don't do much of anything anymore, do you?"

Killian recoils but manages to keep from flinching at the barb. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I ran into Leroy today, he said we were out of stock on quite a few things."

"Of course he bloody did. The man can't keep his mouth shut to save his life."

Because obviously it wasn't enough that he'd spent hours trying to track down the order, despite the fact that it was Saturday and most businesses were closed. No, the town tattle-tale has to rat him out to his brother as if it's something that's even remotely in his control.

"He shouldn't have to keep his mouth shut, Killian!" Liam fumes. "What happened with the Golden Bait shipment?"

"How the hell should I know? It never showed up! Some days it's like this town doesn't even bloody exist for all the problems I run into when suppliers try and deliver."

"Garth's been selling to Atlantic Twine & Net since before I bought the store," Liam says, crossing his arms. "Never had any problems with him in the past. If you're not going to take this job seriously—"

"So it's my fault then?" Killian retorts. Liam doesn't answer and he grinds his teeth, hand clenching at his side. "Right. Well, this has been fun," he says, voice thick with false cheer. "We'll do it again tomorrow, shall we?"

Killian lets the door slam shut behind him and storms up the street back to his apartment. Jumping in the car he's got parked around back, he turns the ignition and floors it down Main Street.

He hates this bloody town. Hates everything about it and there's no way he's spending the evening at home, above the store that's given him nothing but grief all day. Thankfully, tonight's the one night he can leave and not have to worry about fucking up his life any more than it already is.

Small towns have their benefits, Emma's realized. And one of those is the ability to be in your pajamas at nine o'clock on a Saturday night, armed with snacks that you don't have to share and settled in for a Mummy movie marathon. Henry's traditional first-night-in-Storybrooke sleepover with John and Michael had proved the perfect excuse to not linger around the loft after dinner with David and Mary Margaret. She loves her foster brother, but constantly stepping around the topic of Walsh gets exhausting after a few hours.

David used to be content to let her have her space — to this date they've had exactly one conversation about the Neal debacle, where he promised to both always have her back and to never bring it up again. But apparently when she moved away from Storybrooke it triggered all of his protective instincts, even the ones that usually tell him she can take care of herself.

Emma didn't come back to Storybrooke for an inquisition. She knows everyone has questions — she does too. She just needs a little more distance from it all before she can try to offer any answers.

She needs to remember how to breathe with her armour on again.

The door handle jiggles and Emma startles, eyes narrowing as she mutes the tv in time to hear a key being slid into the lock. She doesn't know what kind of help Granny has hired in the time she's been gone, but it's way too late in the day for anyone to be changing sheets.

"Do not disturb!" she calls out but it's already too late. The door opens to reveal a dressed-to-the-nines Ruby Lucas, garment bag in hand.

"Oh my god. It's worse than I thought."

Emma groans and sets her popcorn aside, shoving the blankets off in order to get up. "Still abusing your master key, I see."

"I'll have you know that it's for emergencies. Which this clearly is. Here," she says, holding out the arm with the garment bag. "Put this on, we're going out."

Emma tilts her head to the side and crosses her arms over her rubber ducky pajamas. Ruby had been the perfect partner in crime as a teenager but once she had Henry wild nights out got traded for nights in with movie marathons and nail painting. "I'm not going out, Ruby. But you're more than welcome to join me for movie night."

The other girl shakes her head. "No. No, not happening. You are better than this, Emma Swan. Is this what you would be doing on a Saturday night in New York?"

"I would be working on a Saturday night in New York. This," she counters, waving an arm back at the snack-covered bed, "Is a great night off. I have no more desire to go drink in a bar tonight than I do to go work in one."

"You're letting him win, you know."

"Where would we even go?" Emma asks, switching tacks. "The Rabbit Hole closed down, I saw the sign."

"Rockland is like, a fifteen minute drive away. I will even be the designated driver, so long as we take your car 'cause mine's in the shop. Please, Emma," she pleads. "I've missed you. And it's been so long since I've had a proper wing woman. It'll be fun, I promise."

Emma sighs and glances back at the tv and the bed where she'd been so comfortably ensconced just a couple minutes before. "Fine, give me the dress."

She pulls it out and gives it a quick once-over in hopes of finding an excuse to shoot it down but Ruby did well. The leather mini dress is in her size and it'll show a lot of leg but at least her chest won't be out on display. Ruby practically sashays past her to sit on the bed, hitting the old mattress with a bounce that makes the coils creak in protest.

"Y'know," Emma says, stopping at the doorway to the bathroom. "I'm surprised you haven't re-opened the Rabbit Hole yourself. Weren't you always talking about not waiting until you inherited Granny's?"

"I thought about it," she replies, grabbing a handful of popcorn and tossing a piece up before catching it with her mouth. "But something like that I'd want a business partner for and I haven't found the right person yet."

Emma knows a possible out when she sees one and she takes a few steps back into the room. "You know, I've worked in a lot of bars. I could give you some tips, if you want. We could get a bottle of wine, finish the snacks, enjoy some Brendan Fraser…"

For a moment it seems like Ruby might be considering it but then she claps her hands and stands back up and Emma knows she's lost. "That sounds like an awesome idea. For another night. But right now, you need to go and get changed and then let me fix your hair and make-up so that we can go out. Go!" she says, turning her around by the shoulders and punctuating it with a little shove.

Emma rolls her eyes and flicks on the light in the bathroom. "It was worth a shot."

"It sure was," Ruby agrees. "But you need this. Trust me."

Venturing out to a bar was a horrible idea, he thinks, cursing the fact that his sudden urge to get out of Storybrooke has got him surrounded by the company of strangers all of whom are eminently more sociable than him. He picked the bar because it was closest to where he parked but he can grudgingly admit that it does has some atmosphere. And it's busy enough on a Saturday night that the noise drowns out most of the demons the booze leaves behind. (One of the downsides to drinking somewhere other than his apartment — he can't have more than one or two unless he wants to sleep it off in the car.)

He used to play in similar pubs before he got the band together, when it was just him and his guitar going through a set list of covers with some original songs slipped in. It's not like he hasn't thought of picking it up again. Sometimes he even wishes he could. Back in those early days he sat on a stool with a beer at his feet and played for himself more than anyone else. Liam thinks that Killian doesn't want to move on, but he's wrong. It's just that music changed for him as soon as he started working with Milah. She made him better. Made him a stronger artist in every way. He doesn't know how to do on his own what they once did together, can't even fathom writing songs without her as his partner. He'd always been a good lyricist, but Milah cut straight to the heart and gave his words a power that he'd never managed even with all of his tinkering.

Nothing else could ever measure up. It's far easier to just drink his way through the memories instead.

The blonde on his right chokes on her drink, and it pulls his attention away from his thoughts and back to the little show that he's been following for the past fifteen minutes or so.

"That's awful!" she exclaims, pushing the glass away from her. "You call that a cocktail?"

Killian can't help the grin that spreads across his face as he tries not to be obvious about his eavesdropping. The woman and the barkeep have been a source of amusement since she took a seat next to him and apparently the would-be Romeo's original creation does not meet the lady's standards.

"Something funny over there, buddy?"

He shakes his head but can't keep from needling the poor bloke. "Just glad I ordered something simple," he says, raising his rum in salute.

The blonde eyes him skeptically before rolling her eyes and turning back to her suitor. "You know what? Just give me what he's having."

The new drink is delivered with a scowl and Killian offers his glass to clink. "You've crushed that poor man's heart, love," he remarks.

"He'll get over it," she replies, touching her rum to his and taking a sip. He follows suit, turning in his seat to face her better.

Killian can't fault the bartender for making an attempt; she is absolutely stunning. Her hair tumbles in loose, long waves down her back and she's wearing a tight leather dress that definitely didn't come from any of the area's meager retail offerings. He's not had near enough alcohol to even consider making a pass at her, but there's something a little familiar in the set of her shoulders and the way that she holds herself and he's got his hand out before he can think better of it.

"I'm Killian," he offers.

She shifts on her stool to look at him, glancing down to his hand and then back up to his face. He waits patiently while she eyes him and can't stop his smile when her hand slips into his.

"Emma."

One drink turns to two turns to stepping outside for some fresh air and before he knows it they're crammed into the back of her Volkswagen beetle, making out like damned horny teenagers. She's straddling him, her dress riding up her legs, hair falling like a curtain around them. The whole world has narrowed down to how she feels and tastes and Killian runs his hands up her thighs to push her down further, needing to feel her pressed where he wants her most.

Emma moans into his mouth when their hips meet and then breaks the kiss to shift a little, hiking the leather dress up to expose her ass completely. He bites at her earlobe when she settles back down, sucking it into his mouth as she sets an easy rhythm. Her nails dig into his shoulder, her other hand fisted in his shirt while she grinds against him and Killian sets to work kissing his way down her neck, paying attention to every little gasp and moan and sigh that she makes.

She's fucking glorious. And he's never going to see her again so he doesn't hold anything back. He licks and nips and sucks hard enough to bruise, squeezing her ass and rocking his hips up to meet her. Emma drags his face back to hers and damn it but he wants to touch all of her. The leather is unbearably sexy but it covers too much of her chest for his liking. Killian traces the line of her underwear instead, urging her up a bit higher onto her knees and letting out a groan when he finds her soaked through her panties. He pushes the material aside and trails a finger up through her wet until he reaches her clit, softly circling the nub before sliding a finger into her.

Emma gasps against his lips, her forehead pressed to his. "More."

He's happy to oblige, adding a second finger and twisting his wrist to maximize his range of motion in the cramped space. He keeps the same rhythm that she'd set earlier, pumping his fingers into her while brushing his thumb against her clit with each thrust. Her nails rake down his chest, but the bug is too tight for her to reach where he's hard and aching and she curses in frustration. Killian just chuckles against her skin and bites down on her shoulder.

Emma gives up with a moan and starts to rock into the thrusts of his hand. "Fuck, yes," she mutters. Her breath hitches as he curls his fingers inside of her and then, "Shit, don't stop."

She's close, her core clenching around his fingers and it's enough to make his control snap. He needs to feel more, needs to see her come apart above him. Killian grinds out a curse and abandons rhythm in favour of speed. He catches her lips in a brutal kiss, squeezes her breast roughly through the dress until the moment she pulls away with a gasp. Emma trembles around him, her head rolling back as she rides out her high and he feasts on the sight.

She's a bloody goddess, he thinks, gently removing his hand. Killian holds the two fingers up to eye level, wishing that he had more light so he could admire the slick coating of her release. Emma smirks down at him and then lowers her head, sucking his fingers clean and he bites back a groan even as his other hand grips her hip, pulling her back down to him.

He can taste her when she kisses him and his tongue seeks hers hungrily. He's just about to go back for more when an ambulance passes by and Killian stiffens up involuntarily. The haze of lust clears without warning in spite of Emma's hands sliding down his chest on their way to his belt.

"I wasn't exactly planning on this," she says, kissing a line along his jaw as she works at his pants. "Do you have any —"

"No," he manages, hoping she'll mistake the strain in his voice for arousal. A cacophony of sirens are going off in his head and he fights to push them away, to stay in the present with the gorgeous woman who's on top of him.

It's a losing battle though, always has been.

"That's okay," Emma murmurs, her voice full of promise. "There are other things we can do."

He stills her hands when she jerks the belt open and her eyes jump up to meet his.

Killian swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. "Perhaps another time."

"Seriously? Because I don't mind."

He shifts underneath her and forces a crooked smile which he knows comes off as more of a wince but he can't find it in himself to be worried about the impression he's leaving when his heart is hammering in his chest and the sirens won't stop blaring and it's too tight in the car, he needs to get out out out. Needs to get to her.

Emma practically falls off his lap and onto the seat beside him and he grabs for the door without thinking, scrambling out of the car and sucking cool night air into his lungs.

"Hey, are you alright?"

He's bolted almost halfway across the tiny lot already but he turns around when she calls after him, her blonde hair falling around her face as she pokes her head out of the half-open door.

"Aye," he croaks. "Goodnight."