He looks at her, a challenge in his eyes and that stupid smug grin pulling the ends of his mouth up, looking positively sinful as he bites down on his bottom lip. It's silly – just the same infuriating sincerity buried beneathan easy compliment, but for the first time, it doesn't make her afraid. It doesn't send her into panic mode or raise alarm bells or tell her to run away. It doesn't add fuel to her fear of getting burned like it has so many times before.

No, for the first time, all of the awe, devotion and goddamn affection he has when he looks at her triggers every feeling she's tried to suppress since the moment she met him.

And it's overwhelming. It's exciting. It's a million things at once on the tip of her tongue, in the pit of her stomach, rushing to the surface and forcing her to acknowledge just how much he's sacrificed for them, for her, and demanding her to recognise that, without him, they might never have found Henry. Without his unconditional and seemingly instinctual support, none of this would've been possible.

And here's the thing: it's a rare occasion when someone surprises Emma Swan (being a bail-bondsperson has the tendency to have that effect), and even rarer still when she surprises herself.

So when the depth of her gratitude settles like an impossible weight on her shoulders, it kind of shocks her by just how much he means to her. And when she hears her heart pounding in her ears and her feet walking towards him without hesitation, it steals her breath away to realise that she doesn't care whether or not she's ready to act on those feelings she previously felt guilty for.

Suddenly, she's out of reasons not to want him. Everything seems insignificant. Timing seems irrelevant. Her issues with Neal and with her parents seem entirely and eternally (forever and ever amen) unimportant.

All that matters is him and this moment.

For a brief second, confusion takes control over his features. Then comprehension quickly assumes its place and his eyes widen in disbelief. Inches away from him now, she glances down at his lips and then does it truly sink in that there's no going back from whatever this is; whatever these feelings are.

Before he has a chance to say anything, she's grabbing him by the lapels of his coat, pulling him towards her and connecting their lips with a passion and a need she thought she'd only reserved for Neal.

To say he reacts instantly is an understatement. And if the way he immediately pushes back against her – his hook arm snaking around her waist while his other hand tangles itself in her hair – is anything to go by, he's been craving this for just as long as she has.

Neither of them holds back, and it thrills her. The feel of his lips against hers (finally, finally) sends shockwaves down her spine and she practically sighs into his touch, thinking how the hell is anything supposed to measure up against this kiss ever again? And when his lips force hers open for a second, third and fourth time, slanting against her own, everything changing between them in sync, she can't deny that they fit perfectly together.

They're close, but not close enough. It's not enough to just breathe him in, and seeing as how tonight is a night of firsts and surprises, Emma realises that perhaps she would, too. Perhaps she'd like to get to know him, know his past, know every inch of Killian Jones, know who he is in the deepest sense and most secret parts.

She never wants this to end, but it seems like her lungs have a different idea. In desperate need of air (Killian is anything but gentle and all parts selfish – a fact which, in this instance, delights her), she pulls back.

Both breathing heavily, his hand still in her hair and her fingers still clinging to his coat, they rest their foreheads against each other in silence, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

After a while she hears him say something oh so softly, his breath hot against her lips, sparking the dangerous possibility of her reeling him right back in. It could've been her name, she doesn't know, she doesn't care. She is lost in everything that just happened and is honestly trying to gather her wits, but his proximity is doing things to her.

"Hook"she mutters, running her hands up and down the lapels of his coat absentmindedly, her thoughts running a million miles per hour in every direction. She doesn't dare look at him because she knows the minute she does, the moment will be over and that fear – fear that Henry won't want her after they've just found him, fear that Hook will turn away just like Neal – will inevitably set back in. In fact, she can already feel the excuses bubbling up in her mind like clockwork: it was the adrenaline – it was the heat of the moment – it was a long day and Hook was there. Just as he always is.

(She doesn't want to think about that. Not now.)

When she finally does look at him, though, it's not what she expects. His hook finds its way under her chin, tilting her face up to look at him as if he knows exactly what she's thinking. Blue meets green and her breath catches in her throat, because he's never looked at her more seriously, or pleadingly, than he is right now.

"That's not my name, love" he says, tracing his thumb across her bottom lip. It's as if he's pleading with her, willing her to understand that he's not leaving and that he does want to get to know her. Not perhaps, but actually.

"Killian" she breathes. Her heart leaps into her throat because the beginnings of a smile – a smile just for her – is working its way onto his face and goddamnit she can feel her own lips quirking up in response. And without conscious thought, her fingers begin to tighten once more around the leather of his coat. He transfers his arm to her waist, bringing her closer again; so close she can almost taste him already as his hand runs through her hair, and his Cheshire grin is lost to a look of hunger; an expression she's positive her body is mimicking.

And just when she's about to damn it all to helland slam her lips against his for the second time that night, a voice breaks the silence. A voice that's all too familiar for no good reason.

"Well, well, well" it leers, and they instantly disentangle from their embrace.

Pan. Standing there in all of his psychotic, boyish glory.

Well, fuck.