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"I want a grown up story tonight, Granny!"

She smiles softly, tucking the blankets around the little girl even tighter.

"And why's that, duckling?"

"Because I turned six today, obviously," Emma rolls her eyes and she can't help but laugh.

"Why, Emma, you're almost as old as I am! Shall I fetch you some spectacles for your eyes, then?"

Emma's giggles fill the room and she thinks, not for the first time tonight what a shame it is that Emma's parents couldn't be here to hear her laugh, to watch her become a grown up. Her eyes wander to the stars outside Emma's window and she wonders if they're watching from somewhere.

"No, silly! I want to hear the story you always tell the people at the tavern."

Your baby is growing up and she's going to be a force of nature, you just watch.

She sends one last smile up into the stars, closes the curtains and finally begins telling Emma the story.

The story that will shape the rest of her life.

"Tell me about the hook, I've heard so many stories," her voice is a purr as she leans into him, her fingers dancing along the cold metal.

He smirks at her, his eyes bright with intoxication; his fingers warm on the skin of her wrist as he moves closer and closer to her. The heat of his breath caresses her cheek, until his knee pushes softly against hers, the touch scorching her skin despite herself.

"Mmm, I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

He tries to use the same tone as her but falls short, his voice carrying none of the careful seduction that hers did. But, even as his words are deep and slurred, his accent more pronounced than before, she doesn't have to pretend to feel the shiver that runs down her spine, the way her fingers tighten on the curve of his hook.

"Let's get out of here, then."

The walk back to his ship is a stuttered affair, fraught with stops and starts, hands tugging each other closer, lips searching for lips.

She finds herself leaning against the wall of an alleyway, one of her hands deep in his hair, the other under his coat and digging into his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

The first touch of his lips on hers is electric, awareness shooting down her body, her every nerve ending coming alive as his mouth slid against hers, wet and hot, the sounds of their lips disappearing into the noisy air. Even as she tries to stay aware and in control, the feel of his stubble scratching at her jaw, his lips trailing increasingly heavy kisses down her chest make her feel like she is falling, falling. He stops at the raised scar in between her breasts to press an incredibly, unusually soft kiss, his tongue darting out to lick at the old wound and she feels her knees buckle, her hands tightening around him, the one around his waist trailing up and under his vest, dragging downwards, her nails scratching him through the thin linen of his shirt.

It's too much, the intensity of the feeling in her body, her hips swaying into his, his face now nuzzling at her neck as he presses little kisses into her skin, too hot, too close. Too much.

She feels herself holding on to the rapidly fraying edges of her control as she drags him up by his hair. His eyes are shut but his mouth curves into a salacious smile, chasing hers even as she moves back. Her voice is shaky as she whispers into the scarce air between them.

"Take me back to your ship, Captain. Unless you want me to have you here against this wall."

He hums into her skin as his lips meet her chin, moving lower still.

"I don't know if I would mind that terribly love. You are a bloody siren," he stops for a second, his lips finding a spot on the curve of her breast that makes her arch and pull him closer, "gods, but you make a man forget himself."

This was definitely not the plan.

His hand grazes her thigh under her dress, leaving a scorching trail behind it as his lips kiss down her bare shoulder and she tries to get back to herself, tries to remember the plan.

It had been so simple. Seduce the captain, get access to his ship, knock him out and— oh, but his mouth is on her breast now, her torso exposed to the cold air, his hand gripping her hip as his hook slowly glides up and down her spine, the chill of it making her shiver. He hadn't been very drunk when they'd left the tavern, her low voice and teasing touches enough for him to lead her to his ship. But, as they had approached their destination, he'd continued to sip from the flask in his coat and the more he drank, the softer he'd gotten. His kisses gentle pecks against her neck as they walked, his arm loosely looped around her waist, his voice just a touch hoarse as he had whispered in her ear.

Even now, he is slow and lazy, languid kisses across her stomach, hand and hook caressing her thighs as he moves to his knees.

And sitting there, perched on the desk in his quarters, his arms heavy around her, she wonders if it would be so bad to let herself enjoy this, to let herself forget. For one night, to just be a woman who meets a handsome man in a tavern and takes him to bed because his kiss sets her skin aflame. For one night, to forget her quest, her past, all the little pieces of her soul screaming to be put back together.

For just one night.

After all, she's never going to see him again.

(It is the last thought she has before his soft moans and her sighs are the only sounds that accompany those of the waves against the shore.)

He wakes with a crick in his neck and a low pounding in his head.

The sunlight streams bright and angry through his windows but when he begins to raise his hand to cover his eyes, he finds that he cannot move it. Or his other arm. His eyes find the ties that tether him to the low headboard above his bed, his hook missing from his left hand, his arms tied back with a deep red strip of fabric. His fingers begin to run along the cloth above his hand and slowly, the events of the previous night come back to him.

The woman, gold hair brighter than the moonlight they'd walked under, a smile that made him want to hold her close and tell her all his secrets. And her eyes, gods, those eyes. Green, piercing and he had let himself drown in their depths. He had let himself get lost in her voice, in the tapping of her fingers on his thigh, moving higher as the night progressed, in the heady rush of her scent that made him forget that he does not do this anymore. He does not drink himself into intoxication, lose control like this and bring a woman into his home. He knows what happens, he knows the consequences of them staying, of how vulnerable it makes him.

His nightmares are loud and vivid even after all these years and he cannot allow rumours to spread that he wakes up in the middle of the night clutching his wounded hand, tears in his eyes and a name upon his lips. He is Captain Hook, he is a name whispered in the darkness, he is a story told on moonless nights to scare children into sleeping, he is awe and fear and rage.

He is a legend.

And legends do not have weaknesses.

But, she had been an enchantress, a witch and she had unraveled him.

Anger, frustration and shame fight for dominance in his chest as he realizes that she is the one who'd left him like this. Bare and tied to his own bed with pieces of the skirt that he had accidentally ripped into in his haste to taste her. The softness of her skin, the gentle scratching of her fingers in his hair, the sound of her voice as she sighed, moaned and whimpered softly for him had all worked to drown him.

(And he had gone under willingly, happy to forget for one night the kind of man he has become, happy to believe for a night that someone might want him, all of him. Scars and nightmares, broken heart and all.)

He manages to free himself with a little manoeuvring and a lot of frustrated snarling and immediately makes for the safe tucked into one of the cupboards by the entrance.

His hook lies on the floor and even as he picks it up he knows what he is going to see. The key jutting out from the base of the hook opens the door of the – now very empty safe. A small smile curves at his lips and despite the anger that still simmers under his skin, he cannot help but feel a grudging respect for her. She had convinced him to invite her into his home, made him beg for her to stay, robbed him from right under his nose. All this and he didn't even know her name.

(The smile grows into a bark of laughter when he finds that she's also taken his breeches.)

He pulls on the remainder of his clothes, the smile still on his face and he can almost see the returning smirk on hers. He vows to find her then.

(Whether to make her pay for her theft or to bow at her feet, he is not sure yet.)

"… three whole branches higher, Ruby, three and it was that big tree by the river and I didn't fall and I saw a Sea Hawk," her voice drops to a revered whisper as she says the creature's name, bouncing right back into the excitement of before. She tells Ruby about how the bird had dived into the water with such force that Emma had felt the water splash on her face all the way up in her tree, how it had emerged with a fish in its claws and proceeded to immediately begin eating. Emma's descriptions get more than a little gory and her voice floats about the trees like a restless bird jumping from one thought to another as Ruby listens attentively, her lips curved into an indulgent smile, the occasional amused chuckle held in by a well timed cough.

They walk hand in hand back to the tavern that Ruby's grandmother runs, back to the small house behind it that is their home. They do this everyday, Ruby coming down to pick up Emma from her lessons only to hear that she'd already left, eventually finding her up in a tree or knee deep in the river, her clothes in varying degrees of muddy and her smile always turning the half formed reprimand on Ruby's lips into a bark of laughter. Emma continues to describe all the ways in which her tree climbing skills have improved superlatively since last week. But, her voice suddenly vanishes as she stops abruptly, tugging on Ruby's hand to get her to stop as well.

"What's this?"

Emma's fingers only just reach the wobbly indentations in the bark of the tree closest to them as she stands on her toes, reaching up to trace the edges of the letters encased in a heart that are carved into it.

"They're names," Ruby's fingers follow Emma's around the markings, Michael+Sara.

"I can see that, Ruby," she rolls her eyes in exasperation even as she jumps on the tips of her toes to look a little closer, "why're they on the tree?"

Ruby laughs as she picks Emma up into her arms.

"Because these trees live forever and ever and ever. So, even after the people are gone, the tree will remember that they loved each other."

Emma is quiet for a bit as she considers this, her fingers still tracing the dips and curves of the letters on the tree.

"I love you."

Ruby's eyes soften and her grip tightens on the child in her arms as she drops a kiss in her hair.

"And I love you."

"I want the trees to remember too."

Emma stands before a tree.

Her eyes following the broken notches made with a sharp knife and a shaking hand. They had found it a little deeper in the woods later that day and Ruby had helped her carve their names into it, finishing off with a somewhat lopsided heart surrounding them all.

Ruby's smile is still fresh in her mind, the curves of it, the warmth of her eyes matching the warmth that had spread in her chest at her proud appraisal of Emma's work. Her fingers run over the letters scratched into the tree, a crude, child's scrawl in the wood spelling three names.

Emma

Ruby

Granny

She smiles a little when her thumb catches on the top of the "y" in granny. She'd not known her name then and when she had begun carving the G, Ruby had asked why and she had said, with all the certainty of an eight year old, "Because her name is Granny, of course."

Ruby had just laughed and agreed, knowing better than to argue with a determined Emma.

She comes back here every year on this day. She comes back to this tree, these woods and she remembers them. This forest that has changed and grown, lived and died over the years has somehow kept this particular tree safe. It has survived fires and thunderstorms, floods and magic and she wonders if it is a cruel joke or a blessing that a few scratches on the bark of a tree are the only piece of her family that she has left.

Her forehead falls against the rough bark as she tries not to let the tears fall, her mind conjuring images, ruthless in their accuracy of the night she had seen them last.

She remembers the stench of alcohol and blood, the dust in her eyes, the scream caught in her throat. She remembers the confusion, the horror mixed with fear. Granny had just sent her out to get some onions and she had only tarried at the blacksmith's for a minute or two and how had this-

She remembers walking over the spilled drinks and shattered pieces of glass. She remembers Ruby's body curved around Granny's, their hands clasped together. She remembers wrenching the crossbow out of Granny's hands and finding a crumpled sheet of paper in Ruby's, hastily scribbled directions, numbers to open the safe in Granny's bedroom.

She remembers the clicking of the dial, the door of the ancient safe creaking open, the way her fingers had shaken as she'd opened the envelope with the letter in it.

She remembers the texture of the paper, the smudges of ink, the tearstains at the edges.

And she remembers the words.

My sweet Emma,

I'm sorry that we have left you this way. But, if you're reading this, we are gone. I'm so sorry to have done this to you, darling. I love you so much. I am grateful everyday that I got to be your older sister, that I got to know you and watch you grow into a wonderful young woman.

There are some things I need to confess. I had hoped that we might have this conversation face to face but I suppose that was too much to ask.

You know that we have always told you that Granny found you at our doorstep when you were a baby and that was how we came to raise you and though that is true, it is not the entire truth. You did arrive on our doorstep but your parents brought you here.

Your mother was a wonderful woman, sweet as they come but with a wit sharp enough to cut. She loved you so much, she was the one who called you her little duckling. She was one of my closest friends. I loved her so and God, Emma I see her in you everyday, just as I see your father. He was a headstrong man, earnest and always wanting to do the right thing. He doted on you, you were his sunshine and I have never seen him happier than when he was holding you. But, you were in grave danger and the only way they knew to keep you safe was to leave you with us.

Please don't blame them duckling; they wanted to give you your best chance.

We knew this would happen someday, that the past would catch up to us but we hoped anyway, hoped and prayed that the world would let us keep you longer but I suppose that that was just a fool's dream.

I want to tell you more; I want to tell you everything. But your mother made me promise, as she handed you to me, as she kissed your forehead for the last time, that I would keep you safe and love, if you know any more, I'm afraid that they will come for you.

There is some money in a bag in this safe, I want you to take it and I want you to run. Find a ship, duckling, and run as far away and as quickly as you can.

And when you are old enough, when your body grows enough to hold all the fire in your lungs, remember the story Granny always told you.

The Tale of Excalibur.

Remember it and be brave and true and strong. You are going to be such a beautiful woman, Emma. You are going to enchant the world and have it bow at your feet. I just wish I could be there to see it. I wish I could have kissed you and hugged you tighter. I wish I could have known you longer.

I wish.

I hope you will forgive us one day. We will always love you.

Ruby

She had read these words a thousand times over since that night fifteen years ago. She had been but a child then, a young thing, barely fifteen herself. She had read them again and again. She had read them with sorrow, her heart heavy as she imagined the faces of the parents she hadn't had the chance to know, of the women who had been her family in their absence. She had read them with anger, her fingers crumpling the quickly aging paper as she thought about all the deceit that had brought her here. She had read them like a puzzle, looking for some hidden meaning, a clue to her past, a direction for her future.

But, all she had was the story.

The Tale of Excalibur.

A blade forged of True Love and magic a thousand years old. A blade forged of goodness and courage but laced with rage and a thirst for vengeance. A blade forged by a wizard who had lived a hundred lifetimes, a blade forged by the embers of mankind's first flame. The wizard had created it when his love had fallen to the power of the darkest magic in the realms. He had wished to build a weapon strong enough to defeat it so that no other would fall victim to it the way that he had. But, he knew that this weapon was too powerful for one man so in order to safeguard it, he buried it in the earth of an island whose location can only be determined by a map.

A map that he tore into eight separate pieces.

Eight pieces that he then scattered on the wind across the realms so that even he may not know the way to the sword. He prophesied that only a hero, unselfish and true may find all eight pieces.

Only a hero would be able to wield the blade and vanquish dark magic forever.

Emma had thrown herself into the story, into chasing the pieces of a map of which she had only heard in muted conversations at the tavern, in stories told to her as a child. Closing her heart off to grief, she had gone after every morsel of information about the legend of the sword with a desperate rage.

The story had led her from port to port, aboard trading vessels, military ships and pirate ships alike. She had taken on work wherever she could and she learned. To sail, to fight, to steal, to survive.

And she had lost herself gradually in the process.

Her heart hardened and her tongue sharpened, she learned not to believe that hard work alone would get her enough to fall asleep with a full belly. She learned not to trust that the boy who had promised her the world would not abandon her to the town guards at the first sight of danger. She learned not to hope that some day a woman with a soft voice and a man with kind eyes would find her and take her home.

She learned instead that a sharp knife is sometimes more effective than a sharp tongue. She learned instead that she could trust nobody with the depths of her heart but that pretending to do so would be a useful tool. She learned instead that killing a man leaves a hole in your soul that never really mends.

(She learned that tearing more holes does not make it any easier.)

But, she learned also that the sea was where she belonged, that the sight of the full moon on the waves almost melted away the shackles of her past, lightened the weight of the letter she carried in her pocket always.

So, she had stayed on the water as much as she could, eventually building a reputation and finding work on less respectable vessels, working for pirates and thieves and getting closer everyday to perhaps finding the answers she so desperately sought.

The night that she acquired the first piece of the map was the night she finally lost the last piece of her that was left from before, the night she went from being just Emma to Captain Emma Swan.

And, she finally had proof that she wasn't just chasing the whispers of ghosts. She had not stopped since.

She clings to the story, to the letter, to the map that will get her answers, revenge, or whatever it is that she is searching for. It is the only thing that anchors her, gives her purpose.

Even now, as she allows herself to mourn them for this one day, as she allows herself to be weak against the tree that holds the last traces of the fact that Emma Swan once had a family, her resolve steels anew. She pushes off the tree and with one last look at the names on the wood, she turns away. She reaches into the pocket of her cloak and runs her fingers over the piece of paper she had stolen not a week ago, thick and strong. Her mind invariably goes to the man who had possessed it last.

She had heard of him, of course. The dreaded Captain Hook, terror of the seven seas. But, the man she had met that night, who had called her love, who had murmured sweet praise into her ears, who had gasped and sighed and held her softly, he had been nothing like the stories.

Her mind preoccupied by blue eyes and low whispers in the darkness, she begins to make her way back to her ship, her pace slow and steady.

Until she feels the chill edge of a knife at her throat.

He had been chasing her for a week now.

A week of his heart skipping at the sight of a flash of green eyes and a whip of blonde hair, at any indication that she was near him again. A week of storms in his mind and a whirlpool in his chest, of dreaming of kisses in the shadows, of murmurs in the moonlight. A week of wondering if he was man determined to get back what was taken from him or a man besotted with a woman he had met but once.

But today, he had finally spotted her at a market. He'd seen a woman dressed in white by the stall selling flowers, her hair as gold as the afternoon sun and his traitorous heart had jumped in anticipation. Preparing for disappointment, he'd steeled himself as she'd begun to turn around but then, there she was. A soft smile on her face as she paid the man with the flowers, her face bare, none of the red that had stained her cheeks and lips that night, none of the red that had later stained his skin in the shape of her mouth. She had looked entirely different from the woman who had stolen him away and then stolen from him.

The tempest in his chest intensifying at once, he'd begun to follow her and even as he had taken step after step, careful to stay hidden, waiting for a moment alone to finally confront her, he hadn't known what he would say when he finally spoke to her again, when he finally heard her voice once more. He had followed her out of town, out on a path into the woods, further and further down.

He'd had sufficient time where they had been alone, a hundred chances to corner her, to ask her to return the piece of paper she had taken from him but he hadn't. Something had stopped him, a pinching in his chest, a stirring in his gut, some inkling of recognition, some smidgen of curiosity.

Something he didn't have a name for but something that had his heart clamoring for him to just follow, just wait.

(Even if his head was not inclined to agree.)

The flowers, the white dress had all told him that she was mourning someone and when she had placed the flowers at the base of a tree, when she had pressed her forehead against the rough bark of it, when she had cried, her shoulders shaking with it, her face shining with her tears, he had felt like an intruder, his presence unknown and unwanted.

But, just as he had been considering turning away, he had felt it. An itching in his forearm, the phantom ache of a limb long gone and the twinge of a broken heart.

He had his own ghosts, his own mourning to do, his own wrongs to avenge and she had taken his only way to them from him.

His hand, which had stretched out towards her against the bark of the tree behind which he hid, curled into a fist as he waited for her to finish. Pirate he may be, but he will not take away from her, her right to remember those lost to her.

But, once she is finished—

He grits his teeth, his body coiling with tension as he prepares himself for what is about to happen. Images of his brother, his love flash in his mind and all the confusion from before, the memory of her kiss, the sight of her tears melt away until all there is, is the blood behind his eyes.

His knife presses against the pale skin of her throat.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me, Captain Swan," he bites out her name, foreign on his tongue still, having learned of it not six nights ago. He had spent each of them turning her name in his mouth, learning the dips and curves and corners of it and now, it feels wrong to call her Swan.

He'd heard of her before, of course. Captain Emma Swan. They talk about her in low tones, reverence and fear in their voices.

(She is breathtakingly beautiful. Her wild golden hair and piercing eyes bring men to their knees.

She is the fire burning in the night, she is the golden sunlight of the morning.
She is your every dream and your worst nightmare.

She will devour you whole and you will laugh the entire time.)

But, putting a face to the name had been difficult, for the woman who he'd seen now, the one with the soft face and the tender touch, she had been Emma. The woman who had whimpered his name in the darkness of his cabin, she had been Emma. The woman who had run her hand up his wounded arm and kissed his bare shoulder, she had been Emma.

But then again, the man who had been with her then had been Killian Jones.

Now, she is faced with Captain Hook.

She stiffens in his arms for a second when she hears his voice and just like that, the siren is back. She falls back into him, her body swaying closer to his, pressing against him as she hums, as though enjoying the feel of his hook almost piercing her side, his knife cold and sharp against her skin.

"Mmm, do you mean your breeches? Sorry about that, but don't you know?" her voice is but a whisper now, hot and breathy and broken, his own breathing speeding up at her every word despite his best efforts to control it.

She pushes backwards, grinding against him as her voice goes lower still, words coming out as though trapped in the back of her throat, the same as it had been when she'd begged him to touch her again, just like that.

"A pirate always keeps a souvenir of her conquest," she finishes.

He presses closer, not one to back down, his voice a hot whisper in her ear.

"Can't say that I didn't find it very pleasurable myself. But, that's not what I'm talking about."

"Oh no? I don't think I left your quarters with anything else except some wonderful memories."

Her hand rises up to run along his hand holding the knife, her fingertip dancing along its edge as she continues.

"They made for absolutely stimulating dreams."

He pulls himself backwards, his hips separating from hers, his jaw clenched, his voice biting as he tries to keep himself from giving into the burning need to drop his knife, to pull her back into his arms and remind himself just how her lips taste.

"Oh, I'm quite sure they did love but—"

He doesn't realise that he's given her an opening and before he can finish his sentence, he is on his back on the ground, his opponent rising above him like some kind of angel. Her clothes and hair sparkling in the light of the forest, the sun forming a halo around her head and he barks out a laugh at the universe's complete lack of subtlety. Her knees lie on either side of his waist as she straddles him, her hands gripping both his arms, one clicking his hook apart from its harness expertly (Oh, but when had she learned how to do this?) and then reaching for her own knife tucked into her boot even as her free hand holds his arm tightly against the ground.

"How did you find me?"

The haze in her eyes, the want in her voice completely vanish as she speaks to him and he knows then that he is speaking to the woman he came to see, his captivating bar wench no more. He smirks at the thought and is rewarded with a quick press of her knife against his own throat as she repeats her question.

"You have quite the reputation, love."

The smirk never leaves his face as she looks between his eyes, searching for what he does not know.

(It is not as though there is anything to see in their depths, not as though anyone will ever get past the blood, the darkness, the charm that he cloaks himself with.)

(But, he is both scared and thrilled that she might.)

She continues to stare him down, her mouth forced into a tight lipped grin, her knife pressing harder until he feels pain bloom at a point on his throat where she's cut him. He finally drops his knife, his eyes closing as he sighs, the exhale travelling the length of his body as he relaxes.

"It wasn't difficult finding you. Not many people are looking for the thing that you stole from me, not many people can find the strength in themselves to believe," his eyes open to meet hers, "or the desperation."

She leans closer, her voice a snarl now.

"Why do you want it?"

"The same reason you do. For someone I loved."

She softens a touch, the mask on her face disappearing for a moment, replaced by surprise. But, so quick that he feels like he may have imagined it. She collects herself immediately, her features schooled into the same impassiveness from before.

"You know nothing about me, Hook. Now, leave me be or there will be hell to pay," she lets her knife press in just a touch closer, the pain making him gasp. He watches the blood stain her blade as she lifts it away, her hand still holding his arms down as she continues, "Everything they say about me is true."

But, she'd taken it away, the only threat to his person, the only thing keeping him from-

He pushes upwards with his hips, switching their positions with ease; his hand wrenching itself out of her grip. He holds her down, taking away the knife held tight in her hand. They scuffle for a bit against the ground but the position and his physical strength give him the advantage and just like that, she lies beneath him, his hook holding her wrists above her head against the ground, his hand reaching for his abandoned knife. Her body moves rapidly beneath his, her arms twisting in his grip as she tries to free herself.

"Normally, I prefer to do other more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back," he moves closer, his voice seemingly halting her efforts, her eyes darting between his again, "With my life on the line, you've left me no choice. A bit of advice? When I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it," he barks out a laugh, "But, you're quite intimately aware of that aren't you, love?"

He smiles at her then and he knows the effect this smile has, like jarring music, the madness in his eyes clanging against the sweetness of the curve of his lips. He watches as she begins her struggle anew, still unwilling to speak.

"You might want to quit," he says, his tone reasonable but his offer is met with an answering growl.

But, as she continues to remain trapped beneath him, her body finally stills again, sagging and softening as his had moments before.

"What do you want?"

"Why, my property back, of course. Along with any other pieces of the map you have."

"No," she spits out. Her tone strong and sure as she continues, "Never. That map is going to help me get answers, revenge. I will not hand it over to some—"

"Pirate?" His smile widens, all teeth and no mirth, his knife now pressing against her neck, "You forget yourself, love. You're no princess, yourself."

"Maybe so. But, I am nothing like you."

"Me? But, I am always a gentleman."

The mask drops off her face, leaving only raw desperation in its place, her eyes widening, her voice shaking.

"Hook, please. You don't understand, I—"

And he does not know where the words come from and he does not know how he comes to speak them. Perhaps they come from the heat curling in the pit of his stomach from being so close to her. Perhaps they come from some long buried part of his soul that sees something in her.

But, he finds himself saying, "I do. I understand. Perhaps we can come to an agreement."

(He ignores how it feels as though a shard of his shattered heart had fit itself back in its place.)

(Click.)