How did it come to the point where the only good thing she has going on for her are the abandoned cupcakes she finds in the common room every week when stumbling around, trying to stretch her legs and clear her head enough to finish her goddamn article?

/

The first time she smells them before she sees them and her mouth is already watering by the time she catches sight of the pretty (and flawlessly applied) light pink and dark brown frosting.

Now, if Emma Swan has learnt one thing in all her years in the foster system, it is – don't touch what is not yours. So even as she approaches the cupcakes, which look like a miniature forest covered in pink blossoms and growing right in the middle of the table, she knows she will have to content herself with the slightly disfigured Mars bar that she knows exists somewhere in the recesses of her bag.

And then she sees it. It's a simple white sheet, folded in the middle so that it will stay up and positioned beside the delectable pastries.

'Help yourselves ;)'

Emma eyes the elegant handwriting with suspicion for all of two minutes. Then she shrugs. If somebody wants to waste their perfect cupcakes on her, far be it for Emma to deny them that opportunity.

She takes one of those with chocolate frosting (even though before the night is over she would try the strawberry ones too… and then the chocolate again). The dough is soft as her teeth sink into it, the frosting buttery and rich as it explodes on her palate and there is nobody there so there is no proof that Emma moans around her first mouthful of freshly baked midnight cupcakes.

/

After it happens again two days later, Emma takes to strolling down to the common room every night, long after anybody else is likely to be around. She is always up past 2am anyway, working on her short stories when she doesn't have an article for the newspaper to finish. The delicious treats appear every week without fail. Usually twice a week, sometimes once, sometimes thrice. And then there was that one week towards the end of April when she found vanilla cupcakes on Monday, vanilla and chocolate on Wednesday, strawberry and coconut on Thursday and peanut butter on Friday.

Who on earth bakes cupcakes on a Friday night? Some poor girl that probably had her heart broken and has been indulging in baking therapy and leaving it to Emma to indulge in the products of it.

She tries to tell herself that she is imagining it but after being on a cupcake diet for almost two months Emma can't help but feel like the flavours are shifting to accommodate her preferences. Apples never make an appearance again after she nibbled on only one of the soft brown bunch but the cinnamon-marshmallow frosting becomes a regular favourite (she still flushes red as she remembers removing the frosting from three applesauce cupcakes before leaving them bare to fend for themselves). Chocolate and vanilla are more present than any fruity favour but when fruit is involved it is usually cherries – her personal favourite. And isn't that a weird coincidence? Or maybe it has to do with the fact that she almost finished that entire batch of cherry rum cupcakes. It is anyone's guess really.

But her personal favourite remains the peanut butter ones, topped with that indecently delicious cinnamon-marshmallow frosting.

(And if she feels like they were made especially for her when she finds them there on the table on her birthday and sticks the candle she hid at the bottom of her drawer two days ago, well, those are her own silly little dreams and she has a right to entertain them on her birthday).

/

It is on one such night when she finds herself facing the combined forces of peanut butter, cinnamon and marshmallow (an undefeatable combination really) that Emma realizes with a start that she has never said thanks. Two months of the most stunning baked goods she has ever tasted in her life and she hasn't even written her mystery baker a thank-you note. Though her notes have also remained brief invitations, accompanied with smiles and winks. Emma assumes it's a 'her' even in those moments when her stupid heart is craving some ridiculous romantic cliché that leads to her discovering this amazing, soft-hearted man who has been baking for her for months now. Yeah, that one isn't happening.

And it's a good thing too, her belief in the baker's femininity somehow helping her throw caution to the wind and leave a note in return after that particularly decadent peanut butter batch.

/

'Hey, mystery baker!

So, I have been enjoying your absolutely sinful cupcakes for the last three months or so. I hope that's ok – your notes did say so. So, I don't know if I should thank you for preventing me from starving for sugar one of these nights or curse you for those three pounds that weren't there two months ago. But your frosting is just too creamy and soft and sweet and has been the highlight of my days (and nights) embarrassingly often so I guess I'll go with the thank you.

So, yeah, THANK YOU!

E. S. (the one who has been unapologetically devouring your nightly efforts)'

/

'Hello, S.,

I'm extremely pleased to hear that 'my nightly efforts' have done someone some good. I would know to keep my frosting up to notch and hope it remains to your liking while still allowing for some other highlights in your days (and nights).

Also I'm certain that, since you are roaming around in the wee hours of the night, those pounds are neither troubling nor fatal.

(I hope you enjoy the new recipe ;))

Your mystery baker'

They are oreo cupcakes, dammit!

/

She is two steps away from barging into the common room when she sees the lights are on. Frowning, both displeased at having to share her space and her potential batch of cupcakes, Emma takes one more step as softly as possible and peers through the window on one of the swinging doors.

She has seen the guy hunched over one of the tables, papers and pencils spread all around him, and, well, one doesn't exactly forget a face like that – bright blue eyes, temptingly disheveled hair and well-trimmed (attractively-trimmed) scruff, accompanied with a tall, well-build body and brisk, self-assured movements.

Oh, yes, Emma has see the blue-eyed ball of energy of a man around, rushing past her, spilling papers in the hall, muttering under his breath while running a hand through his dark hair, sighing into a phone pressed tightly to his ear while pinching the bridge of his nose. He has two modes – a devilish grin with a side of over-active eyebrows or an apologetic smile with a side of nervous ear-scratches.

She honestly can't decide which is her favourite. And she honestly feels like a stalker for even trying to pick a favourite. Which is why she is about to move away from the door and avoid any additional interaction with this menace of a man. That is until she notices the specks of white in his hair and all along his forearms, generously exposed by his rolled-up sleeves.

Emma frowns. Hard. Something prickling at her, a thought she is not entirely sure she wants to follow but before she has time to make up her mind, her legs are already caring her towards the adjacent kitchen. And sure enough she stumbles into what is obviously the abandoned scene of a baking in process. Flour and eggs, half cracked, half sluggishly lazing around in a bowl next to the sugar.

"No way," she breathes out into the quiet kitchen, shaking her head and stumbling out and towards her mystery baker again (who also happens to be the blue-eyed bastard that has starred in one too many post-cupcake-coma dreams).

She peaks in again and observes him more carefully this time – not his appearance but his actions. He is bent over a huge white sheet in a rather awkward fashion, obviously too immersed in whatever he is designing to shift into a more comfortable position. And he is designing something because she now notices that there are rulers and rubbers and about a dozen freaking pencils all around him. He runs both of his hands through his hair and pulls in apparent agitation. She sees the moment he notices the copious amounts of flour still clinging to him and sees the way he hesitates, biting his lip and staring at his hands in obvious hesitation and… longing. He wants to get back to those cupcakes, she realizes. But then he glances at his unfinished sketches, shakes his head and bents back down.

Emma has a really, really stupid idea.

/

By the time she gets back she is beyond annoyed with herself, sure that he would have gone to bed by now and even more sure that it is better that way because this was a stupid, horrible, ridiculous idea.

But when she approaches the common room the light is still on and when she looks in he is still there (in what looks like an even more uncomfortable position) and Emma pushes the door open before she has a chance to talk herself out of this.

His head snaps up the second she enters and his eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion and he looks beyond confused and on the verge of lost. She tries not to laugh at his obvious disorientation but apparently her face betrays her amusement because he smiles sheepishly at her and oh, it's a shy and ear-scratching moment (she thinks this one is her favourite after all).

"Hey," she says lamely because embarrassed as he might be he is still staring at her, more intensely with each passing second.

"Evening, lass," he says in a smooth accent that she cannot help but associate with his killer butter frosting.

"It's more like the middle of the night," she says with a grin.

"Right," he lets out a nervous laugh and looks down at his sketches and-

"Is that a boat?" she asks in disbelief, completely forgetting the awkwardness from seconds ago.

"Ummm, yes," he drawls out with a frown that says he is not entirely sure that's true. "Or at least it is supposed to be but my current clients have some ridiculous ideas that I am quite honestly struggling to work into a floating vehicle."

This time she doesn't suppress her laugh.

"Let me guess," ventures Emma, suddenly feeling bolder with the not-actually-tense tension between them. "You haven't had this much trouble since the end of April?"

"How did you-"

He frowns at her in a mixture of surprise and suspicion and Emma's laugh booms even louder (and she hasn't even had her dose of sugar tonight but damn if that man is not living-sized cupcake).

"You are a stress baker!" she exclaims, final pieces clicking into place in her mind.

The brunet frowns for a second before his eyes widen and a grin takes over his whole face, eyebrows shooting up (alright, so she quite likes that expression too).

"You are the one who has been eating my cupcakes!"

"Hey! May I point out that you urged anyone who stumbled upon them to 'help themselves'?"

The man appraises her anew from his seat before standing up and trusting his hand forward.

"Killian Jones," he says with a wide smile.

"Emma Swan," she replies, slightly more cautiously.

"If I may be so forward, Miss Swan," he grasps her hand and brings it to his lips instead of shaking it. "Those three pounds have done nothing to diminish your beauty."

Emma's eyes widen involuntary at the impact of both his words and his lips on her skin. And she desperately wants to roll her eyes and scoff at him but it is 2am, that candid hour when people are too tired to do much pretending, and she can't bring herself to do anything but lift the bag in her other hand.

"Saw that you gave up on the baking tonight," she says and now it's her turn to look embarrassed as he regards the bag with confusion before taking it from her.

"I realize that this is not how it works," she adds quickly as Killian's hand disappears inside the bag. "That you bake to relax, not to eat and this is not gonna be even half as good but I just, well, ummm…"

She has truly never wished for the earth to swallow her whole more in her life. And that's saying something.

"You bought me a cupcake?"

But Killian's face is the picture of astonishment and awe and for fuck's sake, he has baked her more than a hundred cupcakes at this point, she just had to run around town for an hour to find an open bakery. Also maybe she likes being the one to put that look on someone's face. On his face, preferably.

"I would've baked it myself but I really, really didn't wanna burn the place down."

"I-" Killian takes a step towards her before seeming to catch himself and drawing back before their bodies actually make physical contact (she is not disappointed. well, maybe a little). "I have the desperate urge to kiss you right now, Swan, but I imagine that would be slightly inappropriate."

"Ummm, yeah," she swallows heavily, his words drawing her gaze to his lips.

Try as she might Emma can't find the negative in jumping the devastatingly disheveled and handsome Irishman that designs boats and bakes unbelievable cupcakes and compliments her faded-jeans-and-a-hoodie-looks at 2am. And looks at her like he'd rather eat her than the cupcake in his hand.

"Would it seem more appropriate, if we share a cupcake first?" he grins slightly, hopefully, lifting the little pastry and his eyebrow at the same time.

"Oh, yeah!"

The cupcake is not even in the same league as his. The kisses kinda make up for it.