Chapter 1

"You okay there, kid?" Emma called down the steps as she reached the third floor, setting down her large Target shopping bag t at the top of the steps and reaching into her purse for keys, as she continued to half drag her tired three-and-a-half-year-old daughter up the stairs.

"I'm alright, mom!" Henry called back from two flights below her. "Be there in a sec!"

"I'm sooooo tired, mom!" Hope sighed dramatically as Emma continued to drag her to the front door of her apartment.

"I know, baby," Emma replied. "We're almost inside." She located her keys and opened the door.

"Ugh, finally," said Hope, dropping dramatically onto the small rug in their apartment's tiny entryway. "Shopping is EX-hausting!"

"Wow, big word! And it wasn't that bad!" Emma chided, grabbing her shopping bag stuffed with a new throw pillow and a small wicker basket she planned to use for children's books and placing it inside the door. "You got a slice of pizza out of the deal!"

Hope sighed again. Her dramatic tendencies often manifested itself in the words and mannerisms of a much older child, even as her still-childish pronunciation made it extra disarming. "I suppooooose so," she admitted.

Emma smiled and stepped back into the hallway, preparing to take a few steps down to help seventeen-year-old Henry, who had been carrying a large, framed poster print they'd just gotten for the kids' bedroom, when she heard the crash on the landing below her.

"Ow!" Henry cried. "Dammit, my toe!"

"Henry!" Emma called, seeing him bent over on the landing, frantically rubbing at his right foot through his Converse sneakers. The corner of the heavy (too heavy for him, apparently) poster, which was crudely wrapped in brown paper, had apparently landed right on his big toe when he dropped it.

Emma felt bad about Henry's pain, but as she considered the large parcel that was now leaning against the wall of the landing, she also REALLY hoped the glass hadn't cracked.

"Oh, kid, are you all right?" She asked, reaching Henry and leaning over to rub his back soothingly as he continued to clutch his toe and curse under his breath (she was going let that go, this time, given his injury.)

As she continued to soothe him, she heard a door open back up on the third floor. She swore silently, hoping they hadn't disturbed their new neighbor across the hall. The only other apartment on their floor had been vacant for the entire time they had lived in the building, and she had enjoyed the privacy. But about a week ago, a welcome mat had appeared out front, and deliveries had started arriving, so she knew that someone had moved in.

"Is everything all right out here?" a male, British-accented voice called down. Emma detected a hint of annoyance in her neighbor's tone, and the stress of the day (oh who was she kidding, the stress of her life) suddenly bubbled up to the service.

"Yeah, we're fine," she shot back, more sharply than necessary. "Sorry about all the noise," she added sarcastically, given that said noise had only lasted a couple of seconds. She rose back up to standing and turned toward him as she said the last part, and couldn't help that her mouth suddenly dropped open in shock.

The man standing at the top of the stairs, just between the open doorways of their two apartments, was devastatingly, devilishly handsome. He had thick, dark hair that was attractively mussed and sticking up at an angle that indicated he might have just been lying down. He wore a short beard, barely more than scruff. Even from the distance of the flight of stairs that separated them, Emma could tell that his eyes were a deep blue, and the expression in them shifted from mild annoyance, to obvious surprise, maybe even wonder, as she fully turned to face him.

There was a charged moment as they considered each other. Emma had placed her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders in preparation to continue to telling this stranger that she and her family were just fine, thank you very much, and that she didn't need any help. But when her eyes met his, the words died on her tongue.

After a beat of silence, he reached back to scratch the back of his neck with his right hand in what seemed to Emma to be an endearingly nervous gesture. "Well, I'm glad everything is ok." He nodded towards Henry, who was still dramatically rubbing at his toe. "But if the lad needs an ice pack, I have a few in my freezer."

"That's okay," Emma replied, shaking herself back to her usual confident, guarded demeanor. "We have some too."

"I see," he replied softly, any hint of annoyance having disappeared. "Well, how about a hand with your parcel, there? It looks a bit unwieldy."

Emma looked down at the picture resting against the stairwell wall, and then at her injured teenage son sitting forlornly on the step. She relented.

"Yeah, maybe, we could use a hand while I help Henry" she replied, turning back toward him. "Thank you."

"Okay, perfect. No problem," he said, then paused, a bit awkwardly, seeming to consider something. "I supposed it's a good thing that you only need one!"

As he said this, he brought his left arm forward. Emma hadn't even noticed that he had been holding it slightly behind his back, but he was wearing a t-shirt, and now she easily saw that his left arm ended in a rounded stump at his wrist.

Before she could respond, Hope, who of course had been quietly observing the entire exchange from the doorway of their apartment, stepped out into the hallway, considering the stranger with her piercing, curious blue eyes.

"Hi," she said, addressing the man, who turned and looked down to regard her.

"Hello there," he replied, smiling slowly. Emma, too, smiled slightly as she watched him take the measure of her little girl. She couldn't help it. People's reactions to her strikingly lovely and precocious daughter always filled her with pride.

"You only have one hand," Hope said, matter-of-factly, glancing at his wrist but then looking up to meet his eyes.

"Hope!" Emma cried, her face instantly heating up with embarrassment.

"That I do," the man replied to Hope, dropping to one knee as he addressed her seriously. He held out the hand he did have in an offer to shake hers. "Killian Jones," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you, young lass."

Hope regarded him for a beat and then smiled, reaching out to shake his hand solemnly, clearly enjoying both his choice to engage her in a such a grown up gesture AND his utterly fascinating one-handedness.

"Hope Margaret Swan," she said.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hope Margaret Swan."

Killian looked at her quietly for a moment, as if he was about to say something else, but then let go of her hand gently and rose up again to address Emma and Henry. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll run and get my brace, and then I can help you with your painting."

"Oh, it's just a poster," Emma said absently, and a bit stupidly she thought. She was still kind of bewildered by the sudden presence of their handsome neighbor who apparently had a knack for charming exhausted preschoolers.

"Right then, be back in just a moment..." he trailed off, seeming to realize he didn't know how to address her.

"Emma," she blurted out, too loudly, still feeling weirdly nervous. She didn't like strangers. She did everything she could to limit her human interactions to her children, the people she needed to deal with in order to care for and educate her children, and the people (most of them scumbags) she needed to to deal with for work. Her social skills were rusty to say the least.

"And this is Henry," she added, as her son rose to his left foot beside her, leaning on the railing for support. Still clearly in pain, he waved halfheartedly to Killian.

"Pleased to meet you both," Killian replied, nodding again. "Be right back," he added, before disappearing inside his apartment.

Leaving the poster on the landing, Emma helped Henry half hop up the stairs and supported him as he hobbled into the apartment. Hope, after inquiring about whether Henry was okay, lingered by the open door, apparently anxious for the return of their mysterious and gentlemanly new friend.

"Hope, come inside," Emma ordered gently as she dropped Henry off on the couch in the small living room of their two bedroom apparent and headed to the kitchen to grab an ice pack for him.

Hope sighed dramatically and slumped her shoulders, inching herself back inside the doorway and sitting on the rug to wait for the return of their dashing neighbor.

Killian hurried back into his apartment so quickly that he tripped over the pair of boots he kept by the door and nearly did a face plant onto the wooden hallway floor before he stumbled and caught himself.

After regaining his footing, he crossed the small apartment to its single bedroom and retrieved his flesh-colored brace with its small, rounded metal hook from his bedside table. He attached it securely to his blunted forearm.

Any mild irritation that he'd felt before at being awakened suddenly from a mid-Sunday afternoon nap on the couch was completely gone and had been replaced by a sudden, all-consuming need to help his lovely new neighbor and her young family in any small way that he could. And since when did Killian Jones nap, anyway? He didn't nap. (A small voice in the back of his mind suggested that he was bored and lonely and just didn't have anything better to do on his day off.)

Pushing away his dark thoughts, and feeling energized by his sudden sense of purpose, he strode back to his entryway to put on the offending boots he'd tripped over earlier. Realizing that he was completely keyed up and even a bit nervous for some reason, he stopped to gather himself and take a deep breath before opening his door.

Upon stepping back into the hallway, he found himself once again greeted by Miss Hope Swan, who was perched in her own doorway. She stood and smiled at him, clearly happy he'd returned, and then her eyes shifted from his face down to his brace and hook.

He took a step closer to her, knelt down, and held out his left arm and its attachment for her inspection.

After a moment's consideration she asked, "Why couldn't they just put your hand back on?"

He hesitated, torn between wanting to be honest with her (he'd always believed that children were stronger than people realized and could handle difficult truths) and worry that her mother would want to protect her from terrible stories of ships and storms and heavy equipment that hadn't been properly secured, sliding on the slick deck and crushing his left hand into pulp when he had stupidly, reflexively tried to catch the runaway cargo.

He was saved when Emma appeared behind her daughter and appeared to sheepishly realize that the child was again expressing an open interest in their neighbor's unfortunate injury.

"Hope, honey," she instructed, "go inside and go potty, and then check on Henry for me, okay? Maybe you could tell him a story to help take his mind off of his foot."

Hope sighed and rolled her eyes slightly (a habit she had picked up from her teenage sibling, he guessed) but she relented and headed back into the apartment.

"Sorry about that," Emma said. "My three-year-old tends to give new people the once over. Apparently she finds you fascinating."

He couldn't resist his habitual urge to flirt; after all, it usually worked when he bothered to make any effort, and this woman was stunningly beautiful. He raised his eyebrow and smirked as he replied, "Well, I tend to have that effect on people."

He realized his mistake before all the words were even out of his mouth. The tentative smile Emma had worn upon greeting him was replaced with a stony expression. He cursed internally for failing to read the situation better. This woman was beautiful, and young - she couldn't have been more than 34 or 35 despite her boy appearing to be about 16 or 17 – but she was also living in a rundown apartment building in Brighton, MA. She wasn't wearing a ring and had apparently been shopping alone with her kids on the weekend, so he guessed that the children's father was not in the picture.

He had tried to flirt with a tired, beautiful single mom, who no doubt had already had to put up with mountains of shit from the all the shitty men she encountered in her life, within five minutes of meeting her. What a prat he was.

"So," he said, directing the conversation to the business at hand. "I'll just run down and grab your painting."

"Poster," she replied icily. "And, you know what? It's fine. I have it."

"No, please, let me. I offered to perform a neighborly gesture, let me follow through so that you can go see to your boy."

At that, she glanced back into her apartment with a flash of worry for her son. She turned back at him and gave a brief nod. "Well, thanks, I appreciate it," she said politely, but her tone was disappointingly flat.

She turned to go, and if she had any doubts about his ability to handle the unwieldy parcel with just one hand, he at least appreciated the fact that she didn't show it.

Indeed, he easily brought the large, brown paper wrapped framed picture up the stairs by supporting to bottom with his hook and tightly gripping the right side with his hand.

Upon reaching Emma's unit, he tapped his foot slightly against the cheap metal door, which was still ajar.

To his delight (And what was that all about, anyway? Did he even like kids?), little Hope ambled over to greet him. "Mom," she cried. "He brought it up. Can we see if it's broke?"

Emma left her perch next to Henry on the couch to join them. "Thanks," she said to Killian. "You can just set it down anywhere."

"But just be careful! Please." Hope added.

"Aye, lass, as you wish," he replied, winking at her and smiling both at the way she said "careful" (caew-ful) and that way she politely remembered to tack on the "please" at the end. He looked around the small living space in search of a safe place upon which to set the precious parcel.

In addition to the couch, the living room contained a medium-sized, stuffed but threadbare fabric chair, a coffee table, and a small TV on a cheap-looking stand. The poster was too wide to fit on the chair, but Killian leaned down and rested the parcel against it, on the (clean but well worn) blue living room rug.

Henry sat up straight and regarded the package. He was handsome and a few inches taller than his mother. His hair was brown where his mother's and sister's was blonde, and that difference plus the wide gap in the children's ages had him wondering if Henry and Hope had different fathers. But he shook off the thought. It was none of his business.

Henry must have been feeling better, because his concern seemed to have shifted away from his injury and to the wrapped poster. "I don't think I heard it crack. Maybe my toe cushioned the fall! Can we see if it's okay?" he asked his mother.

Emma sighed, and Killian caught her glancing at him, no doubt anxious to politely but swiftly get him to exit her apartment, but the pleading looks her children were giving her about the state of their poster seemed to win out.

"Only one way to find out!" she said with (forced, he thought) cheerfulness. She strode over to the poster, knelt beside it, and tore the brown paper at the back, pulling it forward and down over the front of the frame and moving it out of the way so that they could inspect the state of their new acquisition.

Thankfully, the glass in the simple, cheap, gold-tinted metal frame appeared to be in tact, and the children reacted with relief (a quiet "Yes" from Henry; an excited gasp and "It's okay!" from Hope.)

Killian was happy for them, but he also experienced a sudden flash of melancholy and a strange sense of familiarity, like deja vu, at the poster itself and what it depicted.

He was starting at a large, old-fashioned looking map of an oddly shaped island. The landmass depicted had mountains in the middle and several rocky coves. Just to the northeast of the main island, there was a smaller, rocky island shaped just like a human skull, appropriately labeled "Skull Rock."

The silhouette of a small fairy decorated the map at the top of the island, and just to the southeast, in the sea, sat an imposing looking pirate ship adorned with a skull and crossbones flag (a jolly roger, he mentally corrected himself.)

"It's Neverland!" Hope explained happily.

"Aye, that it is," he replied softly, quickly gathering himself and wondering why she should have been at all stricken by a children's poster inspired by a Disney cartoon. He shook off his sense of deja vu and said, "It's wonderful, truly a fine choice."

Henry grinned charmingly, suddenly looking younger than his years, and Hope beamed at Killian.

"Well," Emma chimed in, "they share a room, and they both realized at the same time that it was looking kind of bare. But it's pretty tough to get them to agree on any kind of décor. We found this print at a flea market we stopped at on the way home from Target. They both liked it, but Hope was mesmerized by it. She is very excited about it, hence the drama when it got dropped."

"I'm very happy that it survived in tact," Killian replied sincerely, appreciating the fact that Emma had relaxed enough to share something personal with him. Maybe his earlier premature attempt at flirtation hadn't quite sunk his chances for a friendship with this woman.

Emma studied him for a moment and then said, "Thanks for your help. It was really nice of you. Can I get you a glass of water or anything before you head out?"

Recognizing the gentle dismissal and not wanting to push his luck, he politely declined the water. He briefly considered offering his assistance in hanging the poster, but thought the better of it. This woman and her son, despite the earlier mishap, were more than capable of hammering a nail or two into the wall without the help of a one-handed stranger.

Instead, he returned Emma's goodbye nod and Henry's more enthusiastic wave, and headed toward the door.

But before he could leave, Hope's voice piped up, "Hey, Mom, can I show Killian the butterfly?"

"Oh honey," Emma replied. "I'm sure Killian needs to get going."

"Puhleeeeeeease!" Hope pleaded, already turning towards her room, presumably to acquire the aforementioned butterfly.

"Yes, fine, quickly," said a defeated Emma, rolling her eyes.

Seconds later, the girl returned to them holding a small plastic bell jar, inside of which sat a tiny, realistic looking silk green and gold filigree butterfly on a brown plastic stick.

Hope held it out to Killian proudly and exclaimed, "Mrs. X gave it to me when Mom told her we were decorating our room." ("Decorating" came out adorably like deco-wating.)

Mrs. X must have been Mrs. Xavier, Killian thought. She was the elderly woman who lived on the first floor. She was friendly enough, but she seemed to keep an eye on the goings-on in the building and had caught him in a conversation on the day he moved in. She had asked him so many questions that it had felt like he was being interviewed for a national security position.

Killian reached out to take the object Hope proffered and held it up to his eyes for inspection.

"It's lovely," he said solemnly to Hope. "A fine specimen if I ever saw one."

"Okay, sweetie," Emma said to her beaming daughter. "It's really time for Killian to go. We need to clean up and get ready for dinner."

Killian handed the bell jar back to the little girl and nodded goodbye again.

As he reached for the doorknob, he heard tiny footsteps behind him and turned to find Hope smiling up at him. "Bye, Killian," she said. "See you tomorrow?" (Too-mah-woe. So cute, Killian thought. What was happening to him?)

He blinked, then raised his eyes to meet Emma's. The expression she wore was softer than he expected; her lip curved in a slight smile.

"Hope, I'm sure Killian is a busy person," she said to her daughter. "But, the weather is supposed to be nice this week, so maybe one day, if we're out front playing when we get home after work and school, we'll run into him."

As Emma finished speaking, she raised her eyes back to Killian's again, and he saw a bit of shyness in her expression. Perhaps she suddenly felt like she had assumed too much, and that he wouldn't want to bother with her her and her family again.

In response, Killian knelt down slightly, offered his hand to Hope once again and said, "That sounds wonderful."

Hope smiled with delight as she shook his hand, her soft blond curls bouncing slightly on her shoulders as she held his bright blue eyes with her own.

Suddenly, he was struck with an even more powerful sense of deja vu than he had felt before when he'd looked at the Neverland poster. Something primal and familiar awakened deep in his gut. It was like the earliest beginning of a feeling, or even a state of being, that was still out of reach, but that was hopeful and glowing. In that brief moment, it felt like something was teasing him that the bitter loneliness that had marked most of his life might soon be coming to an end.

He released the little girl's hand. A lump suddenly had formed in his throat, and tears had sprung to his eyes, and it was all he could do to take a deep breath, smile and nod goodbye, and leave his new friends' apartment before he broke down.