Faded red and gold leaves scatter and spiral up from the path, catching in the wind slipping between the buildings. The sky hints at the oncoming night, navy and purples reach further across the fading orange sky as toothy pumpkins flicker to life. Emma doesn't have a chance to appreciate the perfect all hallows eve. Instead, she clutches at her coat, hurrying down the walkway, running through different scenarios in her mind, each coming to the same conclusion.
(Shit.)
"Shit, shit, shoot," she bites back her words, as a little witch and pirate dash out in front of her. She steps aside just in time, narrowly missing the swinging door and nods tightly at the apologetic parent.
(Shit.)
She unwinds her red scarf as she enters the building, giggles echoing down the long halls as parents do their best to calm the excited trick-or-treaters. The condo association thought it would be an excellent idea to hold Halloween in their four complexes; encourage the feeling of community, keep the kids close. At the time of the vote, Emma thought it fun as well. Now she just wants to get to the laundry room without running into any more ghouls or goblins.
"Oh!"
She jumps back as her hand makes contact with something hairy on the banister. She clutches her hand to her chest as her eyes narrow at the plastic rat.
"Jerk," she mumbles, shaking off the scare, ducking under the low hanging decorative webs and hurries down the steps.
Thankfully, the laundry room is empty, and Emma wastes no time tossing her jacket and purse aside before glancing down at the ruined blouse. She is going to throw out every pen she owns. Scratch that. She is going to destroy every pen in the world so that this never happens again.
She frowns at the deep blue stain that only seems to be growing. She gently touches it and comes back with stained fingertips. She glances around the room and without further thought to consequences, slips out of the shirt, laying it flat on the counter.
As she tries to dab out the worst of the ink, she replays the moment.
The one last press to the snooze button, the rush to get a cup of coffee she didn't have time for and bumping into Al. He managed to catch the cup before it hit the ground but not before it dumped half its contents all over her. The rising panic; she couldn't meet with the client looking like this, it would get back to Regina. She had entrusted her with this. And then spying the new clothes that had been delivered to said boss. They were almost the same size, she had thought.
"I don't know, Ems," Al had whispered coming up behind her.
Kristoff paused in the hallway, watching. Glancing from Emma's shirt to the clothes hanging on the coat rack in Regina's office. He checked his phone.
"She won't be back until 10 a.m. tomorrow. You could…"
The rest is a blur of getting a new blouse on, killing it at the meeting, and not noticing the pen in her hair falling down the front of her shirt.
And now Emma is too focused on the ink and regret to take note of the singing until is almost too late.
"If there's something strange in your neighborhood."
She drops the paper towel and frantically searches the room. Her coat is too far; she can't put the shirt back on, but she does spot a basket of laundry and grabs the first shirt she sees.
"Who you gonna call."
She knows that voice. She would know that voice anywhere; it's one she frequently hears in her more elaborate fantasies.
The shirt is halfway over her head when the singing abruptly cuts off.
"Oh, God."
(Fuuuuuuuuuuck.)
There's a moment where she thinks; maybe I won't push my head through. Maybe I will just stay like this; maybe he'll go away.
"Love?"
(He's not going away.)
Emma tugs her head through and slowly brings her eyes up.
Killian Jones.
Killian Jones of apartment 403. Her neighbor, two doors down. Her neighbor that turns her into a complete idiot when she is usually an articulate, confident woman.
It's not the first time they find themselves in the laundry room together. They seem to have an unspoken standing date. Every Tuesday at 8 p.m. they find themselves, alone together, with their laundry. Smiles and nods, each with a book, each not saying anything save for the stolen glances.
(Well, this will change matters. Maybe she can move.)
He's got a pumpkin under his arm and keys in his hand.
He stares a little.
"What?" she finally barks out a bit more harshly than intended and inwardly cringes.
"I just um, came to get my laundry," he glances to the basket she'd stolen the shirt from and then pointedly to the t-shirt she had slipped on. It just takes a quick glance to recognize the shirt she is wearing, the shirt she sees him in, all the time. It's probably his favorite shirt.
(Yup, time to move.)
She drops her shoulders and reaches for the hem.
Killian makes a strangled sound and takes a step forward.
"That's quite alright, love. You seem to need it more than I right now."
He's holding his hand out in a placating manner, and slowly steps further into the room, depositing the pumpkin onto a washer.
Emma looks skyward blinking against the burning in her eyes. She tired, she feels like a complete idiot and this man who she thought she might one day work up the courage to ask out for a drink is being way too kind to her dumb ass.
"And I happen to think you look quite fetching in it. Leagues above meself," Killian says, going for casual but the smile he offers settles somewhere around hopeful. It has Emma biting her lip against a smile. She pulls in a deep breath through her nose and faces him.
"Thank you," she offers in a small voice, and he simply waves her off.
"So what seems to be the problem?"
He looks to the shirt on the counter and back to her, eyebrows raised.
Emma sighs and reaches across to pull the paper towel away from the stain. He cringes and takes a step closer.
"Did the bottle explode, love?" he asks, and she watches as he reaches up to brush his thumb against her cheek. It comes back blue.
"Oh god. It's everywhere. Regina's going to fire me," Emma groans out her words and turns to rest her head against the cold metal of the dryer.
"Now, wait. We can fix this; all is not lost."
She rolls her head to look at him. He has an encouraging smile and an outstretched hand.
She only hesitates a moment but is grateful when he closes the distance, and his warm hand takes hers. He guides them to sink and turns the water on.
"First, let's get the ink off, so we don't cause any more damage."
He hands her the soap, and in turn, they wash their hands. When they are both dry, they turn back to the task. Killian does a big show of humming and tapping his finger to his lips.
She watches him expectantly.
"So what do we do?" he asks, and Emma has to laugh. She likes the smile he gives her in return. Maybe she won't have to move.
"Wikihow said, alcohol," she finally remembers.
"Rum! I have rum in my flat!" he declares, ready to grab her hand and take her to his apartment but she tugs him back.
"Killian, wait. Not that kind of alcohol."
He frowns.
"I'm sure I've read something to that effect."
"You did not. You're making that up."
He scratches behind his ear.
"Wouldn't the dark liquor stain the shirt even more?" she asks.
Killian pauses to think.
"White rum?"
He looks proud.
She shakes her head.
He doesn't let go of her hand, instead, pulls his phone from his pocket and does a little searching.
"You were right, lass. Rubbing alcohol and I have that at my place as well. Sit tight, keep dabbing, and I'll be right back."
He goes to move again but again she holds his hand.
"Love?"
"Why are you helping me?" she asks, looking at his ringed fingers, thumb brushing across them. His hand squeezes hers, and she looks up.
"The same reason I do a load of laundry on Tuesday nights, because I like being around you. And I would never leave a damsel in distress."
He pulls her hand to his lips and presses a quick kiss, adds a wink and disappears back down the hallway.
Emma stands a moment, more than a little stunned. She presses her hands to her blush warmed cheeks and tries to remember what she was supposed to be doing. She spots the blouse.
"Right. Stain, bad," she mumbles and looks towards the hallway. "Killian, really, really good."
And for a moment, things are looking up.
True to his word, he returns only a few minutes later with the rubbing alcohol. Although he's also brought a candle for the pumpkin he entered with ("It is indeed still Halloween, Swan."), a baguette and cheese ("We could be here awhile.") and the aforementioned rum.
"It's not a date without a few libations," he says without looking up, busying himself with the pumpkin, stepping back with a grin as the pumpkin comes alive.
"A date?" she asks taking the offered antiseptic.
"Mmm?"
He looks up at her with wide innocent eyes before dropping them to his phone, but she catches the curve of his lips.
She lets him be for now.
The opening strains of Monster Mash fill the room, and he joins her with an eyebrow waggle before settling hip against the sink basin.
"Alright, shall we just pour it on?" he asks, holding up the damaged section of fabric.
Emma bites her lip.
"Rum first?" she asks instead, reaching for the bottle. At his nod of approval, she twists the cap and takes a quick sip. The alcohol burns and warms her up from the inside out. Or it could be the way he's watching her, blue eyes intense and focused. It's same long gaze she'd caught just the week before over his worn copy of Old Man and the Sea. She had almost asked him about the dog-eared pages and how long he'd had the copy.
(Almost but not quite.)
She licks the rum from her lips, and his eyes follow the movement.
"Bottoms up," he murmurs taking his sip and after a deep breath holds up the fabric once again.
She nods, her breath caught and tips the bottle of rubbing alcohol.
Ink pours out the other side turning the bottom of the sink blue.
Their grins match as he holds up his hand for a high-five, they don't even notice as the song switches to Love Potion Number Nine.
(Well, maybe Emma notices a little.)
They poured, they dabbed, they rinsed and repeated. Killian eventually found a bottle of Shout in one of the cupboards, and they tried that too. Eventually when the liquid ran clear through the fabric they had no other options.
"I guess we put it through the gentle cycle," Emma resigns, holding the shirt up to the light. The whole thing looks dark blue now. Emma crinkles her nose.
"Well unless you want to wait and," Killian trails off as Emma tosses the shirt into the wash along with a pinch of detergent. He sits on the floor next to the washer and waits for Emma to settle beside him. She rests her head on her knees, turning to take him in.
"We can't wait until it dries and do the whole thing over again. We'll be here all week."
"I don't see the problem," he says bumping her shoulder. At the lifting of her lips, he gives her another small nudge before reaching for his bag of goodies.
They take another sip of rum for good luck before they dig into the snacks he brought for them.
It doesn't take her long to reveal the series of events that led her borrowing her boss' shirt; the new full-time job as a P.I. at Mills, Hood and Green. The wanting to get everything right before the meeting Regina had entrusted her with.
"Screwing it all up," she tacks on around a piece of bread, reaching again for the rum.
"Hey now, no one talks about my Emma that way," he chastises her, taking the bottle back, taking a last sip for himself before, (wisely, she thinks) putting it away. "Did the meeting go well?"
Emma thinks a moment. Thinks about getting the information they probably need for the case.
"Yeah, I guess it did," she finally admits and stretches out her legs in front of her.
They sit in silence for a moment, just the rhythmic swishing of the washing machine between them, the music since faded out. She taps her booted foot against his.
"How old is that copy of Old Man and the Sea?" she finally blurts out.
"So you were looking at me," he answers, all confidence and innuendo.
"I'm always looking," she replies quietly, and evidently, it takes him by surprise. His smile softens, and he leans further into her, his voice honest.
(It belonged to his brother, Liam.)
(No, no, he's still alive, just across the sea. They don't get to visit as much as he'd like.)
(He hated the book as a lad but appreciates more now. Likes reading Liam's notes in the margins.)
(He'll show her sometime.)
(She likes the idea of sometime.)
When they fall into another silence, an idea comes to Emma's mind.
"Hey, do you think Granny Lucas would give you some candy?" she asks, eyes alight. "It is Halloween after all," she parrots his earlier words.
"What do you mean me? Don't you mean us?" he asks while she crawls over to her purse.
She looks back over her shoulder. (He was definitely checking out her ass.) He shrugs.
She pulls out a pair of cat ears and makes her way back. He tries (and fails) to look stern, and her heart races. She settles the ears over his head and throws her head back in laughter. He looks at her with something akin to awe, and she thinks she feels the same way.
"I suppose I could charm a few candy bars out of Lady Lucas and I do have a pillow case," he relents pushing up from the floor. He rummages around in his basket and gives a small shout when he comes out with the pillow case. He holds out his hand.
"I'm not doing this alone, and I feel as though I deserve a little compensation for all this help," he reasons as he pulls her up.
"Do you now?"
He shrugs, wetting his lips.
Emma raises on tiptoes and places a lingering kiss on his cheek.
(His stubble is just this right side of rough. She likes it.)
She drops down to the flats of her feet but stays close, eyelashes batting innocently. He gives her a sideways glance.
"Is that all?"
She snorts, "You haven't got the candy yet."
He ponders and concedes the point, "Right, let's go!" and he pulls a laughing Emma behind him up the flight of stairs.
The hallway is quiet, only a faint patter of feet above them but most of the kids seem to have moved to the other buildings. They look both ways and dash down the hall.
"Are we actually doing this?" she whispers as he raises his fist to knock.
"Why are we whispering?" he asks, chuckling as his fist finally makes contact.
"It feels like we should. Oh, God," Emma continues to whisper and flattens herself against the wall when she hears the lock turn. Granny answers and doesn't say anything, merely cocks a hip and raises an eyebrow.
"Trick or treat?" he says.
"Mmm. So you're a cat now?" the old woman wonders.
"Meow," he offers.
(If only Emma could melt into the wall.)
"And you?" Granny catches Emma off guard as the older woman peeks around the corner.
(Too late.)
Granny makes a show of looking her up and down. Narrows in on the t-shirt.
"Are you dressed up as his girlfriend for Halloween," she tilts her head towards Killian, "or did you two finally talk it out?"
Emma struggles to find words. Killian drops his eyes to the floor shaking his head with a snort.
"You kids are wild. Here, you can have the rest of it. Murder She Wrote is about to start."
Granny dumps the rest of her candy into Killian's pillow case and slams the door.
Killian looks up at her sheepishly and shakes the bag, "Well I got us some candy… what?"
(He helped her with her idiotic situation. They had candles, food, drinks and now dessert. He's a really good guy.)
(And he's so goddamn handsome.)
Emma can't bring herself to wait another moment. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, she tugs him close and finds his lips. She kisses him with everything she has, all the pent up energy from tonight.
(All the pent up energy from the past five months. All the Tuesdays and random meetings at the mailbox, all the doors held open and smiles in the hallways.)
She breathes in his groan and slips her tongue into his mouth, tasting the rum and heat and –
"Ah," her breath leaves her as he presses her against the wall next to Granny's door. He kisses her until she can barely breathe. Until he has to press his lips to her neck so she can suck in a quick breath and not cry out against how good he feels.
(Until Granny bangs against the wall.)
They break apart and breathe each other in, goofy smiles, cat ears askew, cheeks pink from rum and arousal.
She pulls the ears off his head and moves in for one more long, slow, wet kiss before sliding out from the wall.
(More like sliding down the wall into a puddle of what used to be Emma Swan on the floor. Jesus that man could kiss.)
"Come on; I think I heard the wash end signal."
She pulls him along. He has no problem following.
They are in his apartment, hands on hips, standing back, looking at the shirt.
(For at least the last five minutes.)
"I think we got it all out," he offers.
She leans in.
"Are you -"
He pulls her away, arm around her waist, physically lifting her from the spot and turning her in the opposite direction.
"It's out. It's a Halloween miracle," he declares.
"Is that a thing?" she asks, refusing to look back, instead walks further into his apartment. She stops to trace her finger across the mantle. Taking in his knickknacks; a model ship, a piece of driftwood, shivering when he comes up behind her and presses a kiss to the slope of her neck.
"Pretty sure I got mine," he whispers and moves away.
She watches him amble towards the laundry basket, grabbing the pillowcase and dumping the candy on the coffee table.
She follows after a moment and finally notes the full contents of the basket.
"Are these your sheets? Do you need to make your bed?"
His eyebrows practically disappear.
"What? No, I'm not," she fumbles and he smirks. "Stop. That's not. Not tonight anyway. It's just, who wants to make their bed at the end of the night? It's always a regret after a late night, you come to find you have to make your bed."
"Are we to have a late night?" he teases further.
She huffs.
"You know what, I'm just going to let myself out."
He hooks her around the waist and pulls her back to his chest. She can feel him shake with laughter. She pouts, arms crossing.
"Sorry, sorry. Would you be so kind as to help me make my bed?" he asks, laughter coloring his voice and picks up the basket with this free arm.
"No," she mumbles, but he's already nudging the back of her knees forward.
She allows herself be led to his room and stays at the foot of the bed. He finally lets her go to put the basket down and moves to turn on a small lamp.
The room glows warmly; the bed sits against an unfinished brick wall, rich wood and dark leather. He rushes to toss a few articles of clothing into a hamper and hangs up a towel that was draped over a chair.
Emma plays with the hem of her (his) shirt as she watches him move about the room.
Once he's back in front of her, he's a little more sheepish, the seriousness of the moment catching up to them.
"You know I was just teasing out there, um," he scratches behind his ear, and she finally cracks a smile. With a small nod, she bends to pluck the fitted sheet from the basket.
"Alright Casanova, let's make this bed."
They make it quickly and easily, and she watches as he shakes out the comforter, so it almost falls flat. She waits until he turns and gives him a small shove.
He sits and watches her patiently.
She straddles his lap and runs her fingers through his hair bringing her lips close enough to kiss but pulls away when he tries.
"Did you watch Saturday Night Live last week? David Pumpkins?" she asks hopefully.
He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and murmurs no as his nose brushes hers. She's not even sure he heard her question, but she doesn't mind all that much. She lightly brushes her lips over his.
"Do you want to watch funny videos and eat candy with me?" she asks, finally closing the distance and truly kissing him, with teeth pulling at his bottom lip, tongue slipping against his. His hands tighten on her hips, and she rocks a little in his lap.
He groans and drops his forehead to her shoulder.
"Sorry," she whispers, lips at his ear and gives a small tug.
She's on her back before she can think and he's stretched out over her.
"I'm going to get us some water, some really cold water," he says dipping his head to the crook of her neck, sucking a mark that goes straight to where he's pressed up against her, and she can't help the small oh, that falls from her lips. "Very cold water," he adds pulling back and narrows his eyes but smiles when she nods.
He groans through a last hard kiss to her lips and stands up from the bed.
"You can pull up whatever videos you wish, and I'll be right back."
(He was listening.)
She smiles.
He stops at his dresser and flings a pair of jogging pants in her direction.
"Probably more comfortable if we fall asleep."
"Probably," she answers quietly.
(I'm having a sleepover.)
"That okay?" he asks at the doorway.
"I think so."
He pauses.
"I like you, Emma Swan."
She bites her lip.
"Good," she whispers, and that seems to be enough. He nods and disappears down the hallway.
As soon as he's gone, she falls back against the mattress, heart pounding.
"Halloween miracle, alright."
They had watched videos well into the night.
"Again, really?" he'd asked when she had replayed her favorite video for the third time, but he'd only pulled her closer.
And they had slept.
Slept so well she hadn't wanted to leave the bed, worried that what they had the night before would be gone. But as her alarm went off, he pressed warm, stubble scratching kisses to her neck before helping her out of bed. He'd given her a lopsided smile. With sleep-mussed hair, and bedroom eyes as he pressed her into the doorway of his room, humming against her lips.
(Best. Sleepover. Ever.)
"Let's go see our masterpiece."
And it was, the ink, (I can't believe it), gone and other than a few wrinkles, that Ruby promised she would steam out, the shirt looked as good as new.
(Or as close to new as she would get.)
With his good luck and promises to meet up later, it was the perfect start to the day.
Which is why, standing at his front door, nine hours later, she hoped it would be the perfect end.
"Emma," he holds the door open, and his eager smile and bright blue eyes erase any of the worries she was still harboring.
She pads into the kitchen ahead of him as he hangs her coat. He follows moments later, and it only takes him a second to notice.
"Is that?" he starts; confusion evident.
"The shirt, yes."
"But."
She can feel him behind her now, but he makes no movement as she turns off the burners and turns to face him.
Now that she has decided what she wants, she can't wait to get it.
"Regina tried it on and said the color did nothing for her complexion. She dropped it on my desk, told me you're welcome and breezed to her next meeting."
"Incredible," he utters, shaking his head but then seems to catch up further, looking from the stovetop to her as she toys with her top button. Suddenly his fingers are there, helping her along.
"And did you get it dirty again, Swan?" he asks, moving to the second button, slowly slipping it open. Her hand finds his belt, urging him backward.
"Maybe?" she tilts her head to the side just as he slips two more buttons loose. His lips find the hollow of her throat. He lingers a moment before tracing his nose up her neck until his lips are at her ear.
"Just maybe, love? We best check."
His teeth tug at her lobe, his breath coming in heavier pants. She turns her head impatient, lips craving his.
Her shirt flutters to the floor pushed aside by eager hands. Eager hands that softly but firmly press her hips to the wall just inside his bedroom. Thumbs that move up to trace the swell of her breasts before pushing the thin cups down. He keeps his eyes on hers as he bends, finding her pink nipple. And then it's heat and teasing and teeth.
"Oh, please," she hisses, eyes squeezing shut.
He pulls back, thumbs rubbing in slow circles over her sensitive skin.
"Eyes on me, love. You did say you were always looking."
Her eyes open slowly.
"Killian," she pleads, fingers fumbling with his belt, tugging it free from its clasp.
He continues the slow, teasing circles as his hips press more firmly against her.
"What, love? Tell me what you're thinking, and I'll give it to you."
(Orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms.)
Although she doesn't say that, instead, she hisses through her teeth when he pinches her and then soothes her once more with his mouth.
"You. I've been thinking of you and your fingers and getting you inside me since you had me pressed against this wall this morning. It's been a long day," she grinds out holding her breath as he lowers to his knees.
"Is that so?" he asks before pulling at her leggings, urging them down, along with the thin scrap of silk, tossing them somewhere behind him.
And then his fingers are there, slipping to where she is all wet heat and wanting.
She struggles to keep her eyes open, as he starts a slow rhythm, one finger, then two, teasing and coiling everything inside her.
"Oh Emma," he whispers, and then he is there, mouth and tongue where she is most sensitive; moaning against her skin, tasting until she is a trembling mess.
She cries out, coiling tighter. He pulls back, lips wet, pressing kisses, teeth nipping at her thighs.
"Fuck, is this what has been distracting you all day? Did you think about coming, sweetheart? Are you going to come for me?"
He doesn't wait for her answer, returns more eager than before, fingers slipping inside, tongue flicking.
Emma breaks.
She sobs out her release, her body shaking with it, and he doesn't stop, taking her through it, only slipping away when her breathing slows. Her hands urge him up, holding tightly to his shirt front before crushing her mouth to his.
And it's good.
"So good," she whimpers against his lips, finally reaching from the hem of his shirt. They pull it off together, and she takes a moment to run her fingers down his chest, over his abs. She wants to explore, but she wants him inside more. Her fingers shake as she undoes the top button on his jeans and she has to lean her head back against the wall to just breathe.
She feels him flick the clasp on her bra and suddenly she's completely bare. Her eyes blink open.
"Come here," he whispers and grips her thighs. She automatically wraps her legs around his waist, and he wastes no time walking them to the bed. He leans one knee on the edge and drops her back gently, following her fall to capture her lips, squeezing her thigh tightly. He pulls back, and he bites his lip, taking her in.
Emma wonders what he sees. His eyes are intense, and she can feel her cheeks heat further, the blush probably covering her whole body now.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, finally pulling back.
(Oh.)
She rises on her elbows and reaches forward, slipping her hand past the waist of his jeans (finally) and finds him hot and hard. Her hand squeezes him over his boxers, and he hangs his head. She feels his warm breath blow out over her breasts. She tilts her head, her teeth find his jaw, she nips. She gives him another pass, longing to really feel him.
"Can we get these off now?"
She doesn't have to ask him again. He's up, pushing his jeans and boxers down, kicking them off. He gives himself a long stroke as he watches her.
"There're condoms in my night table," he indicates, kneeling back on the bed, crawling over her. She stretches back, arm reaching for the drawer when his fingers slip between her legs.
"Oh!" her soft cry of surprise gets stuck in her throat, and she freezes.
"That's not fair, let me," she whispers, wanting to sit up, wanting to tease him too but his free hand slips up her belly and between her breasts to press her into the bed. He sucks a mark into her hip.
"We've all the time in the world but right now, condoms."
He rubs his stubble against her belly and grins as she shivers.
Who is she to deny that smile.
She finally manages to find a condom and then it's a rush. A rush to get the package open, to roll it slowly down his cock and to feel him slide against her. Once, twice and then he is there, pushing smoothly inside.
"Oh Killian, oh God."
"Fuck. Yes."
He buries his face in her neck, groans getting lost in her skin. His breath hot and wet.
It doesn't take them long time find a rhythm, deep and hard, her breath hitches. She slides her knees higher, cradling his hips and then he's rubbing at the right spot.
"There. Oh, right there," the words fall from her lips like prayers.
He lifts his head and watches her, never stopping.
"That's it, sweetheart, give it to me."
She doesn't know how but it only takes another pass, and she's coming. Her hands grip his, her back arches and she sighs out his name.
It's too much, her shudders. She knows because he tells her so.
"Oh I want to hold on, I want but I can't, you feel -" his words come in quick bursts as his hips falter in their movements.
"Yes, please, it's okay," she urges, and he is there with her, her name groaned into her shoulder.
As his body stills, his mouth moves. He trails it against her shoulder, over her collarbones, just a soft brushing before pausing. His blue eyes find her and then he's pressing his lips over her heart. She swears it may burst right out of her chest.
"You said something yesterday," she muses, her voice low in the quiet room.
They have since, slipped from each other and cleaned up, but they aren't far away. No, she rests her chin on his chest as his hand runs a path up and down her back.
"And what was that?" he asks, giving a lock of hair a small tug before resuming his motions. Emma's fingers scratch through his chest hair as she works out what she wants to say.
"You said I like you, Emma Swan."
He nods, "I did."
"I said good."
He snorts but leans forward to press a kiss to her nose, "You did."
"I like you, Killian Jones."
He grins and in a smooth motion has her once again on her back. He cages her in and looms over.
"Good," he echoes and then his fingers are at her sides, tickling and his mouth is on hers, swallowing her laughing cries.
(Yeah, it's good. It's really fucking good.)