Summary: This cruise was meant to mend their relationship - not tear it apart! Emma Swan is left alone on a ten day cruise after an ill-timed break-up. Is there any way she can salvage this vacation? And just what is it about that first officer, Killian Jones...

Notes: So here is my super long 'one shot' that I've had to split into two as it was driving me insane! Look out for the conclusion later this week!

Beyond the deck on which she stood, midnight blue ocean stretched out below a blanket of stars - more than she had ever thought existed. The sea was calm, only a gentle laying of water against the hull to disturb her thoughts as she scrunched her brow together in consternation.

Staring into her half drank glass of Chenin Blanc, Emma Swan began to mull over her life choices so far.

Five hours.

Five hours was all they had managed before the whole damn trip blew up in her face.

All it had taken was one spilled drink and a pair of hot tempers before the whole dining room had turned and stared open mouthed as the two of them squabbled like toddlers over whose dumb ass idea it had been to even try and fix their relationship.

She chuckled. Make or break, they called these kind of things. Well, break it was - if the shattered plate Neal had thrown on the floor was any indicator.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The unexpected voice behind her made her jump - the glass in her hand almost slipping into the inky black depths of the ocean below. Quickly, she turned her head to see its owner.

"Sorry, didn't mean to alarm you," he continued. For it was most certainly a he. It was one of the crew - his dress whites gave him away. In the darkness, she briefly registered his tall figure and predictably chiseled features.

Irritated, she spun around and placed her empty hand firmly on her hip.

"Well you did," she snapped, her eyes suddenly focusing on his face.

His irritatingly handsome face.

"Whoa lass, pull your claws back in," he retorted, his voice an annoying combination of admiration and jest.

"Excuse me?" Creasing her brow, her eyes lingered on his face: on his annoyingly blue eyes (even in the barest light) and oh-so sharp jawline. Emma scowled.

"Just trying to be helpful, no need to bite my head off. Thought you might not mind some company on this lovely night." The stranger gestured to the cloudless night, before pausing to scratch his ear as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Well as you can see, me and Mr. Blanc here are getting along just fine. And aren't you not supposed to fraternize with passengers?"

He smiled, flashing a glimpse of white teeth and the dimples in his cheeks. Emma felt her vexation increasing with every second. "Well, as you can see, I'm an officer, and my job is to ensure the enjoyment, of all passengers on this trip. So you see, I am just doing my duty, Miss…?" He pulled a hand out of his pocket and reached towards her.

"Emma," she replied flatly, keeping her back firmly pressed against the railing. Ignoring his gesture, she slowly took a sip of her wine.

"Ah," he nodded, "Well, Miss Emma, I'm Killian Jones. Chief Mate. Perhaps I will see you around again?"

"Perhaps," she quipped, with none of the enthusiasm that he displayed. "It is a small ship."

"It is indeed," he replied, with just a hint of underlying meaning that she couldn't quite catch.

Not that she cared.

"Goodnight," the crewman called as he slipped back into the ship.

Sighing, she turned back to her previous position, gulping back a mouthful of wine; mentally calculating how many more glasses it would take before she could bear going back to the cabin.

/

Bounding along the corridor back to the helm, Killian smirked to himself.

It was not normally part of his raison d'être to flirt with the passengers. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid it. That's why working on this route, full of couples as it always was, was perfect.

Women were trouble. He had learned that the hard way.

Oh, that's not to say he was without his own needs and wants. Quite the contrary, he never troubled to find a pretty face and a warm body on a night in port. But that was as far as it went.

Which was why he was all the more intrigued by this woman, who had caught his eye while screaming at (he assumes) her ex. And why he found himself gravitating to the decking that ran around the dining room after his eyes had watched her flee, once the man she was with had smashed a perfectly decent dinner plate on the dance floor.

She was a feisty one, that was for sure.

Chuckling to himself, he made his way to check on the night shift, hoping that Will Scarlet had managed to keep them on course.

All the while, a pair of fiery green eyes lingering at the back of his mind.

/

Neal left the next day. Or at least, that was what the note that he had left in her (their) room last night had said.

After reading it - then tossing it in the trash - she'd curled up in their queen size bunk, not bothering to change, and let the wine send her to sleep. It was a fitful sleep, full of dreams that reminded her of all the reasons that she and Neal had been a bad idea for a long time.

The lies (mostly his).

The fights (both of them).

The endless cycle of break up and make up that had left her so exhausted that for the past year, the holiday time her boss had forced her to take, had mostly involved sleeping.

In the morning, the ship had docked at Key West and she hid in her (yes, it was her's now) cabin until she was sure he must have left. There she sat, stewing in her own regrets, debating whether she should just pack up and follow him, before her stubborn side bit back.

No.

This was her first vacation in she couldn't remember how long. Ten nights sailing around the Caribbean. A deluxe cabin. Drinks package included. Not to mention the suitcase full of new clothes.

Damn him.

No.

Damn all men. If Neal and all the bail jumpers she spent her job tracking down were anything to go by, she was better off without them.

She was here now and she was going to enjoy herself whether she liked it or not.

Pulling on a pair of sunglasses to hide her puffy eyes, Emma grabbed her kindle and headed for the sundeck. It was almost five, but if she was lucky she could still get an hour or so of light.

The ship was small for a cruise liner. But that's what had made it appeal to her in the first place. 150 passengers, a dockside pool, nightly dinners with the Captain. Unpretentious. Intimate.

The idea of getting lost on one of those giant cruise liners she saw advertised on television made her shiver. Smaller was better in this case, she had thought.

She found a reclining chaise and stretched out. There was a bit of a chill in the air and she had to turn the sun bed so she can soak in the last of the sunshine as it threatens to dip over the horizon sometime soon. Within a few minutes she was almost smiling as she let it warm her face, relaxation beginning to filter through her body like a trickling stream.

"Ah, we meet again."

She recognized the voice without having to open her eyes.

Pulling up her sunglasses, she gave the bearer of the voice a cursory glance before looking back at her Kindle. He was dressed in a more casual uniform than last night, but still wore the same cocky grin, the one that was just as annoying 18 hours earlier.

"Shouldn't you be off driving the ship or something?" she jibed.

He took a step closer, though was careful not to block the scant remaining light. "It's called steering, love. And luckily, you've caught me on a break."

"Lucky me," Emma snorted, her eyes darting to him behind the dark shades; using their camouflage to look him over more carefully than had been possible in the darkness last night. He was, as she had previously assessed, atypically handsome. The kind of guy she knew, through experience, to keep as far away as her arms could reach.

"If we keep meeting like this, I may start thinking you are following me," he continued, grinning at her and flashing those dimples that she had noticed the night before, his eyes crinkling at the same time.

An involuntary thud hit her chest. He was painfully handsome. Typical.

Composing herself, she pushed back her glasses and met his eyes. "Yes, you have clearly determined the reason I plotted to wait until now, when most of the sun had gone, to come up on deck. Congratulations."

"I'm crushed," he sighed, with mock horror, just as she registered how ridiculously blue his eyes were. She laughed despite herself. The tension she had been holding in since her argument with Neal melting just a little.

From the sun. Of course.

"I take it you will be at dinner tonight?"

She bit her lip. Actually, she had planned on hiding in her cabin. After last night's embarrassing display she was less than eager to face her fellow passengers. And there was a jumbo bag of potato chips with her name on it waiting for her.

"Not sure," she lied, not wanting to get into a debate with Captain Handsome about how she shouldn't waste her time sulking in her cabin.

Nodding, he replied, "Well, I shall be looking out for you."

She opened her mouth to say something more, but he was already turning to leave.

A mild feeling of disappointment landed on her as pulled down her sunglasses and watched him walk away.

Not noticing the way his khakis hugged his ass.

Of course not.

/

"What's up?"

"Hmm?" Killian answered as he fastened up the unwieldy, tiny buttons of his shirt.

"You. You've been like the Cheshire cat since you got back."

He glanced over at Scarlet, who was sitting on his bunk, prepping again for the night shift. The perk of being most junior officer.

"Oh, have I?" Killian replied, pulling his collar straight as he examined himself in the mirror.

"Aye," his bunk mate replied, "And it's rather disconcerting."

"Perhaps I'm just in a good mood," he offered, turning around to give his friend a toying wink.

Pausing, Will planted his hands on his knees. "Who is she?"

Killian tucked in his shirt and reached for his belt.

"No idea what you are talking about."

"If ye say so," the junior officer replied, raising his brows as he met his friend's eye.

"I do."

Scarlet knew better than to try and continue the conversation, but he continued to cast his friend smirking glances as the two men finished dressing.

Finally, the two departed their quarters, Killian to dinner and Will to the helm.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Will teased as he closed the door behind them.

"Well that doesn't rule out much," Killian chuckled.

/

Sheer black, ankle length and split to the thigh, the dress had been intended to reignite their non-existent sex life. But, the closest they had gotten to that was the wandering hand that had groped her ass on the way to dinner the night before. She cringed thinking about it.

On board, the dress code for dinner was formal. So she'd packed a different outfit for every night - and as much as she wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible after last night, her shopper's heart couldn't let such dresses go to waste. Especially since they were all past the return date.

Of course, she was pretty aware that this kind of outfit screamed 'look at me'. But hey, if she was going to be the center of attention tonight (for all the wrong reasons) she may as well give them something to look at.

When she arrived at her table, of the trio of other couple, only one was already seated.

"Dining solo tonight?" queried the brunette across the table.

Emma moistened her lips and shrugged, meeting the other woman's stare, "Yeah, the sea didn't agree with my vacation partner."

She held her gaze, until the brunette's companion pulled her close, whispering briefly in her ear.

"Don't mind Ruby," he insisted, as the aforementioned got to work pouring herself a glass of wine, "She's just pissed she won't get a front row seat to the encore."

Part of Emma wanted to pretend to be offended, but she was too amused to care, chuckling as replied, "Sorry. That was a one-time deal. Mr.-"

"Victor," he nodded, "I think we should be on a first name basis now."

"So what did happen to lover boy?" Ruby interjected, her garnet-painted nails gripping the table as she leaned a little closer.

"Gone," Emma breathed out, placing her napkin on her lap. "Can you pass the Chardonnay, please?"

Ruby smirked, grabbing Emma's glass and filling it almost to the brim. "Thanks…" she quavered, her fingers lightly grasping the crystal stem.

"I think you deserve it," Ruby replied, giving a brief wink before she tapped the two glasses together. Relaxing back into her seat, Emma decided that perhaps tonight wouldn't be as painful as she had feared.

/

By the time the entrees were brought out, her worries had dissipated somewhat. She finally had time to actually meet the people with whom she would be sharing a table for the next week. Besides Ruby and Victor, there was an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, who both seemed to be mostly deaf despite their hearing aids, four Argentinian students who spoke little English and seemed mostly concerned with taking selfies and lastly a bespectacled, older guy, with wiry red hair, Archie, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to entertain her since they were both 'flying stag' (as he put it).

He had made an admirable effort, regaling her with half-baked tales of nameless clients and his time as a youth spend backpacking around Europe (though she struggled to imagine his gangly frame being even able to pick up a backpack).

After dinner was cleared, the only people left at the table were herself, Archie and Ruby and Victor - who seemed far more interested in examining each other's mouths than engaging in conversation.

The band finally kicked up around 9:30pm. It was one of those typical cruise bands, with a vast backlog collection of covers and a versatile leading vocalist who could throw his hand to Bing Crosby just as competently as Freddie Mercury.

Tapping her foot as she watched the various couples twirl about the floor, Emma felt an unfamiliar urge. To dance. As in, in public.

But she never danced. Not even at her senior prom (well, she had spent half the night hiding in a corner, sipping a bottle of her mother's tequila…). Still, there was something about the room, the music, the atmosphere - and, who was she kidding - the unfamiliar feeling of freedom that was pulsing through her body that just made her want to.

"Hey Archie," she whispered, nudging him in the side as he eyed Ruby and Victor all too conspicuously.

"Yes?" he replied (trying to pretend he wasn't staring).

"Do you dance?"

His cheeks reddened, his hand moving to push his spectacles a little higher up the bridge of his nose. "Well, it's been a while-"

"Perfect," she beamed, quickly hooking her arm around his and pulling him to stand, "Same here. Shall we?"

/

He'd noticed her about five seconds after she had walked in the room. It was impossible not to, really.

The dress was criminally gorgeous (and sexy, he conceded). Just the right amount of sheer fabric and skin to be decent, showing off that first hint of a tan she had developed that afternoon. All the time, her blonde hair swinging about her shoulders in tousled curls. (Hair that had been pulled back the last two times they had met. Hair he felt an urge to run his fingers through, to pull on, to bury his face in).

She was indeed a distraction.

But his position as first officer during dinner was to charm the guests.

And charm them he did. Every night was spent at a different table. Every night was passed regaling the passengers with the same stories of exotic locations and brave escapes from stormy seas. Stories that, while they held a sliver of truth, were certainly the product more of embellishment than fact.

The food was delicious as always and his guests suitably impressed with him and his tales. He tried to not think too hard about Ms. Swan, on the far side of the room as she was, hidden by a dozen other tables. He couldn't help but wonder, though, if she had noticed his presence. Was she even now vying for his attention; perhaps looking his way. It was damn foolish thinking - like a school boy with a silly crush. Yet as much as he tried not to think of the elusive Emma Swan, the more his traitorous mind did.

Thankful it wasn't his night to oversee the helm, he sipped spiced rum on the rocks and Killian relaxed into his chair as the band began to play. He was left to his own thoughts as the remaining couples from his table moved to the dance floor and began to sway to a Michael Buble tune.

A drop of rum slid down the glass as he watched the dance floor fill up. He was thankful, once more, that this cruise line had forgone the tradition of officer's whites for dinner, instead using the more somber navy. Whites were damn hard to keep clean and they also made him stand out like a sore thumb in usual sea of dark suits and colorful dresses. Shucking off his coat onto the seat behind him, he nursed the glass, watching the couples sway - not realizing what he was looking for until he saw it.

A swirl of black material was the first clue. Followed by glossy blonde waves.

He leaned forward a little in his seat, trying to keep a neutral face as he watched her move across the floor, accompanied by a copper haired man who he vaguely remembered from the night before. She wasn't the most polished dancer, her heels catching on the floor now and then, occasionally misstepping with the wrong foot. But she laughed and smiled her way through the song, tossing back her hair as the band slipped into a more upbeat number.

There's an overwhelming urge to cross the floor and cut in. To draw her across the floor, to see her smile and listen to her laugh.

(And hold her. God, he wanted to hold her).

It's not that he couldn't dance, he just usually chose not to. Each night tended to blur into one another on these trips and save the odd whirl around the dance floor to please some teenage daughter or lonely widow, he usually stuck to enjoying a drink and people watching.

Grimacing, he sunk back a cold mouthful of rum, wincing as it burned his tongue and throat, hoping it would wash away these ridiculous thoughts-

And then she was looking at him. Just a moment - maybe a second or two- her eyes met his and she smiled. Maybe he was imagining it. Perhaps it was just a hello. But a second later he was pouring the last drops of liquor down his throat, straightening out his shirt and stepping out onto the lacquered dancefloor.

"May I cut in?" he asked, tapping her partner on the shoulder just as the music began to change once more.

"Oh, Officer Jones! Nice to see you. Why of course, as long as Ms. Swan has no objections?"

She simply shrugged and shook her head. "Just save me a glass of chardonnay," she added, as he slipped away and Killian moved forward to join her.

It was the closest he had been to this woman. And she was just a woman, he reminded himself, no different from the other. Nevertheless, his heart began to thud as they stepped together and the scent of her simple perfume wrapped around them.

It was with a little, unexpected, trepidation, that he slid one arm around her waist, grasping her hand with his other as she laid her palm gently on his shoulders. The dress was thin and light, he could feel the heat of her body through it.

The last few bars had faded away. He smiled at her as the next track began. It was slower. It took a few seconds for him to recognise the familiar lyrics reworked in a new tempo.

"Hello

I've waited here for you

Everlong"

"You came after all," he finally said after a few moments silence.

"I did," she replied, a hint of a smile licking at the corner of her lips.

"I see my persuasive techniques have some effect, then."

In response, she laughed. Her fingers digging a little tighter into his body as she met his eyes. "Didn't want to waste the dress."

"Ah," he nodded, biting his bottom lip as their eyes remaining trained on each other for a second longer, "That would be a shame, indeed."

"So is dancing part of the package?" she continued, with a teasing lilt to her voice.

He paused before answering.

Was she flirting with him?

Running his tongue along the seam of his lips, he dipped his head to the side. "When the occasion calls for it."

"Oh, and what's the occasion?"

The music rose up and he took the chance to spin her out, her skirt flaring as she twirled before drawing her back in and then dipping her over his arm.

Raising his brows, he pulled her back towards him, their chests almost flush, "Didn't want your dress to miss out on all the fun."

/

Okay, okay… So, she was flirting. A little. And it was pretty fun.

And certainly a good way of taking her mind off the fact that less than 24 hours earlier, she had ended a two year relationship. It kept her from thinking about having to find a place to live when she got home (it was his apartment when she moved in and it still felt like his now). It barely crossed her mind about all the questions she would have to answer from friends and family once she returned home. She had eight more days of vacation ahead of her, and she intended to do as much no thinking as possible about any of that for the remainder of it.

When she had seen him across the room (and mentally asking herself how she had missed him for the past two hours) she had silently hoped he would come over. Perhaps the smiles she gave Archie were for his consumption more than the psychiatrist's. It could also be said, that the way she twisted her hips and shook her hair, were not solely for artistic reasons.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She broke from her reverie to give Officer Jones a pseudo-scathing smile. "You need some new lines."

"'Tis not a line, more a turn of phrase, love."

"Well then," she laughed, "Turn some new ones."

He opened his mouth to say more, but the music was dying down, the song almost over, his hand lingering on her back.

"I'd better-" she gestured back to her table.

"Aye," he nodded, "Me too."

"Thank you for the dance."

She caught a hint of hesitation on his face as he took a step away from her - quickly washed away with a brief, almost bashful smile, punctuated by a whispered, "Same to you, lass."

Feeling light and free from the wine and the music (not from him, from the dancing she told herself) she floated back to her table.

/

It was one dance.

Less than five minutes of contact on a crowded dance floor, in a too hot room with a so-so band. But his fingers still tingled with the memory of holding her. He could still smell her perfume on his shirt. The cracking tension between them as they danced was unmistakable. To him at least.

And as he dove into the shower the following morning, ready for long shift at the helm, he found himself humming the tune to which they had danced. Lathering the soap in his hands, he repeated the lyrics;

"And I wonder

When I sing along with you

If everything could ever feel this real forever

If anything could ever be this good again…"

/

Waking up, ensconced in high thread count sheets, Emma turned away from the shafts of sunlight that poured under the blinds that she had failed to close properly the night before. As she pushed out and stretched her limbs, they slid easily along the smooth fabric.

She jolted into consciousness. Her bed was not this soft. The sheets were nowhere near as luxurious.

Agitated, her palms patted the bed for the familiar form of him. And it only took a moment before she remembered. There was no him.

She was alone.

He was gone.

Her skin glowed, heated from too much alcohol and the beating sun, a light sheen of perspiration flushed over her face. Her heart raced, descending into a stuttering thud.

Then she smiled.

It was over. The fighting, the uncertainty-

For the first time since that fateful argument, a sensation of calm overcame her body.

Oh sure, as she got up and brushed her teeth, mild prickles of panic darted over her. The same fears that had plagued her the day before on a loop in her mind. But the worries seemed less sharp now: like a sun bleached photograph, the details less focused. The bigger picture was emerging.

Sure, in a lot of ways it still hurt like hell. But she couldn't deny, freedom was a flavor she liked the taste of.

/

This place was beautiful.

An azure sea, kissed by a turquoise, cloudless sky. White sands rolling towards the shoreline, where they met the incoming tide, becoming drenched in the warm, frothy waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Emma stood watching the horizon; her sandals dangling from her fingers, her toes sinking into the sand.

When had been the last time she had just been? Just let the world spin around her and stop thinking? Stopped worrying and working and moving and scheduling and all the other inane trappings of modern life that now suddenly seemed somehow irrelevant as she stood on the most stunning stretch of coastline she had ever seen.

She drew out her foot and began to draw circles in the sand with her toes as the lapping tide washed over her skin. Here things seemed so simple away from the hustle and bustle.

Why had it taken so long for her to take a step away from her crazy life and do this? She knew the answer without thinking. She was stubborn. Too stubborn to take a vacation on the chance that it could give a rival a chance to poach a client. Too headstrong and determined to admit a relationship was dead; preferring to let it limp along for painful loveless (sexless) months.

Padding back to her towel, she lay back and stared at the bare, blue sky.

Maybe it was time for a change.

But what change, she wasn't so sure.

Yet.

/

Impulse and rash were not attributes that would usually be attached to Emma Swan. Well planned and calculated however, yes. It was a strange marriage of the two that had given her the idea that evening to seek out another dance with the (she had to admit) rather dashing Officer Jones.

As she'd sat on the beach, barely reading the trashy romance she had downloaded, her mind had begun to plot and plan.

She needed to do something - to prove to herself that she could be different. But here, bobbing about a small cruise liner in the middle of the ocean was not the easiest of places to start.

Later, as she drank Manhattans with Ruby and picked at her dinner, she found herself looking out for him.

She'd liked dancing with him, the way he had held her and the lazy attractiveness of his smile that it only seemed handsome men could pull off. Boston Emma wouldn't think this way. She'd immediately realize that pursuing (in any way) that kind of man would only end in disaster. But this wasn't Boston Emma, this was new Emma. Emma 2.0. Carefree (ish). Impulsive (to a fault). The kind of girl who would undertake subtle research to find the location of the ship's first officer when he failed to turn up for dinner.

Glancing at her watch, she barely registered the time being after ten. On vacation, all normal passage of time warped into something resembling sleep time, sun time, drinks time. This was the latter, if her cocktail filled gut was anything to speak for.

Rapping on his door, she held her breath, hoping that the twenty she had snuck the waiter had bought her the correct cabin number. Her fears quelled when a yawning, mussed-up haired Killian opened the door, squinting against the light that began to pour into his darkened quarters.

Drowsily, he muttered, "Emma?"

"Hi," she replied lightly, suddenly lost for words as the fingers of her left hand tangled into the thin strap of her black leather purse.

"Can I help you?" he asked, barely stifling a yawn that made his eyes crinkle and dimples puncture his cheeks-

Her hands were in his shirt half a second later, her lips pressed against his before he could react. His lips were at first stiff and pursed, quickly softening into her attentions as she pulled him closer, dropping her purse and wrapping one arm around his neck; feeling dizzy at the sensation of another man's lips after an extended stretch of monogamy.

His hands found her waist and for a moment, all was right in the world. Emma Swan was taking chances and making changes. She was taking the bull by the horns, gripping life by the throat-

"Stop," he panted, pulling away.

And her tentative house of cards fell down.

"I shouldn't," he continued, moistening his lips with his tongue, leaving her strangely entranced by his mouth.

"I want to," she insisted, reached again for him, until his hands wrapped around hers.

"No. It's not right-"

"Right?" she laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she watched him swallow heavily, her eyes absentmindedly taking in the shape of his shoulders and the way his t-shirt hugged his chest. She tugged her hands from his.

"What's not right is booking a couples cruise and realizing after 12 hours onboard that your boyfriend is the biggest idiot in the tri-state area. And that you must be the second biggest idiot for taking two years to realize it."

When his jaw fell open, her hand slapped over her own.

What the hell was she thinking - where on God's earth had that came from?

The hallway began to spin and a wave of sickness rose. She stared at him for a moment, too shocked by her own words to speak, until she finally scrambled for her purse and began to run away down the corridor, trying to block out the sound of his voice calling her name.

/

The last thing he had expected when he opened the door was to see her. After a 12 hour shift he had fallen into bed, fast asleep before his head had hit the pillow.

So it was with some confusion that he awakened to the sound of rapping on the cabin door. Almost falling out of his bunk, he had staggered towards the sound, stubbing his toe on his discarded shoes as he reached for the handle.

Momentarily, he was blinded by the light from the corridor, his eyes blinking closed, until contrast returned and it was her. Tonight, her dress was a vibrant red. Her shoulders were bare. His heart leapt into his throat in surprise. Finally he managed to speak.

"Emma?"

"Hi," she replied, barely more than a whisper. There was something about her posture and the way her fingers toyed with the strap of her purse that made his brow furrow. Something wasn't right.

"Can I help you?" he asked, trying to stifle the burgeoning urge to yawn, narrowing his eyes as she blinked a few times, then-

She kissed him.

God, her lips were soft. Not that he responded at first when they touched his. A jolt of shock paralyzed his body for a second, his brain requiring a moment to understand what was happening.

But when it did, he waited no time in returning her embrace. His hands grasped her waist, pulling her closer to him, titling his head to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue against hers as blood rushed to his groin and his breath became short.

And that's why when the rational part of him began to shout 'stop', he cursed his sober mind. Selfishly, he wished that he could ignore it, because damn he wanted her.

Pushing her away was hard. But she was drunk and he knew - just knew - she would regret it. And being someone's regret was not something he desired.

"Stop. I shouldn't-"

"I want to," she insisted, curling her fingers tighter around her neck, and, by God, he wanted to drag her back into his cabin and just let out all the bloody sexual frustration that was buzzing in his body-

"No, it's not right-" he insisted. The all-too upright naval officer inside clawing back his baser urges. The same urges cursing him as the soft fabric of her dress escaped his fingers.

And then her features hardened. A haughty laugh proceeded her tossing her hair over her shoulder, while she tipped back her head, looking over at him with steely eyes.

"Right? What's not right is booking a couples cruise and realizing after 12 hours onboard that your boyfriend is the biggest idiot in the tri-state area. And that you must be the second biggest idiot for taking two years to realize it."

The words came forth in a bitter tumble, her body stiffening as they did their damage, her self-depreciation watering her eyes as he watched, dumbstruck. If sense had been available to him, he would have spoken, reached out, touched her - did something. But tiredness and surprise rendered him incapable of doing more than watching her turn on her heels and run away down the corridor, only managing to call her name as the last flash of red material disappeared around the distant corner.

/

Foolish feelings translated into hot tears, though if she were honest, it was her own personal revelations rather than his rejection which had them peeling down her cheeks.

God, she was an idiot.

Slamming her cabin door, she sank to the floor, kicking off her heels as she hopelessly tried to wipe away the relentless salty stream. Each breath shook her chest, wracking it with the kind of sobs she was sure she hadn't felt since childhood - when a grazed knee seemed like the end of the world.

Back pressed against the door, Emma felt more foolish than she had ever done before. The foolishness did not so much stem from how she had pursued Officer Jones (and been rejected), but instead from the understanding that she had allowed herself to become embroiled in the kind of situation that left her open to bruising her heart even more than the end of her relationship with Neal had accomplished just days before.

A/N: If you have enjoyed this, a review would be massively appreciated!