He tells her he loves her just before the three month anniversary of the best administrative error in the known history of the universe.

He would have told her much sooner - the morning after their first night together would have been fine with him - but he knows her. Knows her better than she knows herself sometimes, and he had no doubt she would have run a mile if he'd breathed a single syllable of that particular three-word phrase so early in the proceedings.

He might have waited longer, given her more time to adjust to what's developing between them, but he's tired. Tired of working twelve hour days so he can leave the office early every Friday afternoon to drive to the airport (either to pick her up or get on a plane himself) with a clear conscience. Tired of snatched phone conversations and rushed text messages and spending hours in bed every weekend in an odd little cocoon that at times doesn't seem quite real. He wants not to have to meticulously plan their time together, sacrificing the little things like simply being in the same room while they read or watch television because they only have three hours left and they feel as though they need to be doing something rather than nothing.

He wants to be with her seven days a week, not just Friday night through to Sunday afternoon like their relationship is some kind of wretched time-share arrangement. He wants to be in the same city, the same apartment, the same bed.

The question is, though, does she want the same thing?

Checking his watch, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and walks quickly towards Departures. There's only one way to find out.

To his utter relief, she does want the same thing. As it turns out, she loves him too.

He has to make a real effort to stop kissing her where they stand on the riverbank, because they're in public and there are families walking their dogs right past them, for God's sake. He gets her back to her apartment in record time, though, and once they're behind closed doors, it's quite a different story. He almost doesn't make it to the airport in time to catch his flight back to Boston, and the memory of Emma's smirking, "Just like old times, hey?" keeps him company all the way home.

He'd truly been prepared to uproot his life and his career if it meant they could be together. Too many years without her in his life had shown him that some things were more far important than others. But she'd insisted on moving to Boston to be with him, and the fact that she'd leave behind her job and her friends without batting an eyelid makes him realise that she may have been ready to hear those three words a lot sooner.

So, to make up for lost time, he tells her that he loves her every single day. There are days when he tells her several times, and every time she says the words back to him, his certainty grows. She's the one, the right one, the one he's been waiting on all these years without even realising it. The one with whom he wants to spend the rest of his life.

Perhaps he should be shocked by this particular revelation, but it's as though it's been there all along, staring him in the face. He feels as though he's just solved a particularly knotty litigation dispute, sifting through the layers of misdirection and jargon to find the truth beneath, a truth that's almost overwhelming in its simplicity.

God help him, he wants to marry her, and he'd do it tomorrow if he could.

Overlooked for promotion in the Chicago office one too many times, Emma's only too happy to move on. He hadn't been mouthing empty reassurances when he'd told her that his own office was looking for a new senior associate, but she's hesitant. "Living together and working together? A little much, don't you think?"

He shrugs, not taking her objection personally, because he does understand her fears. "There's no law that says you have to find something else right away, either."

"Seriously?" They're sharing breakfast in his apartment, and she glowers at the coffee cup that's become her favourite on her visits. "I'm not going to move here so you can be my sugar daddy, Killian."

He puts the last bite of toast in his mouth, then grins at her. "Technically, I think I'd need to be a lot more than four years older than you to earn that title, darling."

She tosses her napkin across the kitchen table at him. "Don't turn this into a joke, okay?" Pressing her lips into a tight line, she shakes her head. "You always do that."

Irritated by the accusation - he does no such thing - he holds up his hands. "Don't take this the wrong way, love," he shoots back tersely, "but I'm not the only stubborn arse in this relationship."

They stare at each other, and it's Emma who cracks first, her mouth twitching in a smile. "Our first fight."

He holds up his coffee cup to her in a mock toast. "Here's to many more, darling."

Her smile falters. "Why on earth would you want that?"

"Arguing isn't always bad, Swan." Leaning across the table, he kisses her softly on the mouth, tasting butter and coffee and her own salty sweetness. "If it clears the air, it can be a very good thing."

Tilting back her head, she smiles, her eyes glowing, and he knows they've broken through another impasse before it had the chance to become an issue. "Spoken like a true lawyer."

He grins at her, then steals another kiss. "You do remember what we do for a living, don't you?"

She applies for the senior associate role in his office.

True to his word, he merely refers her to the HR department, breathing not a single word to the powers that be about his connection to her. It takes all his willpower not to call in a favour with Douglas, but he knows how much it means to Emma that she does this on her own, and he's not about to start lying to her now.

After her interview, she insists on meeting him in a coffee shop around the corner from his building, unwilling to risk being seen with him even in the ground floor foyer. Amused by her clandestine air, he drops into the seat across from her without looking at her, lifting a menu to his lips before he speaks. "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog."

"Idiot." Snatching the menu from his hand, she rolls her eyes at him. "Okay, I have a problem."

Reclaiming the menu, he starts reading through the lunch specials. "I'm all ears, love."

"Your HR rep asked me that if I was successful, if I could start immediately."

He looks up at her. "And what did you tell her?"

"I said that would depend on my living arrangements, but I was sure I could work something out."

Her tone is carefully neutral, but her eyes are anxious, and his heart twinges. Reaching across the table, he takes her hand, stopping the restless dance her fingertips are doing on the tabletop. "How is that a problem?"

She shrugs, her fingers tightening around his. "I just wasn't sure if you wanted to move that quickly."

He laughs. He can't help it, and he doesn't care if the whole coffee shop is now staring at them. "Swan, I would have moved you into my apartment after that first weekend if you'd let me."

She gets the job.

He meets her parents, and it's quite the occasion. As she'd warned him, they're very sweet with each other and not that much older than Emma herself. They welcome him into their home, apparently without reservation, and he gives a silent prayer of thanks, thinking of other parents he's encountered over the years. Even so, it's disconcerting to discover that the father of the woman you love is only twelve years older than yourself, and he dispenses with his usual habit of using 'sir' and sticks with 'David' instead. If the man in question minds, he doesn't show it.

Of course, things do get a little more complicated once Emma tells them her news. He can't say he blames them – in their eyes, she's still their little girl, they're still getting to know her – and to learn that she's already made such a huge life decision without their knowledge only serves as a reminder of how many years they've lost. It makes it easier to deflect the faintly accusing glare David gives him, although that's not to say that he's not going to defend himself. "I did offer to move to Chicago," he tells the room at large, but the words are meant for Emma's father and they both know it, "but I was overruled." Your daughter is her own woman and that's one of the reasons I love her, he thinks but doesn't say, but he has the feeling that David picks up on his unspoken words, because he nods, the stiff set of his shoulders relaxing.

With that conversation out of the way, all he has to deal with is the memory of Emma's face when her mother suggested they were getting married. He doesn't think he's ever seen her look quite so appalled, not even that time he suggested they try running together early on a Saturday morning rather than sleeping late.

He does his best to shrug it off, because they haven't discussed the future beyond cohabitation (and what woman wants to discuss such a thing in front of her parents anyway?), but Emma Swan being Emma Swan, she knows that he's brooding. She picks at the subject until he yields to the inevitable and simply tells her that her reaction troubled him, and he knows he has no right to feel that way but there it is.

To her eternal credit, she's just as honest with him in return, telling him that she doesn't do fast very well but that everything that's happened between them is happening just how she wants it. His heart lightens, and then it practically soars when she kisses his cheek softly, her words threaded through with a tender humour that immediately fills him with the urge to drop to one knee. "And just so we're clear, if I did have to pick someone to have an ill-considered nifty-swifty wedding with, I'd pick you."

He smiles at her. Oh, if only she knew how close she is to having to make good on that offer. "Good."

He doesn't sleep well that night. It's a combination of factors - he's never slept in a room quite so filled with floral designs, Emma's parents are only a shared wall away - but when he does finally drift off, he dreams of losing her in a vast airport, running furiously through the crowds, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of her bright hair, all the while knowing that she's slipping through his fingers at every turn.

He's awake with the birds the next dawn. Careful not to wake her, he gathers Emma close in his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her - shampoo and perfume and warm female skin – and wonders just how long he can make himself wait before he asks her the question burning on his tongue.

She moves to Boston.

He's tempted to ask her on the first night she officially becomes his roommate, but being bone-weary and surrounded by packing boxes isn't quite the romantic setting he'd had in mind. Instead he makes her a hot chocolate just how she likes it (he bought a new jar of cinnamon especially for the occasion) and helps her unpack her books and runs her a bath when her eyes start to glaze over with exhaustion. Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, her skin pink from the hot water, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him softly, her mouth tasting of cinnamon and chocolate. "I'm so glad I'm here."

"So am I, love." He bites back the words that threaten to tumble from his lips, and simply kisses her back, lazily at first, but then with a growing hunger that has her moaning softly into his mouth and his hands cupping her wonderful arse through the damp towel, pulling her closer. "Are you tired?"

"Exhausted", she tells him with a playful smile as she leads him into his - their - bedroom. "But what's a little more lost sleep?"

His last thought before he falls asleep, Emma's soft breath tickling the back of his neck, is that he can solve complex legal issues with his eyes closed and eat the opposing litigants alive without breaking a sweat. He's a stubborn man who frequently holds out for a better settlement for his client until the bloody cows come home, and he can make himself wait for this, too.

He manages to last another three months.

On the surface, blending their lives has turned out a lot easier than he anticipated. Her belongings fit in with his as though they've always been there, and if his fridge now has three different kinds of flavoured milk and four different kinds of cheese, who is he to judge? He's the one with the pop-tart addiction, after all. He doesn't even care that his bathroom is suddenly crammed with tiny and mysterious bottles, although he does make a point of clearing out a second drawer for any further overflow.

They travel to and from work together, and while there are days when he doesn't see her for hours on end, just the thought that they're in the same building, let alone the same city, fills him with a quiet warmth.

In the end, when it finally happens, it's not a romantic setting by any stretch of the imagination, but it's right. Liam brings his family to Boston for a whirlwind visit - he's on business and as always, he's managed to wrangle it so he could bring along Annie and their four year-old James.

He can tell Emma is nervous about meeting his family, not because she rebraids her hair three times before they leave the apartment (although that's a fairly credible indication) but how tightly she holds his hand as they approach the park where they're planning to have a picnic. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this," she finally admits as they walk towards the designated meeting spot. "What if they don't like me?"

He squeezes her hand, and gives her a look of blatant disbelief. "Are you mad, woman? Who wouldn't like you?"

She rolls her eyes (it's still adorable, which gives him high hopes for the longevity of their relationship) but there's no time for her to reply, because his nephew has spotted him and is barrelling across the grass in their direction. The next few minutes are a blur of hugs and kisses and introductions, and Emma holds his hand the whole time.

Eventually, he and Liam find themselves sharing a beer by themselves, while the two women bond over trying to keep James from killing himself on the swings. His brother nods towards the playground as Emma performs a one-armed save to keep James from barrelling off the monkey bars. "He's definitely your nephew," he says with a sly smile. "Never thinks things through beforehand."

Killian would be offended, but this is an old conversation, comforting in its familiarity. "Better than being a boring old stick in the mud like his father."

Liam's gaze moves to Emma, and his smile changes. "I like her."

He's a grown man and it shouldn't matter, but Killian hadn't realise how much he wanted to hear those words until they were spoken. "So do I."

Annie walks towards, her short cropped bob glinting in the sun. "You're up, Killian." She drops onto the wooden seat next to her husband and takes the cold soda he's immediately offered her with a smile of thanks. "You can't leave Emma with all the babysitting duties."

He raises an eyebrow at his sister-in-law. "You just did."

"True." She raises her own eyebrows right back at him. "But I'm not the one who's trying to impress her, am I?"

Emma looks greatly relieved when he joins her and James in the playground. "I'm glad I dressed down today," she tells him, and he grins at the grass stains that are already engrained on both her knees. Sensing their attention wavering, his nephew tugs on his hand.

"Let's run."

Killian groans. He may enjoy the occasional early morning run, but running with a four-year old is something quite different. Emma, on the other hand, looks more than happy with the suggestion. "Off you go, Uncle Killian. Last one to the kiosk and back is a monkey's uncle." James looks at her with abject delight, then launches himself in the direction of said kiosk with a shriek.

Before he follows, Killian slides his hand down Emma's back, placing a subtle pinch on a firm arse cheek. "You'll pay for this, Swan."

She smiles at him as she heads back to the shade where his family is lounging. Traitors, all of them, he thinks. "It's a price I'm willing to pay."

An hour later, when James has finally run out of steam, they start on the business of eating. Liam checks their cooler bag, and frowns. "We appear to have run out of lemonade." He looks at his son. "Would you like orange for a change?"

James' bottom lip trembles. "No, I wouldn't. That would be bad," he says in a precise, clipped voice that's an exact copy of his father's, and Emma quickly looks up from where she's opening a packet of paper napkins, doing her best not to laugh.

"There's a convenience store on the next block," she tells his nephew soothingly. "I'll go get some lemonade for you, okay?" When Liam and Annie start to protest, she waves it away with a smile. "Seriously, it's no trouble."

Killian watches her as she smiles at his family and, just like that, he can't wait a single moment longer.

He's already on his feet by the time she's grabbed her purse. She looks at him curiously, but he simply gives her an innocent smile. "Can't let you go alone, love. You're new to town, remember? Who knows the strangers you might encounter."

Third eyeroll of the morning, he thinks. He's obviously pushing for a new record today.

As soon as they're out of sight, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her, his hands threading into her hair, ruining her complicated braid but he doesn't care. Adrenalin is surging through him, because the words burning a hole in his heart can no longer be silenced. Pulling back, he smiles into her dazed face, dimly aware that her hands are tangled in his shirt front so tightly that he thinks he's lost a button. "I love you."

She smiles up at him. "I didn't realise that buying a bottle of lemonade would have such an interesting effect on you." She scratches her fingernails against his chest, right above his pounding heart. "And I still love you, in case you were wondering."

"Actually, I was quite sure that was still the case." He grins, because now is exactly the right time for all the right reasons. "Will you marry me, Swan?"

She blinks at him, then starts to laugh, the sound lilting and free and filled with joy. "Are you serious right now?" He just keeps grinning at her, because he already knows what her answer is going to be, despite her show of protest. "I'm dressed like a hobo, there's dirt on my face, I'm starving, and you're asking me to marry you?"

"That's right."

Grabbing the back of his head, she pulls his mouth to hers, kissing him so fiercely that he has to forcibly remind himself, once again, that they are in a public place. She draws back slightly, her lips still touching his, her unsteady breath mingling with his own. "Of course I will." She kisses him again, her last word on the subject muffled against his mouth. "Idiot."