By the sixth interview, Emma was starting to lose hope. This whole thing had been stupid; her parents had urged her to go through some official listing or realtor, while Emma had insisted she would be able to find a sane roommate off Craig's List.

It was all quite safe. She was meeting the potential roommates in a crowded coffee shop she frequented daily. She was a friend to the beefy barista, Happy, who owned the shop.. They had worked out a single for him to attack if necessary.

The contenders so far all had something disastrously wrong with them. The first one mysteriously didn't provide any references, and was dodgy when Emma requested them. The second was a squirrely looking male, age unidentifiable. He asked what color bra Emma was wearing, and one threatening gesture from Happy made him leave with his tail between his legs. The third was only seventeen, running away from home. The fourth wore all black and answered every question with a question. The fifth picked her teeth with the bistro's fork—yuck. God, she hoped the sixth would show at least some promise.

For the next meeting the person had only given her his or her surname, Jones. Of course, the name made her start, but Jones was such a common last name. There was no way it was actually him. He was safe in New York City, enjoying his fast paced life with no one to hold him back.

Emma grunted to herself and took a long pull from her hot coco with cinnamon. January was brutal in Boston, but at least Happy's hot chocolate made it slightly better. Happy was such an odd name for Emma's brutal friend, but she never pushed to find out his original label.

"Hello, I believe we were supposed to meet at three." He must have recognized her by her online description: blonde curls, green hat and sweater.

God damnit, Emma would know that voice anywhere—its annoyingly incredible British accent and deep vibrato. She dragged her eyes up from the table to meet the vivid blue eyes she expected, yet somehow managed diminish in her memories of the past two years.

"Ah," Killian Jones said, itching his fingers behind his ear. "You are the apartment girl."

"And you are my three o'clock," Emma breathed. She took another sip of her drink, trying to compose her features. Other than the incredible shock of Jones actually being Killian Jones, she had never been completely immune to his charms, even after all this time.

"Should I sit down?" Killian asked, awkwardly hovering over the vintage red cushioned chair.

"I don't see why not," Emma said, smiling. He forgot how bright her smile was.

"Excellent."

"So, you're moving to Boston," Emma said. She stirred her drink slowly, looking for any clues in his face.

"Yes, my father's company is opening a new restaurant along the shore and he wants me to be here for the start up and run it."

Emma genuinely felt happy for him; this was something Killian wanted for the entire time they had been together—a way to prove himself, and something to call his own. "That's great," she said.

"Thank you, I'm pretty excited about it. And your apartment is ideally located, low rent, good kitchen, it seems pretty great."

"Which is why you answered the ad. The ad a female put out," Emma raised her eyebrows.

"Hey, lasses tend to be a bit neater than blokes. You can't blame me for seeking a more feminine touch. However, had I known it was you…" He trailed off, traces of a smile pinching at the corner of her lips.

"You wouldn't have come." Emma finished. She let the words hang in the air.

"I respect the choice you made. So yes, I wouldn't have come." Killian succeeded.

Ouch, Emma thought. That stung. But he wasn't wrong—she broke it off with him. She had made a choice.

"And yet, here we are," she said.

"Yes here we are."

A silence was filled only with Emma's mindless stirring.

"Still interested in the apartment?" That looked like the one question Killian wasn't expecting. His eyebrow arched, a habit she recognized that hadn't changed.

"Look, what happened with us is so far in the past. Over two years now? We were kids when we started it, we had no idea what we wanted yet. And now we do, and we're mature adults—"

"Speak for yourself, love." Killian licked his tongue across his lips.

Emma rolled her eyes, and held back a grin. "I'm at least a mature adult, and I don't see the problem here. You know me; I'm mostly neat, I can keep to myself and I make myself crazy busy. I'm barely home, I'm a pretty easy roommate." Emma wondered why she was suddenly trying so hard to sell him on the idea.

"Well, when you put it like that, Swan. How could I say no?" She winced a bit at the mention of her last name. No one else ever referred to her by it.

"Serious?" Emma said.

"Well, you argue very effectively. Something I see hasn't changed."

"Not at all," Emma agreed, smiling. This was nice. It reminded her faintly of those first few months she had spent with him, when she was nineteen and eager for someone to fix her.

"I'm in," he said. They signed a bit of paper work and it wasn't until Killian walked out of the shop that Emma had fully understood the implications of what just happened.

She was about to be roommates with her ex-boyfriend.