It's annoying when ten minutes have gone by and almost everyone from the flight but her and Killian have their bags – it's really annoying when Killian's scuffed leather duffle comes tumbling down the luggage shoot and he flashes her that obnoxiously sunny grin of his.
It's freaking terrible when the belt turns off, a handful of lonely suitcases spread along the dusty rubber, and not one of them belongs to Emma Swan.
"Seriously?" she asks the filthy airport ceiling right before squeezing her eyes shut. She refuses to cry. Not while Killian is standing there, his nagging only hours ago that they were going to miss their flight if she didn't hurry her arse up taunting her from the edge of her memory.
"Let's go, Swan. We'll need to talk to someone from the airline about this." He sounds so calm that Emma just wants to punch him, but instead she stands in the middle of the now-empty baggage claim for another few seconds, as if somehow when she opens her eyes her bag will magically be waiting for her.
It isn't.
She shrugs off Killian's tentative hand on her shoulder and stalks over to the airline representative.
They're in a shuttle to the resort not thirty minutes later. Emma is beyond angry, beyond frustrated. She's just tired now. Exhausted. If she had to listen to one more insincere apology from the airline rep, one more word about weather, she was going to lose her mind and probably get hauled off by the TSA and taken to some awful, windowless room. She'd probably still be there ten hours later when the rest of their friends arrived, too. No luggage. No toothbrush. No sanity.
It's enough to make her laugh under her breath, a harsh, bitter burst of air that draws Killian's attention. He raises one of his eyebrows in question, too polite to really ask her what her problem is when the shuttle driver can hear. But that's Killian Jones. Too polite when it doesn't freaking matter.
She's relieved when they finally arrive, even if it does feel really strange to be walking around without luggage. It's not like she was overly thrilled about this trip to begin with – she doesn't ski. Skiing was something the kids with parents and money did, not poor little orphan girls.
Killian does all the talking, laughing cheerfully with the reception attendants, flirting shamelessly. Emma spends most of this time glaring at his duffle bag, cursing her own luggage as though the bits of leather and metal somehow decided on their own to not make it on their plane. But eventually he's calling her name, handing her a keycard, and leading the way through the immense lodge entrance.
"Almost there, Swan," he says softly as they make their way out of the building and down one of the heavily salted walkways. Standing on the hillside above them, Emma spots the cabins Mary Margaret talked her ear off about for the last few months. She still doesn't know how they got the deal they did on this place – something about a friend of David's owing them a favor and employee discounts – but it does look awfully nice. The bottle of scotch in her own bag is sadly lost somewhere in the chaos of the airline, but she's willing to bet Killian has a bottle of rum. Some liquor and a spot in front of the fireplace tonight. Tomorrow the airline will – supposedly – deliver her bag. All will be right in the world once more.
"Do you remember what time their flight lands?" Emma asks as Killian opens the door, holding it open for her to pass. The air here is colder, crisp, the smell of snow heavy in the air.
"Supposed to get in for seven, I believe." Killian sets his bag down by the door, humming appreciatively as he takes in the cabin's living room area. It's probably more of a lodge on its own, a sweeping two-story entrance with a set of stairs along one side leading to the bedrooms above, a sunken living room open in the other direction. The promised fireplace is the room's centerpiece, fresh wood stacked in a tidy basket against the wash of grey stone.
Emma's shoulders lose a fraction of their tension as she takes in the large, comfortable furniture, the snowy mountains outside the giant window taking up most of one wall. The darkening clouds promise more snow, which she's just fine with – but only after the rest of their friends arrive.
"Do you want to choose your room?" Killian asks behind her, his voice startling her from her thoughts. Of course, he's being polite again, his eyes darting between her and the staircase. Polite, or he feels sorry for her that her luggage went missing and this is a pity gesture.
Whatever. If pity is going to get her a nicer room, Emma will swallow her pride this time.
She takes the room with the deep soaking tub in the en suite and doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty. The quick flash of a grin Killian shoots her when she makes her selection makes her feel something else, something she doesn't want to think about.
With a sigh, Emma tosses her phone and small carry-on onto the bed and starts to strip out of her jacket. After a moment's hesitation, she steps into the bathroom, turns on the taps for the tub, and makes quick work of the rest of her clothes. Their friends aren't due for hours. She doesn't ski. She has no idea what to say to Killian alone for that long. A bath sounds like an excellent idea.
The water is heavenly as she sinks down with a sigh, finally able to relax as the steam curls around her face. The view from the bathtub isn't too shabby either, the mountain sloping upward in an expanse of evergreen and snow.
Emma supposes this is why she agreed to this trip in the first place. Mary Margaret made it seem like such a good idea, a group trip up into the mountains. David and Killian would go ski during the day. They could drink hot chocolate – or vodka – by the fire. Ruby and Elsa were going to come too, but then Ruby's girlfriend insisted on a beach vacation. Elsa's sister chose the same weekend for her bachelorette.
And then Emma waited too long to book her plane ticket, which was how she ended up on the early morning flight with Killian. By the time she got around to buying the damn thing, it would have cost her $300 more to fly out with Mary Margaret and David in the evening. Killian hadn't bought his ticket until the last minute either, so here they were.
Though it did seem remarkably unlike him to not have had his ticket secured the moment the trip was decided on.
But Emma has never really understood why Killian Jones does the things he does. He's David's best friend, and she's Mary Margaret's best friend, so they've been invited to plenty of the same events, but they've never really had a conversation. Nothing beyond social niceties – which Emma is shit at – and small talk, anyway.
She's not counting his shameless flirting, since that's just how he treats the female population at large.
Emma stays in the bath until the water turns cool, reluctantly stepping out and wrapping herself in one of the thick, fluffy towels. This is definitely the nicest place she's ever stayed in her life, and she makes another mental note to thank David for calling in this favor.
Of course, the part she didn't think about is that without her luggage, the only thing she has to wear is the outfit she wore this morning through the airport. There's just something about plane travel that has her dreading putting those clothes back on, even if they are her favorite jeans.
On the bed, she finds a neatly folded pair of sweatpants and a long sleeved, buttery soft shirt, both in black.
"Killian?" she calls, clutching the towel a bit tighter as his footsteps come padding down the hall, softer without his boots. "What's this?"
His eyes sweep over her slowly, his lips pulling into a teasing smirk. "A beautiful lass in nothing but a towel." The words drip with suggestion, but he doesn't move any closer, propping his hip in the doorframe while her cheeks burst into flame. "I heard the water turn on," he says more seriously, his fingers rising to scratch behind his ear. "I have more than enough clothing for the week, and I thought perhaps you'd like something clean for the evening."
"I can't go down to the restaurant in this."
He shrugs. "I didn't much fancy sitting there anyway after the long day. By the time Mary Margaret and David get here, I'm certain they'll be just fine with some take away dinner in front of the fire. Or they can pick something up on their way."
Mary Margaret and David were in charge of the rental car, and seeing as they only needed the one car and the resort had a shuttle, Emma hadn't seen a problem with letting them get the car despite the later flight.
Current Emma kind of hates past Emma a lot right now.
She opens her mouth to tell Killian she doesn't need his clothes. She has her own, thank you very much. Her bag will be here in the morning. She's survived much worse than putting back on some clothes she's already worn.
"I'm not getting dressed with you standing there," she says instead, the heat in her cheeks blooming freshly with the weight of his stare. The towel isn't as tiny as hotel towels tend to be, but there's quite a bit of Emma on display. She's painfully aware of the fact that the towel is the only thing keeping her from being entirely naked – painfully aware that Killian is attractive, and single, and they're alone.
But she can't have a one night stand with David's best friend, so he's always been strictly off limits. Nothing about that has changed. He doesn't seem like a relationship sort of guy anyway, but even if he were, Emma doesn't do relationships.
It's A Bad Idea.
Killian winks at her before he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. She waits for his footsteps to fade back down the hall before dropping the towel and picking up the borrowed clothes. Telling herself not to be ridiculous, she pulls them on quickly, folding the waistband of the too-large pants over a few times and pushing the sleeves up until her hands are swimming in them. Killian is lean, but the clothes are still far too large.
Emma absolutely, positively does not think about how long it's been since a man other than David has lent her clothing.
She definitely doesn't inhale the smell of Killian that lingers in the fabric, clean and masculine.
It's only after she's dressed that she picks up her phone. "Oh, fuck," she mutters under her breath, squinting at the text as though it will somehow change.
Flight is delayed. Storm blew in quicker than expected. Not sure if we're getting out tonight.
The set of included emojis doesn't come close to expressing how Emma feels about this.
"One night," she reassures herself, glancing out the window. It's snowing here, but they're hundreds of miles away from Boston. It snows in the mountains. That's why they came here in the first place.
Killian meets her in the hall, clearly on his way back to her room. His brows are furrowed, and when he sees her face, he holds up his phone with a shrug. "It would appear we might be on our own this evening." To her surprise, it's a simple statement, no innuendo. He's changed as well, plaid flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt that clings to his chest, a smattering of dark hair peeking out above the v-neck.
"Yeah," she answers lamely, avoiding his gaze and turning toward the stairs. She can feel his eyes sweep over her even without looking, and she doesn't see what could possibly be attractive about her current look, but then again, she's wearing his clothes.
With surprising venom, Emma wonders just how many women he's dressed in his clothes before.
Irritated irrationally with him – and herself – Emma starts down the stairs, shoving her phone and its traitorous message into her – his – pocket. "I'm going to start a fire."
Of course, starting a fire isn't something Emma has a whole lot of experience with, so Killian ends up kneeling beside her, bending to gently blow into the kindling he carefully assembled. He has a merry blaze going in no time, flames dancing cheerfully while Emma wishes just one thing would go right for her today.
"You don't have to babysit me," she says, grouchy as she curls into a corner of the couch. "Go ski. That's why you came."
"You could come with me."
His offer is a little too earnest. Emma rolls her eyes, gesturing to her borrowed clothes. "I don't ski. Even if I did, neither my jeans nor your sweatpants are going to help the cause."
"The lodge probably sells ski pants and-"
"Yeah, for a small fortune." Struggling to rein in her temper, Emma digs her nails into the couch cushion and forces herself to look at him instead of the floor. "Thank you for the offer, but no. I'm good here."
He goes upstairs without a word, and just when she's starting to feel a little guilty for driving him off, Killian reappears with a bottle of rum. He hands it to her before stepping into the kitchen, returning with two glasses. "Not quite in the mood to freeze my arse off on the slopes," he says by way of explanation, taking the bottle back from her and pouring two generous glasses. He's sitting too close, his leg nearly touching hers despite the available space. "Shall we see if there's a movie we can agree on?"
– x –
Emma can't remember the last time she was this cozy in her bed, warm and content and pleasantly sleepy. It's still dark, the faint light beckoning from the window nothing more than the glow of the lamps marking the walkways of the resort.
Emma's bed shifts and mumbles, curling tighter around her.
She comes awake with a start, realizing she isn't in bed at all, but on the couch with Killian. The TV is off, their empty glasses and what's left of the bottle of rum sitting innocently on the coffee table. She has no memory of snuggling into his arms, certainly not of twining her legs with his, his thigh between hers, his arm around her waist. The fire has burned down to nothing more than a few glowing embers.
The last thing she remembers is watching the play of the firelight over his cheeks, half-heartedly paying attention to some movie or another he put on. They'd been drinking for hours, leaving the cabin long enough to run down to the main lodge to pick up dinner and some exorbitantly priced snacks and breakfast supplies from the small store. Killian had put on a pirate movie after they'd settled in with dinner, and then another, and then … nothing.
Her thoughts are still a little fuzzy from the rum, her mind sluggish as she sifts through her memory. They're both fully clothed, so she doesn't think she did anything stupid, but his fingers rest on her hip, just under her shirt, skin to skin. She shivers, and Killian's arm tightens.
Emma knows she needs to find a way up to her own bed, but the thing is, she isn't all that sure she can untangle herself from him without waking him up. It would be awkward enough without any help, but since their bodies are pressed so tightly together, the layers of clothes don't hide his arousal. He's asleep. It's nothing personal, but she really doesn't want him to wake up like this and start to do something about it.
She doesn't know that she'd have the willpower to refuse him.
Eventually she falls back asleep, and when she wakes up to find him carrying her up to her bed, mumbling a groggy go back to sleep, she doesn't know if she's relieved or disappointed to be left alone in her room.
– x –
The smell of coffee and bacon tugs Emma from sleep eventually, and she stumbles downstairs to find Killian at the stove. His hair is still damp from a shower, and for a moment, she forgets she's not supposed to encourage any of his flirting and just stares shamelessly.
Obviously, that's when he turns around.
She looks away quickly, making a beeline for the coffee pot. He's already set out a mug and spoon for her, and as she starts to pour, he wordlessly grabs the bottle of cream from the fridge and sets it on the counter next to her mug. "Thanks," she mumbles, embarrassed at having been caught staring and off balance from the memory of waking up in his arms.
Unexpectedly, Killian is remarkably easy to be around first thing in the morning. He doesn't really try to talk to her, resuming his cooking as she fixes her coffee. Cupping her hands around the warm mug, she leans back against the counter, watching as he cracks an egg with one hand.
She must make some sort of noise of surprise, because he looks up suddenly, his grin almost sheepish. "Can't fault a lad for showing off a bit," he says, but he shifts his weight as though he's nervous.
"Where did you learn that?"
His expression clouds, jaw tightening, lips thinning. "Old injury. Didn't think the left hand would make it for a bit. Had to learn to do things with the right, just in case." At his side, his left hand twitches, his fingers not quite curling into a fist. "It will never be fully functioning, but at least I got a bit of sensation and use back after a while."
"I've never noticed," Emma admits, dragging her eyes back up to his face in an effort not to study the hand. "You hide it well."
He shrugs, not eager to expand on the topic. Instead he gestures to the toaster with the spatula in his right hand. "I wasn't certain how dark you prefered the toast."
Emma takes the hint, busying herself with the toaster. It isn't until they sit down at the small table, her plate heaped with toast and eggs and bacon, that she realizes her phone isn't in her pocket. "I'm just going to go grab it in case the airline calls," she says apologetically, snagging a piece of bacon and popping it in her mouth as she rushes up the stairs and back down.
"Sorry," she says breathlessly as she flops into her seat, unlocking the phone with one hand and reaching for her fork with the other. "This all looks amazing. Thank you for … you've got to be fucking kidding me."
"Airline?"
Struggling with the sudden sting of tears, Emma hands her phone over wordlessly, letting him see the text messages. One, from the airline, saying delivery of her luggage has been delayed, with a phone number to call for a more specific update. Another message from Mary Margaret, saying they've been rebooked on a flight tonight and won't arrive until after dark.
A full day alone with Killian, without her clothes, at a ski resort when she doesn't ski.
"Let's call the airline, shall we?" Killian asks after a pause, his fingers curling around hers reassuringly after he's set the phone down. "Perhaps after breakfast?"
She nods, swallowing hard and reaching for her coffee. One deep breath, then another. She repeats the exercise until she can open her eyes without wanting to cry and reaches for her fork once more. Emma isn't really hungry anymore, but Killian went through the effort of making her breakfast. She should at least eat it.
"Thank you," she manages to get out, glancing at him quickly before looking anywhere else. "For breakfast. And for the clothes. I didn't say thank you for that yesterday, so sorry. And thank you."
"You're quite welcome, darling. Trust me, a bit of bacon will improve the morning."
But whatever momentary reprieve she gets from having a delicious breakfast, the call to the airline doesn't improve matters. After a lengthy hold, during which Emma curses whoever came up with the concept of hold music, they get a harried woman who explains, with little to no sympathy, that due to the storm, airline resources have been diverted. In other words, they won't be delivering her bag until tomorrow. Maybe the day after. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience. They'll credit her account 5,000 frequent flier miles as compensation.
"I don't want miles. I fly like once every ten years. I want my clothes, and my toothbrush, and clean underwear." She's whining, she knows she is, but Killian smiles sympathetically anyway. They've already hung up, no amount of Killian's polite pleading or Emma's snarky demands getting them anywhere.
A spark flies through his eyes when she mentions underwear, and there's a beat where they're both painfully aware that she isn't wearing any.
"We did get you a toothbrush last evening," Killian eventually says, though the interest in his eyes hasn't quite dissipated. "As for the rest-"
"Don't," Emma warns him, but a smile tugs at the edge of her lips despite herself. There's something about his gentle tone, the teasing lilt to each word, that gets under her bad mood and seems to nudge it away.
But Emma doesn't need Killian nudging anything, so she gets to her feet and starts piling the dishes into her arms. "I'll clean this up. Go ski for a bit. I swear I'm fine. I won't burn the place down."
"I can-"
"Killian." She stops, shifting the plates to one hand and resting the other on his shoulder. It's a mistake to touch him, his skin warm under her palm through his thin shirt, the memory of waking snuggled into his arms coming back with a sharp, urgent tug far lower in her stomach than she'd like. "You don't need to stay here with me, seriously. I'm in a shit mood anyway and not really good company. Please go ski. It's only going to make me feel worse if this ruins your trip too."
"I'd hardly call it ruined by trading in a frigid ski slope for…" His eyes dart through the open arch to the couch where they fell asleep together last night, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip. It would verge on obscene if she thought he'd done it on purpose, but the tips of his ears start to turn pink before he looks up at her.
There's heat is his eyes, heat that could stop her from ever being cold again, but it's tempered by a question. She knows then, knows if she gave him the slightest encouragement, exactly how they could spend their day – and so she hesitates, because he's delightfully rumpled right now, and he made her breakfast, and let her borrow his clothes, and really, what's the harm?
Her fingers tighten on his shoulder, and she starts to set the plates back on the table, her body swaying toward his. Emma doesn't say anything, but his hand moves to her hip, and he's tugging her closer, leaning back in his chair to make room for her as she steps between his legs.
And if her phone hadn't started ringing at the very moment, she knows he'd have kissed her.
Instead, the sound jerks them both into awareness, and Emma rapidly steps away from him, flustered and frustrated and annoyed with herself. She snatches the phone off the table where she left it, turning her back on Killian and making a hasty escape up the stairs as she answers.
"Why are you out of breath?" Mary Margaret asks, a hint of laughter coming across the line. "Did Killian convince you to go ski after all?"
"No," Emma hisses in response, closing her bedroom door firmly and leaning back against it. "Please tell me you'll be here soon."
Her best friend sighs, and David's muffled voice in the background is too hard to distinguish individual words, but his irritated tone carries through. "David is on with the airline. I swear, this has just been one disaster after another. Now they're saying that we aren't actually on a flight tonight, but tomorrow morning. Something about rebooking due to the storm. I don't know, Emma. I feel like this trip is cursed between our flights getting all messed up and them losing your bag. At least you should have that this morning, right?"
"Nope." She pops the p, squeezing her eyes shut in frustration as she realizes she's going to spend another night alone with Killian. After that scene in the kitchen, she really needs her friends to arrive to save her from herself. "Disaster is a great word for this whole thing so far."
There's a pause, the rustle of fabric, and then Mary Margaret's voice comes through the line again, quieter, as though she's moved away from her husband and doesn't want to be overheard. "Did something happen with Killian?"
"No." But the denial is too fast, too high pitched, and Emma doesn't bother trying to pretend Mary Margaret is going to believe her for a second. "I mean. We fell asleep on the couch last night, but then right before you called, there was this…" She throws her free hand up helplessly, shrugging.
"This?" comes the prodding reply, a hint of amusement in the question.
"When are you guys going to be here? I'm going to do something stupid if you leave me here."
"Would it really be stupid?" The question is much more gentle than Emma would have expected, the teasing gone from her friend's voice. "You could be good for each other, you know."
Emma can't help the laugh that bursts out, bitter and sharp. "Does he have a taste for damaged goods?"
"I wish you wouldn't call yourself damaged, Emma." It's a familiar scolding, but there's real concern behind it, and so Emma swallows the protest she instantly wants to make. "I'm just saying, you don't see how he looks at you when he thinks no one else is paying attention." She hesitates, but then even more quietly, "David will kill me for telling you this, but Killian changed his flight when he found out you were going to be alone. He only told you he hadn't booked his ticket yet so you wouldn't feel guilty."
Deep down, it makes sense, a horrible, clear kind of sense. Killian is always so prepared. It had surprised the hell out of her that he'd forgotten to get his plane ticket, but she hadn't thought much else of it.
"Shit," is all she manages to say into the phone, letting her head thump back against the wooden door. "Shit, shit, shit."
"Don't you dare tell him I told you."
"My current plan is to avoid him until you get here." Emma isn't sure she wants to even tell Mary Margaret, but the words come out of her mouth anyway, a confession she's making more to herself than her friend. "He's been so… I'm wearing his clothes, because mine are… and he carried me up to bed at some point and made me breakfast."
"So what's the problem?"
"Me. I'm the problem." Emma stares across the room, out the window to the snowy winter wonderland beyond. "I'm not… he's too… I just can't."
"Can't or won't?" There's a muffled shout in the background, and Mary Margaret lets loose another sigh. "I've got to hang up, but we will be there as soon as we can. David swears he's getting us on a flight tonight, but I'll let you know." A second passes, then another. "He's one of the good ones, if you can get past the fear and give him a chance."
"I'm not afr–" The call cuts out before Emma can finish saying the word, and she huffs out her frustration in one agitated breath before tossing her phone onto the bed. Not wanting to deal with Killian or even really her own thoughts, she takes her time washing her face with the resort's soap, brushing her teeth with the brand new toothbrush and finger-combing her hair the best she can.
When she finally emerges, the house is quiet, the pop and crackle of the fire echoing up to the second floor. "Killian?" she calls, glancing down the hall toward his room. The door is open, but the light is off, and downstairs, she finds herself alone.
The dishes have been washed, and there's a note sitting under the coffee pot, freshly brewed. Gone skiing – K. His handwriting is a surprise, sweeping loops seem oddly old-fashioned, but the note sends a sharp pang of disappointment through her.
"You told him to go," she reminds herself sternly, pouring a fresh cup of coffee and padding out to the living room, drawn to the heat of the flames. Killian must have built up the fire for her before he left, and she finds a pair of his wool socks sitting neatly folded on the coffee table. Their glasses from last night are gone too, like it never even happened.
Except it did happen. Emma can't concentrate on any of the shows she tries to watch, restless and unsettled by her time with Killian. Why did they have to be on a separate flight? Why did her luggage have to get lost? Why does he have to be so damn attractive and thoughtful and nice?
It's a relief when the electronic lock clicks open, a blast of cold air and the crisp scent of snow and woodsmoke following Killian into the house. He spends a minute toeing off his shoes at the door, hanging his coat on the hook and otherwise removing his snowy clothes, but when he looks up, cheeks flushed from the cold, his hair damp and falling in his eyes, Emma knows she's lost whatever battle she's been waging with herself.
"Have a good morning?" he asks, his gaze skimming over her. The redness in his cheeks serves as contrast to the deep blue of his eyes. His attention settles on her as she hums a noncommittal response, unprepared for the sight of him sweaty and rumpled and god that way he's looking at her.
"I thought I'd have a shower and then we could see about lunch?"
"I would love some hot chocolate," Emma admits, glancing at the steadily falling snow outside the window. "How was the skiing?"
"Didn't break anything." He flashes a grin, and Emma rolls her eyes as he walks away, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
They've just come back from the lodge when Mary Margaret texts to confirm they won't be flying out until the next day. Emma and Killian are on their own for the night.
Emma tosses her phone down on the kitchen counter with a low growl of frustration. Any hope she had of holding it together until her friends arrive tonight just went sailing out the window, but Killian mistakes her reaction. "Come now, Swan, it's not so bad spending time with me, is it?"
It's the hesitancy that gets her in the end, the false bravado in his voice that can't quite be hidden in his eyes. "No," she whispers, and then she pushes up onto her toes and kisses him.
He doesn't hesitate to kiss her back.
Killian tastes sugary sweet, like the caramel hot chocolate he was drinking just moments ago. His arms surround her, tucking her closer, pulling her in as his lips move over hers, greedy for more. He groans as her back hits the cabinets, his hips anchoring hers.
Emma's hands are cold from the walk back, her thin gloves not enough in the frigid mountain air. He hisses through his teeth as her fingers touch his bare skin beneath his shirt. She nips at his lips in response, and the sound he makes goes straight between her legs.
He breaks the kiss, his own hand reaching beneath her clothes, and Emma is about drag his mouth back to hers when he starts on her neck, finding the sensitive spot that drives a shudder down her spine. His grip tightens, fingertips slipping beneath the rolled waistband of her borrowed pants, and then he's cursing against her skin. "You haven't got anything on underneath this, do you?" Each word is ragged, breathless, as he tugs lightly on the pants.
Killian doesn't wait for her to answer, exploring for the answer on his own, palming the bare curves as he grinds against her with a growl. He swallows the sounds she makes as he touches her, light, teasing touches that transform into an urgent hold without warning before fading again as they kiss. It's much harder than it should be to get his jeans unbuttoned, her attention consumed by his kisses, deep, plundering kisses that leave her thankful for the cabinets at her back.
He lifts her into his arms before she can give the zipper down. Each step takes a century, his path to the couch almost drunken until they finally tumble down into the cushions together.
His shirt goes first, quickly followed by the rest of their clothing. He only hesitates at the last moment, his hips cradled between her thighs as he looks at her. "You're sure?" he asks, and she almost laughs, but he's too serious, too intent on making sure she wants this, so instead she reaches for him, pulling him down to press yes against his lips over and over until he buries himself deep.
It doesn't last long, a shockingly intense coupling that leaves her panting as though she's just run up the whole damn mountain, Killian's breaths damp and hot against her tingling skin. "Why didn't we do that last night?" she manages to ask, and her voice is so wrecked even to her own ears she doesn't begrudge him the satisfied smirk on his lips.
"Rum," he answers with a rumble of a laugh, easing to her side and rolling so she's sprawled halfway across him. The fire is high enough to keep them warm for the moment, Emma's constant feeding of wood resulting in a toasty, cozy temperature. She's pleasantly sated, her limbs heavy and relaxed, but it's the kiss he brushes against her forehead as she settles against him that tightens her chest with unexpected emotion.
"You changed your flight for me," she says quietly, tracing an idle pattern across his chest with the tip of one nail, soft skin to coarse hair and back against.
He hesitates, swallowing hard enough for her to feel it, but then says back just as quietly, "Aye."
She wants to ask why, why with so little encouragement from her he'd do a thing like that, but it's pretty obvious in the way he's holding her now, in the way he's been touching her since she threw herself into his arms, before. So she pushes herself up on one elbow, her hair falling over her shoulders across his chest as she leans down to kiss him with whatever emotion she can muster.
It's terrifying, this feeling, something warm and tender that she doesn't exactly know what to do with. This could be a giant mistake, the biggest mistake she's ever made – or it could be something else. She knows it then, knows it in the way his palm cups her jaw, the way his kiss now is gentle but fierce with longing the last half hour hasn't done away with.
Emma holds onto that knowing, clings to it, as one night turns into a week that turns into a month that turns into a year spent with him. Sometimes Killian has to know enough for the both of them, but they make it.
And three years later, when they come back to the mountain resort, she says yes before his knee even hits the ground.