Emma Swan blew her hair off of her forehead, the sticky humidity in Nashville doing nothing to help her cope with the lack of air conditioning in her new house. Deciding the last of the boxes could wait another day to be unpacked, Emma rocked back on her heels and looked around her bedroom, surprised at the progress she had made in only a few hours.

The house, a pretty yellow thing with a large front porch, had lots of windows, which made the house have a sunny glow, making Emma feel at home instantly. It probably had two more bedrooms than she needed, but the house was a steal, even if it needed a little work. The master bedroom in particular needed a fresh coat of paint, but it wasn't too far gone, and Emma sort of enjoyed the feeling of a lived-in house, although she supposed that came from her job as a museum curator – a love for old things.

This new job, however, was far out of Emma's range of normalcy. For one thing, it was a permanent position. The other curator jobs she had in the past had all been temporary – filling in for other curators while they were on leave, or finishing their dissertations, or taking sabbaticals. This one, at the Cheekwood Botanical Garden and Museum of Art in Nashville, was a full-time position. That's what led Emma to buy a house, rather than rent an apartment.

The idea of settling down and putting down roots, so to speak, left Emma with a familiar sense of panic and restlessness, but she was determined to stick this one out. Her life had gone through some drastic changes in the last year, and she had vowed to start over with a clean slate, a slate that could actually make her happy.

In the span of twelve months, Emma had her heart broken more times than she could count. After Neal, after she had turned eighteen, she had vowed not to let a man close enough to injure her heart in such a way again, but it had happened. Walsh had been a mistake, she realized that now. He had only been after her position as curator in one of New York City's more prestigious art galleries, and the perks that it could provide. He had only been interested in meeting important people to further his career, and had basically told Emma so to her face when she declined his marriage proposal, which had apparently thrown all his plans back in his face. Served him right, she thought.

Only months after that, she had received a rather distressing call – a woman named Mary Margaret was in the hospital, claiming to be Emma's mother. This woman had been separated from her husband (not by choice) and was eight months pregnant, and the stress had caused her to go into labor early, and the only person she could think of in that moment had been Emma, the daughter she had given up.

To say Emma had conflicting feelings about the entire thing was an understatement. She had gone to hospital after prodding from her best friend Ruby, and knew straight away that Mary Margaret was in fact her mother. They had the same chin, and the same smile. Days later, a knock on the door revealed David, Emma's father, and the tears he shed upon seeing his newborn son and wife he had been without for weeks were nothing compared to how he had reacted when he had lain eyes upon Emma, knowing immediately that this was his daughter, all grown up right before his eyes.

They had some long, painful conversations about their past, and while Emma understood that she had been given up in order to have her best chance (something about Mary Margaret's family not getting along with David's to the point of them having to run away), she still couldn't shake the loneliness and abandonment issues that were plastered on her heart. She had said as much to her parents, but told them that she wanted to be in their lives. Hence, her move to Nashville.

Her parents lived in Brentwood, a suburb not far from where Emma decided to move to, in Belle Meade. Emma was adamant that she live in her own house. Besides the fact that she was twenty-eight years old, she also couldn't imagine living with her parents after so many years apart. It was going to take a long time before she could allow herself to fully accept the sudden appearance of her parents (and a baby brother), and she figured some time to herself would be just what she needed.

That brings her up to now, where she is sweating in her house, the breeze coming through the open windows providing a small relief. Wandering into the kitchen, Emma pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea (courtesy of her neighbor, who everyone affectionately called Granny) and poured herself a tall glass, leaning on the island in her kitchen. As she looked around her home, she felt a warmth bloom in her chest at the sight of a home finally coming together. She could do this.

She could do this.

.

.

.

Killian's eyes were closed, shutting out the audience and the rest of the world as he strummed his guitar slowly, choosing to play this particular cover in such a way as to make everyone around him feel ensnared in the moment. As he played the final notes, he heard clapping and whistles from the crowd, and a smile reluctantly bloomed on his face.

"Thank you," he said into the microphone before getting up and leaving the stage, his set done for the evening. Backstage, he set his guitar in the case before walking back out to the bar, holding his hand up to signal the bartender.

Killian Jones led a simple life. He was convinced it was the small pleasures of living in a place like Nashville that kept him from going insane most days. A struggling musician was not the life he had pictured for himself, but he did well enough to make ends meet, and he was relatively happy. That was all that mattered to him.

As he sipped his drink, he watched the performer who had gone on after him, a girl named Belle who not only could play guitar with the best of them, but who had a sultry voice to match, not to mention an accent that had most of the crowd hanging on her every word.

He met her eye and grinned, holding up his drink in salute. His brother's bar had become a refuge for him after he had moved to Nashville, and he had since made friends with most of the regulars. The nights he helped out behind the bar weren't bad either, earning him more money than he ever needed for the week. That was one advantage to being on Music Row (the main stretch for music in Nashville) – he could both perform and tend bar, and always leave richer than when he left, either with cash, or the promise of an audition in the near future.

"Drink up, little brother," Liam's Irish lilt sounded near Killian's ear, and he turned his head slightly, "You've got company," he said, sounding concerned, and Killian turned to the doorway, his smile fading instantly as he saw his ex-girlfriend and her new husband walk through the doors.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink before escaping to the makeshift backstage area. Before he got there, however, he felt a hand on his elbow, and when he turned around, he was face to face with Milah.

"It's rude not to say hello, Killian!" She teased, her smile just as bright as he remembered, and he felt his heart clench painfully as he saw her lace her fingers with Robert Gold, her husband.

"Milah," he greeted, tilting his head in her direction. "Gold," he said coolly to her husband, who said nothing in return, but narrowed his eyes. "I have to get backstage," he lied, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

"Have a drink with us, will you? We haven't seen each other in so long."

Whose fault is that? Killian wanted to scream, but instead he found himself ushered into a booth in the corner of the bar, Liam bringing him a refill, sending him an apologetic look. "I never got to wish the both of you congratulations," he said glumly, trying his hardest to be civil.

"We've been so busy. Things are happening so fast after the wedding!" Milah gushed, and Killian wondered (not for the first time), how she could be so accepting of everything that had happened between the two of them. Did she feel no remorse at all for leaving him in the dead of night for a man that he used to trust?

"You started drinking without me!" A voice interrupted, and Killian looked up to see a woman, possibly the most stunning woman he had ever seen, watching him with eyes that were the color of gemstones.

"Uh…" he said, brilliantly, feeling unbelievably out of the loop. The blonde woman took a seat next to him and shot a dazzling smile in Milah's direction, watching as the brunette's smile diminished significantly.

"I'm Emma. He probably didn't mention me, did he?" She said, her voice full of affection as she elbowed Killian, who still had no idea what was happening. He decided to play along, however. Anything to get him out of the most awkward interaction of his adult life.

"He didn't, actually," Milah replied, her voice flat.

"My fault," Killian interjected, "I don't know where my manners are. Emma, this is Milah, and her husband Robert."

"Oh, I've heard so much about you," the blonde next to him said sweetly, and he nearly spat out his rum at the look on Milah's face. "It's so nice of you to come and see Killian perform, I know he appreciates all the support he can get."

"We actually didn't -"

"You know what, we're going to be late for dinner if we don't leave," Emma interrupted, looking pointedly at Killian, who stumbled over his response.

"Wha- oh, right. Dinner. You're right, we should go." He stood abruptly, trying not to notice the floral scent of Emma's perfume invading his senses.

"It was so nice to meet you all. I hope we see you again soon," she said, her smile innocent but biting at the same time as she grinned at Milah, who was seemingly frozen in place. Quietly, she muttered to Killian, "Follow me outside and whatever you do, don't look to see if she's watching. She is."

Killian was dumbstruck, and followed Emma out of the bar, ignoring his brother's amused face as he stepped out onto the busy streets of Nashville with a virtual stranger.

"I… You…" he started, trailing off as he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I think 'thank you' is the phrase you're looking for," Emma said, rolling her eyes.

"You didn't have to do any of that," he said, meeting her eyes for the first time, and feeling a jolt of electricity race up his spine at the look of understanding he found in her gaze.

"No, I didn't, but I know that situation. It's not fun. Thought I'd save you some trouble."

After a moment, he held out his hand. "Killian Jones," he said, "And thank you."

"I'm Emma. Emma Swan. And you're welcome." She smiled softly as she shook his hand, and he marveled at the softness of her skin before she withdrew from him, arms going around her middle as she tried to ward off the cold. "I saw your set," she offered, "You were really good."

Killian felt his cheeks heat up at her praise, and smiled shyly at her. "Thank you kindly, ma'am." He said, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat in her direction.

She laughed, a sound he found himself wanting to hear more of, and he grinned. "Really, thank you again for rescuing me in there."

"Don't mention it," she replied, that small smile still painted on her lips, the late-night breeze causing her curly hair to dance around her face in a particularly appealing way. "I've got to go; I really just came for a drink. I'll see you around, Jones." She said, and turned to leave without waiting for his reply.

He watched her go, feeling as if something was shifting in the air around him signaling a change, and hopefully one for the better.