Emma Swan was in no way avoiding Killian Jones.

Someone had to go rustle up some food for the impromptu birthday party that had somehow came about. And that someone may as well have been her.

The fact that she could hide in the kitchen for as long as she could get away with was just a bonus.

Really.

"Need any help?"

Emma jumped just about a foot in the air at the sound of a softly accented voice, her head narrowly missing the upper edge of the refrigerator. "Dammnit Killian, some warning please."

She looked back over her shoulder to see her friend's teasing smile.

Friend.

Oh that was a weird word to say when concerning Jones.

Friends. Amigos. Buddies. Pals . All very strange words for someone who only a few months earlier was, what some may have called, her enemy.

"Sorry," he shrugged softly, letting the door close behind him.

He looked tired; the shadows under his eyes speaking of the lateness of the hour that had seen them leave the bar last night and the number of rums they had both consumed while trying to outdo each other.

That was what they did. Always competing. Kind of unavoidable when you are rival bail bonds persons.

Who could drink the other under the table? Who could tell the most outrageous (yet true) work related tale? Who could choose simply the best obscure little restaurant that their motley group of friends would just love so much?

Her stomach squirmed a little as she thought of the bottle of rum that they kept in the liquor cabinet. She was definitely sticking to beer tonight.

"Sure," she quipped - perhaps a little too high pitched - before making to turn back to her search for food.

(Hoping he would take the hint.)

"But Emma-"

"Hmm," she murmured as she picked a block of cheese and a - hopefully fresh - jar of olives from the shelves.

"Can we talk?"

"Little busy here Jones," she said, shoving the block of cheese under her chin so she could grab a tub of guacamole.

"It's about yesterday. And that dance."

Slowly, Emma pivoted on her heel. With the block of cheddar still wedged under her chin and both hands occupied, she tried her best to look in his direction, hampered by the restraints of anatomy and dairy products. The little palpitations that had faded with her hangover, began to return.

She'd kinda hoped he'd forgotten about that.

( Really hoped. )

He gave her an odd look, before reaching out and taking the cheese from her grasp, his fingers swiping against the skin of her neck as she whispered, "Thanks."

And then came the awkward silence she'd been dreading. The skin he had touched tingling with electricity as his blue eyes studied her - the way they had a thousand times before - with a mixture of judgement and curiosity that she couldn't quite deal with right now.

"So you danced with me."

"And you danced with me," she retorted with a small shrug, trying to look as nonchalant as she could with tupperware and a half empty jar of olives in her arms.

The muscles in his jaw flickered - the way they always did when he was frustrated (though, damn, she hated that she knew that).

She knew him better than most.

He knew her better than most.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat and took a step closer. "Aye I did. After you accosted me on the dance floor." He paused and then raised a brow, "Swan, your arms were like that of an octopus. I felt violated."

His voice had a teasing edge, which made a smile flicker traitorously at her lips - but she knew he was reaching for an explanation as to just why she had - yes she admits it - got down and dirty with him on The Rabbit Hole's dance floor.

It all flashed back.

Grinding her ass into his crotch. Her hands balling into the damp material of his shirt. The flush on his cheeks as she'd slung her arms around his neck. The practically indecent way she had plastered her body against his on the sweaty, packed dance floor.

Oh holy hell, what had she done?

(Oh GOD she hoped no one else had seen.)

She took a deep breath and nonchalantly popped out her hip, doing her best impression of someone totally confident and not feeling completely out of their depth. "Are you complaining?"

Then he did that thing he does where his eyes rake over her and make her feel all tingly and sexy and-

( No. No. No .)

"Never," he replied, his voice noticeably lower, cutting right through her.

She needed to break the moment.

Emma took the chance to empty her arms of their contents and then open one of the cupboards above the work surface to find the large bowl she needed for the nachos. If she had thought that that would have sent Killian away, she was wrong. Instead he sidled up beside her and took the bag of chips she had already gotten ready and ripped them open.

"You still haven't answered me," he sang a few seconds later.

He was persistent, as always.

(It's what made him so good at his job.)

She needed to end this conversation- or at the very least steer it away from his inevitable assumption-

( That she had a thing for him- )

Dampening her lip with her tongue, she let the first lie that appeared in her head fall from her lips. "I was trying to make Graham jealous."

"Graham?" he spat, as if the name was the most disgusting thing ever to pass his lips. "Why the bloody hell would you want anything to do with that tosser?"

"Hey!" she cried, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and then tossing her hair over her shoulder. "He's a good guy. Decent. Hardworking."

(That much was true. Graham Humbert was decent and kind and good and- well, all the things she should want in a man. So they say.)

"Your brother's partner," Killian offered, folding his arms and observing her with a disbelieving eye.

She turned her head and gave him a sarcastic smile. "Gee, I never noticed."

His expression changed as their eyes met - softened somehow, his smile shifting somewhat. Their eyes fixed for a long moment, until he looked away and began opening a bag of tortilla chips. "Well, I'm actually surprised you're interested in him. I thought you went for the more… rugged, roguish type."

"Oh, like you?" she replied, so quickly the words had left her mouth before she could stop herself.

He took a quick breath. "Yes, actually."

Wordlessly he poured out the chips and then crumpled up the bag, the crackle of the plastic wrapper occupying the silence their voices had left behind. Emma picked up the jar, running her hand over the lid as she waited for him to say something else.

Anything else.

Because there was a wordless tension brewing between them, and not for the first time. She heard him sigh.

She looked across at him; he was rubbing his hand over his stubbled jaw.

"When are we going to do something about this?" he asked quietly.

His words turned her heartbeat into a steady thud in her chest and she sucked in a deep breath.

"About what?" she replied. Going for breezy but instead it came out all strained and awkward.

A torturous second stretched out as the two watched each other.

Then he took the container of olives she was trying to open, his large, strong hands opening it with a soft pop. He placed it back on the countertop and her arms fell limply to her sides. No barrier between them, not even a jar of pickled vegetables.

"This thing between us," he said, eyes searching hers until she looked away, not wanting to go… there.

"There is nothing between us, Jones," she insisted.

Killian rested his arm on the countertop, leaning in towards her. "Emma, there has been an unspoken thing between us for months now."

Furrowing her brow, she looked him square in the eye. "It was just a dance, Killian. Don't read anything into it. I was drunk. You were drunk."

She backed away from him, folding her arms, creating another barrier between them.

"There is no thing here. Unspoken...or otherwise."

He looked like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply shrugged and whispered.

"If you say so."

And before she could say any more, he left the room.