They come through the door with heavy sighs and even heavier feet. Killian kicks it shut with the base of his heel, blindly feeling behind him for the lock when he hears it click into place. Emma throws her keys on the small table, where it clatters against the wooden bowl placed at its center, while he neatly hangs his own pair on the metal loops above it.
Their latest catastrophe has left them sore; mentally and physically drained. The group of them—Snow, Charming, and Regina included—had managed to spare the town itself from disaster, instead luring their foe to the bordering forest, which presented unique problems for them to overcome. There are still twigs in her hair and dirt under her fingernails, but Killian took the brunt of it, his forehead and chin smeared and streaked with mud.
Shoes kicked off and lined up by the entrance of their apartment, they make their way further into the space, shrugging off their jackets with collective grunts and groans. The breeze that comes in through the cracked window feels like heaven against Emma's skin, their sea-side property proving to be a sound investment time and time again the more she thinks about it, and when she looks over at Killian, she sees his reaction is the same.
He trudges closer to the bathroom, but faces her before he enters it. He raises his eyebrows and gestures with his upturned thumb in silent supplication before asking: "Are you going to shower?"
She waves him off and shakes her head. "It's all yours," she tells him. She'll take one in the morning, but right now she just wants to get off her feet as soon as possible. She opts instead for simply rinsing off the sweat and grime from her face and combing through her tangled strands, as Killian strips while waiting for the water to warm up.
Emma takes a peak at him just as he's removing his boxers, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks before she exits and shuts the door. She's seen him like this countless times before, but the sight of him will always leave her breathless, bringing forth fond memories of previous—wonderful—nights spent together.
She can hear the pipes working from behind the wall of their bedroom, and stands in front of her vanity's mirror. The room itself is sparse, furnished with only a handful of pieces with their queen-sized bed at the center. She can't fully appreciate it now, at night, but when the sunlight filters in through the white linen curtains and hits the stained, wooden floorboards, she knows this is where she belongs. Where they belong.
That this is home.
Emma pulls at her false eyelashes, rubbing at her eyelids in relief. Killian comes in just as she's taking out a facial wipe and scrubbing off her make-up, starting with her mascara and eyeliner, then taking a fresh one to remove her lipstick and concealer. There's a navy blue towel secured around his waist, another smaller towel in his hand as he dries off his hair. Again, she finds herself staring, and he smirks when he catches her. Her heart still flutters, her breath still hitches when she looks at him. But there is a calm that accompanies it now, like she knows she'll get to admire him whenever she likes; that he's a permanent fixture in her life; that he's her rock.
Killian lets the towel drop to the floor as he takes out items of clothing from his dresser drawer, deciding on dark grey sweat pants and a white t-shirt. Meanwhile, Emma pulls her sweater over her head before throwing it with the pile of clothes in the hamper (which is starting to accumulate, she notes, and reminds herself to do their laundry soon). She puts on her own form of pajamas: a black tank top and the boyshorts she already has on.
He raises the comforter for her as she approaches her side of the bed (the left side, so he can curl his arm around her middle whenever he wants). Emma takes the bottle of lotion on her bedside table, flicks it open as she sits on the edge of the mattress with practiced precision, and pats the moisturizer on her bare face. It's another thing she still appreciates about their relationship: how completely vulnerable she can be around him. How their nightly routines never make her feel unsatisfied or worried that their relationship will lose the spark that is always so present between them.
She slips into bed next to him, the feel of the cool, silky sheets against her legs making her moan. "These were a good idea," she comments, so very thankful for their decision to splurge on bedding when they first moved in together.
He hums in agreement, taking off his brace and setting it down on his own table. Emma wordlessly hands him the bottle of lotion and squirts a generous amount into his opened palm, before he massages the skin of his scarred wrist. She shifts onto her elbow while he does so, straining to reach the buttons on the alarm clock and presses them in tandem.
They agreed to a brief meeting in the morning—most likely at Granny's—with just the five of them, to digest the recent incident and make plans accordingly. She knows it's their turn to see Henry off to school (even though he insists he doesn't need them to at his age), and Emma chews on her lip as she tries to do the math. "When should I set it for?"
"Seven," he suggests, his now supple hand finding it's way underneath her tank top and caressing her hip with soothing fingers. It's such a natural thing that exists between them, this need—and ability—to touch and hold one another for no other reason than because they're just there.
"Seven-thirty?"
"Seven-fifteen," he says, and she concedes, adjusting the time with forceful clicks that echo throughout the room.
She turns onto her back, his hand never leaving her but instead now placed on her stomach, his thumb brushing just under her ribs. Emma relishes in the feeling, glancing over to find him with a tired get contented expression. His gaze moves from her abdomen to her shoulders to her temple, marveling at her with hooded eyes and a pleased smile. Killian removes his hand from her belly to pick off a piece of branch still woven into her golden hair.
Emma grabs at his forearm and traces along his fingers which are still adorned with his choice of jewelry. It's the last part of their evening ritual, and is probably Emma's favorite little task that she helps him with. Carefully, she removes the ring on his thumb, letting it gently plop onto the plush blanket, then takes off the one on his index finger, then lovingly turns the golden band on his ring finger.
He collects his possessions with a swift motion, turns off the bedside lamp, then gives his wife a quick peck on the cheek before settling completely into the warmth of their bed.
"Good night, Swan," he whispers into her neck as she tucks herself against his chest, the stress from the day just melting away.
"Good night."
.
.