She takes the rose with her when they leave the restaurant.
She's not sure why.
(Actually, she is, but she's still shying away from admitting what she's afraid is already written all over her face.)
She doesn't want this evening to end.
The rose is drooping a little now, its petals not quite as full as they were when he'd first presented it to her - like a corsage on prom night, God, she'll never hear the end of it from her parents – but it's still beautiful and fragrant and she can't bear to leave it behind.
It's not like she's planning to put it in a glass of water in her room or anything sentimental like that.
Thirty years old and she's still a terrible liar, she thinks, even to herself.
He walks her home.
Just like a real date, she thinks with a hidden smile, then realises that this is the most 'real' date she's been on in months. Maybe even years.
It's a sobering thought, but she still feels as giddy as though she'd guzzled a whole bottle of champagne at dinner as he offers her his arm. "May I have the honour, Swan?"
"You may." Grinning, she ignores the crook of his elbow and instead reaches for his hand, threading her fingers through his tightly. His smile falters - it's his left hand, she realises, and he's obviously still feeling weird about it – then his fingers curl into hers as he gestures towards the waterfront with his right.
"Shall we?"
They take the long way home, walking along the waterfront, his longer stride matched to hers, and she can't help noticing that their footsteps are keeping perfect time.
She likes his new shoes.
She likes everything about his new look, to be perfectly honest.
(The lack of hook was a pleasant surprise, she admits, but not as much as those new pants.)
She wants to ask him about the fact that he'd obviously gone shopping after she'd asked him out, but she doesn't want to embarrass him. She'll find out the details eventually, if not from him then from the various shopkeepers he's sure to have visited. The thought that he'd made such an effort for her, wanting to measure up to whatever high standards he believes she has (she's going to ignore the flying monkey crack for now) is like a tiny seed of joy tucked away inside her.
She's not used to a date wanting to impress her because it's something shedeserves.
She lets her arm bump against his, enjoying the feel of the soft leather of his new jacket against her bare skin. "Tell me again about you stealing little Bo Peep's lacy crook?"
His hand squeezes hers gently. "Before I do, I'll have you know I managed to maintain my dashing countenance quite well, despite the horrid frilliness of that wretched thing."
Laughter bubbles up in her throat like the champagne she didn't allow herself to drink tonight. "I'm sure you did."
Their linked hands are grazing her hip with every step they take, but it's the warmth of his answering smile makes her toes curl in her brand new pumps.
He makes her smile.
He always could do that, even when she was angry with the world.
He holds her hand, his palm fitting perfectly against hers, his touch gentle as he recounts tales of ogres and krakens and murderous mermaids. He's a born storyteller, infusing his words with enough dry humour to make her forget that these are real things that actually happened, although maybe with a little exaggeration. Not one of his stories has a single thing to do with ice or snow, and for that she's grateful.
She feels like a child being told the most amazing of bedtime stories, she thinks, then blushes. She shouldn't think about him and her and bedtime in the same heartbeat, not when there's nothing she can do about it tonight.
When she shivers, she has the feeling it's not just because of the sudden cold wind gusting along the waterfront.
"You're cold." Before she can say a word, he has let go of her hand and shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over her shoulders all in one smooth, graceful movement. "You should have said something, love."
"I wasn't, really." A little overwhelmed by the display of chivalry, she lifts her hand to touch the butter-soft lapel, the scent of new leather and some subtle cologne wafting around her. "But now that you mention it." She hands him the rose, smiling as he frowns in confusion. When she slips her arms into the sleeves and tugs his jacket around herself snugly, his eyes light up. "That's better."
His tanned throat works as he swallows hard, and the blatant male appreciation in his eyes has her heart doing an odd little jig. "That's a good look on you, Swan."
"You've got good taste," she tells him, a little shocked by the throaty purr in her voice. Damn it, she was not going to let herself get carried away, not tonight. "In leatherwear, I mean."
His wide mouth twitches as he holds out his hand. "Amongst other things," he murmurs, and anticipation sparks beneath her skin, making her feel as luminescent as the glowing lights strung along the railing that follows the pathway. "That wind has a fair bite to it, I must say."
They start to walk, slowly and surely towards the end of their evening. She knows he's changing the subject on purpose with that comment about the wind, and she tells herself that she's glad. This thing between them is like a live wire, flaring and sparking without warning, and she wants to savour it. As much as she wants to know just how much more fun they could have (he promised her once, and she's never forgotten) she's determined not to rush things. Not this time, not with him. It's too important.
He's too important.
"Wait, my rose. Did you drop it?" She glances over her shoulder, trying to peer at the darkened pathway behind them, then she feels the brush of petals along the neckline of her dress. Oh, God.
She turns back to face him, her breath catching in her throat at the look in his eyes as he holds out the rose to her for the second time that night. "Um, thank you." She takes it from him with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy, then they start to walk again, still hand in hand. Somehow it feels less dangerous to keep moving, she thinks, and she's not talking about the Snow Queen. "So, I'm guessing you had a busy day today, what with the new clothes and flower shopping and picking up your hand and all."
He says nothing, and she rebukes herself silently. Damn it. She'd decided that she wasn't going to put him on the spot like that, but the words had just come out. To her relief, though, he finally smiles. "Aye." He runs a self-conscious hand down the front of his new waistcoat, and a pang of tenderness twists through Emma's chest. "There are a few shopkeepers whose coffers are a little weightier this evening."
He doesn't mention Gold by name, and Emma hesitates, trying to choose her words carefully. It's one thing to talk about new clothes and flowers, but a new hand is quite a different matter, and she decides to follow his lead. "You didn't have to do all that for me, you know."
He stops walking, gently tugging her to a halt, his hand tightening around hers. "Ah, but I did." His expression becomes more sober, his eyes searching hers. "And you deserve far more than I can ever give you, love."
Feeling more than a little overwhelmed by his blunt words, she stares at him, trying not to notice that her new heels have brought her up almost to his height. All she'd have to do is tilt her head forward to find his mouth with hers and right now, she can't think a single reason why that would be a bad idea. From the dark longing that suddenly flares in Killian's eyes, she has the feeling his train of thought is keeping pace with hers.
When a sudden gust of wind snatches the rose from her fingertips, she doesn't suspect it as being anything but a quirk of Mother Nature. Later, though, she can't help wondering if other forces were at work. Either way, it breaks the spell between them, and she hears his soft sigh of frustration before it too is snatched up by the wind.
The rose drops to the ground, the wind rolling it swiftly along the wooden planks beneath their feet towards the water's edge. "No, no, no." She steps after it, her ponytail whipping madly around her face, the skirt of her dress flaring dangerously, then she feels Killian's hand on her arm.
"It's gone into the water, love."
She leans over the metal railing, squinting into the inky darkness of the water in vain. So much for keeping a memento of their first date, she thinks in dismay. "Damn it."
He chuckles softly, then draws her away from the water's edge. "Don't fret, Swan." Lifting her hand to his lips, he presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles, the heat of his mouth sending a flutter of heat through her belly. "There will be more, trust me." His bright blue eyes sparkle as they meet hers. "I'm old-fashioned, remember?"
He walks her home.
He makes her smile.
He holds her hand.
When he finally kisses her, it feels like a promise, and she doesn't need a rose to help her remember any of it.