Autumn passes in a blur for Emma as The Blonde Roast continues to gain a reputation in the neighborhood as the best place to grab a warm drink and a sweet treat. She takes on a couple extra employees, trials new suppliers, and continues to fine-tune her menu. The days go by fast, and her evenings, spent trying to catch up on motherhood while still working on plans for the shop, go by faster.

Killian remains a reliable presence despite the fact that she continues to ignore his subtle (and not-so-subtle) romantic overtures, blessedly stalwart in his refusal to let her rejection affect their otherwise remarkably natural friendship. She'd be lying if she didn't admit that his continued attentions make her feel special and that she's impressed by his doggedness. She'd also be lying if she didn't admit that with each passing day, she's more and more tempted to finally say yes to him, not out of concern that his patience has an expiration date, but out of a growing desire to let him in.

He establishes himself almost immediately as a bright spot in her world. No matter how bad the morning, knowing that she can count on seeing him swagger through her door with one of his heart-stopping smiles and a kind word or a witty quip always makes things seem more bearable. Her daily crises come in all shapes and sizes – Henry's latest "Oh-by-the-way-Mom-I-need" or an entire batch of cookies blackened by a faulty oven or a particularly bad burn from the milk steamer – but Killian remains the same. He's just so… steady. And that's both refreshing and intriguing because not much about her life has been steady (except, perhaps, disappointment).

Where Walsh left her feeling fractured, inadequate, and constantly wondering what emotional rollercoaster was in store that day, Killian makes her feel… whole. Worthy. He makes her life better. He makes her better. And she starts to think, maybe… maybe she could do this. Maybe they could do this. Maybe if things got hard, he wouldn't give up on her. Maybe she's capable of having a relationship that doesn't end in catastrophe. Maybe.

October gives way to November, and Thanksgiving comes and goes, and every morning she watches him walk out of the coffee shop plagued by her maybes and wondering if tomorrow will be the day she feels ready to put her faith in Killian Jones.

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"Something's wrong with Killian," Henry informs Emma the first week of December. It's a school night, and he sits at the kitchen table in their apartment working on math problems and intermittently waggling his pencil between his fingers.

Emma glances over at him from where she stands at the kitchen counter reviewing last week's sales on her laptop and planning her next few days of baking. Her forehead creases. "What do you mean?"

Henry scrunches his nose. "He just seems down lately. And kinda grumpy."

Concern clouds her features. "Did he say something do you?"

"Huh? Oh. No. No, he's still nice. He's just… He's not as happy, you know?" Henry chews on his lip. "He doesn't talk as much. And he dropped a bunch of books the other day, and he actually got mad at himself. Like, he used a British swear word."

She narrows her eyes at him. "How did you know it was a swear word?"

"'Cause he made me promise I wouldn't repeat it in front of you," Henry says sheepishly. He sits forward. "But that's not like him."

Emma folds her arms, looking thoughtful. "No, it's not. Now that you mention it, he didn't stick around much to talk last week. I figured it was because the shop has been so busy lately with customers wanting the new holiday items."

Henry props his cheek on his hand, tapping the eraser of his pencil on the worksheet in front of him. "I think he might hate Christmas."

"What makes you say that?"

"He told me. Well, sort of." Henry continues to play with his pencil. "He noticed the decorations you put up at the shop, and I was telling him about how it's your favorite holiday and all the stuff we do, like the silly sweaters and the toy drive and the tree and Christmas dinner and everything, and he just got really quiet and looked kind of sad," he explains, "So I asked him if he liked Christmas, and he said Christmas wasn't really for people like him." Henry frowns. "At first I thought he meant he was Jewish or something, but then I remembered that cross he wears around his neck."

Emma hums and comes around, pulling out the chair next to her son's, spinning it, and straddling it backward with a deep sigh. She hugs the back, chin resting on her forearm. "Well, sometimes holidays like Christmas make people sad," she points out gently, her eyes somber. "Especially when they're alone or missing the people they love."

Henry considers this, his face falling. "Do you think that's what's wrong?" he asks earnestly.

Emma smiles at his concern for Killian. "I don't know," she admits. "Maybe."

"He never talks about his family." Henry drops the pencil and sits back, his gaze far away. "Maybe… maybe if he's lonely, we should invite him to do something with us," he suggests, his face suddenly brightening. "Try to cheer him up."

Pride in her son's good heart mixes with panic, and Emma nods weakly. She's spent the last several months turning down Killian's proposals to do things together, and even if it's getting harder to remember why, the idea is still scary. This is different, she scolds herself. We're not talking about a date. "Like what?" she asks, trying to sound upbeat. She holds her breath as the gears turn in her son's head.

"What about ice skating?" he suggests after a few long seconds. "You said we could check out that one rink this weekend. Maybe Killian could come."

Her knee-jerk reaction is to say no. Ice skating with Killian sounds romantic. But then, she realizes, almost everything with Killian sounds romantic. Honestly, she's not sure she'd trust herself to go to the grocery store with the man. One look at Henry's shining face, however, and she berates herself for being silly. Emma clears her throat, her pulse accelerating. "I guess that could work."

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Killian could swear he's mistaken Thursday afternoon when Henry comes to the bookstore and invites him to go ice skating. He stares blankly. "Sorry?"

"I said we're going ice skating this weekend," Henry repeats patiently, "And we thought maybe you'd like to come." The lad hunches over the counter on his elbows, radiating hopefulness and watching Killian load a fresh roll of receipt paper into the register.

Ice skating. He hasn't been ice skating in ages. Killian stops what he's doing and crosses his arms, wracked with mixed feelings. "You're sure your mother is alright with that?" he asks skeptically. Skating with Emma sounds… romantic. And Emma has made it clear that she has no intention of doing anything romantic with him. Or anyone, he reminds himself. Anyone.

Henry dimples. "Yeah, she's good with it."

Killian returns his smile, still feeling dubious. A chance to spend time with Emma and Henry outside of work hours? As morose as he might be these days, he still recognizes he'd be a fool not to jump at the opportunity. He clears his throat. "I suppose I could find the time."

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Saturday afternoon is clear and cold, the sunlight dazzling off the white snow that covers nearly everything at the Frog Pond at Boston Commons. The place is busy with bundled up visitors looking to enjoy the ice, and Emma tries to reassure herself as she follows Killian and Henry away from the rental desk, hefty skates in hand, that no matter how romantically interested or good-looking her company, a noisy venue full of excited kids is a nice, neutral, decidedly not-intimate setting where she can hopefully survive a few hours without being overwhelmed by any confusing feelings. The thought brings little comfort as she catches herself ogling Killian's butt in those ridiculously well-fitting jeans of his for the thousandth time.

They find a vacant bench that's reasonably dry, and Henry and Emma watch with fascination as Killian does up his skates with surprising efficiency. His hand alternates between the laces, vehemently yanking them taut over and over again as he works his way steadily upward, and when he reaches the point of tying the knot, he deftly intertwines the laces and pins the end of one down with his other foot while his dexterous fingers manipulate the other around it in order to create a secure-looking bow.

"Whoa, cool," Henry breathes.

Killian flashes him a modest smile as he moves on to his other skate.

Emma volunteers to take their shoes to a locker and shoos the boys out on to the ice ahead of her, glad to buy even a few more minutes of distraction. At last, she crunches her way through the snow back to the rink's edge and scans for Killian and Henry. When she locates them, she stares. They look like they're playing tag. Her son's movements are still a little slow and jerky, but Killian, who glides around smoothly, is gamely holding back in order to accommodate him, and by their wide smiles, they're both having a great time. The warmth of a tear presses its way toward her eyes. She's always known that the two get on well, but they're off at the bookstore most of the time they're together, and she's never seen them quite like this.

Henry spies her and hollers between his mittens. "Mom! Come on!"

She shakes herself out of her thoughts. "Coming!" Emma sets foot on the rink, wobbling stiffly while her legs try to remember how to balance on twin blades, and by the time she steadies, the guys are nearly half a lap ahead of her. The cold air fills her lungs as she pushes to catch up, and her calves are burning when she finally comes up on them from behind, panting. "Hey."

Henry cranes his head to look at her over his shoulder, grinning innocently. He holds his hand out, and she reaches to take it, only to have him rap her on the knuckles and yell, "Tag! You're it!"

On cue, Killian grabs her son's elbow and hauls him off at breakaway speed, and they vanish into the fray, leaving her with only Henry's delighted cackle in her ears.

Emma gapes like a fish before her eyes narrow dangerously. "Oh, like hell," she mutters, hustling after them.

The three of them chase each other around the rink for the better part of an hour, weaving in and around the other skaters and more than once colliding with one another when the pursuit grows overzealous or the crowds too thick. It's late afternoon when Killian veers sharply to avoid a pile-up of screeching teenage girls and bowls sideways into Emma. She yelps in surprise and grapples for him in a desperate bid to stay upright. A shriek escapes her as they spin chaotically and topple over, and before she knows it, she's flat on her back and squashed beneath him, cold, wet, full of adrenaline, and shaking with uncontrollable laughter. She laughs so hard she hiccups. And then he laughs. He laughs like she's never heard him laugh before, the deep peals rumbling from his belly, the sound booming in her ear, and it's positively glorious, and for a second, she doesn't mind that this is totally inappropriate, that it's romantic and sexy and everything she was trying to avoid, and that she likes the solid weight of him pressed up against her far more than she should. For a second, she's just happy – happy because she's having fun and happy because she can see in the way his remarkably blue eyes are sparkling down at her that he's happy too.

His forearms rest on either side of her head, and they stare at each other, oblivious to the noise and proximity of the other skaters passing by as their laughter fades into nervous chuckles. Her already-flushed face grows even warmer under his gaze, and she doesn't miss the way his eyes flit to her lips before he catches himself and clears his throat, ducking his head shyly and scratching behind his ear before hoisting himself off of her. "Sorry, Swan," he says, sounding as breathless as she feels. He carefully rises to his feet, taking a second to ensure his footing before he reaches down.

Emma accepts his help, her heartbeat still galloping in her ears as he pulls her up. She teeters forward, bracing herself with a hand against his chest, and his stump appears at the small of her back to stabilize her. She gives a shaky hum and glances up. His face is ruddy in a way that's endearing, and her lower lip disappears between her teeth. "Um, do you want to take a break?"

They leave Henry out on the ice playing with some kids she recognizes from his school, grabbing hot cocoa from the concession stand and settling on a bench.

Emma cradles the thick foam cup between her gloved hands and sips, humming with satisfaction as the liquid warmth lends a little heat to her cold bones. She looks over at Killian, who seems to be contemplating his cup. "Yours okay?"

He drinks, shrugging. "It'll do, Swan, but it doesn't hold a candle to yours," he says, with a wry grin.

"Flatterer," she chuffs.

He catches the subtle straightening of her back and the tiny toss of her head and laughs. "Only the truth, love. You've ruined me for all other hot cocoa."

"Well, I wish I could say I was sorry," she tells him with a sly smile. She takes another pull from the cup and catches a stray drop on her upper lip with her tongue.

A comfortable silence falls between them for a few minutes as they simply sit and drink and enjoy their nearness to one another, watching their breaths curl away from them in magical white puffs.

"Thank you for inviting me to come," he says quietly.

Emma glances sideways, touched by the genuine gratitude on his face. She smiles softly. "I'm… glad you did," she admits. She hesitates, tipping the last of her cocoa back. "Henry's been worried about you."

His wonderfully expressive eyebrows jump. "Worried?"

She nods apologetically. "He thinks the holiday season has you down."

Grim recognition lights Killian's face, and he seems to consider his response carefully. "I… It's not the easiest time," he says at last.

She watches him take another drink. "Ghosts of Christmas past?"

"Something like that." He holds his now-empty cup out so she can drop hers inside before he rises to pitch them both into a nearby trash receptacle.

Emma licks her lips, summoning her courage as he resumes his seat next to her. "You—you don't have to talk about it," she assures him hurriedly, "But if you want to, I don't mind listening." She gives an anxious little laugh, trying to break the tension. "You might end up telling me eventually anyway, you know. Especially if I ever do go out with you."

Killian cocks his head. "I don't suppose I could use my secrets as incentive to make that happen sooner, could I?" Before she can respond, he waves her off, chuckling dryly and turning his face away. "It's alright, Swan." He shoves his hand and his stump into his coat pockets and falls quiet for a moment, a sigh misting from between his lips and one knee bouncing. "I actually love Christmas," he says at last, his tone heavy with melancholy and hushed enough for a confessional. "So did my brother, Liam, and my girlfriend, Milah."

His words cause a thick sense of apprehension to creep over Emma.

"There was an accident. Five years ago. Bloody drunk driver going the wrong direction on the motorway." He bows his head and brushes the side of his nose with his thumb. "It was an autumn thunderstorm. The bastard didn't have his lights on, and we didn't see him coming until it was too late." He swallows hard, his voice wavering. "I woke up in hospital like this," he murmurs, pulling his stump back out of his pocket and lifting it a little. "I was the lucky one."

"Oh, Killian…" Emma's chest grows tight as she tries to comprehend his loss. She throws caution to the wind and scoots a little closer. "I'm so sorry."

Killian watches, awe mixing with the sorrow on his face as her hand slips gingerly over the back of his and grasps it, and she meets his questioning glance with a nervous smile, ignoring the shivers that run down her spine.

He squeezes back, relaxing visibly and tipping his chin up to survey the scene before them with distant eyes. "This time of year is when I miss them the most, especially Liam," he says. "We didn't have much growing up, but Mum always made sure Christmas was special." He smiles sadly. "We had all sorts of little traditions."

"Like what?" she asks softly.

His gaze angles toward the sky. "Reading Christmas stories late at night. Leaving fudge for Santa because our mum preferred chocolate to biscuits. Making paper lanterns and letting them go outside our flat to remind Santa not to forget us. Attending church Christmas Eve." He pauses. "Ice skating Christmas Day."

Emma's eyes widen. "Oh my god. Killian…" She glances at the rink and then back at him, horrified.

The corner of his mouth curves, and he shakes his head, tightening his fingers reassuringly around hers. "It's quite alright, love. I wanted to be here."

"Why?" Her brow wrinkles incredulously. "Why would you want to come?"

Killian absently runs his thumb up and down the side of her pinky. "I like spending time with you and Henry," he says simply. He tips his head toward her. "Don't worry yourself over my ghosts, Swan. Today's been lovely. I'll never regret being here with you."

Emma offers him a watery smile and sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and falling into thought. It pains her to know he's been shouldering this burden all this time, but her heart swells at the memory of his laughter and the idea that she and Henry have helped give him a good day in the midst of such a difficult time. There's no erasing what happened to him, and he'll probably never stop missing the people he lost (nor should he), but helping him find some more joy, trying to be a bright spot for him for once, suddenly feels far more important than her silly obsession with keeping him at arm's length.

She takes another deep breath. "We…We're going to pick out a couple of Christmas trees and set them up tomorrow," she offers. "For our place and the shop. I understand if you don't want to, but you're welcome to come help."

Killian brightens and lifts an eyebrow, the rapscallion resurfacing once more. "Are you sure you want to let a scoundrel like me into your home?" he asks, eyes glinting mischievously.

She snorts. "Like I can't keep you in line."

"Nothing I'd like better than for you to try," he chuckles.

"You guys wanna go?"

Emma startles as Henry appears to her right, carefully tromping his way through the snow, his cheeks red with exertion and his hair sweaty and matted to his forehead. He glances down and squints. "Are you holding hands?"

She silently swears and jerks her arm back hastily. "Uh, Killian's hand was cold," she says lamely, inwardly grimacing at her inability to lie more convincingly. She climbs to her feet. "Feel better?" she asks him brightly.

He disguises his disappointment well. "Aye," he bellows with forced enthusiasm, rising with a small groan. They trail Henry toward the lockers, and he falls in step with Emma, catching her eye and flashing an appreciative smile that makes her stomach somersault. Killian dips his head to her ear, his voice low. "I do."

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It feels a bit surreal to be combing through the collection of trees at a Christmas tree stand on a lot a few blocks from the coffee shop the following day, but Killian finds that the flashbacks it triggers of doing this as a boy with his brother do not inspire as much heartache as they used to, not when he has Emma and Henry to bring him back to the present.

Henry scampers from tree to tree erratically, while Killian and Emma take a more methodical approach, narrowing down the selection by size and starting there. Her eyes twinkle when he campaigns for them to get Fraser firs instead of Douglas firs.

"They have sturdier branches and hold their needles better, Swan," he insists. "No sense in buying a tree that will shed all over your floor."

She chuckles and acquiesces without argument.

It doesn't take them too long to locate two modest-sized trees that the three of them can agree on, and Henry is all but bouncing with enthusiasm as Killian helps the tree farmer tie their purchases to the roof of his SUV. It's a relatively simple matter for Killian and Emma to unload the first tree at the coffee shop and set it up in the front corner next to the window. Between the three of them, they have it strung up with lights and silvery garland and a whimsical assortment of snowflake and coffee-themed ornaments in no time, and the way Emma's face glows when they light the tree for the first time is magical and makes Killian want to kiss her so badly it hurts a little.

Fortunately, there's not much time to dwell on it as they busy themselves with cleaning up and getting the other tree over to Emma and Henry's apartment, an industrial-style loft on the third floor of a building half a mile and one T stop away. They send Henry up ahead of them to get the apartment door open and make sure the tree stand is ready while Killian and Emma haul the fir from the car into the building. It takes a little bit of effort and a lot of coordination between them to maneuver it through two sets of security doors, and Emma laughs as they sandwich themselves and the tree into the cramped building elevator, the branches tickling her nose and snagging her hair. Killian leans around the side of the tree to grin at her as the elevator makes its ascent, and the smile she gives him in return, warm and inviting and almost intimate, makes him want to crow aloud.

The loft is only about 1000 square feet, but it's modern, well-appointed, two stories tall, and full of sunlight. Killian admires the warm neutrals and soft fabrics – rugs, knit blankets, and upholstery – that make Emma and Henry's space welcoming and cozy. Like the coffee shop, the space is heavily adorned with Christmas lights, and, in the absence of a fireplace mantle, a pair of monogrammed stockings hangs on the staircase railing leading up to the bedrooms.

They shoehorn the tree into a corner of the compact living room next to the staircase, and Emma goes to make hot cocoa while Henry opens a cardboard box marked "Christmas tree" and Killian helps him sort through wound up strings of lights and ornaments, many of which are the boy's handiwork. Henry tells Killian about his mom's habit of getting him a new ornament each year and begins narrating him through all eleven character ornaments in chronologic order.

Killian hears a soft giggle and turns his head to see Emma watching them from behind the kitchen counter with a mug in her hand and an amused smile on her face. He winks at her, and her cheeks grow a deeper shade of salmon, but she continues to beam even as she turns away to finish preparing refreshments.

Henry is just telling him about last year's BB-8 ornament when Emma brings a tray into the living room and sets it on the coffee table. Dropping to the floor beside them, she sidles up next to Killian on her knees and lays her hand on his shoulder to draw his attention to the mug she silently holds out to him. He turns his head, eyes flickering down to her hand and then up to her with an eyebrow raised in silent question, and she answers with an enigmatic smile and a little shrug.

The winter sun has long since set by the time the tree is properly decked out and winking cheerfully, its multicolored lights illuminating the living room and reflecting off the windows. Henry asks Emma if Killian can stay for their weekly Pizza Night.

"Well…" Emma drawls good-naturedly, "I suppose we owe him for all his help today, don't we?"

Pizza Night also turns out to be Movie Night, and before he knows it, Killian finds himself on the couch with Henry sitting between him and Emma as the three of them laugh at A Christmas Story.

Halfway through, Henry gets up to use the bathroom, and when he runs back, he forcefully wedges himself on to the end of the couch and budges Killian over so that he's the one now sitting next to Emma. Killian shoots Henry a look at this not-so-subtle manipulation, but the boy blithely ignores him, his attention rooted on the television. Killian glances nervously at Emma and catches her fixing her son with a surprised expression. She meets his eye, and he offers her an embarrassed little smile. To his great relief, she merely crooks the corner of her mouth and goes back to watching the movie, looking thoughtful.

As the evening goes on, she gradually relaxes, slipping a little down in her seat so that her feet are perched on the coffee table, her arm is pressed snugly against his, and her head rests on the cushion near his shoulder. Her breathing is deep and even, her features content each time Killian sneaks a sideways peek, and he's sorely tempted to drape his arm around her and draw her close, but this day, this moment, is already far more than he ever expected it to be, and it doesn't seem prudent to press his luck. So he simply savors the weight of her pressing against him and the peacefulness of her presence, and he realizes, sitting here with her and Henry, surrounded by the soft glow of festive lights and watching a holiday movie, that, for the first time in a long time, it feels like Christmas.

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Emma waves as Elsa heads out the door of the coffee shop a little early. It's the weekend before Christmas, and closing was nearly an hour ago, but she's volunteered to finish the remaining cleanup duties herself under the guise of showing her employee a little extra holiday kindness. Henry's sleeping over at a friend's house, so she doesn't need to hurry home to get dinner on the table and she can afford to stay a little later tonight. In fact, lingering at the shop for a bit is kind of what she's planning on.

Out of habit, she peers out front, trying to see the reflection of Horizon Bound in the window of the darkened boutique across the street. The bookstore, too, has been closed for a little while, but she's not surprised to see the lights are still on, well aware that tonight, Friday, is the night Killian likes to dust and address a few of those other housekeeping tasks that only need doing once a week or so.

Emma takes a deep breath and reaches for her phone.

Are you busy?

She bites her lip, waiting for a reply.

No, just cleaning and closing up. Why?

Can you come here? I need your help.

As you wish.

Her skin tingles with anticipation as she slips her apron over her head and hangs it on a peg. The holiday music mix piping through her overhead speakers switches to The Chipmunks' "Christmas Don't Be Late," and she snorts and reaches for the iPod dock below the counter, rapidly skipping a few tracks ahead. The strain of violins floats down from above as Nat King Cole's "The Christmas Song" begins to play. Better. Emma hums along as she initiates the cleaning cycle on the espresso machine and finishes straightening up behind the counter.

Jingle bells ring at the front door when Killian appears, a few snowflakes in his dark hair from the light flurries blowing outside. "'Evening, Swan." He flashes his trademark grin as he approaches the far end of the counter where she's wiping down the glossy maple surface with a towel. "How can I be of service?"

Emma smiles. "I need help hanging something," she replies, motioning toward an A-frame ladder leaning against the wall beside her.

He throws a wry glance at the hundreds of Christmas lights and the veritable cloud of paper snowflakes and silver ornaments already strung up all over the coffee shop and lifts an eyebrow. "I'm not sure you've any room for another bauble, love," he teases.

Emma hums, eyelashes fluttering downward. "Well, there'd better be," she says with a little huff, reaching below the counter, "Because I realized last weekend when we put up the Christmas trees that I've forgotten something." She pulls out a large spray of mistletoe tied with a pretty red-and-white striped ribbon and attached to a long length of translucent fishing line and sets it in front of him.

She watches with amusement as his brows jump to his hairline and he blinks at the mistletoe. "Um…" He clears his throat soberly. "Well, that is quite the oversight."

She chuckles. "Mm-hmm." She points right above his head. "There is a little space right there. Do you mind?"

Killian is in motion before she even finishes talking, ducking behind the counter and nudging her aside so he can set the ladder up with the efficiency of a man on a mission. Emma suppresses a snicker as he hastily affixes the piece of tape she offers him to the end of the fishing line and clamors upward like a monkey, only slowing to make a show of positioning the sprig precisely over his customary spot at the counter. The mistletoe rotates lazily on the line as he jumps back down and sets the ladder aside, grinning like an eager boy scout. "How's that, Swan?"

Emma seizes the front of his shirt and yanks him forward, sealing her mouth over his and kissing him for all she's worth. She hears Killian's sharp intake of air as they stand pressed together and feels his hand delicately cradle her cheek. He parts his lips for her and allows her to steal his breath, and she giggles as she realizes that he tastes like candy canes. Killian rumbles happily in response like a great cat, the sound sending waves of desire rippling through her belly, and her lips move against him more insistently, his stubble burning deliciously against her skin. She can feel the corners of his mouth pulling upward, and his left arm winds around her waist and pulls her flush to him while his tongue meets hers stroke for stroke. She's had a hunch this man could kiss, but she whimpers now at how right she was, her skin humming and her toes curling inside her shoes.

She's lightheaded when they finally break apart, his forehead pressed to hers, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek reverently, and she can feel the elation rolling off him with every heave of his chest. "Bloody hell."

She bites her lip. "I think the mistletoe works pretty well there, don't you?"

Killian swallows and nods.

Emma pulls back a fraction in order to look into his eyes, her hands snaking up to stroke the sides of his face affectionately. "One other thing," she murmurs.

"Yes, love?"

"Take me to dinner."

Killian grins. "In due time, Swan," he answers softly, lowering his head to capture her mouth once more. "Let a man enjoy his new favorite Christmas tradition."

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Oh, ho, the mistletoe

Hung where you can see

Somebody waits for you

Kiss 'er once for me

Have a holly jolly Christmas

And in case you didn't hear

Oh by golly, have a holly jolly Christmas

This year