Author's note: So I got a reviewer who was very much upset by the idea of Snow and Leroy together, and I wanted to be very clear, in case anyone else might be confused. Snow and Leroy are NOT together. He is her friend-much like in the show. They're neighbors, and he considers himself an uncle to Emma, but that is all. And I promise I don't hate Snowing-they may not set my soul on fire like CS, but I do love them.

Also, thanks everyone for the kind reviews :)


"Emma?"

Her throat grew dry and her legs, which were previously unwilling to move, began to tremble. He walked toward her, concern lacing his eyes as he pulled his jacket fully on.

"Hi, Killian."

"What're you doing here, Love? Are you…lost?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled with her best efforts to appear casual, "guess I wasn't paying attention."

The corners of his mouth curved the slightest bit, as if he were fighting against a smirk. The action—not an action at all, but the threat of one—was enough to stir a strange sensation in the pit of Emma's stomach. She couldn't understand why Killian would affect her in such a way, only…

He hadn't looked like that the last time she'd seen him. He hadn't been so tall or lean, his face hadn't been chiseled, his eyes quite so intense. Had it really only been three months?

The silence reached unbearable heights as the two of them stared across the walkway at each other. They both wanted the same thing—for Emma to make a quick getaway—but neither moved or spoke or dared to breathe too deeply that they might disturb the foundations of this new world order.

If someone would have told her a year ago that there would be a time when she and Killian had nothing to say to one another, she would've laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. There was an age when this moment was the most absurd thing imaginable. But there they were, locked in an unspoken battle of wills where neither side would concede defeat.

"Do you need a ride home? I was just on my way out."

He didn't want to give her a ride home, but the gentleman his stepdad worked so hard to instill in him was imagining all the horrible things that could happen to a girl walking alone at night. Even in Storybrooke.

"I'm fine. It's not that far."

"It's three miles, in the dark." He walked past her, to his car, and though it was brief—a millisecond, if that—Emma was assaulted by an intoxicating scent. "It's no trouble."

Had he always smelled so good? Or was nostalgia playing tricks on her senses?

She deliberated while he held the passenger door open. There was no viable excuse for turning him down, and Emma cursed herself for not watching where she was walking. With a sigh, she lowered herself into the vehicle that had only been partway to completion a few months ago.

As Killian walked around to his side, Emma watched his every move, wondering what happened to the boy who still had baby fat in his cheeks and innocence in his eyes. She fought against the answering memory as the engine revved.

The ride was marked by silence, with Killian perfectly relaxed behind the wheel, as ever. Emma was always the paranoid one, afraid they'd be caught making off with his stepdad's car in the middle of the night in search of a 24-hour drive-thru.

He leaned back in his seat, one hand at the wheel while he hummed to himself a melody Emma had never heard.

"New song?"

Killian grinned, not taking his eyes off the road, and it was suddenly a few degrees warmer—on Emma's side, if nowhere else. She saw traces of the boy she once knew—the one who'd fallen out of a tree when they were nine, expecting it would somehow prove to his friends that he didn't like her. They were mixed with traces of the one whose priorities had taken him far away from her.

She shouldn't have gotten in the car. There was no escaping him here.

"So," said Emma, taking in her surroundings, "this is it."

"This is it."

The black leather seats blended seamlessly with the rest of the interior. The vintage stereo had been swapped for the latest tech but didn't feel out of place. An air freshener the shape of a pine tree hung from the rearview mirror, a can of partially emptied soda sat in the cup holder, its contents swishing with each turn, and to the left of the odometer was a photograph Emma could've gone the rest of her life without ever seeing.

"It's nice."

She could tell by looking at him that he wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained, saying simply, "Thanks."

"Cars," the old Killian would've said, "aren't nice." Especially cars like his, cars that were slaved over, cars that had the blood sweat and curses of men hardwired into them.

Emma could feel eyes on her, could hear the echo of laughter, shrill as it replayed in her memory, and she was unable to keep the past at bay. It flooded her mind with cruel clarity, and she could no longer ignore the reason Killian didn't need her anymore. Head on Killian's shoulder, arms snaked around his waist, she stared at Emma through that photograph with an expression that said, "He's mine."

"Skank."

Killian looked at Emma, and it wasn't until he did that she realized what'd slipped out of her mouth. She couldn't be sure, but it looked like he wanted to smile.

"That wasn't very ladylike, Miss Nolan." He definitely wanted to smile.

Emma stared straight ahead. Killian and the rest of the guys had made it their goal in life to tease her for everything she did. Or didn't do. During late night rehearsals in Killian's garage, their language often turned foul, and Jefferson made snide remarks about the fact that Emma didn't join in with anecdotes of her own.

"Careful," he'd say, "wouldn't want to offend Emma's virgin ears. What's the matter, Princess, need me to draw you a diagram?"

"I'm not going to apologize."

"Good." His thumb beat an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel and his tone grew more detached by the second. He was itching to have her out of his car and once again out of his life—when he'd become so smug about everything, Emma could only guess. "So tell me, Love, how're things at the mansion these days?"

"Fine."

"Your dad ever get that import he wanted?"

"No."

"I suppose they are rather expensive, aren't they?" He looked over with a smirk. "Not that you'd have to worry about expense, what with those sizeable donations from Gold. Speaking of—ever get that heated pool?"

"All monetary contributions go toward funding the campaign."

"Very PC, Swan." His gaze faltered and he readjusted his grip on the wheel, apparently having forgotten for a brief second that the names they'd assigned to one another in their youngest years had no place in their new relationship—or lack thereof. He cleared his throat, continuing on, "Ever think of following in Dave's footsteps? Make quite the politician. Then again, the old crone'll probably marry you off to one of those Ivy League mudslingers, won't she? Just think, one day you'll be the spitting image of K—"

"Don't say it."

"It's true—can hardly tell the two of you apart in those promos on the morning news."

Emma didn't say anything, didn't trust her voice not to crack. Of all the things he could've said, comparing her to Kathryn stung more than Emma thought possible.

"So, where were you coming from? I didn't think they allowed debutantes on this side of town."

"Mercy General."

"Got a clean bill of health, I hope. Although, sympathy votes have proven instrumental in past campaigns, have they not?"

Emma watched him without speaking, knowing exactly what he was up to. That cocksure tone of voice made it nearly impossible not to walk right into his trap. He wanted to get a rise out of her, wanted her to yell at him, to tell him how deeply she despised his girlfriend. He wanted to hear that Emma was jealous.

Apparently once hadn't been enough.

"I was visiting my mom."

The grin vanished from his face, and Emma felt more than a little guilty at having used Mary Margaret's condition to verbally slap him serious.

"How is she?"

"The doctors say she doesn't have long." Her hand, out of habit, traced figures along the surface of her jeans as she fought against the forming lump in her throat. "But you know Leroy—refuses to believe any of it." She tried to make her smile convincing. "'Those quacks don't know anything—just you watch, she's going to outlive us all.'"

Killian's expression was the gravest she'd ever seen. "I'm sorry, Emma."

She'd spent three months waiting to hear those words from him. But they weren't right. He wasn't the sort of sorry he should've been.

"Are you okay?"

The words "I'm fine," began to form in automated response, but Emma couldn't bear them. They were like poison on her tongue. She wasn't fine. In that car, she was bitter and abandoned and it was all his fault.

"Do you really care?"

"Of course I care."

"Or is it formality? Like driving me home so you can sleep better knowing you didn't let me walk at night?"

Killian kept his face forward, his eyes focused on the road, but Emma read the tension in his jaw as silence overtook them once more. It made her want to scream. Didn't he feel any remorse for leaving her? Didn't it affect him, not having her in his life? He hadn't even said goodbye. All he'd said was, "I can't choose you."

"I'll always care about you, Emma."

She was wrong. Of all the things he could've said, that simple, sincere statement stung more than Emma thought possible.

She turned away, her words escaping in a whisper, "Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car."

Killian rolled his eyes, the threat of a smile tugging at his lips. "Don't be so dramatic."

"I want to walk."

"We're a block away."

"Then it's safe." Emma snapped. "Stop the fucking car."

"Fine."

Her body jerked forward, the seatbelt tightening against her chest as they came to a halt. Her attempts at unbuckling herself were clumsy with haste, but she managed to free herself. Eventually. Slamming the door behind her, she stormed off toward her father's estate. The last thing she heard was the screeching of tires as Killian sped away. To her.