A/N: Sorry this took sooo long to update, you guys! I went home for vacation and then school started so I've been swamped. I'll try to update this as quickly as I can! As always, your reviews not only mean the world to me but your feedback help me shape the direction of the story so don't be shy! - Steph

Chapter Six

Emma felt a handful of sensations before awakening. She had felt a firm pressure against her lips, spicy cinnamon and peppermint flavored air wafting into her trachea and down to her lungs, her eyes fluttered open and she saw piercing blue for a second, before her eyes rolled back into her skull and everything faded to black again. Next, she felt cool air and soft leather seats, the sound of David's soothing voice. She felt her head on top of a warm pillow, the scent of spice and a calming, gentle caress on her temples. She opened her eyes again—the movement itself almost as hard as deadlifting a car with her bare hands—and she met blue again, the cerulean irises lighting up a darkened, concerned face. The face smiled just before she lost consciousness again, the flickering of the streetlights forming a kaleidoscope of muted oranges behind her eyelids.

The next lights that hit her are bright, and the room is cold—the warmth she had felt earlier has completely dissipated from her senses. She hears muffled voices calling her name, softly muted and disoriented; the fuzzy vowels and consonants that make up her name struggling to find definition. Her eyes feel like lead as she attempts to open them, the fluorescent lights above her blinding her as she fights to regain her consciousness. Slowly, and somehow altogether, colors start forming shapes and the blinding white light starts dissolving from her view as her eyes adjust to the new location and her cognizance levels outward. She hears the constant beep from the machines around her—the unmistakable sound of a steady heartbeat projected on a screen—the feel of an I.V. wedged in her arm, the searing pain at the base of her head. Her eyes finally focus for about half a minute, and she realizes that she's in a hospital, the hustle and bustle of an emergency room unmistakable.

She frantically searches for blue again, but blue is nowhere to be found.

Her eyes roll back again, exhaustion taking its toll on her, and she passes out once more.

Emma awakes to the steady beep of the heart monitor next to her bed. She is no longer in the emergency room that much is evident; she realizes that she's now in a shared room, a thinning pink curtain separating her bed from the empty bed on her right. The room is dark, the only light coming from the muted TV hanging from the wall, and her eyes have a hard time adjusting to the darkness for her to acknowledge the extent of her surroundings.

Confusion rattles Emma's entire body, as she takes everything in. The heart monitor next to her picks up the slight increase in her heartbeat as anxiety starts to slowly take the best of her.

How did she get here and what the hell happened?

She faintly remembers hearing David's voice in the immediate past, his soothing voice and the cold leather of his Mercedes bringing forth memories of her freshman year, and the times when she would call him at the wee hours of the morning—drunk, stumbling, and desperate for a safe ride home thanks to a leering frat boy—and he'd pick her up, her mind ebbing in and out of consciousness against the cool leather the same way she ebbed in an out of it tonight.

She tries to rack her brain for any recollection of what happened that brought her to the point of being shuffled through the emergency room and deemed sick enough to have had to sleep overnight on an orthopedic bed and a light blue paper gown. She follows the I.V. immersed in the smooth skin of her freckled forearm up to the drip hanging from the metal rod next to her bed.

Had I been TMS-ed? She thought as she looked at the familiar saline drip that was being feed intravenously, just like it had been after her first Halloween in New Orleans resulted in alcohol poisoning and Tulane Medical Services was called to her freshman dorm. No, that couldn't be it, she doesn't remember drinking at all today.

Her eyelids are heavy again but she wills herself awake, desperate to know how she got here in the first place. She turns her head sideways, frantically looking for anything in this bare room to jog her memory, and her gaze falls on a sleeping form next to the window, a makeshift cot made from two hunter green lounge chairs. She recognizes the mussed black hair immediately, and the events of the past day hit her like a freight train.

Her heart pulses quickly as her mind remembers Ursula and the revelation that her dreams were memories, that Emma was a reincarnation, that she had lost someone a century ago and she somehow ended up in the twenty-first century for a glorified do-over. Bullshit, she thought. However, the fact that she did not believe an irrational lunatic in the French Quarter did not stop the way her body reacted to the memory of the event. The heaving in her chest starts slowly, but soon her breaths grow shallow and jagged as she remembers the way the room seemed to close in on her, heat and darkness engulfing her very soul or so it seemed.

Her heart threatens to beat out of her chest, her trachea is quickly closing up, and breathing is all but impossible as anxiety cripples her. She had never given Ursula her name, but the lunatic knew it regardless. Could it be that the words spoken by the woman were true? She remembers the woman, the smooth darkness of her skin and the contrast with her honeyed caramel hair. She remembers the way Ursula looked at her hand, the lines in the palm of her hand seemingly jogging a memory buried deep in the woman's long-term memory. Emma cannot seem to eradicate the look of recognition and understanding that Ursula had fastened onto her unbelieving green eyes.

She can't breathe.

It's the heart monitor beeping incessantly at the rapid increase of her heart rate that jostles Killian from his sleep. "Emma?" he breathes, his voice scratchy and thick with sleep, his icy blue eyes—deep navy now that his black pupils have dilated in accordance with the lack of light—widening as he realizes her shortness of breath and the alarming rate in which her heart beats. "What's wrong, love?" He asks as he haphazardly lifts himself off of his makeshift cot, his sock-clad foot sliding across the waxed linoleum floor, making him skid a few inches as he makes his way towards her bed.

"Can't…breathe," Emma manages to wheeze out, her mind now occupied with yet another distressing thought as her frantic emerald eyes had met his indigo gaze. Blue, Killian was blue. He had been blue all along. The same very, very blue eyes that brought her subconscious so much comfort in the process to wake up in this room, were now mere inches from her own green eyes causing her more agitation to seep into her already anxious system. She feels lightheaded as he touches her shoulder, squeezing her skin reassuringly, his cerulean gaze locked intensely on her own.

"Emma, you need to calm down," he says, taking a deep breath—ostensibly instructing her to do the same—and Emma has half a mind to smack him across the head. If she had the ability to calm down, she would have done so already. She glares at him and a smirk flits across his features almost instantly. "They said that you'd probably have an attack once you came to your senses," he continues, this time Emma was sure that the way he inhaled and exhaled deeply was an instruction that she had to follow. "You need to steady your breath," he says.

"I can't," Emma rasps out again, the familiar black spots that had appeared at the New Orleans House of Voodoo rematerializing in her eyesight. She frantically looks around the room, the walls seemingly caving in on her. She needs to get out this room.

In her frenzied state, Emma does not notice Killian pursing his lips, and neither does she notice him shifting his weight on the bed, nor does she notice his hand weaving behind the nape of her neck and threading in her hair. Her trachea all but closes completely when he turns her face towards his own—the distance between their faces no more than a couple of centimeters apart at most.

There you are, blue.

"Em, you need to calm down. Come on, love, count to five with me. Inhale, one, two," he says and she complies, inhaling shaky breath through her nose—three, four, "five. Now hold it for two." She holds the breath she brought in with her diaphragm, the pain she felt in her chest subsiding only slightly. "Atta girl, Swan. Now release, one, two," he continues, his voice soft as he exhales with her, a mixture of cinnamon and peppermint in the breath that tickles her chin—three, four, "five. You're doing amazing, Swan. Let's do it a couple more times, alright?" he asks and she nods before repeating the process again.

The room is silent for the most part, the steady hum of the machines, the gradually decreasing beeping of the heart rate monitor, and Emma's succumbing shallow breaths set the tune to the once erratic atmosphere. "There," Killian says, a smile slowly creeping onto his lips, "That's better." There is no denying that the ambiance around the room is dense, fully charged with whatever crackling energy Emma and Killian seem to share. She wonders if he feels the same irrational, almost gravitational, attraction that pulls her towards his company. He must, she concludes, because what other reason could he possibly give to be by her side at a hospital mere hours before dawn?

The cool air is welcome in her lungs, as the muscles expand with ease and she no longer feels the constrictive pain that she felt in her chest minutes ago. She had been left dizzy and disoriented; the only tie to reality was Killian's hand that was still anchored around the nape of her neck, his fingers threaded lightly through her blonde hair. The darkness around the edges of her eyesight has subsided, and she feels better but Killian shows no semblance of wanting to move away from her. She can still feel his warm breath on her chin, and she feels him tighten his grip on her neck as his eyes bore into hers. It was a subtle tightening, a minute hair's breadth of strength, but she still noticed it. She half expects him to lean forward, to close the already minimal distance between them and crash his lips against hers, but he doesn't. His hand, instead, loosens its grip on her neck, taking away the feeling of calm belonging with its withdrawal but leaving behind scorching sensitivity on her skin.

"What happened?" she manages to ask, attempting to mask the discomfort she feels as he scoots away from her, wedging at least a foot's length of distance between them.

"You took a right nasty fall there, Swan," he nods, scratching the tip of his ears that were still tinged red.

"I gathered that," she replies, "but what happened to me? Why am I in the hospital?"

"Doctor said that you fainted due to heat exhaustion and you were suffering from extreme dehydration. Not that you're to blame, the sun was bloody unforgiving today." He says matter-of-factly, lifting himself off the bed and going over to a cabinet where a water pitcher was left unperturbed. He pours two cups and hands her one, "Here."

"Thank you," she says after nearly chugging the entire cup in one gulp and extending the cup out to him, making him smile as he pours her another glass and hands it back to her. "I feel like I was hit by a freight train," she says bringing her hand up to her temple and wincing when her hand makes contact with her head.

"That would be the nasty concussion you got once you smashed your head against the floor," he says with raised eyebrows, pointing at her forehead. "You've a lovely red bump to go with your very sullen complexion," he grins cheekily as he sits back on her bed, his hand making its way to touch the bump in discussion.

"Shut up," Emma says, swatting his hand away and glaring at him when he fails to stifle his chuckling. There's a traitorous muscle lifting the corner of her mouth, and the smallest hint of a smile is enough for it to be mirrored and enhanced on Killian's grinning face. "You said that they told you I'd have another attack once I woke up," she starts, bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them, "I'm guessing I had one before?"

"Och, aye," Killian assents through a yawn, outstretching his arms before lying across the foot of Emma's bed. She tries not to look at the way his shirt rides up with the movement, exposing a sliver of the toned abdominals lying beneath the white fabric. She wants to ask him what he's even doing here, why he felt the need to stay with her. "They reckon that's the reason you fainted…said you must have had at least an acute anxiety attack to have aggravated your already heat exhausted and dehydrated self," he continues. Emma can't help but taking in the sight in front of her, the way nearly one third of his lanky body dangled off the orthopedic bed, the way the muscles in his upper arms did not struggle to find definition as he crossed his arms behind his head, and the way the long dark lashes in his closed eyes cast shadows against his cheeks. Feeling her gaze on him, he opens his eyes and turns to look at her, a concerned expression clearly etched on his features.

"I saw you when you got out of the parlor, Swan. You looked like you had seen a ghost," he starts, his gaze boring into hers intently as he attempts to read her. "What happened in there?" he asks.

"Nothing happened, Killian," Emma starts, lying through her teeth, "if something did, I don't remember."

She hopes her answer is vague enough to deter him from asking her about what happened. The last thing she wants to do is open up that can of worms, and tell him what Ursula had told her. Partly, because she was embarrassed about the whole thing—it's bad enough that it landed her in the hospital after fainting in front of half her class—but mostly because she doesn't believe a word that Ursula told her, and even if she did it was none of Killian's business to know about it. The second she told him that she was an alleged reincarnation from a girl who died who knows how long ago would land her an immediate transfer to the psychiatric ward.

"I don't believe you," he says resolute and she can hear exasperation in his tone behind his thinly veiled attempt at sounding curious instead. "You have your reasons for keeping quiet, and I respect that, but I know something happened in there that caused all this."

"Killian, I said I don't remember. Just drop it, okay?" She says curtly and in no mood to divulge what hat happened. Exasperation prickles at her skin like a natural reaction, almost a visceral one, at the way he had talked to her. Her mind immediately shifts to the notion of having met him before, making Emma freeze at the realization that comes with it. She doesn't want to validate Ursula's words, so she wills herself not to think about past lives.

Because it's all bullshit and if Killian is the one she changed her fate for, she'd sooner choose to throw herself into the Mississippi River.

They stay in uneasy silence for a handful of minutes, his words still hanging in the air—an acknowledged elephant in the center of the room. Killian leans back against the bed once again, his breath steady. Emma bites the inside of her cheek as she watches the methodical rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Her knees are still pressed flush against her chest, a physical manifestation of the barrier she intends on wedging between herself and Killian Jones. "Can we change the subject?" she asks quietly, not daring to meet his eyes, and focusing more at picking at the hangnail that protruded from her left thumb.

"Sure," he answers, his eyes closing before he turns his head towards her and his comforting blue eyes meet her straight on, "what would you like to talk about?"

"Well, for starters, why are you here?" she asks quietly and he stalls, his eyes widening. She feels the traitorous muscles of her mouth start to turn up once more at the sight of an uneasy Killian Jones. Even in the darkness she can see that his skin has flushed slightly, and the once steady intake of breath is now noticeably erratic.

"I'm not sure what you mean, love," he starts, suddenly timid and aware of just how far up his midriff his shirt had risen to. "Am I inconveniencing you? Because if I am, I can leave," he says, lifting himself up and making to move back onto his makeshift cot to pack up his belongings. Emma's hand instinctively moves towards his and grabs it, both holding him in place and making her stomach somersault in response.

"No, stay," she says in earnest. In all honesty, hospitals spook her—always reminding her of illness and death—and she'd rather not be left alone. "I was just wondering why you, why not David or Ruby?" Or Graham, she thinks, the first time her mind travels to him since she regained consciousness. She's not so sure he'd be all too keen on another man keeping her company like this—strewn across her hospital bed with his shirt having been three quarters up his midriff mere moments ago—but then again, the handful of dates they have been on have not really given her a sense that he's the jealous type.

"David was going to stay," he starts quietly, looking down at where their hands were still joined, "I had called him just moments after you fainted and we rushed you here when you were not responding after…" he trails off sheepishly for a few seconds, his hand travelling up to scratch his ear nervously before saying that it didn't matter what she wasn't responding after, just that she simply wasn't.

"He was quite adamant in staying even though he had planned to surprise Mary Margaret at the art show she was being showcased down at the Marigny," Killian continues, his hand now rubbing against the back of his neck and his eyesight anywhere but on her own. "I managed to convince him to go once the doctor said that all you needed was rest, told him I would take care of you if need be and that he should go surprise Mary Margaret since tonight was the last night he could go see her show. That was one reason, anyways." He looks up at her then, and Emma is not sure if it is the way his thumb is tracing circles on the back of her hand that causes goose bumps to erupt all over her skin or if the way he's looking at her is to blame instead.

"What was the other reason?" Emma asks quietly, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively at the way he chuckles at the question.

"You asked me to," he says, a simple shrug of his shoulders accompanying what to her was an earth shattering statement. So earth shattering, in fact, that the idea of her reaching out to him, asking him to stay, while she was semi-conscious was enough to remind her that anything with Killian was entirely too inappropriate to keep up. If not just because she was seeing someone, but also because he was in charge of grading her this semester and possibly the next as well if she decides to take History of New Orleans II—which has always been her plan. She slips her hand away from underneath his, and wraps her arms around her still propped up knees. Emma doesn't fail to notice the shadow of unease that flits through Killian's features at the loss of contact.

"I don't remember that," she says quietly, feeling the sudden surge of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she says, "you were probably tired after a long day, the last thing you wanted was to sleep between two chairs at a hospital."

"It's really quite alright, Swan," he tells her, his hand back to scratching the back of his ear and she hears the nervousness on his voice as he speaks. "I wanted to stay," he continues and Emma knows, she knows, that he feels attracted to her. And it's not like she hasn't noticed that he's attracted to her with the way he shamelessly flirts at her, she definitely has. No, the fact that now, when the room is quiet and they're by themselves, is when she hears just how much he likes her. She can hear the worry in his voice, see the sincerity behind his deep blue eyes when he tells her that he wanted to stay because at the end of the day he's begun to care about her and that terrifies her to her very core. It's bad enough that she has Graham interested in her, but she has to have Killian care about her too? Two immensely different men, both caring about her in the same way and she has no desire to be torn between them.

Her already terrified mind flashes back to Ursula, the card she had drawn symbolizing her present, and the fact that she was being pursued by two lovers, both vastly different from the other. Emma levels her breath, not wanting to risk another attack, trying not to let her mind stray to the thought of Ursula being right. Because, if she was right about one thing, was it possible that she was also telling the truth about Emma's fate being sealed by a deal she allegedly struck a century ago?

Rationality and stubbornness urge her to prove Ursula wrong, to prove that she still had a say over her life, and that she still had a right to choose. "Killian, I'm seeing someone," she blurts out, the words hanging limply in the air, swirling around the tension that filled the small hospital room. She was choosing appropriate, she was choosing civil and chivalrous, she was choosing someone who has been himself from day one, and she was choosing Graham.

"Graham," Killian nods at her, standing up and walking towards the window. "Aye, I know, lass," he says, smiling ruefully at her blank expression. He tells her how Graham had practically ran through the door, saying that he had seen her name in the admittance sheets he had been looking at as he was signing in to his night shift, and immediately went up to see if she was alright. Emma takes in what Killian tells her, her belly swelling up with warmth at the idea of Graham being worried about her and running to inquire about her wellbeing. Not that Killian hadn't done the same; after all he had stayed with her all night, but she still doesn't really know him. Aside from flirting shamelessly and bonding ever so slightly at that hookah bar last week, she can't make out his character and most importantly she cannot get a read on what kind of person he is. Graham, on the other hand, is as easy to read as the magazines that line up the checkout lines at grocery stores. He doesn't hide from her, he doesn't keep things from her, and Killian—well, he's a complete mystery to her.

"Did you get along with him?" Emma teasingly asks Killian, who is now perched at the edge of one of the green chairs, "he is Irish after all."

The wolfish grin that she is accustomed to seeing gracing his features appears as he says, "Aye, we got along. He's alright for a ruddy Irishman." She grins at the slow reappearance of flirty, inappropriate Killian, frankly she'd rather him than stoic, quiet, and uneasy Killian. "Though I must say," he continues, the wolfish grin spreading wider across his face, "I rather hoped you'd know better."

Emma chuckles as she shakes her head, she really does like Killian as a friend, perhaps she'd do well with taking him up on his earlier offer. She leans back into her pillows as silence engulfs them once more, and she decides to finally stretch her legs in front of her. She takes in her surroundings, following the IV drip from where it hung till the crook of her elbow, her gaze focusing on her turned palms, Ursula's words hitting her again. She brings her right hand closer to her as she scrutinizes the lines on her palm, and sure enough a faint but undeniable second line stemmed from between her thumb and forefinger and traveled almost down to her wrist. She checks her left hand, finding the same situation. Emma sighs as she stares into her palm for another second, shaking her head as she slowly closes her fingers and clenches her palm into a fist. Denial isn't easy when all the factors you're trying to refute are based in truth.

"Do you believe in fate?" she asks, more for herself than anyone else. For a half second Killian knits his eyebrows in confusion before he smirks.

"I thought we just stated that you were not available, Swan," he states with a snarky grin, "If, however, you're trying to imply that being with me is a matter of destiny you simply cannot refuse, I'd be more than happy to oblige you, lass," he finishes with a wink, biting his lips as he raises his eyebrows suggestively.

"Just answer the question, Killian," Emma scoffs, shaking her head.

He smiles as he mimics her stance, crossing his arms across his chest before lying back on the chair and propping his feet up on the identical chair opposite him. "No," he says, "I do not believe in fate."

"Why not?" she asks him. He stays quiet for a few moments, mulling over his answer.

"I don't like the idea of someone telling me that my life is already decided for me," he starts, his words coming out slow and methodical, "I'd much rather think that life gives you a series of paths to choose from…that you draw your deck of cards and you get a choice between the paths you're dealt."

"I like that idea," Emma says through a yawn, her eyelids suddenly heavy with sleep, and her body tired.

"You need rest, Swan," she hears Killian voice travel towards her as she feels the warmth of a blanket being draped over her.

"Will you stay?" she asks and she swears she can almost hear him smile.

"I wouldn't dream about leaving," he answers her. "And don't worry, I didn't forget to tell Ruby about the chicken you were adamant on needing to be marinated."

"How did you know—" she starts to ask, her voice heavy with sleep, when Killian interrupts her,

"You talk in your sleep," he says.

"That would explain a lot," she mumbles and hears him laugh before sleep overwhelms her completely.

She wakes when she feels muffled sunrays shining on her face, the warmth of the sunlight a welcome sensation on her skin. If she had a dream she doesn't recall it and chucks the notion to the fact that she was so exhausted from everything that happened. It felt nice to wake up without a migraine for what felt like the first time in months, and she'll gladly take the discomfort in the crevice of her arm from sleeping with a needle wedged inside her skin over the splitting pain she's been waking up with any day. She turns to look for Killian but he isn't there, at least one of the chairs he had been using as a cot having been set back to their original place. In his stead she sees the familiar form of one Graham Humbert resting his sleeping head on the mattress as the rest of his body sits on the other chair. He must have been holding her hand, because his rests mere inches away from her own.

Emma bites her lip as she takes in his sleeping form. He looks tired that's for sure, and his hair is visibly longer than it was the last time she saw him, before he had holed himself up for his anatomy exam. Still, he's attractive as ever; his skin almost golden in contrast with the sea green color of his scrubs, the scruff on his face thicker than it was two weeks ago. She threads her hands through his thick wavy hair, relishing in the way he smiles against her touch and opens his eyes slowly.

"Hey," he says softly, taking her hand towards him and pressing his lips against it.

"Hey yourself," Emma responds, willing the surge of butterflies that take residence in her stomach to calm down.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, reaching out to examine the bump on her head and apologizing profusely when she winces at him touching it.

"I've been better," she says dryly, smiling at him as he tells her to scoot and sits on the bed with her, settling under the covers.

"I can imagine," he responds, "you had quite the nasty fall."

"Maybe you can do something to make me feel better," she says timidly, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck.

"Is that right? What would you have me do?" he asks, playing along with her though he knows where she's going with this.

"I think you should kiss me," she says matter-of-fact, and he obliges soon after. He moves soft and firm against her lips, the taste of coffee still present on his tongue as he parts her mouth in a deep and thorough kiss.

"How was that?" he asks, his voice gruff and his breath hot against her lips.

"I feel much better," she responds. "But I think I'll need more before I make a full recovery." Graham obliges her with another kiss, his lips softer against her own this time around.

They spend the morning together and he drives her home when she's discharged. He doesn't ask about Killian and she doesn't intend on bringing him up. Despite her protests he helps her get settled back in her apartment, making her breakfast as she takes a shower.

They're not due at David's till later in the afternoon. The game is scheduled to start at four, and Emma hopes Graham is not too tired to opt to spend the time they have between now and the game with her. She's missed him, and she's missed being around his company. And maybe it's out of character for her, but she's smitten and she has no desire to hide it. It's the first time in a long time that someone takes a genuine interest in her and she's incredibly comfortable with that. Being with him is so easy because he's straight with her and always lets her know what he's thinking, and the fact that this feels like a mature adult relationship is refreshing, to say the least. She remembers what it used to be like before him, the sharp contrast between her first boyfriend Neal and Graham—and not to mention the change in her persona. Neal had never felt real to Emma, feeling more like an accessory than a boyfriend, and in truth she didn't see him nearly enough to develop any real feelings for him. When he ended the relationship, opting for a beautiful dark-skinned girl named Tamara over Emma, Emma did not cry nor did she feel the least bit upset. She knew that Neal and she wouldn't last forever and by the time that he dumped her, she was eighteen, had a car, and invites to formals all throughout most of the Ivy League fraternities. In hindsight, saying that she was fine was probably a bit of an oxymoron; Sure she was not upset by the break up, but internally it cemented the notion that she had developed as a child: Love wasn't real, and it never would be. It's because of that notion that Emma thinks that she should be more apprehensive, more scared to jump into anything with Graham and three weeks ago she was, but being in his company in the last couple of hours has given her another revelation. She loved the feeling that she got whenever she was with him, the wanting, the caring, the honesty and simplicity that came with being with Graham. It was as easy as breathing, and for the first time in a long, long time, she felt ready for that.

Emma steps out of the shower and puts on some shorts and her favorite New Orleans Saints jersey, braiding her damp hair as she makes her way to the kitchen. Graham stands behind the counter drinking a glass of orange juice and flipping through this morning's edition of The Times-Picayune. He points at the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast and simply says, "Eat."

She eats in silence, noticing how incredibly ravenous she actually was once she realized that she hadn't had a bite to eat in at least twenty hours. He sits next to her, his attention still on the newspaper in front of him but his hand gently caressing her bare thigh. It's a simple gesture, a quite natural one at that, but it swells her heart with elation and she smiles despite herself.

"What is it?" he asks as he notices the way the corners of her mouth have turned upward.

Emma shrugs. "I just really missed you, that's all," she says and he nuzzles his head against her upper arm, kissing her freckled shoulder before he mumbles that he had missed her too.

"Do you want to go to bed?" he asks her, his voice rough as he trails kisses from her shoulder and up along her neck.

"To bed or to sleep?" she sighs, knowing full well that he must be exhausted after his overnight shift.

He chuckles and slips her earlobe between his teeth before he whispers, "I think you can figure that out by yourself."

Emma doesn't have time to think as the next second his mouth is hot on hers. His fingers graze around her damp plaited hair, wrapping themselves around the blond locks and pulling her towards him. The movement is brusque, rough and surprising, but not at all unwelcome. Up until now, Graham has been chivalrous and reserved with her, never pushing her boundaries, letting Emma make the first move. They haven't been intimate, not yet, and by the looks of it that was about to change. She had straddled him two weeks ago on the black leather couch that was positioned in her living room, but they hadn't gotten any farther than what happened that night—his lips rough against hers, his hands cupping her breasts underneath her shirt, her fingers threaded through his light brown hair, and the straining illustration of just how much he wanted her, pressing against her clothed core.

Now Emma knows that no matter who decides to pull up in the driveway and stumble drunk into her apartment, they were not going to go back to pretending that Graham wasn't two seconds from being completely sheathed inside of her and that it was natural for them to be staring at a TV screen asking them if they still wanted to continue watching a TV series long forgotten and paused mid-scene. No, as he lifts her and turns her towards her room, and she guides him in the right direction, Emma knows that there's only one activity present in both of their minds.

Once the door closes there's a blur of clothes being thrown across the room and kisses being stolen in the middle of the act of undressing. They move to the sounds of panting breaths and brazen looks, sheets being rustled away from their original resting spots to make space for themselves. He spends ample time kissing her, her mouth, her temples, her collarbone, and the swell of her breasts, before he slides inside her. He pauses for a moment before moving, and she loves that he does because she too is savoring the pleasurable sensation that comes with having someone deeply sated inside of you. He moves then, slow at first but bucking faster when she pleads for more, and more until she feels herself tighten around him, his name a soft whisper on her lips. He follows her soon after, kissing her forehead before he rolls off of her.

"So this thing today, am I correct in thinking it's a test?" He asks breathlessly. She turns to him and laughs at the way his hair was sticking up every which way.

"Yes, that's correct. I'm feeding you to the proverbial wolves, if you would," she answers him, her fingers threading through his hair, trying to smooth down the hairs sticking up at his crown and wiping the ones sweat had matted onto his forehead.

"Then this must be getting serious," Graham says quietly, lifting his arm so she can scoot up closer to him and rest her head on his chest.

"I'm not sure, I rarely get to see you," she counters, biting back a smile at the way he rolls his eyes at her. She closes her eyes at the sensation of him trailing his fingers from her hair to the curve of her back. Were they getting serious? Yes, they had just had sex but, in all seriousness and in the collegiate scheme of things, did that really mean anything more than just satiating carnal desires?

"I'd like to change that," he says, tightening his grip on her and rolling her back on top of him. She sits up, her hands splayed evenly on his chest as she looks down at him and notices the focus and drive behind his gaze. "I can't seem to get enough of you, Emma Swan."

"Was this before or after you saw that another guy was taking care of me?" Emma asks him with a smirk as he sits up and rests his back against the headboard. It was an awkward few moments of shuffling, but soon they're back to where they had started—with his hands gripping her hips and her legs on either side of his lap.

"Oh, definitely before," he says with glinting eyes before kissing her on the cheek, "and during," he says before he kisses her jaw, "and after," he almost growls as his teeth nip her neck, sucking her flesh in such a way that it was sure to leave a mark.

She laughs as they tumble into bed again and he has his way with her once more. Later, when she wakes around noon, when his arm is draped around her middle and he pulls her closer to him in her sleep, she smiles not just at the idea of Graham by her side. She smiles at the fact that while in his arms she dreamt of nothingness, a black void devoid of weird dreams and past lives.

As dreams should be.

A/N: Presented without commentary...