She finds him in the library, but what else is new. They've been doing this for a month or so, and now people know, now it is official because everyone saw them at the Miner's Day festival and –

Breathe, Killian. Breathe.

He isn't exactly certain why he still gets overwhelmed by this because it's part of his daily life now – the smiles, the conversation, the people whispering about them in the hallways. (Fake) dating Emma Swan is part of his daily life now, and he isn't exactly sure he'll ever get used to it.

(But then again, who could blame him?)

She finds him in the library and puts her phone so close to his face he sees blurry for a few seconds before his eyes can adapt to the unexpected situation. He recognizes Facebook's blue before he actually reads the words.

"You didn't RSVP."

He can only blink because – what?

"What?"

She sighs her latent I'm-the-school-princess-and-I-don't-like-when-things-don't-go-my-way sigh (the one that doesn't make an entrance that often but is still there, waiting) as she shakes the phone in front of his nose, as if it would help. "My birthday. I sent you an invite and you didn't reply."

Oh.

Oh.

Maybe he should tell her Facebook is a tad useless when you only have five friends – one of which being your brother – and so he barely ever checks it, let alone expects to receive invitations to events of any kind. But it's just sad, even for him, so he doesn't say anything, replies with a shrug and a little smile.

(Her birthday is in a week, he knows, he's known since their first year at school because she's the only one with a birthday in October and he remembers the crappy cakes she would bring to school that day, smiling and happy as she blew the candles. He knows when her birthday is, but didn't think he would ever be invited to one. Until now.)

"I'm sorry, I just… forgot," he says lamely.

She isn't fooled, of course she isn't, raising an eyebrow as she sits by his side and folds her arms on the table like she means business. Which, she clearly does. "Party next Saturday, my house, eight o'clock. No gifts."

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. "Emma, I don't think this is a good idea." And he knows she's going to disagree, he knows she's going to force him to attend, so he adds, "It's your birthday, your friends. I don't belong there."

He knows better than to assume he's made a point there, but he isn't prepared for the answer she gives him.

"You're my friend too."

His eyes widen but so do hers, both surprised by the honesty in her voice, the easiness with which she says the words. They've grown closer to each other through the weeks, of course – it was meant to happen, after all – but for her to acknowledge it, for her to put a label on this relationship of their… It warms his heart, somehow, to know he is something to her, to know he matters.

She shakes her head, as if aware this emotional moment isn't what they need right now, and when she looks back to him, the softness in her eyes is gone, the stubbornness back in full swing. "Plus I'm the birthday girl so you can't say no to me."

He knows better than to contradict her, so he nods.

"And, remember," she adds as she points a finger at him. "No gifts."

(Yeah, he'll see about that.)

The party is, of course, a nightmare.

It takes Killian a grand total of five minutes to find a relatively quiet place in a corner of the living room, settling on an armchair with Emma's cat. And so that's how he spends the evening, petting Figaro and watching other teenagers (apparently) having the time of their life with alcohol and loud music, wondering when exactly he can leave without Emma being mad at him for not spending enough time in her house.

He doesn't even know where she is, just a flash of blonde hair once in a while or the echo of her laugh from another room.

This is hell, seriously.

He should have never come in the first place.

(He knows at least Mary Margaret would speak with him if he came to her, because Mary Margaret doesn't have a mean bone in her body, but she's spent the evening dancing with her boyfriend and Killian knows better than to interrupt them. All the other ones either make him uncomfortable or hate him, which doesn't help in the slightest.)

He isn't certain how much time has passed – an hour, most likely – when he finally stands up and moves around the room to find something to drink and eat. He stumbles upon her instead.

"Killian!" she says with the largest of grins and a bit of a laugh as she grabs his arm. Her eyes are wide, her hair a mess, and she probably holds on to him not to sway – on the right side of buzzed, obviously. He offers her a tight smile back, because he's a hopeless moron that way.

"Having fun?"

She nods, a little too energetically perhaps, her hold on his arm tightening in response. Gosh, more than a little buzzed, then.

"Come," Emma says, as her hand moves from his forearm to grab his fingers. "Let's dance."

"I don't think it's –"

"I don't care."

She pulls him to the improvised dance floor and wraps her arms around his neck without a second thought, stepping closer until her chest brushes his and he has to take a deep breath. Not that she notices, already swaying to the music – a slow dance, of course, and thankfully for his poor dancing skills. So he puts his hands around her waist and tries not to be overwhelmed by the moment. Fails miserably.

"Thank you," she says, so low he barely hears her over the music. "I know you're miserable tonight, but thanks for trying."

When he smiles, it doesn't feel quite as forced as before. "Anything for you, love."

She averts her eyes, and the red of her cheeks may have little to do with the alcohol. At least he thinks so. Who knows. It may only be wishful thinking, he's been doing a lot of that lately.

But then she moves even closer and presses her forehead against his shoulder, and he forgets to think altogether. Just moves to the sound of music as his thumb draws small circle on her lower back, just breathes her in and closes his eyes.

The song ends way too fast, of course, as everything seems to do when you truly enjoy them, and she steps back, looks up to him through her lashes. The smile she offers him then is small, shy almost - her entire face softens in something akin to tenderness, and his breath catches in his throat.

But then she takes his hand again and states, "Tonight we're getting you drunk, Jones", and the moment is gone. He laughs, a breathless and broken sound, as he follows her to the drink table, lets her put a red cup in his hand.

Anything for her, indeed.

Killian isn't exactly sure how he finds himself on the couch with Emma on his lap, but it's something that happens at some point, and he knows better than to question it – knows better than to question drunk Emma's behaviour because she's obviously way more open in her affections than normal Emma could ever be. So he lets her sit on his lap and counts to twenty in German every time she wriggles a little too much as she laughs at one of Ruby's jokes.

Mary Margaret sits next to them, her eyes wandering from him to her friend every so often, a secretive smile tugging the corners of her mouth, like she knows more than she lets it show. But at least she's nice enough to talk with him, and they settle in a quiet conversation about classes and homework all the while ignoring the excited shouts of everyone around them.

(Mary Margaret, he likes. He still has reservations about Emma's other friends, too loud, too obnoxious, but at least he's glad for Mary Margaret.)

They're in the middle of a conversation about universities and the future when Emma stands up, and his lap feels very empty all of a sudden without the weight of her. He looks up to her, questions in his eyes, and she replies "I'll get more food," with a little shrug.

"Need help?"

She hesitates, in that take-a-step-forward-stop-look-back way, before she shrugs again and makes her way to the kitchen. It's all Killian needs to nod to Mary Margaret before he stands up too, and the brunette replies with one of her kind smiles before she looks to her other side and jumps into a new conversation. (She does that effortlessly, he's so jealous.)

Emma is already pouring chips in a large bowl when he enters the kitchen, and so Killian kind of just stands there, not knowing what to do. He's wriggling his fingers when she looks up, and they just stare at each other for a very long time – it feels like she's reading his soul, and that only adds to the overall awkwardness of the situation.

"There's guacamole in the cupboard," she says, pointing said cupboard with her finger.

Her voice is soft, almost tired, but the music is dulled by the closed door between them and the living room. It creates some kind of bubble only for them to share, not needing to speak too loudly. Or not to speak at all, as he finds the guacamole and a smaller bowl to put it in, and they busy themselves with the food for a couple of minutes without saying a single word.

He's painfully aware of her body close to him though, focusing on her low breathing, and he can only freeze when she stretches her arm over his shoulder to reach another cupboard. She freezes too, and they stare at each other for a very long time (again) like they can't help themselves, like they need to get lost in the other's eyes.

Her hand falls from the cupboard's handle to his arm, and he can only watch as she leans forwards, as she presses her lips to his cheek.

Her eyes are blown wide, not as glassy as they were earlier. And perhaps that's it – the fact that she isn't as drunk as she pretended to be – that set him into motion. Or perhaps it's just the sheer force of her, perhaps he's just tired of holding back. He doesn't know.

All he knows is that he's kissing her – or maybe she's kissing him, he isn't exactly certain who pounced on whose lips first – and it's glorious, it's everything he's ever imagined and so much more. He kisses her and he tastes the salt of chips on her mouth, kisses her and sees stars.

His arms are around her waist and he pulls her to him until there is no space left between them, her arms wraps around his neck as she deepens the kiss, as they stumbles awkwardly through the kitchen until he presses her against the fridge. And it may be a little too much, as far as first kiss go, but fuck if he cares at that point, not when she's so obviously moaning in the back of her throat and –

And then she pushes him, hard enough for him to stumble back.

"Get out."

"… what?"

Her eyes are hard, so very hard all of a sudden – it clashes with the flush high on her cheeks and her swollen lips, and it's wrong wrong wrong. She looks at him the way she's never looked at him before, cold, harsh, and Killian can only step back.

"I said get out." He doesn't move, and she pushes him, hands flat on his chest. "Leave!"

He knows better than to question her.