This wasn't part of her plan.

She had it all figured out, a subway map of thoughts clogging her brain, each thought taking its own path but all leading to the same end result. It all lead to keeping August and his family safe, it all lead to her imminent solitude. She had nothing to lose, but August had everything. She couldn't let him take on this burden. She had her own private joke with herself that this was her charitable donation to the world, a bitter thought that it would be her last good deed as a kid in the system before she could break free of the shackles that tied her to this oxymoronic life, one where she was constantly moving but constantly tied down.

She didn't owe the system anything, but she owed August quite a bit. He would fight her on this, but she was doing it for him.

She had blind faith in herself and knew she'd make it out alive tonight, but a barely tangible thread of terror had wrapped itself around her heart and had started to squeeze when she was alone with that man tonight. She wasn't sure she'd be able to protect herself, and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she heard the recently familiar and strangely comforting English accent echoing through the darkness at the mouth of the alley. She heard his voice and her subway map turned to chaos, all trains crashing into one another with a new end destination.

All now lead to Killian Jones.

She watches him over her glass, watches as he looks away, watches as the alcohol burns on its way down and warms her from the inside out, watches as he walks toward the bathroom and comes back with an ice pack and first aid kit, watches as he raises his eyebrow in a "May I?" gesture and elevates her ankle onto a pillow when she nods in response. The ice is cold on her skin and she winces but lets him continue.

His eyes keep flicking to her face as he rummages through his first aid kit. She leans forward, reaches past him toward the bottle of liquor on the side table. He doesn't even give her a second glance when she pours herself more and drinks it.

"Easy, Swan," he murmurs.

She lets her eyes leave him and finally takes inventory of his apartment.

The space is small with an open floor plan, a kitchen that leads into the living room with windows overlooking the marina. A hallway to the right leads to the bathroom and she's guessing his bedroom. The couch they're sitting on is navy, and the rest of the space is sparsely decorated save for a few nautical themed things here or there.

"You know you're going to have to explain tonight to me," Killian says.

She fights with herself, repressing the urge to say her usual I don't have to explain anything to you. Because in reality, she kind of does. She owes Killian Jones.

"Why?" she asks instead.

He raises an eyebrow, incredulous. "Why?"

She nods. "It's not like you can use it in your investigation. Like you said, it's dirty."

"It certainly is, but that doesn't mean I'm not interested in knowing what the hell is going on. I'd be able to find a way to use it eventually, I'm sure of it."

"That's a lot of confidence for a barely legal cop."

"Ah, what can I say," he says with a smirk, looking away from her and watching as he pours rubbing alcohol onto a gauze pad. When his eyes meet hers again, she can't place the emotion that's crossed them. "Hold still, love. This will sting a bit." He stands from the end of the couch and sits on the cushion next to her. She is laying down, propped up by her elbows, her ankle elevated on a pillow. He sits next to her torso facing her. Their gazes hold one another's as he presses the gauze against the wound. Her eyes close in a wince as she hisses from the sting. "Warned you," he says. There's a smile in his voice and when Emma opens her eyes she sees it on his face.

"Not funny," she reprimands.

"No, it isn't," he agrees. Silence falls around them as he continues to clean her wound and bandage it up. The skin around his eye is bruising mimicking the black eye she had when she first met Killian Jones. Her cut is cleaned and covered, but his hand has yet to leave her face. In fact, it's moved to cup her cheek in his hand, and she responds by leaning into it.

"How long have we known each other?" she finds herself musing out loud. Her eyes widen in surprise when she realizes she verbalized her thoughts.

"Your case has been open for a couple of months. End of June was the first response to your house, now it's what, beginning of August next week?" His answer was casual but there was an edge to his voice.

"Hmm. Feels longer."

"Aye, it does."

This wasn't part of her plan.

Emma pushes herself up further, off her elbows into a seated position. Her hand reaches out to trace the bruising on his eye, the scar she noticed on his cheek, the end of the day stubble rough beneath her palm. His breath hitches when she cups his cheek the way he's done to hers, his pupils dilate to an endless pool of black, the navy irises now indistinguishable. She leans closer, lets her eyes flutter closed as she feels his hand move from cupping her cheek to cupping her neck, pulling her closer a millimeter at a time. His breath brushes against her face and she feels his nose against hers, a hesitant and encouraging gesture. Her breathing feels labored almost like she won't be able to fully fill her lungs with air until she closes the infinitesimal distance left between them.

And she does.

She lets her lips touch his in a gentle peck, unsure how it'll be received. She knows the underlying tension between them is there because he is working on her case. This is all kinds of wrong. The way he pulls her closer is all kinds of wrong. The way the rhythm changes from hesitant brushes to full on kissing, her lower lip between his, their teeth knocking together from not yet knowing each other's rhythm, the way she feels him smile a bit against her lips when she moans involuntarily when he pulls gently at her hair.

She isn't drunk, but she's not entirely sober, and she's not sure, when they pull apart, if her head is spinning from the alcohol or from the aftermath of the kiss. Her eyes flutter open and she sees he's already watching her.

"We shouldn't have done that," she breathes. Every nerve ending in her body is on fire. She wants so badly to push him back against the couch and keep kissing him, kiss him until she can't feel the fear that clenches at her heart, kiss him until that emptiness she's been feeling for her entire life is filled with him.

"We?" His response is strained.

"Yes, it takes two people to –"

"Swan," he interrupts. "Emma, you –"

"Killian," she interrupts right back. "It takes two people to kiss."

He lets out a small laugh. "Aye, it does. But I wasn't going to put the blame on you."

"You weren't?"

"No, I was going to say you have no idea how long I've wanted to do that." She feels a blush creep up her neck to her cheeks, but doesn't say anything in response. He finally removes his hand from her neck and she acutely feels its absence. He gently grabs her wrist and removes it from his face, entwines their fingers and lets them fall into his lap. "I know it's wrong, but how can it be wrong, Emma? How can that kiss be defined as wrong?"

Her response is almost involuntary as she jumps to defend herself. "Don't get ahead of yourself, buddy. It was just a kiss."

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Several emotions flash across his face before he lets go of her hand. He stands up, runs a hand through his hair and starts to pace the room.

"Fair enough, Swan. You play a tough game, I should've guessed it wouldn't be that easy."

"What wouldn't be that easy?" she asks despite herself. Why couldn't she just shut up?

He snaps his gaze back to her and now he's angry. He's definitely angry. His pupils are still dilated but from a different kind of passion, and his jaw clenches repeatedly before he answers her.

"Never mind. Forget it. Forget it all. Let's get you back."

"Killian, I –"

"Can you walk?"

"I –"

"Can you walk?" he repeats.

She removes the ice pack and stands up, testing the way her weight feels on her ankle.

"I think it's sprained." She looks up from her foot and sees his eyes have closed. His jaw is still clenched.

"Sit back down," he instructs. She listens to him and watches in silence, pressing her lips together to prevent herself from saying anything else she'll hate herself for. He pulls the coffee table closer to the couch and sits on it, ace bandage in hand. Her foot rests on his knee as he wraps it up with expert precision.

"Killian," she starts.

"Don't worry about it, Emma."

"Killian," she repeats. He finally looks back at her and his expression is completely guarded. She recognizes it as a mirror of her own. She's not sure where to start. How does she tell him that it wasn't just a kiss, that she's pretty sure she's wanted to kiss him since the day he showed up in August's bedroom? She takes a deep breath. "Look, I didn't mean what I said."

"It's fine, Emma."

She shakes her head. "I didn't mean it."

"It shouldn't have happened anyway, I've got my head on the chopping block now."

"I know it shouldn't have happened but that doesn't mean it wasn't going to happen."

"Is that what you truly think?"

She hesitates. "Yes."

"You think it would have happened even if I didn't give you alcohol and seduce you with my abilities to put a bandage on?"

She laughs and breathes a sigh of relief at the same time. "Yes."

He removes her foot from his lap, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. They are so close again, close enough to kiss, close enough that she feels his breath ghost across her face and she has to force her eyelids not to flutter closed in longing.

"Let's get one thing straight, Emma." His tone is conversational but there's a serious edge to it. "I started this case with the intention of bringing justice to a civilian so that I can get my police badge and take care of some personal business from my past."

Confusion colors her voice as she responds. "Okay…"

"That's how this started, but I'm not sure how it's going to end."

He stands and holds his hand out to her. She grabs it and he pulls her up.

"Let's get you back."