As January became February, the weather, which had been by all accounts unseasonably warm, suddenly turned bitterly cold. Ice and snow became a frequent occurrence, and Killian was forced to rise much earlier in the mornings to de-ice and warm his newly repaired car before picking up Eric on the way to Farrenton. The one advantage to all of this was that Killian often arrived at campus earlier than usual. With time to kill, Killian often spent it in his office grading assignments or preparing additional materials for his classes. Occasionally, he even wrote.

And it was on one of these mornings that fate decided to give him a nudge.

"Professor Jones?"

Killian looked up, startled. He'd been struggling for days to strike just the right phrase for the thought he wanted to convey, and he hadn't even heard the knock on his open door. His face lit into a smile at the visitor. "Emma!" he said, quickly closing the legal pad upon which he'd been writing. He laid aside on his desk, thankful for once that it was such a bloody mess. He rearranged some of the books and other materials on its surface, both clearing a larger space and obscuring the legal pad behind other things. "You're here early," he observed, waving her into the office. "Is there something I can help you with?"

She hesitated in the doorway, her expression uncertain. "I...this isn't about class." Her green eyes were full of doubt and worry. "But Jefferson said you would be able to help."

He furrowed his brow. "I'll certainly do my best if it's within my capability."

She shuffled into the office at last and peered out into the dimly lit hallway before shutting the door with a click. She sat down in the chair opposite him and unzipped her backpack. Removing a sheaf of crumpled and folded papers , she thrust them at him without a word.

Killian scanned the top page. And his heart stopped cold. "Emma..." he said in a strangled whisper as his own poetry leapt forth from the typewritten pages, "why are you showing these to me?"

"Someone's been sending them to me," she began cautiously. "Sometimes with little gifts like flowers, sometimes not. And I'm not sure what to do about it."

He leafed through the poems helplessly, staring at his own writing in morbid fascination. A dozen thoughts galloped through his head at once: How in the world had she figured it out? What the hell was he supposed to do now? He was going to lose his job. Liam was going to be pissed off. Hadn't he told Killian not to get caught? And Elsa...she'd make Liam look bloody kind and understanding about the whole thing. Hans was still running from her, as Killian understood it, after what he'd done to her sister. It was only recently that Elsa had even warmed up to Anna's long-time boyfriend, Kristoff-and they had been dating for over three years now! Elsa was the last person whose bad graces Killian wanted to be in. This had to stop. All of it. Today.

Killian ran a hand through his hair, picking his words carefully. How on earth did you explain yourself in a situation like this? You couldn't, that's what. He'd been a complete idiot about all of this. What on earth had made him think any of this was a good idea? Why hadn't he listened to the saner portion of himself and refused to give in to his unexplainable attraction to Emma? Miss Nolan, he corrected himself. It had to be Miss Nolan from now on. It should never have been anything but.

"Emma," he croaked, before he even realized what he was saying. "Er, Miss Nolan, that is..."

"Can you read them to me, please?" she interrupted.

"What?" he blinked. That was hardly the reaction he'd been expecting to this little...whatever it was he'd been fool enough to think he was doing.

"I need...I want your interpretation. Are they something I should worry about?" she asked, plucking at a stray piece of string hanging from her scarlet sweater.

He frowned, utterly confused. "What do you mean?"

"It's just..." She wound the string around her index finger absently, "I thought Neal was sending them at first, as a way to try to win me back after we broke up. He was sending all these gifts, too. So I just leapt to the logical conclusion, I guess, and assumed everything was from him," she rambled, "but he's adamant that he hasn't, and Jefferson said you had a stalker once and could advise me if you thought it was a genuine threat." She paused, taking a deep breath. "So that's why I'm here so early. I was hoping to catch you outside of office hours, just in case...well, I don't want anyone else to know."

He stared at her, trying to absorb everything she'd just rattled off. Killian leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. "Am I to understand that you think you're in danger?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe? I'm a cop's daughter. I have to consider the possibility."

"I see." He rubbed his chin, peering down at his handiwork as he tried to collect his thoughts. Emma didn't know that he'd sent the poems and (some of, apparently) the flowers she'd been receiving. There was still time to get out of this with his dignity-and job-intact. "So, ah, you'd like me to review these and determine whether your admirer means you any harm?" he clarified.

"Yes."

"Well," he scratched behind one ear, stalling, "that's likely to take some time." He glanced at the clock on the wall above his desk and discovered, much to his dismay, that there was still a good forty-five minutes before he had to teach class. Plenty of time to "analyze" at least a portion of these poems for her. He sighed. "But I suppose we can begin," he murmured.

"Great. Where do we start?"

"Um," Killian said, glancing down at the pile of his work. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Is there a particular one that's puzzling you?"

She leaned forward suddenly and scooped the pile of poems out of his lap. Killian froze at her touch. While not indecent by any standard, the contact was still rather more intimate than the professional relationship they were supposed to maintain dictated. But then, professional and distant had long gone out the window where Emma Nolan was concerned, even if she didn't realize it. And that was why he was in this situation.

"How about this one?" She extracted it from the stack of paper and handed it to him. Killian scanned it and saw that it was the one he'd written, comparing her to a swan. "I don't get it. What do swans have to do with anything?"

"Well," he said slowly, trying to appear as if he were pondering the answer, "swans are known to mate for life, so he could be making a statement about commitment. They also symbolize grace and beauty...even eroticism. Which could represent how he thinks of you." He tried not to notice the becoming flush that colored her cheeks as he said this. If I may?" he said, holding out his hand for the paper before he could do anything stupid like kiss her.

Emma surrendered it, her eyes afire with curiosity. Killian glanced over his work, chewing on his lower lip as he tried to synthesize the thoughts and feelings that he'd put into the poem in a way that Emma could understand.

a headdress of snowy feathers allures

across a pond of bitter fortune

thy elegant arch of form

the envy of other pens

your impassioned gaze ignorant

of even the most ardent devotion

you laze in solitary waters

unmindful of the herd

while I drift in wistful contemplation

of that ancient courtship dance

then with beat of powerful wings

you take to the sky

flying free and unchained

my companion held aloft by fate

My Swan.

"Look at this line here, near the beginning. The headdress of snowy feathers calls to mind your fair hair. And use of the word "allures," speaks of attraction, but it could also mean he feels drawn to you in a metaphysical way."

"Metaphysical? You mean like spiritual?"

"Mmm...more like essential to one's being."

"Oh. Like soul mates?"

"Yes," Killian said, secretly pleased that she had put it into words. "Perhaps something like that."

"But what about the bitter fortune?"

"Fortune has several meanings. It can refer to wealth, luck, or fate. I'd say that based on the context, it's possible he feels unworthy of you, or believes that circumstances will not allow you to be together."

"And the pens?" she pressed. "What does writing have to do with it?"

"Mmm," Killian murmured to himself, "now that's more obscure," he admitted. "The writing utensil wouldn't make any sense in this context, would it? So the speaker must refer to another meaning," he guided her.

Emma frowned, pressing a few buttons on her phone to Google it. "Enclosure for livestock doesn't make sense either," she muttered, scrolling through the results. "A dock? Ugh, no. Shortened form for penitentiary? Definitely not. Oh! A female swan." She leaned over, peering at the poem again. Killian caught a whiff of her spicy perfume and inched closer to her, despite himself. "So the other girl swans are jealous of my...long neck?"

He chuckled. "I suppose that would be one way to look at it, Miss Nolan, if we are being quite literal. Although I suspect your admirer is referring to other physical attributes that are to his liking."

"Other...?" Her face turned a deep shade of crimson once she took his meaning. "Oh my God!"

Killian scrubbed at the back of his neck, feeling his own face heat with embarrassment. Thank God she hadn't any idea who had really written the poem. "Apologies, Miss Nolan," he said, clearing his throat. "Perhaps we should have left it at the literal meaning."

"Oh, it's um, it's fine," she stuttered. "I mean I asked, and literature isn't um, always pure and innocent."

"No," he agreed. "Literature is about the human condition. It encompasses feeling such as lust, envy, greed, love, vengeance...they all have something to teach us."

"Like my dad," she murmured. "He saw that kind of thing first hand."

"I imagine so," Killian agreed. "Poetry is a safer way in which we can examine these things, Emma. You shouldn't let it intimidate you."

"Thanks, I'll try to remember that." She scooted her chair closer to him, leaning toward Killian as she craned her neck to see. Killian watched her out of the corner of his eyes. He itched to wrap his arm around her and draw her just the two or three inches closer to his shoulder, lending his warmth to her in the chilly little office. "So what about the rest of this?"

"Ah," Killian said, snapping out of the brief fantasy of Emma's silken coiffure cascading over his shoulder, allowing him to comb his fingers through it, "well the middle lines of the poem set the swan apart from everyone else," he explained. "Look at the words the speaker uses to describe the swan: drifting in "solitary waters", being "unmindful of the herd" and "ignorant" of other admirers. She's a world apart from him. Completely unattainable. He wants to engage in that "ancient courtship" ritual that would bond them, but he knows it's wishful thinking. Hence the "wistful contemplation."

"Wait. You said swans mate for life. So, uh, the courtship ritual would be...marriage?"

"Metaphorically speaking, it could be, yes. But marriage tends to come after courtship for humans. Literally speaking, it probably refers to the mating ritual between swans."

"Oh," she blushed again. "You weren't kidding about the eroticism, huh?"

He coughed in amusement. "Perhaps, Miss Swan, you should take it that he simply wishes to explore the potential between you. Get to know you."

"Then why all the talk that I'm so unattainable to him?"

"Well..." Killian glanced up at the clock on the wall above his desk. "Um, perhaps this conversation should be continued another time, Miss Nolan. Class begins in ten minutes."

"All right," she sighed. "But tell me this... Do you think I have anything to worry about?"

He chewed on his lower lip, debating with himself how to best answer her question. "May I be frank?"

"Please."

"If the closing lines of this poem are any indication, he's relatively harmless. He's willing to let you "take to the sky" and fly "free and unchained". That doesn't sound like a stalker. Stalkers don't respect your freedom and agency. They obsess and try to entrap. You aren't something to be possessed, Emma. You are his "companion, held aloft by fate". His beloved, no matter that it's not official."

"Then why call me his swan, there at the end?" she challenged. "That sounds like I'm his possession to me."

"Good question, Miss Nolan. Perhaps it is because you are the one he wishes to commit himself to. The one he considers his mate, even if he doesn't think you can be his." He shrugged, as if to say that one could never be certain.

She frowned, her forehead creasing as she thought this over. Killian handed the poems back, watching as Emma stored them away with more care than she'd removed them. Her expression softened as she looked up at Killian again. "Thank you. I have a lot to think about."

"Certainly," he said with a nod. "You know, it occurs to me, Miss Nolan, that while I'm certainly open to giving you extra help and practice at interpreting poems, there's a much simpler solution to all of this."

"What?"

"Tell your admirer to stop sending them if you're uncomfortable. If he's any gentleman at all, he'll respect that. If not..." He leaned back in his chair again. "Well, then you've probably some cause to worry."

"How am I supposed to do that? There's no return address. They're all typed. I don't know who's sending them. Not for sure."

Killian looked up quickly at that, scanning her face for any sign that she suspected him. The puzzled look on her face yielded nothing helpful to that end, however, and he sighed. "Well, the campus paper is widely read. Chances are your admirer reads it too. Put a cryptically worded ad in the paper requesting that he back off."

"But what if he doesn't read the paper and doesn't see it?"

"Well...I don't know," he admitted sheepishly. "I suppose that's just a chance you'd have to take, if you're willing."

She stood, hefting her backpack up onto on shoulder. "Thanks," she said, extending her hand toward him. "I'll think about it."

Killian accepted it, jerking slightly at the small ping of static shock that erupted when their hands touched.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she smiled. "Hazard of winter, I guess."

"Yes," he murmured, "I suppose." He glanced down and saw that their hands were still clasped together. He released it quickly, clearing his throat with some embarrassment. "I'll see you in class momentarily."

"Sure." She waved at him, slipping out the door, and Killian expelled a sigh that was equal measures of relief and nervous anticipation. Would Emma place such an ad? Did he even want her to? It would provide him with an easy and graceful means to end everything. It was the answer to his prayers. Or would be, if he prayed. It was the safe and sane thing to do.

But Killian had never been one to pick the sane and safe option in his life.