This chapter contains the following triggers: eating disorders, graphic descriptions of unhealthy bodies and unhealthy weight management, child endangerment, and animal death. Please go forward with caution.

There's a bit of a lust-fueled delay between hearing her words and understanding the meaning of them, and when it happens, Emma's already slipped off the counter and around him. "Something we both-" Killian stutters, whirling in time to see her pass through the doorway.

His first emotion is anger, quickly replaced by guilt and then frustration, trailing off with a healthy dose of remorse for his initial anger. He drags his hands up and down his face, mussing his hair further than the job she's already done on it, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth in some shoddy meditation attempt some therapist or other over the years recommended. If she thought that sort of kiss was something they needed to get out of their systems, he doesn't know if either of them are ready for the raging desire that's replaced it.

He wants her.

And she's rejected him.

'Not rejected, little brother. Not yet. The boy called for her, and she has responsibilities.' Killian's not sure when his conscience turned into his brother Liam. He is sure he's had more conversations with this Liam than he did when his brother still walked this earth.

Fuck her responsibilities, Killian thinks, and then immediately regrets it.

Liam is unsympathetic. 'Have you really grown so desperate for a shag? There are plenty of willing women around here.'

Be that as it may, there's something less appealing about his usual one-and-done when Killian's plans for picking up and leaving town aren't coming to fruition anytime soon. This puts a slight damper on his desire for her. He turns again, bracing himself on the counter and exhaling slowly. It's not them that I want. Even to his own mind he sounds like a whiny pissant.

'Stop acting like a spoiled child denied a toy, it's unbecoming.'

Why should she turn me away? She started it, Killian thinks.

He can see the exasperated headshake as Liam says, 'Some days, you are more the younger brother you named yourself. Perhaps it's not your 'dashing good looks' and charm that drew her to kiss you. Perhaps she just felt good after winning the pool.'

Killian grinds his teeth together. If feeling good was what she was after, she could have at least let me fuck her. At least then we both could feel good.

Liam's silent judgement and the ringing in Killian's ears brings him out of his thoughts. Hot shame drips through him as he realizes what he's thought. He glances up; there's a window looking out to the farm across from him, a farm he can hardly make out in the dying light of the day. Instead, his own pale, wide-eyed reflection stares back at him from the glass. Oh, God. I should… leave. Just go. Before I do something really stupid.

'Implying you haven't already.' Killian doesn't know when he's forgotten exactly how his brother's laugh sounded, but it bothers him. He knows it's not correct, but he can't recall what it should be instead. There's no one else left to remember it, and he can't even do it properly.

Ducking out now avoids the awkward well now what conversation. It might leave Emma with the wrong impression, but he's willing to bear that cross. He swallows hard at the thought of what she might think of him - what she must think of him now - but the tight shame that makes it hard to breathe refuses to let up. He deserves that. He can't talk about now whats with the taste and feel of her still on him. Now what for him (at this moment) ends in her bed, or the kitchen floor, or out in the damn hayloft for all he cares - and she deserves better than that. As much as he wants her, as much as there's a primal need to have, the larger part of him doesn't want it to be that way with her.

And he frightens her.

She said as much, moments before everything turned upside down. She's frightened of him, and here he is in her kitchen, his mind flooded with a thousand scenarios of their bodies joining and limbs tangling - he's a hell beast of the first degree, and the shame flames hottest.

He cares about her as a friend first and foremost, and it pains him to think Emma would be afraid of him.

Killian sighs again. He doesn't like complicated and the logistics in his brain are already conflicting. He can feel the headache brewing as he drags his hand down the side of his face. Leaving. Yes. Good. Gwan, Jones, he tells himself. His keys are in his pocket; he can collect the dishes another time. Or buy new ones, whichever works better.

As he quietly leaves through the back door, his heart feels empty. Every step of the walk to his truck is a battle against the urge to run back inside and sweep Emma up into his arms and hold her there, ravishing her until Judgement Day. It's been an age since he felt this way about anyone and it makes him anxious. In his experience there's only one way to really drown out this specific taste of a woman: an unhealthy amount of Jameson's finest Irish.

There is one solace to his dilemma, though. The thought makes him smile wistfully.

Unlike the last time he needed this much whisky, at least Emma's still alive.

-/-

"We're trading beds," Emma announces, stretching out on David and Mary Margaret's king-sized bed. Her full-sized one was nice enough, but there's something to be said about this pillow-top. She grins at Mary Margaret's exasperated look. "Come on, you were holding out on me."

"You didn't have to sleep down here," Mary Margaret admonishes.

Emma barks a laugh. "Yeah, okay. And when your kid had a nightmare and also had to ascend the scary stairs to the attic, I wouldn't have heard about that at all."

Mary Margaret smiles, acquiescing. She tosses a few more things from the suitcase into the laundry hamper. Emma rolls onto her side, facing her. "So how was the trip?"

"It was nice," Mary Margaret says. "We haven't had the chance to just… do whatever we wanted for so long. No jobs, no children, just us? Honestly, it was kind of bizarre. To feel kind of normal we met with Regina and her family for dinner on Friday night."

She says the last part with some hesitation, and Emma resists the urge to pry about Henry. Instead she says, "Sounds like a good time. Uneventful is good."

"Yeah." Mary Margaret sets a few toiletries on the dresser. "How were things here? Besides with Leo - you kept us up to speed with him, and thank you for that."

Emma shrugs. "Normal. Phillip came up with reports every day, none of the boys got kicked or tossed off. Everything's well-managed, I checked every day to make sure it was clean. All quiet on the home front."

"And the party?"

Emma rolls onto her back, her arms falling above her head, resisting the urge to sigh in frustration. She definitely doesn't want to talk about what happened after the party and maybe - if she plays her cards right - she can get away with it. "Uneventful, if you don't count me winning the big pot at the end. Victor lost all his money to me, Ruby, and Killian, so that was fun. Not so fun was listening to him whine about it. Elsa and her sister came - have you met Anna before?"

Mary Margaret nods. "When a jock gets excused, we have to go talk to her. She's sweet."

"She's like, psychic," Emma grumbles.

"Ah, the people thing."

Emma grunts an affirmative. She still doesn't know how Anna had gotten her to open up like that. It had taken a few shots of tequila - and then later a heavy dose of guilt - to let Killian into the tamer parts of her past and even he'd had to wait for longer than an hour into their acquaintance for the privilege. Mary Margaret pats Emma's ankle and smiles sympathetically. She glances at Emma sidelong before asking, "And how was Killian?"

Emma isn't blushing. "What do you mean?"

"I mean was he okay with there being other people? I'm assuming you didn't tell him."

Damn her, knowing Emma so well. Emma feels very warm as she responds. "He seemed okay. He was really good with Leo - everyone was really, I need to buy them all fruit baskets or something - and he made this amazing banana nut bread."

"Your favorite," Mary Margaret says, smiling like she knows a secret.

Emma isn't fooled. "I didn't tell him, he just did it."

"Okay."

The room grows quiet, disturbed only by the distant sounds of Leo and David coming back inside from the barns or of Mary Margaret putting things away and muttering to herself about where certain items went. Emma's pretty sure they might have been sacrificed in the Great Pre-Vacation Purge of 2014, but she won't breathe a word. Finally, Mary Margaret sighs and sits heavily on the bed, bouncing slightly. "So, are you going to tell me why you blushed when I brought up Killian, or do I have to guess?"

Emma props herself up on her elbows. "Has anyone told you you're really nosy?"

"Emma, please," Mary Margaret says, fixing her with a scrutinizing look. "My students can hide a secret better than you and they're ten."

Emma frowns. "Nothing happened." Mary Margaret tilts her head disbelievingly. "Nothing happened!" Emma insists several times, but every time she tries to protest, it seems that Mary Margaret's eyes narrow a little further until they're nothing more than dark slits. Finally, Emma falls back onto the bed, sighing in exasperation. She grabs a pillow and holds it over her face. "I kissed him, alright?" she declares, though it's muffled.

"Is that all?" Mary Margaret asks. Emma whips the pillow at Mary Margaret, who promptly returns fire. "I'm serious," she says, combing through her short hair with her fingers.

"Yes, that's all," Emma grinds out. She doesn't want to mention how she can still feel the intensity and hunger behind that kiss, just enough of each to tease her into craving more. She'd felt it all the way down to her toes, it had rocked her to the core, made her tingle now just thinking of it. The edges between them had blurred as they melted into each other, she hadn't known where he ended and she began and she liked it. And then he'd gone and lifted her up onto the counter like she was weightless and fuck yes she was going to wrap her legs around him and not let him escape, was she nuts?

She feels warm again as Mary Margaret nods. "Okay."

She pointedly doesn't say anything else, and before Emma can be baited David calls up the stairs, "Sweetheart, Belle's here!"

Mary Margaret frowns curiously before heading out. Emma flops back onto the bed for a moment, debates yelling into the pillow, and then just gets up in disgust. She goes downstairs with a vague idea of tossing something together for dinner - she can't destroy boxed macaroni and cheese, can she? Emma can hear Mary Margaret and Belle discussing something quietly in the living room while she digs through the kitchen. Her eyes land on Killian's dishes sitting on the drying rack, cleaned and waiting for her to take them to him. Irritation surges through her.

Of course he'd just up and left without saying anything yesterday. It shouldn't bother her - she's preferred guys not making a big deal in the past, hasn't she? - but it does, and that irritates her further. She shouldn't expect anything - expecting things is what gets someone hurt - but at least 'Goodbye' would do. And he'd left his things here. She'd offered to wash only the bread pan, but the shrimp platter and salad bowl remained as well, and his damn hat had been left on the floor. It currently sat on her nightstand.

Maybe that's why she'd slept in Mary Margaret and David's room last night, sue her.

If Killian wants his stuff back, he has to get it himself. She's no one's errand girl. She has things to do. Family and the farm, and Henry... Another wave of irritation hits, and she gently beats her head against the cupboard door in frustration. Her forehead meets flesh next, and she jumps, looking up to see David. He'd slipped his hand between her head and the wood to catch her. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Emma grumbles, and she whips open the cupboard to grab a box of mac and cheese.

"Yeah, beating yourself over the head is 'peachy'," David quips.

Emma's rough with the cookware, ignoring her brother while he leans against the fridge with his arms crossed, watching and waiting. She knows what he's doing: he thinks if he stands there long enough, she'll open up to him. Worse, he's usually right. She putters around, ignoring his watchful gaze. She decides to get fancy and steam some broccoli to put on top of the macaroni and cheese - let Mary Margaret believe this is how it's been all weekend - while also drawing out the time she's going to let David wait for her.

The record is two hours. She can't see herself holding out that long today.

She's straining the noodles when she finally caves. "How was Henry?" Emma asks quietly. She can feel the desperation for answers creeping into her voice and she hates herself a little bit for it. She wouldn't feel this way if she hadn't pushed - no, it needed saying. She can be disappointed it wasn't well-received, but he had needed someone to say it.

She hears David shift behind her. "Quiet. Kinda down."

"Did they go to the school?"

"Regina mentioned it, yeah. He didn't perk up about it though, which I thought was weird. Are you ready to tell me why you two aren't speaking?" he asks.

In the two weeks since their fight, only Regina - and to an extent Robin - knew the details of why Emma and Henry weren't speaking. David and Mary Margaret knew something had happened, but Emma had pleaded the fifth when pressed for details. Now, she's not so sure it had been the best idea. Creating a safe space for Henry was the goal, had always been the goal, and maybe by excluding people she had accidentally created an instigative space. She's never had to deal with this sort of thing before. Navigating the waters of keeping personal issues private and creating a healing, nurturing environment was trickier than she thought. "Dave, if I ask you something, you have to promise to keep quiet about it," Emma says.

He looks concerned, but nods. Emma takes a deep breath. "What's the worst you've ever seen a jock get?"

David tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

She fixes him with an unamused glare. "You know what I mean."

David clenches his jaw for a moment. This isn't easy to discuss, Emma knows. She wouldn't talk about it if she had to, and maybe that's the whole problem. "Well, that kid who roasted to death in his car in Texas a few years-"

"No," Emma implores. "You personally, not the stories we all know."

He looks down. For a full minute, she thinks he isn't going to say anything. Then, he looks up at her again with haunted eyes. "New guy, just after Mom died. Had crazy potential, intense focus, worked like magic with his mounts. One of the best jocks I've worked with. But he was practically skeletal. Never saw him eat, when he wasn't riding he was running the oval again and again. I don't have a clue how he managed to run so many miles in one day, not with how he looked.

"He had a little girl. She was his whole world outside of racing. She'd come with him some days during training. She was the sweetest thing," David says.

Emma realizes there's tears in his eyes. Her stomach drops out. "What happened?" she breathes.

He clears his throat. "On their way in one day, he passed out while driving. His body just gave out. Car went into the ditch about half a mile up the road. I'll never forget Grace's face when she came limping up the driveway, forehead cut up and crying because she thought her papa was dead. Hospitalized him right away. Doctors said a man his size and that weight were only ever seen in war zones, or refugee camps. He got better eventually, but he lost Grace. We tried to keep her with us, we didn't want her to go into the system, but the judge ruled it a conflict of interest since Jefferson worked for me. She has a family nearby now. He has visitation a few times a month."

Underneath her bubbling rage at the foster care system and its many ineptitudes, Emma feels shock. Her eyes widen. "Jeff… My Jefferson?"

David nods. "He can't be away from a track, but he can't ride like he used to anymore. You ever notice he doesn't hang out with the others, he's kinda withdrawn?" She nods. She's noticed, but she's also noticed how Victor always tries to bring him around anyway. He'd mentioned trying to bring Jefferson on Saturday. Without fail, every invitation is turned down, but it's extended every time regardless. "He's being treated for depression now, too, but it's slow going. Only thing that keeps him going some days is his daughter."

She doesn't know how she feels. Part of her wishes someone had told her sooner, but she knows how the world works. She wonders if she's ever said anything that might have been insensitive towards Jefferson, but she stops herself from falling down that rabbit hole of potential guilt.

Emma walks over and hugs David tight. His arms go around her easily and she rests her head against his chest. "Help me," she pleads. "Help me make sure that won't be Henry."

"Whatever I can," he promises, and kisses the top of her head.

"Emma, I - oh," Mary Margaret begins, stopping abruptly in the door. Belle's right behind her. "Is everything alright?"

Emma steps away, nodding. Mary Margaret glances between her and David, concern etched on her face. Emma notices her brother and sister-in-law are having one of their silent conversations, so she goes to finish making dinner. Belle cautiously comes to stand near her while she works. "Are you alright, Emma?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," Emma says with a sigh. Belle smiles sympathetically and Emma stirs the cheese mix into the milk. "I'm surprised you're speaking to me."

She glances sidelong at Belle, who inclines her head in acknowledgement. "Well, I can't say my husband didn't deserve it. Believe me, we had a few words about it. But he's promised me that he'll be on his best behavior, and I believe him."

Emma wouldn't trust one of Gold's promises as far as she could throw him, but then, she's not married to him. There has to be a certain level of trust there. "I think as long as we stay out of each other's way, it'll be better for everyone."

Belle nods while Emma mixes in the noodles. "You're probably right. But I did mean what I asked, if you're alright. Either from that night or…" Belle looks over at David and Mary Margaret, who are getting plates and silverware out.

Emma holds out her hand for Belle to see. Her bruises are almost gone now. "Almost healed. And really, punching him more than helped make me feel better about any lies he was spewing. As for that," she says, nodding at David, "Family stuff."

"I see," Belle says.

Emma grabs the big serving bowl and dumps the finished macaroni into it and then the broccoli on top. "You wanna stay for dinner?" she asks.

Belle smiles and accepts.

Dinner passes in an ordinary fashion - for them, anyway, which meant only fifteen minutes of post-dinner cleanup from Leo. After, Belle leaves with a promise to see Mary Margaret tomorrow. "We've been behind in schooling. She was in Argentina, and then between her schedule and mine, we've got work cut out for us getting these guys back on track," Mary Margaret explains later, as she and Emma go down to the stables to turn the horses down for the night.

When Emma goes up to bed, she glares at Killian's hat on the nightstand. Leo's drawings are still taped to it and her heart twinges at the memory of him sitting on the floor, pointing out colors or teasing her nephew. Her fingers itch to pick up the phone and ask if he wants his things back or not - or even what he's doing. She's grown used to their daily text exchange and maybe it bugs her more than she cares to admit that she's missed talking to him a little today.

Instead, she tosses her phone on the floor, too far to reach from the bed, and climbs into bed. She deliberately turns away from the stupid hat after turning out the light. She looks out the window instead, only to be met with disappointment that there are no stars to keep her company in her gloom. The reason why is revealed as she starts to drift to sleep and rain begins to splatter against the window panes.

The next two weeks are despondent and even the weather matches Emma's mood. As unseasonably warm as April had been, the amount of rain (and the accompanying cold front) that almost continuously pours over Storybrooke is just as abnormal through May. It settles a chill in everyone's bones that refuses to leave, and it sends everyone with sense running for their warm, dry houses. Emma doesn't have much sense these days, though, and the rain only makes her evening walks down to work at the barns miserable. At this point, Emma's fairly certain that even if she had a magic wand she wouldn't be able to scrape all of the mud from her boots and she can't quite remember the last time she's been properly dry.

The few days of feeble sunshine don't improve her mood. Going to work and watching Killian either shield his eyes or wear aviators only feeds the guilt that she still has his things. It's not like they haven't spoken, either, but they…

It's weird. It's very weird and Emma doesn't like it and she knows it's her fault for making it weird but she doesn't know how to unmake that weirdness.

He's civil to her when they meet, pleasant even, but it's not the same as it was B.K. - Before Kiss. The flirtatious edge to his grin is gone, he stays well out of her personal space, and it's weird, okay? He doesn't even flirt in his texts anymore - and that's when he texts her back at all. It makes her more anxious and irritated to think maybe he got what he wanted from her, or maybe she was just that bad of a kisser that he wanted nothing more to do with her, or - God, stop it! Emma tells herself one morning, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes until a rainbow of supernovae explodes in her sight.

She's tired of running in circles with herself and she's more tired of being too chicken to confront him about all of this.

"Are you alright?" Elsa asks quietly after one race. "You've been… pensieve all afternoon."

Emma nods, punching up her queue. "I'll get over it."

"I didn't ask that."

Emma glances over, smiling tight-lipped. "It's fine, really. Thanks, Elsa."

Elsa gives her a look that says she doesn't quite believe her but leaves it at that. Emma can only hope she doesn't think to sic Anna on her, because Emma's not quite prepared for that kind of illegal warfare yet. She also really needs to get Killian Jones out of her brain, because there's a lot of other stuff she needs to worry about.

It's raining again - this has to be some kind of record - and the track is better labeled as 'soup' than 'sloppy'. They should have called the day off, but Spencer's a hardheaded asshole. No one wants to lose a few extra million dollars with the wake of post-Derby racing enthusiasm still sweeping the gambling world. So they seal the dirt after every race and hope for the best. A few races have taken several minutes to decide - no one can tell who wears what colors or silks under the mud splatters, even the ones out in front. There have been a few falls - nothing drastic, everyone walked off the field themselves - but Emma's gut twists itself into making her nauseous at every start anyway.

Ruby cuts in with her paddock camera shot and, despite herself, Emma smiles when she sees Killian huddling in the stall. The hood of his rain jacket is a flimsy cover for the downpour outside. She really should just go drop everything off tonight. Get over herself and do it.

She bites the inside of her lip as she watches him pat down Pride of War, his mouth going the whole time. He's probably enacting some Irish winning spell - yes, she's finally looked up what the hell language he's speaking when he flies off into not-English - or whatever other Irish superstition he likes to partake in. Or maybe Pride still just likes to be talked to. (Emma used to talk to him a lot when he was just a foal, shiny and new, and Neal used to tease her that she acted like Pride could actually understand her. She knew better.)

It's raining hard enough that the cameras can barely see through all the water to the starting gate. Emma's steadfast though. "Keep with them as best you can," she says, again and again.

Three furlongs from the finish line, they can see the outline of one horse fall. Emma sucks in a breath so fast it makes her chest hurt - and then another crashes into the first, and then a third. Almost half the field gets stuck in the wreckage, with five either ahead or able to weave around in time to finish. Emma doesn't even realize she's holding her breath until her lungs start to protest. An inquiry goes up immediately after someone crosses the finish line and Emma's eyes go to the rewind boards to see what had happened.

It's worse to watch it more clearly, on the closer camera feeds, but it makes her stomach roll to see the falls in slow motion. The horses and jocks are so caked in rain and mud that she can't even tell who or what caused the accident or was involved. Glancing at the live feed shows more ambulances and horse trailers on the field at one time than she could ever remember seeing before, and Emma has to focus on Arthur's blinking lights to settle down.

It takes ten minutes to clear the oval, but at that point Spencer has already stuck his head in and said the remainder of the day is cancelled. Ruby and Elsa trade wide-eyed looks, and Emma feels sick. There's no announcement as to what anyone's condition is and Emma knows that means it's bad. When she's finished cleaning up, Emma braves the weather to go down to the barn - David will know what happened.

-/-

God, he needs a drink.

Killian's on the couch again, still proper soaked through and not giving a damn about the condition of his furniture, both Si and Am staying a long ways away from him. He needs a drink and there's none to be found in the house, most of it gone two weeks ago in his little binge, the rest sacrificed at intermittent points in the coming weeks for any resurgences in feelings.

The rain's slowing finally.

If he can't drink, he needs a distraction.

His limbs feel heavy as he sits up and slowly looks around for such a thing to distract him from his empty heart. There's a binder on the table - full of charts and notes - one he'd been meaning to return to the Nolans for a few weeks. Killian had been avoiding the chore, though, avoiding another encounter with Emma if he could help it.

It's not that he's wanted to stay away. He's seen the curious and slightly hurt looks on her face with each of their recent interactions and it pains him to be the cause of them. But he decided after his little bingeing experiment that it would be best to keep his distance. He values her friendship and succumbing to his baser desires might be enough to sever that.

However, perhaps as with Humbert's mail, doing a thing he dreads when he can't feel anything at all might be the best plan of action.

The drive is treacherous, with flooding on every other country lane, and it takes at least an hour to get to Shepherd's Point when a normal day would take about twenty minutes. He doesn't feel nervous as he steps up the porch and knocks, though he does wonder at the time and if he's interrupting dinner.

Mary Margaret opens the door with some surprise. "Killian! How nice to see you, what brings you here?"

Killian attempts to smile. "Bringing this back for your husband, ma'am," he explains, holding up the binder.

She lifts an eyebrow. It makes her look uncharacteristically haughty. "It's Mary Margaret, Killian, not Mrs. Nolan or ma'am," she informs him, and he bows his head at the mild reprimand. He glances up to see her expression soften. "David's down at the barn. And Killian -," she says as he turns to go. He looks back. The look she wears now is pure sympathy. "I'm sorry."

The hollowness inside him fills, this time with regret. "Me too, ma - Mary Margaret."

The path to the barns is no less soaked than anything else in this waterlogged world in which they all now live. He tries - and fails - to kick off any excess mud when he gets to the shedrow and silently apologizes to whoever has to clean up the otherwise sparkling aisle. Killian thinks back to the other times he's been here and remembers that the office is at the other end of the aisle.

As he nears the end of the row, a sound makes him pause. Maybe if he weren't so attuned to the normal sounds of a stable he'd miss the quiet sniffling and murmuring coming from the foaling stalls, but Killian has been in more stables than actual houses at this point in his life. He can pick out a human where they don't belong faster than one could say 'Guinness'. He looks around the stall door.

Emma's resting her head against a mare's neck, softly crooning to her and stroking her nose. Emma's face looks blotchy, like she's been crying. Something inside of him twists painfully. "Swan," Killian says hoarsely.

She doesn't even open her eyes. "Jones." She sounds broken and the twisting in his gut worsens.

"You've heard, then."

She nods, her hand not stopping its ministrations - whether it's to sooth herself or the mare, Killian isn't sure. "Pride was a good horse," she says quietly. "He was Neal's first-bred, we were so excited... I was there the day after he was born. He was all knees and jumpy like a rabbit. Neal said if he wasn't a racer, he'd be a good show horse. He might have been right, but Neal didn't waste time with anything but racers."

Killian nods. He'd seen that himself in training, and Pride had been eight then. Emma's hand falls away from the mare's face. She sniffs, rubbing her nose and opening her eyes finally as she turns towards him. They're red-rimmed and bloodshot. "Gold didn't even want to try to rehab him? Not even with what his wife does?" she asks.

Killian shook his head. It's a dreadful thing to cut a beast down in its prime, but the hardened part of him understands why some owners choose to euthanize over a lengthy, costly recovery. "No. Said it's what his son would have done," he murmurs.

Emma sniffs again, a laugh sounding more like a sob escaping her. "A year ago, I would have disagreed, but now I don't even know."

She hugs herself tight and the sight of her - lonely and fragile and desperately craving something - is what makes him open the stall door and walk in to embrace her. Emma relaxes into him almost immediately, her head fitting against his shoulder and just under his chin like she was made to be there. It takes another minute for her arms to relax and encircle him as well. "I've seen it a hundred times and I'll surely see it a hundred more, but it'll never hurt any less," Killian says into her hair.

He absently runs his fingers through her hair, damp and tangled as it is. "You'd have to be pretty fucked up to not be hurt by it," Emma replies.

"Aye."

She shifts a little, tucking her head further under his chin. He senses she wants to say something more, but is holding back. He remembers the now what conversation he's been avoiding for weeks, the attempts to keep her at arms length to prevent them from crossing a line he isn't sure they can come back from, and underneath the numbness and pain he feels worried. If he couldn't have that conversation then, he definitely can't have it right now.

But Emma stays quiet and he doesn't breathe a word about the few new spots of dampness she adds to his shirt.

They'll discuss now what later.