On the sixth day, he spent most of his time strumming the guitar aimlessly, writing down half-lines of lyrics that could make sense to someone down the road. Out of all of the things that helped fuel his productivity of song writing, sadness was at the top of the list. It turned on a switch in his brain that allowed it to connect more easily with his heart, which helped him process emotions. Or, at least, try to process emotions.

On the living room table sat a bag of drugs he had purchased earlier in the day. The transaction had almost gone awry, when the man selling the drugs tried to run off with them and his money. Killian had prevailed, however, and was now the owner of a small amount of Vicodin, a drug that held the promise of blocking the pain receptors in his central nervous system. He considered the option numerous times throughout the sixth day, and the desire lasted into the seventh day.

With the start of the seventh day, Killian came to a full acceptance that she was not going to come back. She hadn't even called, let alone left a clue as to where she would be. He decided it was no use sticking around an apartment that only reminded him of her. It was in the last six days that he had fully come to terms with his feelings for Emma. She was his best friend, yes. And she was the person who consistently brightened his days, made him feel accepted, gave him a home, because she was his home. He had a feeling from the look in her eyes as she left, and the numerous conversations they had held throughout the years, that she felt the same way.

Or, at least, he thought she might.

And here he was. Waiting around like a fool for a person who obviously had no intention of coming back or even placing a phone call in his direction. Losing sleep, missing deadlines, pacing endlessly, buying drugs. He had fallen into a trap and turned into a person he no longer recognized.

He had to get out of there.

He bought a plane ticket to Los Angeles and packed his belongings into two suitcases that he left by the front door. It was past midnight, but Killian knew he was doing what he had to in that moment. Being alone in the apartment was not healthy, nor were his thoughts. He had to leave before he destroyed himself entirely.

Killian was in the kitchen later that night, or, rather, morning, when he heard someone fumbling with the lock of the front door. The sounds were of a person picking the lock, and he went into defense mode. Grabbing the nearest object, which happened to be a pot, he situated himself near the front door of the apartment, ready to knock out the intruder with his… small…pot… He realized last minute that a knife probably would have been a better option. Before he could change his assault weapon, the door flung open and his eyes met impossibly bright green ones, wide with terror.

"It's me!" the intruder yelled.

He stopped his assault and took in the figure standing in front of him. The long blonde hair and bright red leather jacket stood out in the mostly dark apartment.

"Emma?" Killian dropped the pot to the floor and reached out to her, considering for a moment that she might be part of a dream or hallucination he was having from a lack of sleep. "Emma."

She grabbed the hand that was held out to her, and Killian pulled her into his chest, enveloping her in his arms. Even if it was a dream, he didn't want to miss the moment. He placed his cheek to the top of her head, and held on just a bit tighter. He felt a slight sob tear through her chest, and he wasn't sure why. Stumbling back slightly, she held him at arms length to see the damage her absence had done.

It wasn't pretty.

The dark circles and bags under his eyes left him looking slightly reminiscent of a zombie. The blue of his eyes was almost absent between the dilated pupils and rings around his irises. The look on his face was one of utter surprise, confusion, and disbelief.

He thought she wasn't coming back.

This thought hit her, and she wished he had hit her over the head with the pot, which was the most useless weapon he could have grabbed out of their kitchen filled with heavy, blunt objects and knifes. Being hit with a pot would be less painful than the look he was giving her.

"Killian," she said, firm and calm. She took his hands and pulled him to the couch, forcing him to sit down. She ignored the packed suitcases by the front door because now was not her time to question him. At least, that was her initial thought, until she was able to fully take in the state of the apartment. There were crumpled up pieces of paper strewn across every surface. Cups stacked on the table created a tower that could topple at any moment. And the pills. She saw the bag of little white pills on the table and tears filled her eyes again.

What have you done, she thought to herself as she looked back at the ghost of a man that sat on the couch, watching her every move, as if afraid to startle her away.

"Killian, what have you done?"

He is far away now, his eyes wild and glazed over.

"Do you need medical help?" she couldn't sit, too worried, too anxious. She began to pace the small living room. Was all of this because of her? She was only gone for a few days…

"No," he said, the first words other than her name to leave his mouth.

"What—why— what's wrong? Why have you been doing this?" she gestured to the table where the pills, cups, and uneaten food sat.

"I haven't been sleeping," he mumbled, still not making eye contact.

"Why?"

No response.

"Killian," she kneeled down on the floor in front of him, and lightly placed her hands on his knees. He jumped at the contact, and his eyes snapped to meet hers. The exhaustion was plain on his face, and his eyes were full of tears.

He hadn't been intending on staying around for another day, he couldn't sleep, not while she was gone. But now she was there, sitting in front of him, a mix of anger and confusion on her face.

"I couldn't," he began. "The nightmares. I'm sorry," Killian put his face in his hands, unable to see her again. See the disappointment and rejection on her face.

All at once, she was next to him, her arms wrapped around him. She placed her head on his shoulder, "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have left like that."

All at once, his eyelids felt very heavy. The week without sleep started to catch up with him. His body was too heavy, his head blurry, and he had no sense of self left.

Emma must have felt the slack of his body against hers because she managed to coax him off of the couch and into his bed.

"Sleep now, please," she said once he was safe and under the covers. "I'll be here in the morning."

She turned and went to leave.

"Emma?" he said so quietly she almost didn't hear. She looked back at him, and smiled softly.

"Yes?"

"You could sleep in my bed tonight," he was already scooting towards the wall to make room for her. While Emma had missed her own bed in the time she was away, she almost missed his more. Whenever he would pull all nighters with David or crash on Will's couch after a night of drinking, she would sneak into his room and sleep in his bed. Even though she was still attempting to process her emotions and feelings for him, she couldn't resist the offer of a warm bed with a man she missed while away.

"Let me go get my pajamas on," she said, quickly leaving the room to change.

When she returned, he was snuggled further down in the blankets, but his eyes were still open and on her as she walked in, closed the door, and delicately walked over to the bed, afraid he would change his mind and ask her to go.

"I'm not going to shoo you away," Killian mumbled, throwing back the blankets for her.

She nodded, and crawled into bed, snuggling up against him. She felt him exhale into her hair while he threw an arm across her middle.

"Thank you for coming home," he said, the drowsiness and obvious exhaustion slipping into his voice.

"I'll always come back," she sighed in return, closing her eyes.

Killian mumbled something else incoherent, as sleep took over and he fell down into a dark pit of dreams filled with the smell of Emma, and half nightmares of waking up to find her gone again.