It started slow, progressed in stages. It spoke softly, so close to silence. Sweet, calming, comfortable. Unlike reality, whose tones were harsh, cutting, unkind, denial had a special fondness for Emma. And she for it.

It was denial that'd begged her to reconsider running away, maintained that Ingrid hadn't lied about wanting to adopt her. That she hadn't really meant to endanger their lives that night. It was a joke. A twisted one, but still. She would've pulled them out of the way in time.

Denial had spent months insisting it wasn't Neal who'd made the call, despite the cop's specific mention of the country he'd picked for his escape. Coincidence, it'd whispered in the dark as Emma lay her head to a pillow that wasn't hers, in a place she didn't belong. He wouldn't do that to her. He loved her.

It swore he would come back, and it waited with her for the day that never came, encouraging patience all the while. He's on his way. He'd have an explanation for everything—soon it would all make sense.

Denial kept her company the first few days she was late. And the first few days after that. It's not possible. You were careful.

But the problem with denial was that it always ran out.

The keys hit the bottom of the envelope with a quiet thud. "Good news. You get a car when you get out." The woman—Loretta—went to leave but turned back at the door, her gaze landing briefly on the stick in Emma's hand. "And a baby."

She told herself that Killian's warnings weren't as grave as he'd have her believe. That the punishment for something so small, so innocent, couldn't possibly be as severe as beheading. But denial was no match for the look in his eyes as he pulled away, panic showing in every part of him—his too-straight shoulders and furrowed brow, the way his hand swept through his hair, only worsening the damage Emma had done.

"It was just a kiss." She'd meant this as a statement, but her tone betrayed her, the assertion sounding untenable to her own ears. It doesn't change anything.

"Where I come from, there's no such thing. You have no idea the penalty—"

"It was just a kiss," she reaffirmed, finding that her mouth moved more easily around the words with each repetition. She kept them as a mantra in her mind—just a kiss, just a kiss, just a kiss—even as doubt threatened cracks in her resolve. "If you're afraid I'm going to mistake a moment of weakness for Happily Ever After, then you can relax. It's out of our systems, so no one has to suffer anyone else's wrath, or…whatever."

Not that they would, Emma was sure. At worst, Killian would get a slap on the wrist. A single blemish on an otherwise spotless service record. And Emma—while she wasn't enjoying being on the universe's shit list, she couldn't see things getting much worse if she and Killian happened to enter into a mutually beneficial phase of their relationship. What would be the harm? Honestly? He wasn't her happy ending. He was her friend. His invisible puppet masters couldn't be nearly as troubled by his extra-magical affairs as he made them out to be.

"I wish it were that simple."

"Careful." Emma smiled. She'd never seen him this nervous. It was kind of adorable. Tousled hair and flushed cheeks, lips parted to help catch his breath—her kiss looked good on him. "I hear wishing can be tricky business."

The fear faded from Killian's eyes as he returned her smile. Not completely, but enough that Emma wasn't plagued by guilt when leaning toward him, her gaze trained on a feature she wouldn't mind getting better acquainted with.

So maybe not entirely out of her system...

She'd be lying if she said that night in the rain was the last time she'd thought about it. But in all her imagining, she couldn't have known the first kiss would taste like chocolate. A hint of cinnamon still on his tongue.

How might the night have ended if things were different? If the lure of the forbidden was lifted? If Killian wasn't her guide, but some guy she'd met at a bar? If she'd gone home with him knowing they'd never see each other again?

She couldn't speak for Killian, but it'd been so long since she'd come close to sex with another person that it was rapidly becoming an abstract concept. With tensions running high these past weeks, they could both do with a release.

That's all this would be. Just sex. Just the once.

"I'm pretty good at keeping secrets."

He wouldn't be conflicted if he didn't want it, too. He wouldn't look at her like that. He wouldn't lean forward, wouldn't draw a shaky breath before giving in, before—

He stopped.

All he said was, "Swan…," as he touched his forehead to hers, but the tone of it hit her like a ton of bricks, sobering her to the mistake she'd almost made, almost repeated. It was like an echo ten years in the making.

"I gotta go to Canada, alone."

Her body reacted before her mind fully caught up; she followed her feet as though by autopilot, but they weren't fast enough. Would he notice if she ran? Would he care? "I should go."

Her mistake came in turning back, in watching Killian stare after the empty space on his couch, his once rigid shoulders gone slack with a heavy exhale. "You don't have to."

Emma could've laughed but she knew how hysterical it would've sounded. What was the alternative to leaving? Sitting together in excruciating silence while they pretended it was just a typical Tuesday?

She shouldn't have gone over in the first place. Shouldn't have persuaded herself toward forgiveness. If she'd just stayed home and stewed in her own bitterness, none of this would've happened. They would have found their way back to their own version of normal, eventually. But now?

"I have an early day tomorrow."

Resigned, Killian met her at the door and held it open for her. Emma stared out at the hallway, knowing that once she crossed it, everything would be different. Final. She didn't want to leave without telling him how sorry she was.

She'd set something in motion she couldn't control.

If ever the world's obsession with time travel made sense, it was that moment. He'd meant it when he said he didn't pity her, but believing something doesn't make it real. His eyes revealed a truth he wasn't even aware of, and it made Emma cringe. If she could've undone everything, she would have—in a heartbeat, she would have.

She wanted to tell him it would never happen again. It was a one-time thing. But she didn't trust her voice beyond, "Goodnight."

The distance from his door to hers had never felt so vast. A few short feet could've been miles for the time it took her to cover. She locked herself inside, driving the deadbolt home with more force than she'd intended, and went to her room. She locked that door, too, a fresh ache forming in her chest with every barrier she put between them.

—

The streetlamp burned low and flickered before finally dying. Emma had spent the last twenty minutes waiting for it to give up the fight, watching through the wall-length windows of the twenty-four hour facility. The spin of the dryer cycle was too hypnotic, too apt at lulling her into a dreamlike state, and dreams were the reason she wasn't home right now, fast asleep.

Foot traffic had died down hours ago and cars were practically a myth in that part of town. To say that she was alone would've been an understatement. Seated on a plastic chair with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her, and nothing but the steady whirring of an outdated machine to break the quiet, it was easy to imagine herself the only soul around for miles.

This wasn't the case, of course. A security guard was posted by the main entrance and circled the building every half hour. There was an apartment complex at the end of the street and an all-night diner a few blocks over. But for all the noise the world made at that hour, it might as well have been empty.

She couldn't remember who'd recommended the place to her—conveniently tucked away until it epitomized the phrase, "hole-in-the-wall,"—because she didn't usually do laundry this late. But she was grateful for the knowledge, however she'd come by it.

After returning to her own apartment, she'd been unable to settle and her subconscious had done her no favors, picking away at the tiniest details until her dreams felt like the stop-and-start of a broken record. Work would've been a welcome distraction, but for the first time in months she didn't have any open cases.

Figures.

And once she was done checking emails, checking her phone, finishing the TV dinner she didn't really have an appetite for but couldn't justify throwing away uneaten, and checking her phone again, the walls started to close in on her.

What she'd said about having an early day wasn't entirely true…in that it was a complete lie. She would've said anything to escape the awkwardness her actions had spawned. As things stood, she planned to spend the day holed up in her apartment, assigning herself chores, and avoiding the outside world like the plague. Her place could probably do with a good scrub-down anyway, since her former roommate had taken his anal-retentive ways across the hall.

She closed her eyes, sank low in her chair. It's better this way.

Separation could only be constructive at this point. For both of them.

But she'd said that before. Had avoided him before.

There was one option she hadn't considered. Not in any seriousness. But it stayed in the back of her mind, like a failsafe. If things got too weird, she could always wish. Would it make her selfish if she just wanted to be done? Her life was so much simpler when Killian wasn't a part of it. Certainly less dramatic.

Sort of gray, looking back. Like an old photograph.

Whenever she thought about it, really and truly contemplated putting an end to the madness that'd become her daily life…

Emma sighed, staring up at the ceiling tiles.

…she wasn't ready to forget.

The dryer sounded a signal, and not a moment too soon. Emma crossed the now eerily silent space and hurried to retrieve her clothes. She folded each item in turn and dropped them into the laundry basket at her feet, moving nimbly with the ease of routine. Until she came to one that didn't belong to her.

She froze, unblinking as her eyes roved the muted floral print of the dry-clean only material that'd shrunk two sizes in the wash.

It was tedious work, but the sort of tedious that Emma didn't mind. Growing up, her outfits were limited to what fit in her backpack. As an independent, self-sufficient adult who'd clawed her way from the depths of poverty toward a stable income, she viewed her wardrobe as a point of pride. It gave her a unique thrill to watch her drawers fill up on laundry day.

But her mood quickly soured when she reached into the pile and found a pair of men's jeans.

It was small—hardly a capital offense—but the first step always was. This was how it started. He already lived in her apartment, had already appointed himself Master of Cleanliness and Schedule-Keeping. Next thing she knew, he'd be trying to bond with her. Trying to get her to open up about her tragic past under the guise of being her friend. If she'd wanted a roommate, she would've found one herself—preferably someone who only surfaced when the rent was due. It would not have been some wish-peddling whack-job who, despite all evidence, she didn't think was certifiable. Smug, on the other hand, was a term Emma had little doubt was invented solely for him.

She stomped out to the living room, where he was seated on the couch, looking pensive as he tapped out a message on his phone. She'd later claim to have aimed for his lap instead of his face, but she couldn't be sure that was true. The dark denim rolled onto his chest, revealing a startled expression.

"Good morning to you, too, Swan."

She'd intended to tell him not to get comfortable with his current living situation—this thing would last a month, tops. If she could stomach him that long—but that wasn't what she said.

"In the future I'd appreciate it if you kept better track of your things."

"Apologies. Won't happen again."

But it did. Of course it did. Somehow their clothes gravitated toward one another's closets over the course of the two weeks they'd shared an address and had yet to be properly sorted.

The door at the building's front entrance whined against its hinges as another patron entered, breaking Emma of her trance. She tossed Killian's shrunken shirt and the remaining dryer contents into the basket and made a start for the back exit when a man's voice stopped her.

"I think you forgot something."

She turned to see him pick another one of Killian's shirts off the floor and hold it out to her. "Thanks, I must've…" she paused with her hand around the garment, the memory of who'd introduced her to that laundromat suddenly fresh in her mind, "…dropped it."

"Emma," he said at the end of a breathy laugh, "what a coincidence, seeing you here—I was just thinking about you."

Apparently coincidence and misfortune were interchangeable to some people.

—

The storefront was unremarkable as storefronts go, lending the street its only source of light for an entire block. In contrast to the quiet inside, strange sounds stirred from every direction, some familiar, human, and others that sent a chill down Emma's spine as she thought of every horror movie she'd ever seen. It was all coming back to her now, why she'd once told Brennan that the next time she stepped foot in that neighborhood would be over her dead body.

"My dad told me you came to see him a while back."

He stood a comfortable distance away as Emma leaned against her bug, and gone was the superior stance she'd grown accustomed to. The unwavering stare and million dollar smile that graced the print ads for his father's practice. He seemed to question the wisdom of leaning in for closer conversation, ultimately deciding against it.

"Did he also tell you he tried to set us up?"

Brennan chuckled—Emma rarely used that word because it was the sort of descriptor she associated with TV personalities as part of their practiced personas—but it fit the sound that bubbled up out of him. Almost a nervous noise from one who was usually so poised.

"Again?" He ran his hand through his honey-blonde hair, in the same fashion as—

Emma adjusted her footing, trading the curb for the street, thankful that the gutter wasn't backed up with the storm season they'd been having. It was a small mercy, and she'd take it.

"Once that man latches onto an idea, there's no talking him out of it," said Brennan. "Not that I've tried all that hard to talk him out of it."

Emma returned his modest smile, an action that complemented his features, strangely enough. She didn't know he was capable of anything less than condescending.

That wasn't fair. There was one night when she'd seen a kinder side to him, a side that was willing to forego the inherent casual nature of their encounters. Maybe that'd been the real Brennan peeking through the façade, or maybe it'd all been part of his long game. It didn't really matter anymore.

"Well, it was nice seeing you."

"Leaving so soon?"

"I don't usually make a habit of hanging around laundromats, so yeah."

Brennan smiled as an air of cool confidence washed away his shyness. "I was thinking we could catch up. Maybe grab a bite somewhere—there's bound to be a few places still open."

Emma was in the right mood to say yes. The timing couldn't have been better if she'd planned it. And wasn't this exactly what she needed to take her mind off of…other things? She was a different person than she'd been the previous summer—wouldn't it stand to reason that the same applied to Brennan?

He was sweetly eager where before he might've been brash, overconfident, the worst sort of self-assured. But something held her back. It wasn't the fear she expected—it wasn't as strong as that. It was...well, if she had to put a name to it, indifference. There was a reason they'd never moved from a physical relationship into something deeper. He wasn't someone she could see herself being with long-term. Of course, that could be said of most men she dated. It'd been years since anyone made her want to risk her heart again.

"Maybe some other time."

Emma walked around the front of her car, unlocked the driver's side door, but before she climbed inside, Brennan said, "You've got my number. If you change your mind."

—

Emma was assaulted by a blast of air as emergency vehicles rushed by. No sooner had she reached the intersection, ready to cross, than she'd heard the sirens. She watched the flashing lights race down the street as the congestion that'd kept her from parking in her usual spot hurried to make a path, and she hoped that no one was too badly injured.

She'd had to settle for a space at the corner market until the bottleneck cleared, which, knowing her luck, wouldn't be anytime soon. Though the sign cautioned that the lot was for customers only and all violators would be towed, for as long as Emma had employed this back-up, she'd only been impounded once.

Even with permission from the stick-figure pedestrian, Emma was the target of angry horns as she trudged along the crosswalk, but she was past the point of caring about how her chosen route home affected a few disgruntled commuters. If anyone was to blame for them being stuck, it was the idiot who'd caused an accident.

The inky denseness of the night sky faded to soft blue along the horizon, serving as a reminder of how many hours she'd gone without sleep. The sun would be up soon, and her body ached with the need for rest.

When she turned her key in the lock, she half expected Killian to pop into the hall, armed with an apology and a plea to remain friends—he'd tried calling but there'd been no answer. She'd tell him she forgot her phone and he'd fight a smirk, not sure if this was true or if she sought to save face. "Of course," he'd nod, stepping back to rein in his enthusiasm. And Emma would smile.

She blinked away the fantasy to find herself alone in an empty hallway. The reality wouldn't be that simple, no matter how badly she just wanted to go back to before. Or how much she wanted to believe the voice running its soft caress across her thoughts, whispering, it was just a kiss. It doesn't change anything.

After ransacking her room until it looked like the victim of a robbery, she found her phone wedged between the nightstand and the bedframe. It told her nothing new. No messages. No missed calls. She carried it with her to the living room, set it on the end table, and passed into blessed oblivion the instant her head hit the throw pillow.

She'd only meant to sleep for thirty minutes or so—quick power nap so she didn't completely obliterate her sleep schedule—but she woke in the early afternoon, more exhausted than when she'd laid down.

She rubbed her eyes, feeling like they were being permanently sealed with every turn of her wrists. It was a tempting thought to just stay there, let time pass her by until a new day. But she knew if she did she'd be up all night, when loneliness was at its peak.

How did the song go? Like a heartbeat drives you mad…

She forced herself upright, opening her eyes against the blinding sunlight breaking through the blinds. She squinted into nothingness for what felt like forever but was probably closer to five minutes before making herself stand up. By the time she washed her face and brushed her teeth and changed out of last night's clothes, she was finally able to shake off some of her drowsiness.

Her stomach did a nervous flip when her phone rang, and she had to keep her feet from moving too fast toward the end table where it rested, undisturbed. For all appearances, harmless. Later, when the dust settled, she'd catch herself regarding it with wonder as she turned it over in her hands. How could something so small deliver such a devastating blow?

—

The trip from her apartment to the hospital passed in a blur—one minute she was standing in her living room, listening to a stranger say things like accident and Killian Jones and possible head trauma in the same sentence as calmly and casually as most people breathed, and the next, she was rushing toward the bright red sign that read Emergency.

There was a strong chance she didn't lock her door, and that she'd broken a dozen separate traffic laws getting there—these things didn't matter in light of the fact that Killian could be—

That he might—

Being magical didn't make him immortal, did it? He was flesh and blood like the rest of them.

At first she thought he was a hallucination, a side effect of blind panic, just standing outside the automatic doors like a lost puppy.

"Killian?"

He turned toward the sound of her voice. "Swan. What are you—?"

Relief didn't come gently; it was abrasive and abrupt and it took her breath away. It drowned out the voice that'd softly whispered, so close to silence, the one that'd taken her hand and led her away from reality's crushing cadence. It left her illusions in tatters, abandoning her at a precipice she could no longer avoid.

Because Killian was right. When he said that one day she'd want to run toward a future instead of away from the past—he was right.

He couldn't know that that day had already come.

Because she'd known she was in trouble the first time she saw him. The first time he showed insight into who she was and she hadn't bolted for the door. She told herself it was the things he promised: happiness and a chance to find her son, her parents, to have a family, even though she hadn't wished these things aloud. She'd taken comfort in someone knowing, and in that someone being him. Because she felt a connection to that man on the beach who mourned his brother, mourned the turn his life had taken in the wake of untimely death. Because with every part of himself that he shared with her, a small part of her was mended. Because her heart felt a little less broken whenever he was near.

Because Emma was wrong. It was a kiss. And it changed everything.

"Someone from the hospital called. They said you were in an accident—I thought…"

I thought I'd never see you again.

Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them back, suppressing a sudden surge of emotion with a laugh that didn't quite sound like hers. It was lighter—she felt lighter, in the wake of revelation, and at the same time weighed down by a confession she didn't think she was brave enough to make. After all, he'd been the one to pull back, the one to say it shouldn't have happened. What if it was more than the restrictions that came with his job? What if it was her?

"I guess I thought the worst."

"My arm took the brunt of it." Killian gestured to the sling across his left shoulder, but the abrasions on his face told a different story. "I'm sorry, Love. I told them not to call you."

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I was under the impression you weren't speaking to me."

"Why would you assume that?"

Killian looked away, over Emma's shoulder to where she'd parked, if she'd parked—she couldn't be sure she hadn't jumped out while the car was still in motion.

If the sheer terror she'd felt at the thought of losing him didn't trigger her flight reflex, surely nothing could.

"Emma, about last night…"

Except maybe one thing.

She didn't know what she expected him to say—Screw the rules. Consequences be damned. I want this, us—but he looked at her with vacant eyes, his mouth set in a remorseful line. "I want to apologize. And to say that it won't happen again."

As much as she would later deny it to herself, as quickly and as easily as she would fall into the familiar pattern of pretending everything was fine, in that moment, Killian's words carved a fresh scar, reopened old wounds, gave her deepest insecurities something they never tired of. Vindication.

The simple fact that she wanted something should've been a clear indicator that she wasn't meant to have it. At least Killian had been honest from the beginning. One rule. Penalty of death. He wouldn't lead her on. Wouldn't take advantage of her affections for his own gain. He wouldn't betray her trust. Emma didn't have to worry that she'd wake up one day and he'd be gone. That she'd give too much of herself and it still wouldn't be enough. She didn't have to live in fear of him turning out to be someone so completely different from the person she thought she knew.

At least there was some solace in that.

And this dejected feeling wouldn't last forever. After her next birthday, she'd have no memory of any of this—sooner, if she decided on a happy ending before then. Maybe that was what she needed. A clean break. A quick one.

When she smiled, she wondered if some part of Killian could sense how superficial it was. She couldn't quite muster the sarcasm that'd always come second-nature, like it was her true voice and not a wall that no one was interested in breaking down. The words tumbled more than rolled off her tongue, and there was nothing graceful in their landing. "I guess I could take some of the blame. I did kiss you first."

"You did, didn't you?"

"You don't have to be so smug about it."

Even Killian's laugh was a pale imitation of itself, a hollow sound meant to soften the blow. He held out his hand to her, with a compromise she would've leapt at early that morning, when all she thought she wanted was to make amends. "Friends?"

Emma looked at his upturned palm. It was innocuous—hardly the most obvious sign—but the final step always was. This was how it ended. He already lived apart from her, had already declared himself a strict professional and follower of rules, only here for the purpose of aiding her search. Next thing she knew, he'd be just another ghost.

She'd have to content herself with the few memories she had for as long as they were hers to keep.

"Friends."

—

"Go on ahead, I'll catch up." He captured her lips in a lingering kiss, only letting up when Emma pushed him away, laughing as she said, "I'm serious. I have to take this."

Brennan was unfazed when she turned the screen toward him as proof that it wasn't just an excuse. "What I have in mind will be a lot more fun for both of us."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

His hand slipped lower on her waist and loosened its grip altogether as he leveled an unamused smirk at her. "You're never gonna let that go, are you? It was one time."

Emma laughed, gave him a quick kiss, and shoved him back toward her room. "Go."

Though reluctant, Brennan complied, tugging his shirt over his head as he went. Emma may have waited a few extra seconds to answer her phone while she admired the view. Then she cleared her mind of all distraction and accepted the call.

She'd never been one of those people who believed in the power of positive thinking. Optimism was one train she rarely boarded. So when she'd gotten out of bed that morning, it hadn't been with any misconceptions about how the day would progress. It was shit every year and that wasn't about to change.

By the time she hung up, her reasons for inviting Brennan over were the same reasons she now wished she hadn't. Now she really just wanted to be alone. She didn't know what would bring her back from the turn her mood had taken. But it wasn't the half-naked man in her bed.

It was only a matter of time before he got impatient, and when he did, he came armed with a question Emma had never mastered the art of answering without making the other person uncomfortable. "Are you okay?"

"Not really."

"Wanna talk about it?"

She was about to brush him off, promise to make it up to him, when he took her hand. Maybe it was the gentle stroke of his thumb across her skin, a silent reassurance, or the sincerity in his eyes. Maybe it was the want of human connection she wasn't strong enough to refuse, but Emma heard herself say, "My last lead on an important case just went cold. Struck a nerve, I guess."

She remembered the exact day she'd started looking for her parents. It was the same day she'd lost all faith in the foster system. The day she'd given up on the idea that she'd ever be adopted. The only person who'd been willing had turned out to be a special brand of crazy. When Emma was still young, still naïve, she'd convinced herself that the people shuffling her between homes actually cared about her well-being. She'd lived two weeks with what would be her last family the day it finally sank in that they didn't. No one did.

The anniversary was a simple enough date to forget, but Emma never did. Every year she woke up certain of one thing: she was an orphan. And that's all she ever would be.

"You know," said Brennan, "we don't have to do this. We could take a walk, grab a cone—that's assuming you like ice cream, 'cause I gotta say, it would be a definite deal breaker if you didn't."

Despite herself, Emma felt the first traces of a smile itching to replace her scowl. "I wouldn't say no to some cherry vanilla."

"My kind of woman." He tugged on their joined hands and hauled her toward the door.

"Are you going like that?"

"I don't spend all that time at the gym for people not to see my abs."

Emma entered her apartment to discover that she hadn't, in fact, locked her door. Hadn't latched it. The only thing missing was a flashing neon sign to let the world's thieves know that her place was open for business.

She and Killian hadn't spoken during the drive home. Not one word. She wouldn't categorize it as the most unpleasant ride of her life, but it came close. What was there to say? Don't feel bad for not wanting me? You're not the only one?

She'd suggested they meet for coffee the next day as a means of getting back on track, but she was already working through various ways to cancel as she dropped her keys on the counter, pulled the phone from her back pocket, and scrolled through her contacts until she found the one she wanted. She stared at it for a few minutes, debating the pros and cons of letting heartbreak influence her actions.

It was a temporary solution. It was selfish. She didn't want to be that person anymore.

But she was feeling exceptionally vulnerable. Emotionally drained. And she didn't want to be alone.

He answered on the third ring. "Does this mean you've changed your mind?"