A/N: Massive love to threadfinjack for the manip she made which is now this story's cover art! (Go see the full image on her tumblr, nightships, and squeal with me.) I appreciate you guys so much for all the love you have for this story. If I could, I'd wallpaper my room with all the email notifications I get about this story. This chapter is much longer than the others so I do hope it satisfies!

P.S. Who cried during that Dust Storm trailer? Because I'm still emotional about it.


Killian's skin is tingling, it's as though a stray spark from a roaring bonfire jumped onto his left cheek. He wants to run his fingers along it but the cause of his unnerving desire is seated right next to him and surely that would make her uncomfortable. Wouldn't it? He actually isn't too sure. He finds himself continually off balance when it comes to Emma Swan.

He'd figured even if he won the bet (he'd set his condition because it's just in his nature to flirt with her, he truly can't help himself), she wouldn't actually kiss him. He's come to know how skittish she can be. From the bits he's gathered about her, she's been hurt before - perhaps even several times - and her being here, with David, well, he can only draw the conclusion that she's running from something, someone. Hell, that's what he did. No matter how much he wants her to open up about it, he doesn't want to push. And no matter how much he wishes she'd feel the same about him as he does about her

He stares at his tomato soup more than he drinks it, hyperaware of every little movement Emma makes. She's chatting with Elsa and Mary Margaret while he's trying to pay attention to Robin's questions about the latest ship that's come in for repair (he guesses it's better than Robin questioning him about Emma, after all, though he is expecting those queries to come in as soon as the two of them are alone). Bloody hell, how can he be expected to pay mind to anything when his heart is slamming a hard rhythm at Emma's close proximity and his own rapidly growing desire.

They've been growing closer, he's sure there's been a building of something ever since she stayed for breakfast after her night out drinking. He can still recall her lazy, if slightly reluctant, smile over coffee and pancakes, and his own giddy happiness for days after. And now, now it's unabashed want thrumming through his veins. He's sure if they were alone, it wouldn't be as easy to control himself as he is now.

"Killian," Robin's harsh whisper in his ear just about scares him, an involuntary jerk going through his body.

"What?" He hisses back, looking up to see Robin and Regina both eyeing him. He raises what he hopes is a nonchalant eyebrow.

Regina snickers and it sounds more menacing to him than she probably intends. She keeps her voice low but is still somehow audible over the chatter in the hall, "Who knew Jones was one to yearn?"

He tries to feign hurt but even he can't bring himself to knock down what he knows is true. It's a weak, "I don't yearn," that he replies with.

Robin and Regina share a look that Killian does not want to spend his time analysing, opting to finish his appetiser instead. Despite his teasing, he has to admit that Regina and Robin do make quite a pair despite their clashing personalities. Then again, his friend has a way of softening up even the toughest of cliffs; it's how he got through to Killian during his first year of self depreciating loneliness.

"I thought you had it bad before, mate, but seeing it in person is a whole other endeavour," Robin pipes up. Killian grumbles unintelligibly, shoving a spoonful of soup into his mouth, praying that Emma doesn't hear his idiot of a friend. If she knew just how much he thinks of her, he's certain she'd resolve to either hostility or blatant refusal - and he's sure he can't take either without falling apart.

The entire dinner goes by in a haze of conversation with everyone around the table, the occasional mumbled "love struck puppy" comment from Robin and Regina, great food and the added bonus of watching David knock down one drink after another once he returns from sorting out the mess that Leroy made. By the time dessert is served, Dave is grinning like the happy drunk he's ought to transform into come three more drinks while Mary Margaret expertly extracts the car keys from his pocket to place them in her purse. When Emma laughs, he realises that she must have caught the subtle action too, and the two of them share a look of amusement.

She looks down to gingerly swallow a spoonful of her creme brulee, humming in contentment, her lips darting out to catch the lingering taste. He has to make a conscious effort to drag his gaze away from her lips.

This charged air between them is going to be the death of him.

And the fact that Robin is elbowing him in his side with a smug grin on his face isn't helping.

He resolves to ignoring the bastard and focusing on discussing the recent events of the university with Aurora - maybe if he can talk business, he won't be so aware of the heat between him and the siren of a woman sitting next to him.

(He knows he's wrong.)

(The heat between them could surely cause a fire in the bloody Antarctic.)

The only way he thinks he can keep his feelings (and other more obvious indications) in check is by taking control of the situation, not letting it run amuck and leave him behind with a slack jaw and more want than ever before.

So, when the band (the same set of five people they'd had last year, tuned to perfection in his opinion) begins the first few bars of a jazz number, he takes a tentative sip of water to clear his dry throat and turns towards Emma.

Her eyes are trained towards Aurora and Phillip as they get up and link arms to walk towards the dance floor. It's not a slow number but it's not fast either, a tune one would be comfortable simply swaying to if they wish. Not that that's what the guests are doing; even in dancing, there's an element of showmanship, he could scoff - rich blokes. A man he doesn't recognise in a dark blue suit asks Elsa for a dance. The woman shoots Emma a smile and says, "See you out there," before taking the man's extended hand and letting her lead him away from the table.

Emma's still watching Elsa stalk away when he stands and removes his jacket, draping it over the chair. He doesn't know if she's hopeful or nervous by the way she's fidgeting with the ring on her middle finger, but they've done this before. They've talked about doing this now. So all he can do is hope that she hasn't changed her mind.

"Swan," he says. She turns around to face him and he extends a hand towards her, "Won't you dance with me?"

She gives him a soft smile as he leads her to the floor, and he needs to get a sodding grip because all he wants to do is stare at her lips as they curve upwards.

It's a welcoming feeling to have her back in his arms, moving to actual music this time - not that he'd mind humming any number of tunes to fill the air for them if she'd ask. She's glancing around the hall, a twinkle in her eye that makes him think she's appreciating the intricate decoration, which even he has to admit gets only better year by year. But despite the beautiful accents of gold on every item, his eyes are trained on the woman before him.

"Did you really almost get punched?" She asks, stirring him from his admiration of her features.

"Hm? Oh, aye, I did," he half-smiles. He finds himself spilling parts of himself to her that he hasn't given to anyone in so long. When he mentioned Liam, he'd done it unconsciously, his guard down as if he hadn't told himself a thousand times over that he'd never revisit that past. It hurt too much to think about any of it. But with Emma, he wants to tell her everything no matter how much reopening the wound aches him.

"No wonder you and Robin are friends," she smirks, "must be an English thing."

He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, grateful for the banter that is present to distract him from the knotting in the base of his stomach, "It's bad form to generalise, love."

The smirk disappears abruptly for but a moment, a flicker in her eyes that he can't place, before a small smile is plastered on. She only hums in response.

He tightens his hold on her waist and pulls her closer, chuckling when she lets out a little squeal. He leans into her space and keeps his voice low, "Besides, I've been told most women prefer bad boys."

She clears her throat and he wonders if he affects her as much as she affects him - he certainly wishes so. "Whoever told you that obviously didn't have any first hand experience," she says softly, eyes darting away from his.

Unconsciously, he tightens his grip on her hand, the sincerity in her voice making him want nothing more than to wrap his arms around her. The band begins to play their next song - slower, softer - and she's quiet for a little while, eyes trained on his tie and nothing else. He rubs his thumb along her knuckles, wanting to provide her with a comfort for God knows what she's lost herself in,

She looks up at him, green eyes a little subdued. "The first guy I fell in love with would fall under that category and he screwed me over," she cocks her head and smiles - but it's a cruel, self-deprecating thing.

"What happened?" He asks quietly, slipping his hand off her waist to run the pad of his thumb along the wrinkles forming on her forehead because of the furrow of her brows.

She exhales and he pulls his hand back despite the urge to continue running his fingers along her skin. "I might need a drink to tell you that story," her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and he recognizes her words as a dismissal so he nods shortly, willing to let the topic drop.

But then she's stepping backwards and pulling him by the arm towards the bar. She orders them a tumbler of rum each with a cock of her eyebrow in his direction and then downs half her glass in one go. He sips from his own glass, carefully watching her. She starts walking towards the double doors that lead to the corridor outside and he follows as she sits on a cushioned bench by the door.

There are a bunch of people mulling about but it's quieter outside, with the soundproof walls only letting out a slight bass beat of the band. She takes another pull from her drink and he opens his mouth to tell her she doesn't have to open up old wounds here and now but then she speaks softly. "Remember how I said I missed my prom?" He nods. "It was because the morning of it, I practically ran off with him. We were kind of together - we always got into trouble together, anyway - he was older, wanted to leave Portland and I didn't want to be left, not again. David warned me not to do it but I didn't listen.

"We drove to New Hampshire and almost all the way through Boston. He said something about going to Tallahassee and the idea of having a life, a future, with someone I loved, who made me feel wanted, it was great. We were in a motel the night after that, but when I woke up, he was gone." She sighs and he clenches his jaw, gritting his teeth. "He wasn't a good guy, he'd been in trouble with the cops before, I knew that, but I was in a shitty foster family and it was good with him. Up until he stole what money and jewellery I'd ran away with and left nothing but a note that said he couldn't take a chance staying in the States with the cops still on him. I was devastated. I managed to convince some woman at a grocery store to let me use her phone to call David. He was angry but more than anything, I think he was relieved I was okay. Him and Ruth drove for hours to come pick me up, and soon after she started looking into adopting me, said she wanted to keep me safe. I haven't heard from Neal since, I don't think he ever wanted to take me anywhere with him in the first place."

By now his hand has curled into a hard fist, and he's sure the muscle in his jaw is twitching to no end. But no one deserves that kind of cruelty, especially not someone as strong and wonderful as Emma. She's staring into her empty glass and he covers her hand with his, as she'd done with him before.

"I apologise, love, that you had to go through that. That man was nothing but a coward who took advantage of you," he says gently, trying to meet her gaze.

She raises one shoulder in a poor half shrug, "At least I had my grades up, anyway, so I could get into the same college as David."

He tucks a curl behind her ear and strokes her cheekbone with his thumb, not willing to drop his hand this time.

"I thought David and Mary Margaret might have roped me into tonight as a kind of second chance at my prom night," she half laughs, as though she doesn't want to know if it's actually true or not.

He smiles at that, the possibility that he has assisted in some manner, that he's been a part of a milestone in her life makes him feel ridiculously happy.

"I haven't told that story in a while," she muses after a few quiet moments.

"Thank you," he says and she looks up at him questioningly so he adds, "for trusting me. I can't imagine that must have been easy."

He can tell by the defeated slump of her shoulders and the faraway look in her eyes, can see her vulnerability so clearly that it's piercing him. All the little bits of her exposed soul he's seen are nothing compared to this; she looks like a lost girl, and it hits him square in the chest how much of himself he sees in her.

"Yeah," she mumbles and then chews on her lower lip, "that's only one of the many tales."

With his hand still lingering by her face, he cups her jaw firmly so she'll look at him. "We've all got demons, Emma," he says thinking of his struggles with his own past, "but what matters is that you don't let them define your future. You're a strong lass, and I hope you don't forget that."

She doesn't say anything, only continues looking at him, and he's certain her eyes dart down to his lips a few times. But he won't initiate anything, not when she's just laid her past at his feet so openly. He wonders if it's because of the alcohol in her system or their budding relationship.

(He wants to believe so terribly that it's the latter.)

As he traces her face with his eyes, he feels the burning heat barrel right back into his system with full force, an overwhelming tug in his stomach that makes him question his decision not to claim her lips right here and now. Lord knows how he's maintaining his self-control when she's looking at him with something so close to longing in her eyes.

He definitely can't be imagining that.

"We should get back," she breaks their tension-ridden silence.

"Aye," he has to shake his head slightly to get out of his thoughts, "I suppose we should." We may be able to catch another dance or two, what do you say?"

She smiles as she stands. He does the same and she threads her arm through his, letting him lead them back into the hall and to the floor. He doesn't catch Regina's smug smile or David's inquiring eyes, he's far too busy enraptured in the siren song of Emma's glinting eyes.

-/-

They're nestled into David's truck with Mary Margaret at the wheel while the man himself is grumbling about being "not that drunk." Killian stifles an amused laugh as Mary Margaret rolls her eyes.

He catches Emma's gaze and mouths 'married' and she has to catch her lower lip between her teeth from bursting out into laughter. He thinks this expression of hers is his favourite, the one teetering on the edge of bliss. Again, he has to remind himself not to stare at her lips when she smiles at him. A task that's proving to be far too difficult than necessary.

When they reach the apartment, Mary Margaret and Emma walk up the stairs first while he's tasked with assisting a tipsy Dave who refuses any help but can't even manage to stand upright. He's always been entertained by how much of a lightweight his friend is, and how he downright dismisses that notion whenever they bring it up.

David grumbles under his breath as Killian slings one arm across his waist and uses the other to settle the other man's arm over his own shoulders, practically dragging him up the flights of stairs. "Come on, mate, just a few more steps."

When they reach their floor, David all but stumbles inside his apartment with a tired "G'night," over his shoulder. Mary Margaret shakes her head, grinning, and follows him. "See you for breakfast, Killian," she calls to him before darting her eyes between him and Emma and giving him a smile.

"Certainly, m'lady," he replies as she steps inside and closes the door behind her, leaving it unlocked for Emma.

He turns to her in the awfully dull lighting of the corridor to find her looking up at him through her lashes. He'd groan at that if he could, seeing her so unguarded for such a long period of time has only heightened his affections for her, and it's driving him bloody mad.

"I had a nice time tonight," her voice is gentle between the storm of his own desire.

"I do hope me bringing up your...," he gestures vaguely towards her with one hand, the other impulsively going to scratch behind his ear, hoping she understands that he is speaking of her past that they discussed, "didn't, uh, dampen the mood."

Emma shakes her head and he lets out a small breath of relief.

He shuffles a bit closer to her at that and drops his voice to just above a whisper, "I'm glad you accompanied me, my night would not have been the same without you by my side."

He realizes that he finds himself in this position quite often, barely a breath away from Emma Swan and barely concealing his raging urge to kiss her senseless. There's a colouring of red on her cheeks that he notes triumphantly, sure, but it's the red of her lips that draws his full attention.

He's about to bid her good night with a sigh and retire to a night of frustration when in half a beat, she slams her body into his, lips crashing together with a fierceness that elicits a rather unmanly yelp from him. But his brain promptly shuts down when she begins moving her lips - hot and insistent - against his, her hands fisting into his jacket. Almost subconsciously, he responds, moving in tandem with her, one hand curling around her waist to pull her closer, the need to have her flush against him overpowering his senses. His free hand sliding up across her bare back, the direct contact fuelling his desire as much as hers, if her shiver and the goosebumps he's trailing in his wake are anything to go by.

Her hands find their way to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer and tilting in kind to deepen the kiss. She's sucking on his lower lip and he can't help the growl that gutters against his throat. There's barely any space left between them, their bodies flush together from lips to knees; if he thought her peck caused a spark, then this feels like his whole body is rolling straight into the eye of a roaring inferno.

She lets out a moan and he slips his tongue across the barrier of her lips, stroking hers. The moment he tastes her, he forgets how to breathe. It turns into a dance that he feels like he's known his whole life, and yet it's new and catching him completely off guard. But he could get used to the way she tugs at the hair at the nape of his neck, the way his own fingers comfortably tangle in her curls.

When they break apart for air (reluctantly, in his case), they're still fused together and panting heavily, her hot breath against his lips doing nothing to quench his desire. He drags his hand forward to swipe his thumb across her jaw, and then he looks up into her eyes; her pupils blown wide and gaze darting all around his face, settling everywhere but his eyes.

"Emma…" his ragged whisper trails off uncertainly.

She looks up into his eyes then and all she offers him is a quiet "Good night, Killian," before she's slipping out of his arms, and he's left suppressing a shiver at the immediate loss of heat and contact and, well, her.

He's standing frozen like a sodding fool as she runs her tongue over her lips once and trails back towards her door, a ghost of a smile on her lips. He wants to catch her arm and pull her back in for another passionate display, or at least ask her what the bloody hell just happened. But all he manages is a hushed "Sweet dreams," as she shuts the door behind her, the resounding click of the lock seeming too loud in the moment.

He hesitantly touches his own lips with his fingers, her taste still lingering there, and lets out a heavy exhale, because he was already far too deep, and now, there's no way he's getting out of this even if he tries. He trudges into his own lone apartment, and after changing out of his suit, falls into bed with a smile on his lips.

Perhaps he did win that bet after all.

The chipper attitude that accompanies him as he dresses in his jeans and grey t-shirt for breakfast at David's (or David and Mary Margaret's - he supposes he could just refer to it as the Nolan's, really, if only to tease them even more) is only brought on by the promise of sharing the space with blonde he spent all night dreaming of. The visions of Emma in all her golden haired, green eyed glory all but attacked him as he fell into his slumber; despite the exhaustion he feels from dancing and the slight headache from the liquor, he hasn't woken up this happy in a very, very long time.

He mindlessly hums a tune the band played last night - one he and Emma danced to - as he makes his way across the hall and knocks at the door. He's greeted by a cheerful Mary Margaret and a half-asleep David and at further observation, he realises that there seems to be no sign of Emma in the apartment, and his smile falls instantly.

"Where's Swan?" He inquires (subtly, he hopes) as he perches down on his seat at the table.

David narrows his eyes and shoots Killian a look over his coffee that he can't quite place. "She said she was called in to volunteer on short notice, she was leaving when I got up."

Killian nods and chews on a piece of bacon as he tries not to feel too disheartened at the absence of the woman who left his body flooded with heat last night.

She has work, it's not like she's avoiding you.

So, he buries any self-doubting notion and resolves to participating in Mary Margaret's easy chatter about how wonderful the night was. He has to admit, there is no possible way he can disagree with that statement.

He spends most of his day with the couple, talking, lounging about and occasionally answering a few work related emails about the new ship his team will be in charge of soon. He'd planned to drive to the grocery store today and stock up on his quickly diminishing supplies, but truly, he's rooted to the spot in an attempt to catch Emma as she returns home.

But, as the morning shifts to late afternoon and there is no sign of Emma, concern begins takes over. The niggling thoughts only worsen with every tick of David's ridiculous old fashioned grandfather clock and every unanswered text he sends her. He tries calling her but after a few rings, he's met with her voicemail.

When his phone rings, he nearly jumps out of his chair but he's only met with disappointment when he finds it's Robin calling him to run over a few points about their last job for the report.

He saunters outside to take the call, trying to get his thoughts in order so he doesn't mess up any of the details. He hangs up almost half an hour later, sighing at the tiredness that's beginning to settle into his body; he was obviously only running on the adrenaline of that kiss all morning. He squeezes his eyes shut. That bloody kiss.

When he walks back into the loft, Mary Margaret is on the phone, frowning and his thoughts run a mile a minute before he catches himself, forcing them to calm down.

"So, what time will you be back?" He hears her say as he walks to the kitchen to grab a beer. He's loathe to eavesdrop but he's almost certain she's speaking to Emma and he just can't help himself.

She makes a noise of approval and then says, "Alright, I'll leave some leftovers in the fridge."

She knits her brows at her phone when she hangs up and then looks to him and then David before saying, "That was Emma, she said there's been some kind of emergency with one of the kids and she has to stay in late."

Killian's beer tastes sour as it makes its way down his throat, his stomach dropping at her words. He quickly schools his features, though, despite the uneasiness he feels at not seeing Emma.

Just her job, he reminds himself over and over. But even when the next day comes around and he's told again that he's just missed Emma, he begins to wonder if he's gone and fucked this up, too. It's apparent he can't keep a solid relationship to save his life, and it must be a new record because he's gone and lost her before he even had the chance to have her.

He's at work early on Monday morning for a meeting that he isn't mentally or emotionally prepared for; his mind is unabashedly on the woman he hasn't been able to catch a glimpse of for the past two days, his nerves heightening and the memory of her kiss falling to the forefront of his mind every few minutes. It has taken him a right amount of self-control to not call her again, but he did send her another text last night, jokingly informing her of David's latest Netflix antics (Househunters, which is an absolute nightmare) - but even that one went unanswered.

Resigning to his office after his (no doubt) awful meeting, he runs over the events of the charity gala night in his head, trying to pinpoint anything that may have thrown her off. But he only draws a blank, because the night did after all end with her kissing pulling him in for a kiss. His whole demeanor deflates as the day goes by, periodically staring at his phone as if willing to ring.

He thinks of Emma and her laughter, their easy banter, her lips on his, and fuck, he's out of his mind if he doesn't get his head out of his arse and fight for her, for this - whatever it may be. He checks the time and notes it's just after 10, and that he still has some time before she's off from volunteering.

He has a hopeful spring in his step as he tells Robin he's stepping out for a few minutes, hopping into his car and making a short stop at the bakery a few blocks away before he turns in the other direction and heads towards the youth center. He's not going to take this sitting down, he's going to fight for it tooth and nail, because that kiss, he's sure it meant something. Sure that she felt it, too.

Killian pulls up into a parking space, and purposely walks into the building, brown paper bag in one hand. He asks for Emma at the reception desk and when the woman behind the counter tells him that she'll be down shortly and to take a seat in the waiting room, he nods his thanks.

He's idly scanning the interior of the abandoned waiting room when a hissed whisper comes from behind him. "What are you doing here?"

He swivels on his heel and faces a rather annoyed Emma Swan standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest and chin tilted, eyes hard and absolutely nothing like the passionate gaze he'd seen last. And even though there's irritation in her gaze, he has to admit that his heart flutters at the sight of her. He regards her with furrowed brows and attempts to keep his disappointment out of his voice when he speaks, "I brought you lunch, it was a part of our bet, if you recall."

She doesn't move from her spot and it becomes even more difficult to keep his emotions in check. "It's ten in the morning, Jones," she replies stoically.

"I'm well aware, love, but seeing as though you've been avoiding me, I wasn't sure how or when to get this to you," he cocks an eyebrow in her direction, the blatant annoyance at the situation leaking through his words.

"I'm not avoiding you, I'm working."

"Don't try that with me, Emma. Tell me, did I do something wrong? Because the last thing I recall is our kiss and that -"

"Didn't mean anything," she cuts him off harshly.

He's taken aback and it takes him a few minutes before his thoughts fall into place again. "Didn't mean anything? Who are you fooling, love, because I'm certain you felt what I did."

"It was the heat of the moment, nothing else." He's stalked closer to her now and from this close, he finds himself trailing his eyes over her face, hoping to find any cracks in her stone-cold facade.

"If that's the case," he grits out, "why have you been so hell bent on not seeing me? Or replying to any of my texts or calls, for that matter. If it wasn't a big deal, then you wouldn't be going out of your way to ignore me."

"I told you, I'm not -"

"Emma," he's pleading now, like a Goddamn fool, "please, if it's something I did, I -"

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it?" Their eyes are locked together and the tension is so bloody high that it's almost suffocating. And being this near to her again, seeing her, only makes his hands itch to hold her flush against his own body.

She doesn't reply, only breaks her gaze and looks to the side.

"Emma," he tries again, reaching his free hand to touch her arm but she evades it by moving back an inch and his heart just breaks.

"You should leave," she refuses to look at him as she says it.

"Love, just talk to me," his voice wavers at the end, unable to accept her dismissal.

"There's nothing to talk about," she firmly states. It's when he doesn't move from his place that she glances up at him, a few strands of hair falling on her face. "Please, just go," she adds so quietly, that he's not sure if he would have heard it had he not been tuned to her every little movement right now.

He darts his gaze between her eyes, and though her voice sounded drained to him, there's a storm in her eyes he cannot read. He shakes his head more at his own idiocy than at her unreadable expression. He drops the bag of food on the chair next to him as she looks away from him again and he reminds himself that whatever her reasons may be, he needs to be there and fight for her.

He stalks closer to her, though, keeps his voice low for fear that it'll break mid-sentence if he doesn't, "You kissed me, Swan, and God knows why you did it but I know for certain it wasn't just some thinly veiled impulse. There's something here, and you know it, too. I told you that you shouldn't let your past define your future, and I'm asking you now to take a leap of faith. Asking you to have a little trust in me."

He attempts to catch her gaze but he's only met with a long, heart shattering silence.

"Fine," his anger bubbles at the surface as he steps out of her space, unable to stand her refusal any longer, "if you want me to leave, I shall. But know that sooner or later, you're going to have to stop running, because it won't do you a bloody ounce of good."

At that, he storms past her and out of the building, only his anger propelling him forward and out the sliding doors and into the parking lot. As soon as the cold Boston air hits him, his shoulders slump defeatedly as he tries to comprehend what just happened; he laid his heart at her feet and she merely kicked it away. He tries to tell himself that she's just afraid, that she's protecting herself - but she said she'd trust him, and now, now she was looking at him as if he was the worst thing she'd ever laid eyes on. And it hurts, because for the first time in a long time, he'd felt an ounce of hope, felt his luck finally turning. He looks back at the building, knowing he's only fooling himself if he think she'll ever come after him. He stalks back to his car, a numbness taking over his thoughts, and all the fight draining clear out of him.


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