Their routine returns to normal, a steady stream of media events, award shows and Regina-assigned tasks to keep the press machine running smoothly, but as the weeks go by, there's a shift Emma can't ignore.

It began that afternoon in the hospital. She didn't mean to say quite as much as she did, but once it was out there, once his story was out there, it's been impossible to go back to pretending he doesn't matter.

He matters. He might matter too much, but she tries to ignore that nagging doubt and just enjoy the comfort of his friendship, the time they spend together. He's the first true friend she's had in a long time, and there's something worth cherishing about that.

But it's more than that – he's kept his word, not pushing for more, and slowly but surely, she relaxes around him, accepts she's a part of his life now. At least for the next six months. After that...well, she tries not to think about what comes next.

He's in the kitchen with her again, another late night baking session, when he gets it in his head he wants to learn to pipe frosting. "It appears quite simple when you do it," he insists, gesturing to the piping bag as she swirls vanilla frosting over the latest batch of cupcakes.

"It's not that hard. C'mere." Emma smiles in invitation, placing an unfrosted cupcake onto the counter in front of her.

He stands next to her, their hips nearly pressed together as she wraps his fingers around the piping bag, trying to show him how to hold it. Finding it too awkward to use her opposite hand, she moves behind him, her right hand covering his as she leans against him. She tries not to think about the warmth of his body against hers, how nearly every inch of her is plastered against him. This is a frosting lesson, she tells herself sternly. Nothing more.

"Relax." Every muscle in his back is tight, noticeable knots under her palm. "You want to hold it loosely so the frosting comes out evenly. Too tight and it just makes a mess."

He chuckles, the reverberation sending a shiver down her spine. "Is that so, Swan?" He glances back at her, heat simmering in his gaze.

Her cheeks burn at his words, making her grateful she's behind him and difficult to see. "Squeeze lightly," she says, ignoring the innuendo – only to watch frosting shoot across the kitchen.

The comical, genuine surprise in his wide eyes might be the best part.

"Bloody hell!"

She raises an eyebrow at him, reaching for the roll of paper towels as he continues to curse under his breath. "Apparently you need to work on your technique."

His smile turns predatory as his eyes track her across the kitchen. "I assure you, love, there is nothing wrong with my technique."

Emma bursts out laughing, because it's late, and he's ridiculous, and she's pretty sure he's gotten frosting in his own hair somehow. Her laughter breaks the tension between them, the charged air easing back into less dangerous territory as they clean up the mess together.

But when she finally closes her eyes, all she can see is the way his gaze stalked her across the kitchen, hungry and unrelenting.

The next day is another event. They're walking the red carpet for an awards show. Killian is nominated for best villain, not that he is entirely pleased about it given the typecast he's working so hard to lose. But an award is an award, and even if he wanted to get out of it, Regina would never agree. His manager is a force of nature when she wants to be. Even six months into this adventure, Emma does her best to stay out of the woman's way.

It's one of those beautiful nights in Los Angeles, where the setting sun paints the sky pink, there's a light breeze off of the ocean, and the air is warm without being hot. The dress Tink put her in tonight is gorgeous – pale pink satin that leaves her shoulders bare, showing off her tan and cascading blonde curls. It's not often she feels pretty and delicate, but this dress does it.

She's shocked when a member of the media asks her a question directly that isn't what are you wearing or how long did it take you to get ready tonight. Part of Killian's life or not, it's the first time the press seems to take note of her as anything other than an accessory.

"So, Emma, give us some dirt on Killian. Tell us one thing he does that his fans would never guess." The reporter smiles widely, all shiny white teeth and lip gloss, and Emma freezes for a second, her eyes darting up to his.

He chuckles, squeezing his hand where it rests on her hip and leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "Tell them whatever you like, love."

She nods, and their eyes hold a beat longer than necessary. There's something soft in him tonight, almost tender, and she wants to fight it, wants to be hard enough for both of them, but it's impossible to push him away.

So she turns back to the reporter with a sly smile. If they want a story, she's got the perfect cute couple scene for them. The fact that not a word of it is fabricated – or that she doesn't have to think about it for second – is a thought for another night.

"I'm sort of nocturnal, and I like to bake. He keeps me company. I think he secretly likes sitting in the kitchen with me at midnight." Emma smiles for the camera, but her eyes drift toward his again. It's just not just the softness in his eyes – there's a touch of something else, something just a little bit more that makes her unable to look away.

"I help!" he says, interjecting as he leans forward to speak into the microphone. He's grinning wildly at her as he straightens – he does very little helping.

"Sometimes he helps," Emma admits, struggling to turn her eyes back to the reporter. But she just can't help herself, her own grin turning into a smirk as her eyes flit up toward him again. "Mostly he steals stray pieces of chocolate. Or fights losing battles with frosting."

The reporter practically squeals into the microphone. Killian's body presses just slightly against hers, and she's about to turn away with a polite smile when the microphone is back in her face. "What's your favorite dessert to make together?"

"Devil's food cupcakes with chocolate frosting." Killian answers immediately, his eyes on hers instead of the camera. She's instantly lost in the memory of that first night in his house. He slid onto a stool, keeping her insomnia company as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Still strangers, but he was already going of his way to make her happy in spite of having no reason to do so.

By the tenderness in his eyes, she's not the only one reliving that night.

It's too easy to slip into this role of Killian's girlfriend. When she looks at him, she doesn't have to fake the affection or warmth. Moments like this, when she remembers their nights in the kitchen, a cozy sort of pleasure floods through her. He's not an assignment in those precious pockets of time – he's just a man who makes her laugh, especially when she thinks about last night's frosting lesson.

She laughs again thinking about it now, belatedly realizing the reporter hasn't taken her eyes off them, a dreamy expression on her face. That makes Emma nervous, but Killian leads them away with a polite goodnight, his hand shifting to the small of her back.

"All I'm going to be able to think about now are chocolate cupcakes, Swan," he mutters in her ear as they move in front of the photographers, his arm snaking around her to pull her against his chest. She tilts closer, her torso tight against his and her hand easily falling on his shoulder. They've gotten good at this part, posing together. It's easier than it should be, her body snug against his.

It should frighten her, the way the alarm bells have grown quieter, easier to ignore. It's harder to figure out what's real between them and what isn't – is he holding her so closely now because the cameras are on them? Or is he taking advantage of the cameras to touch her because he wants to? It's a question she finds herself wrestling with more often than not.

They're moving again before she can think too hard on it. People come up to Killian, some she's met, some she hasn't. There are plenty of well-wishers for his nomination, and she can't help but smile at him every time their eyes meet. She wants him to win – to get the validation he craves, that his acting is good enough, that he's good enough.

She wishes she could convince him he's good enough.

When they get to his nomination, she tightens her grip, their fingers already laced together. She smiles up at him as his name is called, a clip playing from the movie, but her eyes are on him. She's done it without intending to, without thinking that it would look good for the cameras – she just needs to support him in this.

She squeezes his hand harder as the presenter opens the envelope with the winner's name, and when his name is announced, she throws her arms around him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. He's so stunned – whether by her affection or the win, she can't tell – that she has to give his shoulder a gentle shake. "You won," she whispers in his ear, tugging his hand to get him on his feet. "Go!"

He beams down at her as he stands, stealing another quick kiss before jogging up the steps to the stage. It takes a moment for the crowd to quiet, and Emma leans back in her seat, grinning like an idiot to see him so happy.

He thanks the producers, the directors, his co-stars. He thanks his manager for talking him into taking the role.

"And lastly, I want to thank the beautiful, amazing woman who chooses to believe in me no matter what. I love you, Emma. Thank you!" He steps back from the podium, and he's ushered backstage before Emma can even process his words.

She's aware of the cameras – too aware – as she keeps the smile on her face, a sharp pain slicing through her as she struggles to not let her expression shift into one of horror. His speech tears through her, jagged, deep slashes that leave her raw and exposed to this theater full of people.

Because he can't possibly have meant it – they're not in love. She knows he wants her, desires her; at this point, she'll accept he cares for her. But to stand in front of all of these people and say he loves her…it's too goddamn much.

Behind her calm expression, her emotions are a violent storm, thoughts raging against one another. Why has he done this? Why does he have to remind her today – when she's let herself feel safe in his arms, when she's stood on a press line and given up a real part of herself – that he doesn't love her, that he'll never love her. This isn't real – Emma doesn't get a fairytale romance with a handsome prince. That's not her lot in life; that's never been her lot in life. She's come to terms with that, accepted it, and but then he stood up there and talked about loving her like it's an actual possibility, like maybe her story could be rewritten before the end.

She's furious he's once again stepped so far over the line they've established without so much as a warning. This is worse than the kiss. The kiss was jealousy and male pride – this is a betrayal of trust, as though he's taken the warmth between them and twisted it into a PR stunt. It's another reminder she's lost all control over her life and her emotions, thanks to some scheme he undoubtedly drew up with Regina but neglected to tell her about.

Her heart aches, because for a fraction of a second, she almost believed him, wanted to believe him.

She stays in her seat as long as she can before fleeing to the bathroom. She considers just escaping the theater entirely, but she knows she can't – one of the hundreds of cameras will catch her leaving and then it'll be plastered all over the tabloids.

Besides, it will only delay the inevitable – she lives in his house.

Thankfully, the awards show wraps up before Killians returns. He finds her eventually, waiting on a bench in the theater lobby. He's been to the pressroom, and he's holding the award in his hand with a deep contentment in his eyes she wishes she could be happy about – but she's still hurt and terrified of what he said up on that stage.

"Ready to go, love?" he asks cheerfully, sliding his arm around her shoulders. "I thought we could prepare something chocolatey to celebrate."

She just nods.

His eyebrows knit together, and for a moment, concern replaces his happiness. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah. These shoes are just killing me." It's not a lie – her pacing in the bathroom has made her little toe feel like it may have been chafed out of existence – but it's not exactly the truth either.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You can take them off the moment we get in the car."

It's a quiet ride home, but he's got his phone in his hand, fielding calls and texts from friends and well-wishers. The award sits on the seat beside them, and Emma does her best not to glare at it.

Things were going so well for them. She was comfortable with him, with their friendship, with having someone to lean on – but he's ruined it. Whatever trust she's managed to place in him has shattered in the face of his behavior tonight. They're not in this together, no matter what he says. Tonight has been a painful reminder of who calls the shots.

She lifts her hair for him to unzip the dress as they enter his bedroom, silent as he drags the zipper down. He's doing it again, his hands lingering on her, but she steps away without looking at him. "I'm going to grab a shower, if you don't mind," she says to the wall. "They put a lot of gunk in my hair."

"Of course, love." His voice carries a hint of confusion, but she doesn't stick around long enough for him to question her stiff shoulders.

She thinks the shower will calm her, but it doesn't. She stews as the hot water pours over her, the hurt and frustration simmering into a burning rage. How could he? And not so much as an explanation after he did it? No warning? He couldn't have just said, Regina says we have to up our game. I'm going to tell the whole world I love you tonight. Be ready for that.

By the time she shuts the water off, Emma has decided she's going to confront him about it. He can't complicate it more between them. They have another six months to go before they hit their expiration date, and she can't spend that long pretending to be in love with him. It's one thing to let a friendship develop, to stand beside him in front of the camera, smile, kiss his cheek – but she can't fake love. She won't.

She heads for the closet wrapped up in a fluffy towel, avoiding him until she can get dressed. He's lying on the bed, his arm flopped over his eyes and his phone resting on his chest. Regina's voice carries as she slips into the closet and she can't help a twitch of her lips as she realizes he's got it on speakerphone. The man can work so hard sometimes – and be so lazy at others.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Regina's voice is sharp, carrying easily into the closet, and Emma doesn't know if the words are a relief or another nail in the coffin. "Whatever feelings you've developed for the girl, you need to get a handle on it. Keep your eye on the prize, Jones." Emma winces, because that seals it – Regina did not tell him to say the things he said. He did it on his own, no pushing or prodding required.

"My eye is on the prize, Regina. Don't worry your pretty little head, darling. I didn't mean a word of it." His voice is casual, as though the words mean nothing. Pain slams into her, and Emma clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. She doesn't even know why she's so upset, because this is just confirmation – she's already figured this part out, hasn't she? She never actually thought he meant it...did she?

But it's not only that. She's spent her entire shower working herself up to lay into him, to express in no uncertain terms he can't make plans with Regina and blindside her with them. She was positive Regina's hand was in this, that he wouldn't be so callous all on his own, but his words tell a different story.

He made this decision. He got up there and said he was in love with her, all while carefully avoiding referring to her as his girlfriend.

It's not that she wants him to be in love with her. She's resisted any and all attempt on his part to form something beyond a friendship, beyond their arrangement. He's told her he cares about her, and she accepts that – she cares about him too. But there's a gaping chasm between care about and I love you. To pretend otherwise is to be careless with her emotions, and Killian is a lot of things, but she's never known the man to be careless.

She doesn't know how long she stands the middle of the closet wrapped in a towel, staring at nothing, trying to control her reaction to words she wasn't meant to hear. She isn't even aware of the tears pouring down her cheeks until the wetness drips onto her chest.

He's still talking, but Emma can't hear the words beyond the low rumble of his voice. She's too lost in her own circling thoughts – she has no right to be upset. Faking it is their job. He's an actor. None of this is real.

But it doesn't change the fact that she aches like her heart has been torn from her chest and stomped to pieces before her eyes – which is the exact feeling she's been struggling so hard to avoid.

She doesn't hear him come into the closet, doesn't even know he's there until his callused fingertips fall on her shoulder. "Emma? You all right, love?"

"I'm fine." She doesn't turn to him, just tightens the towel around herself and shrugs off his touch. "I just need to get dressed."

He doesn't move from behind her, but she can hear the shifting of his weight on the carpet. "Have you…have you been in here long?"

"You mean did I hear your conversation with Regina." She manages to make it a statement, flat and cool. She pulls clothes from the dresser, mindlessly assembling some form of outfit to get her out of this room and away from him.

"You misunderstand. I…"

"I understand just fine." She slams the drawer shut, grabbing up the handful of clothes and trying to push past him. "I'll get dressed in the bathroom since you're still in here."

"Emma!" He catches her arm as she's passing, and it's pure instinct that makes her look up at him. She wishes she hadn't, because the second their eyes meet there's no hiding she's been crying.

He curses under his breath, reaching to pull her closer, but she rips her arm away. "There's no need for you to touch me, Killian. There are no cameras in here."

"It wasn't a lie," he calls after her, his voice thick, the words carrying an edge of desperation. She stops in the doorway, her back straight and her fingers tight around the doorframe.

"The fucked up part is I have no idea which it you mean."

"What I said on stage." He's behind her again, his palm resting lightly on her arm. The words are barely a whisper, and she should turn around, face him, look in his eyes and see the truth, but he's a damn fine actor and she doesn't trust herself.

"I didn't intend to say it. I…I got up on that stage, and I looked out, and you were so happy for me. I've learned the difference when you're faking for a camera. You were really happy tonight. For me. So when I started to speak, I didn't think on what words I should or shouldn't say. I didn't think about cameras or Regina or that damn movie role. I just said how I felt."

"That you love me."

His hand slides down her arm, tugging on her elbow until she's facing him. "I've been in love with you for some time, Emma. Surely you had to know."

"You told Regina it was a lie." She ignores his confession completely, her mind unable to stop the soundtrack of his callous words.

"Aye. Because I hadn't a chance to talk with you, and frankly, it's none of her bloody business what happens between you and me in private anymore. She can tell us how to behave on a press line, but I'll be damned if she tells us what to do in our home."

"Your home," she whispers, her eyes sliding shut as she swallows thickly, fighting more tears.

"Emma…"

"I don't believe you," she cuts in, struggling to keep herself under control. "This is a business transaction. It always has been. I think we've both forgotten that. I'm going to sleep in the other room tonight, take some space. No one will be here tomorrow to know the difference."

His hands thread into her hair before she knows what's hit her, her back to the doorframe as he invades her space, his other hand braced above her head. He leans in, his lips nearly touching hers as the damp heat of his breath washes over her skin. "Does this feel like a bloody business transaction to you?" His demand is hoarse, his hips anchoring her to the door frame.

He's so close she can see every one of his thick eyelashes brush against his cheek when he blinks, the flecks of grey in his eyes. And those eyes...those eyes are begging her to answer, but she's frozen in place, clutching the towel that does nothing to stop her from feeling every inch of him pressed against her tighter.

"Does it?"

She can't answer him – not when every bone in her body is screaming an answer she doesn't want to acknowledge. But her control is a tenuous at best, and her heart is already racing from his closeness, from the thought that he might kiss her and she wants him to.

But he doesn't. He just stares at her, waiting.

All it takes is a tilt of her head and her lips are on his, unleashing a pent up desire that travels down her spine and settles low in her belly. He responds in kind, an aggressive, needy kiss that makes her want so much more than she can possibly have.

She kisses him, because god, she wants to believe everything he's said to her in the last five minutes – she wants to believe she can be more than business transaction – but she can't. So instead, she savors the taste of him, the firm muscles under her palms, the fire that sparks to life every time he touches her. This is the part that's real between them – and it's not about love.

She shoves him back with a low moan, her heart constricting painfully. She can't do this. She can't look at him right now, knowing every emotion, every hope, is laid bare on his face. Never mind that kiss – that kiss has plenty of things to say too, but she can't hear a word of it over the roar of her own thoughts.

"I shouldn't have...I can't…" she manages to choke out, backing away from him before he can touch her – if she kisses him again, her resolve will crumble. She's makes the mistake of looking him in the eye for all of a second, and that's bad enough.

"Emma, I…" It's two simple words, but she hears every agonizing plea in them, sees it all over his face – frustration and hurt and desire and the same damn tenderness she saw earlier on the red carpet.

She turns away from him and slips out of the room, down the hall and into another room where she spends the night staring at the ceiling, unable to decide if she hopes he comes after her or not.

It doesn't matter in the end. The dawn arrives.

He doesn't.

Many thanks as always to onceuponsomechaos for the beta job. Any remaining mistakes should be blamed on me and my fiddling.

And, um, yeah...I'm just gonna go ahead and leave this here...