A/N: Once again, sorry for the terribly long wait. Life just runs away with me sometimes. This chapter was originally going to be longer, but then I realized it was already really long and I found a good place to split it, so... Here it is! :)


She doesn't run. Not really. Not in the physical sense at least.

She allows him to hug her for a moment longer, wrapped in the security of his arms, hating herself just a little bit for needing this, needing him, before she pulls back and reminds him that they need to get back to the house; get dressed, eat breakfast, and get to work. Those are the words she uses, but what she really means (and they both know it) is that they need to get back before her parents wake, before anyone notices anything out of the ordinary, because as far as the waking world is concerned, they're just friends, they work together, nothing more.

The night can hold her secrets in its silent grasp. It's safer that way.

She knows that this is hard on him; she's sees the hurt, the sadness, the uncertainty flicker across his face, catches sight of it before he covers it up, hides it away behind an understanding smile and a nod of his head, gesturing for her to lead the way.

As she walks back toward the house, morning dew upon the grass, cold and wet against her feet, she tries not to feel guilty for the relief coursing through her chest when he doesn't kiss her again and doesn't push her to talk. She tries, and she fails, because the entire way back she can feel his eyes on her, feel the weight of his stare, and with each step it grows heavier, settling in her chest and her heart and her lungs, and she has to remind herself to breathe again, but the words come to her in his soothing voice, his rough accent, a ghost against her ear, and the urge to turn and fold herself up in his arms is stronger than ever.

Fighting the almost magnetic pull, she pushes herself up the steps and quietly through the screen door, mindful to hold it open long enough that he can reach out and grab it.

Duke stands and finally abandons his patient vigil in the doorway, his tail wagging excitedly as he greets them in the mudroom. Killian reaches out to pet him and she takes the opportunity to slip away down the hall to her bedroom.

She closes the door quietly behind her and sits down on the bed, head in her hands.

Running her fingers over her lips she can still feel his kiss there, hell, she can still feel it in her bones, and she knows right then and there that any attempts to gather and make sense of her thoughts will be useless; her mind is still racing, scattered, flitting back and forth from one thought to another like a disoriented hummingbird.

So instead she resolves to push it all down for now – she's good at that – always has been, probably always will be.

A little voice in her head speaks up and tells her that this looks an awful lot like running. The voice sounds suspiciously like Killian and she sighs, rubbing at her eyes.

"I'm not running," she whispers to herself. "I'm temporarily avoiding my feelings."

Unbidden, a scoff rises to her lips, because even she knows that those are one and the same. She might not physically be running, but building up walls and burying your head in the sand are pretty damn similar. If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck...

Groaning, she stands and reaches for the jeans tossed over the chair in the corner. She doesn't have time for this right now.

She dress quickly and takes a deep breath, schooling her features before she opens her door and heads down the hallway. The pull-out bed in the living room is made up neatly, blankets tucked and folded around the edges and she can hear Killian in the kitchen, talking to Duke over the unmistakable sound of bacon sizzling in the frying pan.

Right, somehow she's gone forgotten that him giving up the apartment to Abigail and Colin for the week means that he'll be cooking and eating here in her kitchen – a kitchen she's used to having to herself most mornings.

Hesitantly she pokes her head into the room. It's early still, earlier than she usually rises, but it seems he's taken that into account because he's started the coffee before the timer has it scheduled to brew and is standing by the stove, still in his pyjamas, shuffling bacon with one hand while he pours what looks like pancake batter onto the griddle with the other.

He doesn't turn, doesn't even look at her, but somehow he knows she's there because he's asking her if she could wash and chop up the strawberries in the fridge.

She didn't even think they had strawberries, but sure enough when she opens the fridge, there they are. There's also a watermelon, a second carton of eggs, a jug of juice she doesn't recognize, and several pounds of fresh tilapia shoved in next to a grocery bag full of fruits and vegetables.

"Did you go shopping?" she asks as she brings the container of strawberries to the sink and grabs the paring knife from the block.

"Aye, I figured since your parents were kind enough to allow me use of the couch for the week, the least I could do was purchase some groceries and contribute to the odd meal," he tells her, flipping the perfectly round pancakes. "I was thinking of making fish tacos for supper tonight."

Frowning, she places the rinsed strawberries on a paper towel and reaches into the cupboard next to him for a bowl. "You're going to cook for all of us?"

He nods and a hint of red colours the tips of his ears.

"You don't have to do that," she tells him quietly, focusing her attention on hulling the strawberries, partially because she doesn't feel like slicing open a finger, but mostly because it's an excuse not to meet his eyes.

"I know I don't have to, love," he says, suddenly standing much closer than he was before. "But I want to. I don't show my appreciation for your family often enough. I'd like to do so by cooking you all a nice meal."

Stilling her hands, she looks up at him, unable to stop herself. "And what do you call this?" She gestures to the food on the stove.

"Breakfast," he deadpans, and she closes her eyes, shaking her head as she laughs once, quietly, a small smile playing at her lips.

"You know what I mean," she insists.

He nods and steps back toward the stove, moving the finished pancakes to a plate before flipping the bacon. "I do, I just wasn't sure you wanted to hear that this," he waves his hand, indicating the meal, "is me appreciating you."

She sighs. She just had to ask, didn't she?

"Killian..." It's a whisper. A plea. A protest. Something else? She isn't quite sure.

"This is me appreciating you as a friend and a co-worker and whatever else we may or may not be, all right, love? I've no ulterior motives here. We both need to eat and I wanted to do something nice for you." It's his turn to sigh as he sets down the spatula to rub at the lines on his forehead. "Is that such a terrible thing?"

"No, it's not," she reluctantly admits, returning her attention to slicing the strawberries into symmetrical halves, tossing them into the bowl as she works.

He's silent for a minute, adding more batter to the griddle and she foolishly thinks that's the end of the discussion.

Obviously it's not, because seconds later her turns toward her again, his face open, guileless. He doesn't touch her, doesn't even move closer. "You can run from me, Emma, put up walls and try to push me away, but I'm not going anywhere. At the end of the day, every day, I'll still be here."

He doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't seem to expect one, he just returns to cooking, flipping pancakes and poking at the bacon, and for that she's grateful, because she's too busy staring at the counter and furiously blinking back tears to give him one.

When she wins the battle with her traitorous eyes and her vision clears, she finishes slicing the strawberries. She sits the bowl on the table grabs the syrup from the door of the fridge. "Orange juice or whatever the hell this is other stuff is?" she asks him, proud that her voice doesn't waver in the slightest.

"Whatever your heart desires, love."

Grabbing the jug of what turns out to be white peach cranberry juice, she curses his choice of words, knowing they were intentional. Nearly everything the lovable asshole says and does is intentional.

She places the juice on the table with the glasses and cutlery before pulling mugs from the cupboard and pouring coffee. She adds a splash of cream to hers and then grabs the milk and sugar for his. He lifts a knowing eyebrow and she just glares right back at him. He's not the only one who pays attention; she knows how he takes his coffee.

She brings the coffees to the table and takes a seat, pouring juice as he turns off the burners and unties her mother's floral apron from around his waist – she bursts out laughing – how the hell did she not notice that?

Probably because she was busy trying to look at anything but him.

Killian just grins at her and hangs it up in the pantry before carrying two plates over to the table, placing one in front of her. Several rich scents waft upwards and she can't help but smile when she realizes he added dark chocolate chips to the pancakes.

The man certainly knows the way to her heart. Now she just has to figure out how to trust him with it.

Adding strawberries and syrup to the pancakes, she digs in eagerly, resisting the urge to moan in approval only because she knows the look he'll give her if she does.

Twenty minutes ago if you'd asked her if she was hungry, the answer would have been no; swirling emotions and panic attacks generally don't make for much of an appetite, but her turbulent mental state seems to have settled now and she'd be lying if she said her mouth hadn't watered at the first scent of bacon.

The silence is still a little awkward though, so after swallowing a mouthful of bacon, she asks, "What are Abi and Colin up to today?" Then, as an afterthought, she adds, "If you want to spend some time with them before we have to worry about the trail rides, I can do the stalls by myself this morning."

"I appreciate the offer, but you're not going to get rid of me that easily," he tells her softly, and she can see he wants to reach out to her, can see it in the way his knuckles blanch as he grips his fork a little too tightly to stop himself. "Besides, your mother's already offered to take them into town, keep them occupied for the day – she told me last night while you were finishing up with the horses," he clarifies when she looks confused. "Belle's doing a reading of Charlotte's Web at the library and your mum thought Colin might enjoy it."

"Guess I'm stuck with you then, huh?" she says wryly.

He chuckles at that. "Too right, love."

Killian looks like he wants to say something more, perhaps reiterate his promise not to leave, but her father chooses that moment to walk in and he doesn't get a chance.

"You two are up early," her father comments, eyeing her plate as he makes a beeline for the coffee pot.

Killian nods. "Aye, I'm afraid that's my fault. I was up with the sun to cook breakfast and the smell of bacon pulled this one from bed before her alarm," he says, lying to her father for her, and she feels terrible that he has to, that she's requires this of him.

"There are pancakes as well," Killian adds, "it's all keeping warm in the oven. Should be enough left for you and Mary Margaret."

"I didn't know we were paying you to cook breakfast for us," David jokes, already reaching for the oven mitts.

"You're not," Killian insists. "Consider it a thank you for allowing me to bed on the couch while my family visits."

David nods and pops a bite of pancake into his mouth. "On second thought, maybe we should be paying you to cook for us. These are the best pancakes I've ever tasted," he mumbles through another mouthful as he takes a seat at the table, reaching for the syrup.

"Maybe you should have married him instead," Mary Margaret says from the kitchen doorway.

David looks guilty as he swallows and Emma laughs as her mother walks in and smacks him gently up the side of the head before donning an oven mitt and reaching into the oven for the second plate. "Thank you for breakfast, Killian."

"You're most welcome. And while we're on the topic of my culinary skills, I was wondering if perhaps, since you'll be seeing to Abigail and Colin today, you'd allow me to cook dinner for everyone tonight?"

"As long as my kitchen is clean at the end of the day, I don't have any objections," Mary Margaret replies, joining them at the table.

Killian nods. "Yes, ma'am, I'll be sure to leave it spotless."

Emma finishes up her breakfast and then stands, gathering her empty dishes as well as Killian's. "Go get dressed," she tells him. "I'll clean this up quickly before we head out to the barn."

For once he has the good sense not to protest and actually does as she asks, finishing up the last sip of his coffee before heading into the living room.

As she quickly washes the dishes, she finds herself wishing, for what feels like the millionth time in her life, that her parents would just invest in a dishwasher already. It's not like they can't afford it, but her mother prefers to do a lot of things the old-fashioned way, and washing dishes by hand just happens to be one of them.

Grabbing an old paper coffee cup from the trash, she stuffs a couple paper towels in it before pouring in the bacon fat. It's a simple way to make an excellent fire starter and it's something they've done for as long as she can remember.

The plates, glasses, and cutlery get stacked in the elaborate drying rack and she hand-dries the frying pan and griddle before putting them away. It's good enough for now, so she hugs her mother and father and calls Duke to accompany her as she tugs on her boots and steps out the door.

It's just after 7am and she's already exhausted as she trudges out to the barn. Duke lopes along happily at her side and she sighs, trying to figure out how exactly the elderly, slightly arthritic dog has more energy than she does.

It's a simple enough answer; the dog went back to sleep instead of wandering outside at just after 4:30 in the morning. He also hasn't been experiencing the rollercoaster of emotional upheaval for the past couple hours.

It seems that even when she makes the decision to put it all from her mind, it just keeps creeping right back in.

There doesn't seem to be much she can do about it, so she resigns herself to her fate and heads into the barn to get started on mixing up grain.

Killian joins her after not too long and she worries that he's going to say something, bring it all up again, but all he does is smile warmly in greeting, grabbing buckets of grain to deliver to the anxiously waiting horses.

With the horses turned out in their fields, they start mucking, working in relative silence. At some point, when the quiet becomes too loud, between trips out to the muck heap to dump her wheelbarrow, she decides to flip on the radio, thankful for the drone of some talk show host leading a philosophical debate about life after death.

Around 9 Abigail and Colin join them in the barn to say good morning before they head into town with Mary Margaret. Abigail asks Emma if she could open the bug so that she can fetch the car seat, and Emma tries not to laugh at the shock on her face when she tells her that it's already open, that out here they don't bother locking their doors most of the time.

Colin asks where all the horses went and Killian explains that they're out in the fields for the day, that it's too nice for them to stay inside in their beds in this weather.

They boy is dead set on wanting to pet the horses and it seems no amount of gentle persuasion is going to change his mind, so Killian ends up abandoning his pitchfork in favour of leading his nephew out toward the fields for a quick visit with the ponies.

Abigail remains with her in the barn, and Emma continues to muck while they wait for the boys to return, laughing when Abi wonders out loud how many pounds of manure they shovel each week. It's a figure she surely doesn't care to know and she tells Abigail as much. It's probably the least glamorous part of her job, but it's a necessary one.

Mary Margaret joins them in the barn just as Killian returns with Colin, and before the women pack up and leave, her mother reminds her that the occupants of cabin no.4 are checking out this evening, and that new guests will be taking their place tomorrow at noon.

She'll have to take care of cleaning and restocking the cottage this evening. She knows she won't want to do it in the morning.

After her mother leaves with Colin and Abi, the rest of the day passes as usual; completing chores, tacking and un-tacking horses, leading trail rides, and she's glad it's all become routine enough that she doesn't really have to concentrate very hard. Her mind wanders to Killian more often than not (no matter how many times she stubbornly redirects it), and he watches her closely throughout the day; doesn't touch her, doesn't say anything more about the events of the morning, but he's always, always watching her.

Somehow it's both unnerving and reassuring at the same time.

Despite how frequently her mind has returned to him throughout the day, she's still no closer to any sort of grand revelation on the matter of him and her, still has no clue what she needs from him in the way of concrete reassurance, or what they are to each other and what she might eventually want them to become.

Hours of jumbled thoughts and she only knows three things for certain: that she's still terrified of having her heart broken, that she likes him (a lot), and that somehow, something happened, and now she can't possibly imagine her life without him in it.

The third thought brings her right back around to the first and realizes she's standing in a stall doorway, bucket of grain clasped in her fingers when the poor horse nudges her firmly in the shoulder, impatiently awaiting his dinner.

She dumps it into his rubber ground-feeder, patting his shoulder apologetically before shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear her thoughts and heading back to the feed-cart to fetch the next bucket.

The occupants of cabin no.4 appear in the driveway not long after that, ready to check-out, so she leaves it to Killian to finish up with the grain. The parents are flustered, their two preteen daughters fighting loudly in the back seat of the van, so she brings them into the office and speeds them through the process of retrieving keys and completing payments, informing them that the security deposit will be refunded within 48 hours provided the cabin passes inspection. They tiredly thank her for the experience and she wishes them well, sending them on their way with a jar of her mother's homemade strawberry jam, a bottle of locally produced honey, and two blueberry flavoured rock candy stick thrown in for the girls.

Killian's done with the grain by the time she files away the receipts, and though she should probably just head over to the cabin now to clean – get it over with while she waits for him to cook dinner, she's tired, and so she finds herself following him across the yard and up the steps to the house.

Her father's still outside, setting up a bonfire for later, and Duke happily helps, carrying logs over to him from the shed. She pauses on the porch to watch them, suddenly sad, a little bit bitter, and mostly just upset with herself for uprooting her life and spending five long years away from this all.

"You coming inside, love?" Killian asks and it's only then that she realizes he's been holding the door open and waiting for her.

"I'll be in soon," she tells him without turning, still leaning against the railing.

She hears his quiet grunt of acknowledgement and feels his eyes on her back for several tense seconds before the screen door finally rattles shut. She breathes out in what is supposed to be a sigh of relief, but really, it isn't, because the same tightly coiled knot of discontent, of restless agitation, still sits firmly in her breast.

Resting heavily against the weathered cedar rail, she looks out over the property. In the distance, dense cumulus clouds travel eastward on the breeze, bright white and towering against the brilliant blue sky. The sun is still bright and strong, the grass green, freshly cut and fragrant, and she's tempted to head back to the barn, grab the first horse she sees and wander aimlessly into the wilderness.

But that would be running, and she isn't going to do that.

At least not in such an obvious manner.

It eats at her though, that terrible sense of standing still when you know you should be moving forward, almost like you're vibrating on the spot as invisible threads threaten to pull you apart, and you're just grasping at the ends, trying to hold it all together, afraid that if you tug too hard on the wrong one, it will all unravel.

Groaning, she drops her head into her hands. She needs a distraction; something mindless and meaningless, something that'll get her out of her head for a while.

Heading into the house, she kicks off her boots and strides through the kitchen where Killian is humming along to the radio as he seasons the fish. He smiles at her as she passes on her way to the living room and she attempts to smile back, but she's fairly certain it comes across as more of grimace because his shoulders seem to sag a little and she's left feeling even worse than she did seconds before.

She grabs the first DVD case she touches from the shelf; season eight of Friends, and she selects a disc at random, shoving it a little too forcefully into the DVD player. She'd prefer to lie down on the couch, but the couch is currently his bed and there's no way in hell she's stretching out on that, so she grabs the remote and resigns herself to the armchair, pulling the lever and shuffling until she finds a relatively comfortable position.

Selecting "The One with Monica's Boots", she presses play and rubs at the tension headache settling into her forehead, attempting to stretch out the stiff muscles in her neck.

About five minutes in she realizes she's not really paying attention to the episode; probably because she's seen it somewhere in the neighbourhood of 101 times, and also because Killian is singing along to the radio in the kitchen, belting out the lyrics to Bryan Adams' Heaven, and god, she is so not okay.

She wants to damn him for the song choice, but she can't even do that; it's not his fault the ancient radio in the kitchen only picks up one station dedicated to 80's hits. It's also not his fault he was blessed with the ability to carry a tune. And though she'd like to, she can't entirely blame him for the mess of feelings gnawing at her insides as she sits curled up in the chair, frowning at the kitchen doorway.

When the song ends, she exhales in relief and tries to focus on the television once more. Her efforts are wasted though, because Madonna's Papa Don't Preach comes on and he starts singing along with that and suddenly she's laughing so hard she can't see straight, the figures on the television nothing but blurry blobs of colour.

She's wiping mirthful tears from her eyes and attempting to catch her breath when he pokes his head through the doorway to grin at her stupidly. "You've a problem with my singing, love?"

All her attempts to compose herself fall apart and she just waves him away, her entire body shaking with laughter, tears streaming down her face again because god he's an idiot and even with all the shit she's feeling right now, about him, about them, he can still make her laugh so hard she can scarcely breathe.

It's just one of the many things she loves about him.

The thought sobers her quickly and she wants to stomp it down as soon as it arises, but it's too late, it's already out there, that scary little four letter word that she wants to keep tucked safely away in a box where she can pretend it doesn't exist.

Groaning, she shuts off the TV, stands, and pokes her head into the kitchen. "How long until dinner's ready?"

Killian looks up from where he's dicing avocado, knife stilling against the cutting board. "Should be about an hour," he tells her, concern evident in his features, in the way his eyebrows knit together, the lines on his forehead deepening.

There's a questioning tone to his answer and she nods toward the door. "I'm gonna go get that cabin ready for tomorrow; do it now so I don't have to worry about it later."

She needs a distraction, needs to get away from him for a while if she's going to put on a smile and a convincing act during dinner.

He nods once, succinctly, and then returns to chopping the fruit.

His apparent dismissal stings; she'd expected him to at least mutter some form of acknowledgement, perhaps urge her to hurry back, but he doesn't, and she can't blame him. He's far from stupid; she's running and he's letting her, and as she grabs her keys from the hook, steps into her shoes, and heads out the door, she can't help but think that what she feels is far from the relief she's been searching for.

The next 45 minutes are spent changing bedclothes and restocking supplies. She dusts, cleans the bathroom and kitchen, and makes a quick run through with the vacuum. It's probably the fastest she's ever managed to prep a cottage and by the time she's tossing the heap of dirty linens into the trunk of the bug, she's exhausted, sufficiently distracted, and her stomach is growling loudly enough to rival the rumble of the car's engine.

Many of the guests are outside, cooking or eating dinner, so she smiles at them as she gets into the car and makes her way back to the farm.

Her mother arrives home with Abigail and Colin just as she's gathering the laundry from the car to bring into the house and she waves to them, balancing the load awkwardly on her hip. The picnic table is already set for dinner and Killian stands at the barbeque, shuffling fish on the grill while he laughs with her father.

She catches a whiff of the barbequed tilapia and her stomach growls again, so she rushes into the house to deal with the laundry, shoving it hastily into the machine with detergent and fabric softener, setting the dial for the two hour sanitize cycle before heading back outside.

Colin comes running to greet her, ploughing into her legs, and she scoops him up, tickling him as he screeches and squirms until he's red in the face with laughter and her face hurts from smiling.

Whatever she and Killian are, and whatever they might become, he's still her friend and his family is obviously important to him. She doesn't want to let her feelings get in the way of enjoying a beautiful Sunday evening with them.

She sets Colin down when she joins the group by the picnic table and immediately he grabs her hand and pulls her over to a brightly coloured kid-sized basketball net. Dropping her hand, he picks up the ball and begins tossing it in the general direction of the net, not even remotely discouraged when it misses time and time again.

Emma's not the slightest bit surprised that they came home with a new toy and she gives her mother a knowing look before sitting down in the grass and beginning what amounts to a hilarious game of fetch with the young boy.

It's thankfully only a few minutes until Killian announces that supper is ready and she herds Colin back toward the table so that Abigail can pick him up and settle him into the booster seat strapped to the bench.

She's not surprised when she ends up seated next to Killian at the picnic table; it's the logical placement so she'd been expecting it. She's a big girl; she can deal with the fact that his arm brushes against hers every so often as he eats. She can deal with how, beneath the scents of summer and horse and barbeque, he still smells like the body wash that's taken up temporary residence in her shower. She can deal with those things, but what she has trouble dealing with is the way he looks at her when no one else is watching.

So she focuses her attention on eating, asking Abigail what they did today. She's also sure to bring up topics of conversation that she knows will have her mother nattering on endlessly so that all she has to do is sit there and listen.

The food is good, really good actually, and as she bites into her second taco shell filled with lime and pepper flavoured whitefish, topped with some sort of elaborate salsa containing avocado, tomato, mango, corn, and black beans, she has to admit that she's seriously impressed by his culinary talents.

She's starting to wonder if there's anything Killian isn't good at, but that leads her mind down a dangerous and rather inappropriate path, so she looks up from her food, politely compliments him on the meal, and asks him where he learned to cook.

His face falls almost instantly and he looks at Abigail who smiles sadly and shakes her head.

God, she wishes she could take the words back, reverse 20 seconds and shut her stupid mouth, because she's the biggest idiot ever and of course Liam was the one to teach Killian to cook and she doesn't know what the protocol is in this kind of situation, but she's pretty sure it's frowned upon to bring up a toddler's dead father over dinner.

She bows her head in embarrassment, cringing when Killian spouts an obvious lie about learning during a high school cooking class. She wants to apologise to both of them for her foolish blunder, but she doesn't know how to do that without drawing even more attention to an already tense situation, so she just stares at her plate and vows to remain silent for the rest of the meal.

She'd been so worried about someone picking up on the romantic tension between her and Killian that she'd gone and replaced it with something even worse. She wants to bang her head against the table, or maybe just excuse herself from the meal, because clearly she's not fit to be around human company, but she's already come off as, at best: incredibly thick-headed, and at worst: downright rude, so she stays exactly where she is and focuses on smiling and nodding when appropriate, choking down food that she no longer has any appetite for.

When everyone has finished eating, she rises to gather dishes, insisting that Killian spend time with Abigail and Colin while she does the cleaning. He hardly protests, accepting her offer easily enough and she worries now more than ever that she's gone and royally fucked things up.

Everyone relocates to the fire pit and it takes her a few trips to bring all the dishes back into the house, but she does so without complaint, grateful for the chance to escape.

The laundry gets switched over to the dryer and she takes her time washing and drying the dishes, cleaning the kitchen more thoroughly than she ever has in her entire life. After that, when she finds herself contemplating the idea of emptying the fridge and wiping down each individual shelf, she tells herself enough is enough; she can't hide out in here forever.

A load of clothes tossed into the washer, followed by a timer set on her phone, provide an escape plan should she deem it necessary, and then she's grabbing marshmallows from the pantry and heading out to where the fire burns bright against the backdrop of the sinking sun, hating herself for her apparent inability to get her shit together enough to enjoy such a lovely evening.

She takes the empty spot next to Killian, the picture of normality as she reaches for a stick and skewers a marshmallow on its pointy end.

Conversation remains light, humorous stories of life on the ranch and Emma even manages to laugh when her father shares old tales that she's heard a hundred times before. Her alarm goes off, phone vibrating silently in her pocket and she dismisses it, content for the moment to remain where she is.

Colin winds up climbing back and forth between her lap and Killian's, and eventually, sometime after the sun finally sets, he passes out in a heap, sprawled across both of their laps, his head pillowed against her thigh, tiny feet tucked up against Killian's hip.

It stirs a longing in her chest that she stubbornly attempts to ignore, and she tries not to feel the loss when Killian stands and smiles softly at her before gently removing the sleeping boy from her lap. Abigail joins him and they head across the darkened property to the apartment.

She stays by the fire for a few more minutes, enjoying quiet banter between her parents before she stands and stretches, making her way over to the barn to do night check.

As she throws hay and tops up water buckets, she half expects Killian to show up to help, but by the time she's finishing up and flicking off the lights in the barn, he's still nowhere to be seen. The lights in the apartment remain on, two shadowy outlines visible through the sheer curtains, and she figures he's taking the time to catch up with Abigail.

That's good, she thinks. He deserves it.

It may even afford her enough time to shower and sneak off to bed without having to face him.

Heading toward the house, all that remains of the bonfire is a small column of smoke drifting up into the starlit sky. It seems her parents have already packed it in for the night, and when she tugs open the screen door, the silence that greets her confirms it.

Duke is asleep on the pull-out bed in the living room and she rolls her eyes as she leans over to pet him, already imagining how jealous he's going to be when Killian finally brings home Avast in a month or so.

She switches the laundry and quickly folds the sheets and towels from the dryer, knowing that if she leaves them in the basket until morning, they'll be wrinkled beyond belief and she'll end up having to rewash them. If it were her own linens she wouldn't care, but they're running a business and even a rental cabin in the middle of nowhere ought to look presentable.

For a moment she toys with the idea of not showering, of just crawling into bed, but her hair is grungy and tangled, and beneath the scent of campfire and bug spray, she's knows she stinks of sweat and manure, so she make it a quick one and skips her usual lengthy loiter beneath the warm spray.

She's yawning as she brushes her teeth, and her arms feel like lead weights as she twists her damp hair into a braid, but somehow, when she finally settles down beneath her blankets, she's still wide awake. Tossing and turning in the dark for several long minutes only frustrates her further, so she gives up and leans over to switch on the lamp, grabbing a book.

She's a few chapters in, caught up in an already twisting plot when there's a soft knock on her door. "Yeah? Come in," she says quietly.

The door opens slowly and Killian pokes his head though. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

She shakes her head and he steps into the room, pyjamas and a towel draped over his arm. "Mind if I use the shower quickly, love?"

"Go ahead," she tells him, picking up her book and starting again at the top of the page, unable to remember exactly where she left off.

He hesitates for a moment just inside the door and she glances up over the edge of her book. He looks like he wants to say something, but when she stubbornly returns her eyes to the page, he sighs and moves through the room to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The fan hums, a dull drone, and the pipes groan as the shower starts up.

She tries to read, attempts to be as entertained by the story as she was moments ago, but she can't focus and just ends up starting at the bathroom door while he showers, cursing the knowledge that he's wet and naked in there, that the only things standing between them are a door with a flimsy lock and a striped shower curtain.

There's also the fact that she still feels like a colossal idiot for her blunder at dinner.

She should apologise when he finishes in the shower; two simple words – I'm sorry – it shouldn't be this hard, but she's tired and she's afraid that if she starts talking right now, opens herself up just a little bit, she might not be able to stop, and she's not quite ready to acknowledge everything she was feeling this morning – everything she's still feeling if she's being honest.

So she closes her book, turns off the lamp, and when Killian emerges from the bathroom, she pretends to be asleep.

And she feels like an ass for it.

He opens the bathroom door, her name is on his lips in a quiet question, quickly followed by a crestfallen exhalation when he realizes that she's asleep (or pretending to be anyway). She thinks that maybe that will be it, that he'll leave the room and she'll be able to return to her tossing and turning, her quiet, lonely hell, but he doesn't leave, just shuffles across the room and stands at the foot of her bed.

Keeping her eyes closed and her breath even is nearly impossible when she can sense him standing there, smell the spice of his body wash, but somehow she manages, silently counting the seconds, waiting, because surely he doesn't mean to stand here all night.

77 long seconds later he finally moves, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he steps toward the door. He pauses there yet again, hesitating and she contemplates giving up the entire charade because frustration is setting in and she's not sure how much longer she can keep this up, but then the door is opening and light from the hallway floods in, bright against her closed eyelids.

His voice shocks her when it comes, "I know you're not actually sleeping, love." He sighs, sounding tired, but still she doesn't break the facade. "But that's all right, I'll give you your space – obviously you want it." He pauses again. "I'm still here though, Emma. You'll not push me away that easily. I'm not sure how many times I'll have to say it; that I'm not leaving, that I won't let you down, but I'll bloody well keep on with it for as long as it takes for you to believe me."

He lingers for a second longer and then closes the door softy behind him with a whispered "Goodnight."

As the sound of his footsteps fade down the hall, she flops over onto her stomach and presses her face into her pillow, wanting to scream. She doesn't though, that would be childish and inadvisable because she knows that muffled or not, he would hear it. Instead she settles for punching the pillow several times before rolling back over onto her side.

Damn him. Damn him and his unfailing ability to see right through her, to call her out on her bullshit, for being so infuriatingly stubborn and somehow so unbelievably patient at the same time, because it all makes her love him just that much more and she doesn't want to love him, because loving him is terrifying, and god... she can't believe she's even using that word.

She ruminates, spends hours tossing and turning, chasing the thought in endless circles around her brain until eventually, sometime in the wee hours of the night, exhaustion finally pulls her into a fitful slumber.


Morning comes and she wakes to her alarm, set intentionally early, hoping to rise with enough time to beat Killian into the kitchen. She's groggy and irritable and filled with flashes of dreams she can hardy remember, dreams that leave her confused and wanting more, but she pushes through the fog, gets dressed and makes it into the kitchen while Killian still sleeps, snuggled up with Duke on the pull-out couch.

She tries not to think about how much she'd like to take the sleeping dog's place.

She doesn't make an elaborate breakfast, just fills a coffee mug to the brim and heads out the door with a banana and a protein bar. It's a bit earlier than they usually feed, but the horses certainly aren't going to complain if her dodgy avoidance tactics bring them breakfast half an hour sooner.

By the time Killian arrives in the barn she's already started to turn out the horses, and before grabbing a lead rope and getting to work, he just gives her this look; a sad, disappointed half smile that somehow comes across as understanding.

And that seems to be how the day goes. They don't talk, not really, not unless it's to communicate a plan for tacking up horses or leading a trail ride.

It's tense and awkward and she hates it, but she knows that it's entirely her fault.

Dinner time approaches and she overhears Killian talking on the phone; the tire for the jeep is in and Gus will swap it at no additional cost if Killian stops by before 7. He agrees and in the end he makes plans to take Colin and Abigail into town for dinner.

Her parents have already gone into town for some city council meeting, so that leaves her alone on the farm with nothing but the animals and her thoughts for company. She contemplates calling up Belle and Ruby, but quickly decides against it, knowing that while she might be able to hide her sour mood from Ruby, Belle would certainly pick up on it and she really doesn't feel like being asked questions that she doesn't have answers to.

She ends up popping a mixture of leftovers from the weekend into the microwave and taking her dinner out to the lawn, where she eats, seated in the grass with Duke at her feet and a tree trunk at her back. It should be peaceful with the evening sun ducking beneath the leafy branches of the maple to warm her skin, but it's not. She's restless, unsettled, because there's something missing, and she's not an idiot, she knows what it is.

If she were to pick one single word to describe how she's feeling right now, she'd have to go with miserable, because that comes pretty damn close to it.

Withdrawing, pushing him away, running, avoiding, whatever it is she's been doing clearly isn't working because he's everywhere, all the time. They work together and tomorrow they'll be taking guests up to the tepees, and this pathetic attempt to act normal is just a disaster because she doesn't even know what normal is supposed to be between them anymore, and whatever this is, it's certainly not normal.

What it is, is exhausting.

She's tired of putting up this front, of pretending and avoiding, because it's been less than two days and already she misses him. She hates how sad he seems every time he looks at her, because as much as she doesn't want to admit it, she knows that every moment she spends hiding away in an attempt to protect her heart, she's hurting him, and it's not kind and it's not fair, and she's sure doing a lousy job of protecting her heart because with every awkward silence and lingering glance, she feels it ache just a little bit more.

Because at this point she's either all in or all out; she can't keep doing this, this hovering hesitation at the precipice of some metaphorical doorway.

It's not fair to either of them.

And somehow when she views it that way, the thought of never seeing him again, never talking to him or kissing him or hugging him is much more terrifying than the possibility of her heart being broken.

It's time to put on a brave face and take a step forward, to finally start believing that he's the amazing guy she knows him to be. She needs to trust him; trust that he won't break her heart, and she needs to trust herself; trust that whatever the future holds, she's strong enough to get through it.

So she vows that tomorrow when they're up at the tepees, as soon as they have some alone time, she will apologise for running and pushing him away and just being an idiot in general, because he deserves so much better than how she's been treating him the last couple days.

Having made up her mind on that matter, she feels much better than she did only moments before. It's tempting to grab a horse from the barn and head out for a short trail ride, but she's been going all day on maybe 3 hours of sleep and she's running low on energy and motivation so she contents herself with lounging next to Duke in the grass.

She rubs his belly and watches distant clouds drift across the evening sky until she starts to nod off, her eyes closing, and her skull making sharp contact with the tree bark at her back. She's fairly certain that if she sits here much longer she'll fall asleep and the mosquitoes will likely bleed her dry, so she rises, gathers her dishes, and heads into the house.

It's still too early to do night check, but she's dead on her feet, doesn't think she'll be awake that long, so she grabs her cell phone from her dresser and forces herself to stand upright, afraid that if she lies down on the bed she'll be asleep instantly.

She has Killian's number, has had it since her first week back home, it just made sense, one of those 'in case of emergency' or 'work-related' things. They don't text often and usually when they do it's him reminding her late at night that they need to be up early for sunrise trail ride or that the farrier is scheduled to arrive at the brink of dawn. Other times it's her asking if he could grab more fly spray or an extra jug of flaxseed oil while he's in town.

Tonight it's work related (for the most part), but as she thumbs out the message on the touch screen, she's fairly certain she's never sent him a text this long before... or this rambling. She's too tired to care though and she hits send without the slightest attempt a proofreading.

- Hey. I slept like crap last night and I'm falling asleep standing up and there's no way in hell I'm going to be conscious at 9:30 for night check so if it's not too much trouble would you mind taking care of it without me tonight? Pretty please? I'll make it up to you tomorrow. And if you want to shower before bed, go ahead, no need to knock, I probably won't even hear you. Seriously, I'm already half asleep, be impressed if this doesn't have a billion typos. Thanks Killian. X -

She checks that her alarm is set and tosses the phone on the bed before heading to the bathroom to make a half-assed attempt at brushing her teeth. She draws her curtains against the still shining sun and flops into bed, burrowing into a nest of blankets and pillows, groaning when her phone chimes loudly and she's forced to fumble around in the dark in search of it.

She finally finds it kicked down by her feet and tries to focus her blurry eyes enough to enter her pass code and read the reply from Killian.

- No trouble at all. And mark me down as impressed, only typo in sight is that random 'X' at the end... Sleep well, love. -

Even in her exhausted state she appreciates that he's giving her an out, and perhaps that's why she doesn't take it.

- Not a typo. - She manages to tap out before her eyes close and the phone falls from her limp grasp to the bed.