Oh my god, the reactions to that previous chapter were overwhelming! I didn't expect it, but the review kept coming and coming... I love you!

Anyway, only one chapter after that one and we're done. How sad.

It suits him, she thinks as she gets out of the elevator and into the offices.

Everything is larges windows and bright lights, huge posters on the walls depicting the most beautiful places in the world – places she barely even dares dreaming of visiting one day, the kind you only see on TV and in magazines. The iconic yellow rectangle of the National Geographic logo is painted on the wall, right above the reception desk, and Emma moves closer to it, confused about what to do next. Should she just announce herself? Gosh, what if they refuse to let her in, since she doesn't have an appointment? Should she have called first? She definitely should have.

But the woman behind the desk smiles at her, kind and welcoming, so Emma finds herself saying, "I'd like to see Killian Jones, please. I was told he's working today."

The receptionist only nods, showing her to the small waiting area before picking her phone. Emma grabs one of the magazines on display – same gorgeous pictures in there than on the walls of the offices, of course – but her mind is somewhere else and she can't focus on the words in front of her. Instead, she listens to the phone call happening only feet away from her.

"Someone is asking to see you… She didn't give a name, actually… A blonde woman… Yes, a red one, yes." Emma looks down at her jacket, smiles. "All right, then." She hangs up, coughs, and then, "Miss? He'll see you now."

Emma all but jumps on her feet, magazine falling back on the coffee table with a soft 'thud'. The receptionist shows her the way – down the corridor, to the left, down that other corridor, third office to the right – and Emma thanks her before following the instructions. The place is quiet, not a soul to be seen, which isn't all that surprising for a Saturday afternoon. Of course he'd be among those working during the weekend, no wife or kids to spend time with during that day.

That she knows of.

Gosh, Ruby would have at least told her if it weren't the case, right?

Emma sighs deeply, ignoring her every cell telling her to run while she still can as she forces herself to move forwards, one foot in front of the other. Her heart is drumming against her chest – and, damn, that's exactly why she refused to attend their college reunion last year, she's awful with that kind of things. Still, it barely takes more than a few seconds before she stands in front of a closed door, staring at the plate there.

Killian Jones, assistant editor.

One more sigh for good measure, before she throws away the decorum and enters without knocking first. She's quiet enough – he doesn't look up from his computer, leaving her the time to glance around her. The office is perfectly neat, of course, but what else was to be expected of him? Just like at the reception, his walls are decorated with huge framed pictures. The one behind him is impressive, that of a blue whale jumping out of the water, and Emma smiles at the sight of it.

"Nice pic of Victor."

Her joke may be bad, but it has the expected effect – that of startling him. He looks up at her, eyes widening behind his reading glasses (god) before a grin settles on his lips. "I knew it was you," he says, his accent deeper than in her memories (dear god), and he stands up. He wears a suit, jacket discarded on the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up to the elbows (holy shit), and all she can think is that, yeah, he finally cut that damn hair of his. It was about time.

(She thinks many other things, but that particular detail stands out somehow. She remembers the way it would always fall in front of his eyes, and how he'd pull it into a ponytail sometimes, not to be bothered. His hair is shorter now, but not too short, enough to run your finger through it and hold on to it if needed.)

(She has no idea where that last one is coming from.)

Killian moves around the desk and closer to her – at least his saunter hasn't changed, moving with the same cat-like confidence and ease. He goes for raising his arms, no doubt in some like of greeting hug, but thinks better of it and instead scratches the spot behind his ear. His grin grows bigger as he takes her in, before he offers her a seat.

There is some awkwardness to the whole scene, but she can't ignore the comfortable feeling between the two of them. That hasn't changed either, and it feels good, familiar almost, like coming home after a winter afternoon outside.

"So, what are you up to these days, Swan?" he asks her, nickname rolling easily on his tongue, as he closes his laptop and gives her his full attention. He comes back to her side of the desk after that, leaning against it with his arms folded on his chest and legs crossed at the ankles.

"What am I up to? Come on. You're wearing a suit and your name is on the door, what's up with that?"

He blushes – Killian Jones actually blushes! –, the red high on his cheekbones as he bashfully adverts his eyes, hand twitching against the desk as he represses the need to scratch his ear once more. It makes Emma smirks, but also wonder. What happened in his life for turning shy, almost, what did she miss? Or maybe it was there all along, well hidden behind his cockiness and easy grins.

"I'm a bail bondsperson, actually," she adds.

His reaction is priceless, eyes widening as he whispers a slow and impressed "Shut the front door!" that has her giggle and bite on her bottom lip. Yeah, not exactly the kind of career you imagine for a woman such as her, but the element of surprise is what makes her so good at her job, after all.

"Victor told me you got a kid with what's-his-name."

She wants to laugh once more. It's been years and he still manages to pour sarcasm and bitterness into his voice every time he talks about her ex-boyfriend. Emma wonders if he's aware of that small detail, because she feels like he doesn't even do it on purpose, just has a knee-jerk reaction every time they talk about that one particular subject.

"Yeah, Henry. He's ten, and awesome… Same thing can't be said about the father, though." She wrinkles her nose and Killian mirrors her somehow. "What about you? Still with Milah?"

The small talk is uncomfortable to say the least, every word coming out of her mouth sounds wrong to her ears. Even more so when Killian bursts into a loud laughter, shaking his hand.

"God, no. Milah, she… I wanted to start her family, she didn't. End of the story."

There is more to the story, she can tell, but it is not her place to pry for more details. Still that thought alone – that of Killian wanting to start a family, Killian as a husband, as a father – is so foreign she has a hard time imagining what it might look like… Even if images of him holding a baby with dark hair and vibrant blue eyes – yeah, it makes for a compelling thought, that much is certain. He'd be good with kids, it seems almost too obvious.

(Gosh, she hasn't gotten laid in a very long time, if her thoughts are anything to go by. It's problematic.)

"Not that I don't like the impromptu visit and small talk," he says after a wild, tilting his head to the side as his blue eyes bore into hers. "But why are you here, swan?"

And here we are.

As if she could avoid that particular subject – that's why she's here after all. It's not as if she expected him to believe she was just dropping by for the sake of it, not after the way they parted ways and so many years of radio silence. But knowing why she's here and telling him are two whole different things altogether, and suddenly she doesn't feel so strong anymore, isn't sure if she's capable of doing it. Coward, a small voice whispers to her ear, one that sounds a lot like Ruby.

"I –" she starts, but the words die at the back of her throat somehow. "There's something I need to give you."

He raises an eyebrow as she reaches into her bag.

Everything dawns on him the moment his eyes fall on the book, mouth opening in an expression of silent shock and eyes widening even so slightly. His eyes are trembling when he takes the book from her, even more so when he flips it open to the first page – more as a confirmation than anything, just to make sure it is the real deal and not a trick of the eyes. Just like she did when she found it, he traces the name written there with a fingertip – he lips his lip too, Adam's apple bobbing with the sob stuck there, eyes rimmed with red.

"I – Emma – how?"

She doesn't want to lie – he deserves nothing but the truth, at that point – but she doesn't want to tell him how selfish she's been all along either. There is no words to convey 'Your ex girlfriend told me to leave and then life happened and I forgot about it until yesterday' without him hating her. Again.

"I've had it for a while, actually," she replies, voice low and weak as she folds her arms against her chest in a self-protective motion, looking away from his too-knowing gaze. It's like the gates are open now, thought, words tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them. "I found it after Ruby and Victor's engagement party. I wanted to give it to you, and I dropped by, but Milah was there and she told me to piss off and… I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Killian, I…"

She – doesn't know what to add, how to convey everything that was on her mind that day and everything that's been on her mind since the previous evening. It's too much, and too confusing, and he doesn't deserve to deal with her mess once more. Deserves more, better.

But Killian says, "Why today?", in a voice too gentle to carry the anger he should feel right now, and she looks back to him only to drown in the sea blue of his eyes. Emma would like to say she doesn't know how to read the emotions he's showing her – it would be a lie, because everything is clear as day on his features and in his eyes. That softness, that understanding even… and something else, strong and powerful, something she doesn't want to name.

It scares the shit out of her.

Because Ruby and Victor are bets going on, and Henry came to those conclusions too, and it all concurs with the way Killian is looking at her in that moment. Like she's precious and beautiful and perfect – she isn't. She's an awful human being who hoarded the last thing he has of his brother because she was scared and selfish. She doesn't deserve his understand, and she specifically doesn't deserve his – his love.

"Emma," he says again, a little more insistent this time, and the use of her real name isn't lost on her – it show how serious he and the conversation are. But she doesn't want serious. She wants 'swan' and easy grins and carefree flirting. (But was it really carefree? She isn't so sure anymore.) "Why are you here?"

She opens her mouth, to find a reason, an explanation, something. But the words don't come, leaving her speechless and confused – mostly scared, too.

So she decides to stop listening to her brain and let her instincts kick in instead.

They don't disappoint her.

….

"And then you just left?"

Henry's eyes are wide opened as he stares at her, mouth opening in an expression that screams disbelief. She feels like blushing under that too-knowing gaze, but settles for a simple "Yep" instead.

It's Monday night and she's making grilled cheese for dinner – because it's pretty much established that she's the worst mother in the world, so junk food is the least of her worries at the moment. Henry had sensed something was up the moment he came back from his weekend with his father, but had waited a whole day, dinner being a particularly good moment for an interrogation. And since she's way past everything at that point, the story of her Saturday meeting with Killian had tumbled out of her mouth all too easily.

She feels so ashamed, saying it out loud like that.

Henry looks scandalised – both at her keeping the book for so long and at her flying the scene as soon as things got too emotional for her own good – but Emma ignores him as she finished her (poor attempt at) grilled cheese sandwiches and put them into plates. The kid is still pondering over everything when she settles at the table and gives him his diner, lips pursed into a pout with a frown on his forehead.

"How could you change every name but his?"

Emma takes a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly in a not so discreet attempt at stalling. Henry grows impatient of course, sighing loudly even as he chomps on his own grilled cheese.

"What do you mean?" she asks back.

"Well, you know. Dad became Neal, and Graham was that Hunter guy you and Aunt Ruby talk about when you think I'm not listening." Here goes nothing, she guesses. (She was certain they were quiet about that particular subject, only addressed once a year, but her son is a goddamn ninja apparently.) "But you didn't change Killian's name."

She doesn't have an answer to that question. It had been automatic, changing the names of the former two but keeping Killian's real name. She can barely explain it to herself, for it would have been easy to give him an alias too, to go on with that pattern in her storytelling. But she didn't, and she can't even begin to wrap her mind around some kind of why.

"Why do you care about that anyway?"

"Because I want you to be happy, mom."

It sounds so obvious, like he's been keeping that to himself for a while now. It scares her, how transparent she is. She's happy with the life she has – good job, good home, and mostly a kid that she loves and who loves her back. But there is this… hollowness, in her chest, that's been here ever since she became a widower, this need for love and affection that the occasional one-night stand never managed to satisfy. She's happy as a fulfilled mother, but she also isn't – as a woman, as a potential lover. It would piss her off (she doesn't need a man in her life to feel whole, thank you very much) but it's been so long since the last time she was held through the night and…

"I'm happy, kiddo," she replies. "We've got a good thing going here, just the two of us."

None of them is convinced by the blatant lie.

"Yeah, and we'd still have a good thing with three of us." When she doesn't replies and only stalls the conversation by finishing her grilled cheese, he goes on, "I know things weren't good with dad but… Killian, he's not like dad. Don't you see? You told me he was always coming back for you. Just like in the fairytales Mary Margaret told me when I was a baby."

Oh no, not fair, using the fairytales he's been fed on since he was a toddler. It's been giving him impossibly high standards about love before he even knew what romantic love was (and even during his 'love is icky' phase), and Emma knows she doesn't stand a chance against the book. The book is everything.

"I just want you to find your happy ending, mom."

She wants that too. Henry is the best kid in the world, and she loves him to no end, but he will grow older sooner than she wants to admit – find a girlfriend, go to college, and then she'll be alone in a too big, too quiet New York apartment like the spinster she is. Not the most thrilling prospect when one thinks about their future.

But Killian?

Really?

She's certain she can find a hundred different (and logical) reasons as to why this is the opposite of a good idea. But then again – he wrote to her every month for three years, and was there for her when she was at her lowest, knows her flaws as well as her qualities, knows her better than herself sometimes. Well, he did, but who's to say it no longer is the case? And he wants a family, told her so two days ago, far from the womanizer, no string attached, guy he used to be. And he's got a good job, and he's not a freak. Those are valuable qualities, these days.

(And the way he looks at her.)

(Her heart does that weird flip-flop in her chest every time she thinks about him, fighting against a blush like a schoolgirl with her first crush. And he's handsome. And clever. And funny. And…)

(Gosh, she really did repress those feelings for a really long time, didn't she?)

Emma adverts her eyes, staring at the floor and nibbling on her bottom lip. This is a bad idea. But don't they say that you'd better regret something you did than something you didn't? And what about not regretting anything at all? It's a possibility too, no matter how frightening the prospect is to her.

She looks back to Henry, mouth full of grilled cheese and crumbles all around his lips. He raises an eyebrow at her – a dare.

"Grab your coat."

The kid cheers.