Could it be Swan?

Killian didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified when he opened the door to find her on his doormat; his stomach settled on a mix of both, which left him feeling queasy. Swan stood awkwardly before him, clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and keys in the other, and her sweats were a change from her attire last night (though … he couldn't quite recall exactly what she was wearing last night). Her expression was one he was familiar with, not just on her, but in general: he could feel her walls up, protecting her from whatever it was she feared he might do or say. Behind that expression, though, he could see fear, hope, and shame.

"Can we talk?" she asked quietly.

He bit his tongue, tempted to point out that of course they could talk, as that had been what he had asked for minutes earlier. But this was no time for snark; he didn't want to drive her away when she was giving him the chance he'd been desperate for. "Of course," he replied simply, and he moved out of the way to welcome her into his flat.

She stepped in cautiously, looking around the flat with curiosity; he suddenly felt ashamed at how few personal touches he had. He was about to walk her to the couch, but when he glanced at all her letters scattered across his coffee table, he instead quickly gestured for her to sit at the table near the kitchen. She did so without protest, and her mug joined his on the table as he took his seat across from her.

For a few moments, they sat in silence. Should he speak first? She kept taking small sips of coffee in between glances in his direction, as though she were trying to read his mind. He wished he had that ability; he gripped his mug as though it were a lifeline.

She finally spoke. "Is everything you've said true? I mean, have you ever lied to me?"

The question took him by surprise. Why would she think he'd lied? "I have not lied to you," he said softly and earnestly, hoping to dispel the ridiculous notion. "I'm Killian Jones. I'm an attorney in family law. I have a yacht called the Jolly Roger. I just got home last night from London."

"Okay," she said impatiently, possibly realizing that her question would lead them nowhere. "Why did you ask me out last month?"

A better question for her to ask, and a more painful one for him to answer. He vaguely recalled the biting comments she'd made last night, about it being a test of her affections or convictions, or a way for him to give a smug "I told you so." How he answered this question was of the utmost importance, and for the life of him, he couldn't seem to remember how to speak.

"I didn't plan it," he began, before realizing that lack of premeditation was no excuse; the flicker of annoyance in her eyes was enough of a reminder. He dropped his gaze. "I was still thinking about what you'd said about wanting to meet, and then of course, shortly after reading your letter, I had a real opportunity to talk to you. It was a spur of the moment decision. I thought maybe, if you said yes, I would tell you. But when you said no, and then you told me why—that is, later, in your letter—I was …" He sighed heavily. "When you said you thought of what we had as a relationship, I was … I was just so happy. I didn't want to ruin it by telling you then. I mean, you were telling me that you'd chosen me over some other guy, and I didn't know how you'd react … it was a mistake." He tried to meet her gaze again. "I made a mistake."

She looked a little less angry, but no less intense, and he once again shifted his gaze to his coffee. "I honestly suspected you might be upset, and think I was trying to test you. I thought about giving you my phone number, or my email or something so we could stay in touch while I was in England. But I didn't want … this to happen. And I wanted to be able to explain myself properly."

"It's hard to stay angry when you're telling me all this stuff that's totally understandable," she murmured. His eyes shot up to look at her, perhaps a bit too eagerly, and she blushed as she took another sip of coffee. He did the same. "When did you get back?"

Had he so effectively changed the subject? Was she already satisfied with his explanation? "Last night, around nine o'clock. I have to ask: how did you know I'd be back last night?"

"I didn't," she admitted. "My friends have a pool going about who you really are. When they came over last night, they saw one of the other guys heading back to his apartment with a suitcase. They convinced me that you might be back already."

"I see." He didn't really understand what she'd meant, but that didn't matter. They each drank more coffee, but she didn't seem to have anything else to say. "So, what happens now?"

She shrugged. "Honestly? I don't know. I'm still a little hurt over the whole dare thing. But I'm trying to put it in perspective."

He nodded. "I understand that."

"You're not going to try to convince me that I'm irrationally upset about it, or that I misunderstood?" she asked warily.

He shrugged. "Why?"

"Well, do you think I'm overreacting?"

Had she actually believed her reaction was unwarranted? Or that he could possibly be blaming her for being upset with regards to his mistakes? This wouldn't do.

"Not really. Especially combined with me asking you out last month, I'd imagine it would be hard to interpret differently." He paused, but he needed to address something that had been bothering him. "I'm also quite angry with myself for not just being a proper adult and introducing myself in the first place. Jefferson only dared me because he knew I'd been interested in talking to you, and he called me a coward."

"Maybe you should have just talked to me." But she didn't sound angry.

"Ironically, yes. I decided upon this fabulously circuitous method to talk to you because I was afraid that going the traditional route would be a disaster. Instead, you would have preferred the traditional route, and the circuitous method ended up hurting you immensely." He was pleased at the opportunity to use the word "ironically" correctly.

They were quiet again for a few moments. She seemed to be dealing her concerns quite methodically; had they all been addressed? Perhaps he could bring up one of his. "May I ask you something?"

"Okay."

"How long did you know it was me?" The mystery of the packing slip had to be solved.

"Last night."

Only last night? "But you had this." He stood and retrieved the wrinkled sheet of paper, which he lay on the table in front of her. "You must have known since Christmas."

"No." She shook her head. "I wanted to wait until you were ready, so I didn't look. It wasn't until I read your last letter and got upset that I decided to check. I wanted to confront you."

Had she truly waited out of respect for his wishes and privacy? Then why had she kept it? Never mind—it was irrelevant. What mattered was the huge display of trust and respect, which he hadn't reciprocated. He didn't deserve her. "That was kind of you. That you wanted to wait, that is."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry for yelling at you. God, you must have been surprised."

He chuckled in relief. They'd only communicated through text until now, but the way she spoke in person was nearly the same as the way she expressed herself in writing. Even taking into account how anxious he felt regarding their relationship's future, he still felt so at home just conversing with her. "I was. Although I had a lot of emotions when I opened that door to see you with tears streaming down your face. I initially mistook them for tears of joy, though that misconception was cleared up quickly."

"Still, I'm really embarrassed. I wish I could say that it was really just that I was that upset, but I was also that drunk."

"You did seem rather intoxicated."

"I was. My friends were texting me this morning to ask who you were, and for a while, I couldn't even remember that I already knew. I even fell asleep with your last letter stuck in my sheets because I'd left it there and forgotten about it. I had to put in some serious effort flattening it out so I could read the rest of it today."

What? "The rest of it? What do you mean, read the rest of it?" Had she … had she not read the letter?

To her credit, she seemed to realize she'd said something a little more meaningful than she'd intended. "Well, I was so upset by the first paragraph—I mean, you really should take a look at the wording. You didn't even include any sort of romantic opening. Even when I was reading it today, while sober, it just … it was really upsetting."

"So you didn't read practically all of the letter." Bloody hell, she'd only read the first paragraph? Before he'd explained just how much he cared for her? She'd come running to his flat to tear him a new one without actually knowing just how he felt? All this pain and torture, and it was because she hadn't bothered to read beyond the first couple of lines? Did she not trust him? Had his feelings been so vague that she could ignore two months of communication because of a few lines?

"But I did read it!" she exclaimed; her tone was desperate, not defensive. "I just … I was so drunk last night. I know, that's a stupid excuse. I'm so sorry I didn't read all of it then. But I did read it. That's why I'm here now."

He sank back into his chair a little bit. She had read it. It's why she was here: she knew how he felt and wasn't going to let their relationship end just yet. And getting angry at her for one single transgression was out of line, considering how much he'd done her wrong already. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't want to get defensive right now. I forget that, even if this has been a mutual arrangement, I have had an advantage. I've known who you were from the beginning. I was the one who could decide when we'd meet. I'm even the one who decided how we'd interact."

"I should have read the whole thing," she whispered sadly, staring at the table. "If I hadn't been so stupid, I would have read it and seen that obviously, it wasn't some elaborate joke."

"It wasn't," he said insistently. "You're not stupid, but no, it's not a joke. I meant every word. Please, love—please look at me."

She did, and he felt that bright fire in his chest practically erupt. She looked so sad, but so hopeful, and he could see the lost little girl in foster care, the desperately devastated college student, and the apprehensive and aloof adult. All of those parts of her were staring at him, as though willing his words to be true. And they were true.

Her lips very briefly curled into a smile before her face turned serious again. "There's still one thing I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"How could it be you?"

He flinched a bit. Was she truly hoping for someone else to be her Captain? But she shook her head. "No, no. I mean, I just assumed it wouldn't be you because there was no way someone as hot as you could be my secret admirer."

Well, that was more like it. "Who did you think I was? You said your friends had a bet going—did anyone win?"

"Yeah, one of my friends was convinced it would be you. Someone else thought you were Pretty Boy, someone else thought you were Sexy Single Dad."

He snorted at the nicknames. "Sexy Single Dad? You mean Robin? Darling, he's married."

"Are you serious?" She clearly hadn't known.

"Absolutely. He and his wife are temporarily long distance, but he flies out to California every so often to see her."

"That's pretty long distance."

"It is. Who did you think it was?" That was the most pressing question.

"You know Elderly Italian Guy?"

Uh-oh. "You thought I was Marco?"

"No, I thought it was his Moderately Attractive Son." So, August. Well, he supposed it could have been worse, and as a writer, August did have a way with words. But since the man had never been able to introduce himself to her, it was unlikely that his profession had played a role in the placement of her bet. "But I only placed a small bet because with my luck, it would have been Snob With Sideburns."

Snob with … ? "Swan, do you know anyone's names in this building?"

"No," she admitted shamelessly. "How do you?"

"I introduce myself," he pointed out. "That's how I learned your name, after all."

She turned red, clearly remembering the encounter. "That's fair."

"Which friend won?"

"My therapist friend. Tink."

What? "Tink? You don't need to use weird nicknames when referring to people whose names you're familiar with."

"Oh, so you don't want me calling you Captain?" He smirked in reply, but the thought of her letters, and how she had to keep herself from moaning that nickname, sprang to mind immediately. He blushed; he could not sport an erection during this conversation. Bad form.

Swan clearly didn't notice his embarrassment. "She goes by Tinker Bell. For real." She grimaced a bit as she sipped her coffee.

"Refill?" It couldn't possibly be drinkable anymore, and he could use the excuse to go into the kitchen and calm his libido. She nodded, and he took both mugs into the kitchen. "Sugar? Milk?"

"Sugar, please." He was wasting coffee pretty effectively today, but then again, today was a rather unusual day. He began to brew a double batch and tried very hard not to constantly steal glances towards her. On the one hand, he was relieved that they seemed to be sliding into easy conversation; even if the previous night hadn't occurred, he'd anticipated a little more awkwardness as they finally began a face-to-face relationship. But on the other hand, his anxiety hadn't abated; it almost seemed too good to be true, after the conflict they'd run into. When the coffee was finally ready, he distributed it evening, adding what he hoped was the right amount of sugar into her mug, and probably too much half-and-half into his.

"What happened?" she asked as he returned to the table. "Thanks."

"What happened when?"

"I mean, this past week and a half."

He sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. He was not in the mood to deal with two difficult personal issues in one day, but he didn't want to be evasive either. And his absence was what had prompted this shift in their relationship; it would be bad form to refuse to address it. "He passed shortly after I arrived. He wasn't really coherent by the time I got there. Thought I was Liam and said some things to me—nothing really intelligible." He hadn't dwelt much on the strange garbled half-conversation he'd had with his father; whatever the man had been trying to say didn't really matter anyway. "I sorted out the rest of his affairs and got on the first plane back to the States that I could get a ticket for. I didn't stay for the funeral."

"Are you okay?"

"I will be," he reassured her. "I wish I could say that I was glad that I couldn't confront him, but I think I'll always be disappointed. But it wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be."

"Why's that?"

"I spent hours obsessing over what I might say if he tried to apologize to me, or if he seemed uncaring about what he'd put me, or my whole family through. Would I shout at him? Forgive him? Would I pretend to forgive while gritting my teeth angrily? But in the rare moments he was conscious, he wasn't even lucid. I never had to make that decision. It was somewhat of a relief."

"I understand that. Which I guess you know already," she replied. He nodded; she was clearly referring to her letter about her miscarriage. "I'm still sorry that it happened." She reached over and took his hand.

He stiffened involuntarily at her touch. For one, it was the first real physical interaction between them, since their handshake in the laundry room occurred when she hadn't known who she was. But she'd taken his left hand, and he could see her glancing at the scars.

She seemed to understand the significance of her actions. She quickly met his gaze as she released his hand; she did it slowly enough that the tension her action had created didn't dissipate. "So, uh, sorry about the necklace," she said awkwardly.

He wasn't sure what had reminded her, but he appreciated the apology. "You were upset, love. It's all right."

"Do you still have it?"

He couldn't help but laugh. Why would he have disposed of such a precious object? "Aye, I still have it. Shall I fetch it for you?"

She blushed. "I do miss wearing it.

"I'll get it." He smiled, hopefully reassuring her, before heading to the bedroom to fetch it. When he returned, she was standing in the middle of the living room with a slightly embarrassed expression on her face, as though he'd caught her in some sort of compromising position. "Shall I?" he asked, holding up the pendant.

She nodded, perhaps a little nervously, before turning around. The clasp looked similar to the one on his necklace, and so he was grateful that he recalled how she'd been able to pull it off without undoing the clasp the night before. It would take him much too long to work the tiny jewelry finding, and it would dispel the strange tension in the air if he did. Not all tension, he reminded himself, was bad tension.

He slowly draped the chain over her head and gently worked it down until it was properly settled. Hoping he wasn't being too forward, he carefully lifted her hair up so it wouldn't rest underneath the chain; she shivered as he did so. Certainly not bad tension.

She turned around. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Swan."

She rolled her eyes just the tiniest bit. "Emma."

"Are you sure? You seem fond of nicknames. Perhaps I should call you Princess."

She laughed. "You want me to call you Captain?"

This was no time for his cock to come back to life, but they were standing close enough together that she'd have to deliberately look down to notice. Bloody hell, if this worked out, and he could take her to bed, nicknames were certainly going to be a part of lovemaking.

"I wouldn't stop you. Although—well, what was my nickname? I mean, my nickname because you didn't know my real name," he clarified. "Or was I not fortunate enough to be granted a moniker?"

She turned red. "You were Hot Guy," she said sheepishly.

"Well, that's not terribly creative." Accurate perhaps, but even so.

She crossed her arms. "Creative like Princess? Or Captain? Or Sexy Single Dad?"

"Fair enough. So …" He stroked his chin in an exaggerated manner. "Would I prefer to be called Captain or Hot Guy?"

"How about Killian?" She was smirking.

His name on her lips, though, was more powerful than he could have imagined. He suddenly realized that this was a first; when he'd introduced himself, he'd given her his name, but she hadn't repeated it. Hearing her say it made the fire in his chest burn brighter, as though his heart were responding to its owner's call.

"What?" she asked when he didn't reply.

"It's just that I've spent a lot of time thinking about us finally meeting, and having you know my name," he admitted. "It means quite a lot to hear you say it."

"Killian," she said again, her tone very deliberate. She wasn't challenging him: he'd told her how much it had meant to hear her say his name, and she was giving that to him again.

"Emma," he said, returning the favor, and pushing a lock of hair from her face.

Much to his surprise, she stepped forward and kissed him. His mind went blank immediately, and once his senses returned, all he could think of was that she was kissing him.

His love was kissing him.

It was over all too soon. He had to have more—it wasn't optional. "Emma," he whispered before diving back in. Within moments, their arms were wrapped around each other, she was sucking gently on his lower lip, and bloody hell, all he could think about was throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off to the bedroom.

While he was reluctant to end such a perfect moment, he knew that if this were truly happening, he and Swan—Emma—had only just begun. He regretfully pulled back after giving her one last, hard kiss. His arms clearly hadn't gotten the memo; they remained wrapped around her, and it took every ounce of self-control to avoid letting his left hand slip down to cup her gorgeous ass.

"That was …" but he couldn't think clearly enough to finish his sentence.

"Overdue," she supplied.

It was a fair jab. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

"No," she said. "No, you were right."

"Is that so?" About what?

"If we'd met normally, and gone on dates, we would have kissed, just like now, and it would have been great." Her tone indicated that he should finish her thought.

"But not like this."

"But not like this," she agreed. She pressed herself up against him, and bloody hell, if she hadn't felt his erection before, she must have been able to now. "If just kissing could feel like this …"

What? Not even an hour ago, she'd been so angry with him, unwilling to speak to him because of seemingly unforgivable transgressions. And now she wanted him to bed her? He needed to know if the storm had truly ended. "Love, are you sure?"

"Are you sure that you love me?"

He responded in the only way he could: pulling her back to him and kissing her deeply. And just in case his answer hadn't been crystal clear from his actions, he replied verbally. "Yes."

"Then yes."

Well, it would be bad form to keep a lady waiting.

I hope you liked this chapter! Let me know what you think. Sorry about the lateness of this update!