In her defense, she doesn't notice at first because he greets her with a kiss. Not just any kiss, one of those kisses that they write stupid poetry about. The kind that makes her weak in the knees (made worse by the fact that he picks her up when he does it, so she feels weightless and wobbly all at once) and the kind where her stomach makes that awkward flip-flop, swoopy thing that makes her want to giggle like a child (and she can count the amount of times she's giggled in her adulthood on one hand, so that's saying something).

She doesn't notice because while it's not their first kiss, the ones previous to this one have been timid, or quick. This one has his tongue tracing along her bottom lip, his arms braced just below her ass to keep her suspended above him as long as possible, her hands wound around his neck in a tight grip, one hand stroking along his jaw and curling back to ball up beneath his ear.

It's not their first kiss, and it certainly isn't going to be their last, but there's a tinge of desperation and relief below the surface of it. There's the way he is holding on just so tight, and when he eventually lowers her back to her feet, he still doesn't let go completely, and the smile on his face when they finally pull away is one of contentment, mixed with something that's bordering on fading fear.

So when she does notice, the cut relatively small and dripping blood down his forehead from under the hair that falls perfectly over that spot, down his temple and continuing down his cheek, he has to grab her hands in his and try to hush her before she starts.

"Why the hell are you bleeding?!"

"Well, it's a funny story, love."

"I sent you to the corner store for cotton balls?" Yes, it's a question, because she cannot figure out how he managed to split open his head in a half-block walk.

"So there was this dog running across the street," Killian starts with. Emma rolls her eyes, dragging him by the hand to the bathroom to find the liquid bandage.