Chapter 2

She's glad she doesn't have many friends in Portland, because if she did, she's sure at least one of them would be attempting to talk her out of this plan.

As it is, Killian is the only person able to talk her out of anything, and he agreed readily enough last night to do this thing. It had been a joke, at first, when she asked him if he had plans. But then he had just quietly said no, picking at imaginary lint on his leg like he always does when he is avoiding or thinking too hard and it's just - Storybrooke is always tough for her to go back to. It's not that her parents aren't great - they are really great - and it's not that the town isn't like freakishly perfect with it's white picket fences and apple orchards, for christ's sake. It just - it would be good, to have him have someone in Storybrooke that is normal and not Walsh and maybe her mother might actually stop breathing down her neck about happily ever after if Killian is there and holding her hand and fuck, it just -

It seemed like a good plan.

At the time.

Still does.

Sometimes in college when they were out at the bar and a guy got too handsy with her, Killian would slide right into her space and curl his arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple as he glared daggers at whatever frat boy was trying to work his way into her pants. And sometimes, when they went to that old bakery down on the corner or Main, he would curl his fingers through the ends of her hair and tug lightly, telling the old lady at the counter who had it bad for him that it was his girlfriend's birthday, and couldn't she please spare a cupcake for the lovely lass on her special day.

It's the same thing. Same idea, anyway.

She sighs and presses the heel of her hand to her forehead, rolling over in bed and thanking all that is holy that she decided to invest in the thick, light blocking curtains that hang heavy over her windows. It's well into the afternoon and it still looks like a bat cave in her bedroom, the remnants of sleep still tugging at her. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore the pull in her gut that woke her from sleep. In her dream she had been on Killian's boat down in the river, wearing the same worn sweatshirt she always does when she manages to convince him to take her out. She can still see it when she closes her eyes - the easy ebb and flow of the water, the tattered sail with patchwork bits folded and pieced together - the same damn thing he had worked on for close to a month in her apartment, bent in concentration over the weathered fabric.

In her dream, she had been waiting for him, hugging her knees close to her chest, but he hadn't sun had just started to set over the inlet when she woke up with a start, fingers twisted in the down of her comforter and her stomach rolling in anxiety.

She sighs and presses herself deeper into the blankets.

It's a good thing she doesn't have friends. They'd probably talk her out of this.

-/-

(But she doesn't want to be talked out of this. Killian is the first person in her life who hasn't ran from her - who hasn't disappointed her and left her grasping for even a thread of normalcy by turning his back and walking away. She used to think - back when they were young and stupid and spending their nights drinking far too much and spinning together on crowded dance floors - she used to think that they could be something. She saw the way he looked at her, the way his gaze always seemed to linger a bit long. But then he found Milah and he was so in love and he was happy and she just sort of - she gave it up. Stopped thinking about that maybe. Told herself that it was better this way. Friendship was better.

Friendship means she gets to keep him.)

-/-

Henry calls her Tuesday morning, after she's managed to sleep away the rest of Monday in a dead-to-the-world coma with only a brief brush with consciousness for cold pizza from the fridge. She's just collecting her recycling container - a post-it on the top from her overbearing landlord reminding her that recycling tub collection is required day of, dearie - when her phone buzzes in her back pocket, the lid tumbling to the pavement as she attempts to answer and drag her container at the same time.

She curses into the phone. Henry laughs.

"Good to hear from you, too."

"Sorry, kid. Hold on a second." She slams the lid down on the bin, giving it a kick for good measure. She presses the phone between her ear and shoulder. "Long time, no talk."

She can practically hear his eye roll. "I called you a week ago and we talked for like four hours."

"Forty-five minutes, but good try." She shoves her bin in the cubby marked with a little doodle of a swan Killian drew on a piece of masking tape. "It's unlike you to call me, should I be worried?"

"I don't know, you tell me." There's a pointed silence at that and Emma stares blankly at the wall, trying to come up with a reason why her foster brother sounds like a smug little shit on the other end of the phone. She opens her mouth to ask him what the hell he is alluding to when his irritated sigh cuts her off. "Apparently you have a boyfriend?"

"Oh." She supposes this is the moment of truth. "Yeah."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

He sighs again and she bites her lip against a grin. Sometimes it's hard for her to remember they don't actually share a bloodline, especially when his short-fuse is remarkably similar to her own.

"Who is it?"

"Oh." She blinks rapidly. She should have thought this through more. Henry knows Killian. Her parents know Killian. Nothing more than general meetings here and there at college graduation and apartment moving and mentions of his name over the phone - and Call of Duty, apparently - but still, she definitely didn't mention to her mom that her new mysterious boyfriend is Killian. "Well, uh - "

"You're being weird. Why are you being weird?"

She resists the urge to slam her head into the wall as she trudges up the stairwell. She wishes Killian were with her so he could tell her what to say. He's always good at this shit - the thinking on his feet thing.

"I'm not being weird."

"You are. It's like the time you got super stoned and tried to hide it from me."

"What?"

"I was seven. Not stupid." She remembers being seventeen and sitting out on the roof, Henry's little head popping out from his room. She also remembers hastily shoving half a bag of doritos in her mouth to keep her from saying something stupid. "Now tell me who you're dating before I go into full freak out mode."

"Wha - Why would you go into freak out mode?"

She hears his grunt of exasperation through the phone. "Because you are being weird about this! I should have just called Killian."

"Killian's working." She mutters, and this time she does let her forehead rest against the cold metal of her door. She sighs, ignoring the guilt that comes with lying to Henry, and bites the bullet. "And that's him, by the way." She gestures with her hand even though he can't see it. "The, uh - the boyfriend."

The word feels foreign on her tongue. She's never used it before. One night stands and awkward dates your mother sets you up on do not a boyfriend make. And Neal - well, Neal hadn't been too fond of labels.

"What's him?"

"Killian."

"Killian knows him?"

"No, Henry, christ." She pushes her key into the lock and wonders if she still has that rum from Christmas. She could use it right about now. "Killian is him. Killian is my boyfriend."

She wonders if she should feel something with that - a swoop in her stomach, or maybe general unease with the simple way the words tripped off her tongue. But instead she feels - nothing. Calm, sort of. Oddly enough.

"You're dating Killian?"

"Yup."

"Hm."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means interesting, is what it means. It means," she can hear him gearing up for a tirade, his voice climbing in both speed and volume. "You haven't called anyone your boyfriend since you freaking found me in that group home, is what it means. It means, why wouldn't you or Killian tell me about this?! That is what it means!"

"Henry, listen - "

"Don't 'Linda, Honey' me." He snaps, and she can just imagine him in his cramped dorm, arms crossed over his chest, petulant glare out the window.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, but it's a recent thing. We're just - " she rubs her fingers into her forehead. " - trying to figure it out."

There. Not a lie.

"Yeah, no shit." He grumbles into the phone. "You know I played xbox with him for like three hours last night and he didn't say a word."

She flips open her laptop and falls onto the couch. "What do you even talk about when you're playing xbox?"

She hears a shuffling on his end, a slam of the door and some muffled talking. "Ammo, mostly. What sort of gun to use. How terrible he is at maintaining cover." There's some more muffled talking and then a heavy sigh. "Hey, I have to go. But we're not done talking about this, okay?"

She rolls her eyes. "Alright. Go be a wild college kid."

He chuckles. "The buffet in the student cafeteria won't know what hit 'em."

She grins, remembering all those nights in the group home when she would give up her food just to make sure he had enough, wrapping it up in napkins and sneaking it to him when all the other kids were asleep. His appetite hasn't diminished. "Love you, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. Love you, too."

-/-

Killian Jones: Why is it that your brother texted me just one word?

Emma Swan: What was the word?

Killian Jones: Treachery.

She sighs and drops her head to the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Emma Swan: That doesn't sound like an emergency. I gave him your number for emergencies.

Killian Jones: We have been known to converse from time to time. Should I be concerned?

She taps her thumb against the glass of her phone. She knows Henry has to be somewhat pleased about this development. Or rather, fake development. It's no secret he adores Killian, despite the limited time they have actually spent in one another's physical presence. She's sure Henry is just doing all of this for show - more disappointed with her for not telling him right away.

Emma Swan: He called earlier. The cat is out of the bag.

Killian Jones: Ah. So we are official then?

Killian Jones: Shall we be Facebook official?

Killian Jones: Isn't that what all the kids are doing these days?

Killian Jones: Are you now my bae?

She chuckles, not even wanting to know where he got that from. Probably from one of the bar patrons - most likely one of the college girls with their low cut tanktops and pretzel necklaces he insisted they start selling at the bar, wide eyes and bitten lips, high pitched giggles every time Killian shoots a wink their way.

She makes a face.

Emma Swan: Cool it, Romeo. We can game plan tomorrow?

Killian Jones: Aye. You promised me fries.

-/-

The bar is already crowded when she pushes her way through the heavy double doors, a din of chatter hitting her as she stomps her boots on the well worn rug in the front entry way, trying to shake off the chill from outside. It's oddly cold for this early in November, and she fears she will be spending another winter navigating the icy streets in her bug. Killian has been on her for years to get chains for her tires, but she adamantly refuses. People who puts chains on their tires look like tools. Plus, she's not sure the bug can manage any additions at this point in it's long, long life.

"Fancy meeting you here, Swan." He says it every week, stupid grin pulling the corners of his lips up as he pops out of seemingly nowhere - red flannel rolled to his elbows, his Red's Brewery shirt barely visible from underneath. She rolls her eyes, pulls off her beanie and runs a hand through her hair. He's already holding a flight of beer in his hand, practically bouncing on his toes.

She raises her eyebrows. "I didn't know this was a working happy hour."

He quirks one of his own, free hand falling to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowd to their usual spot - two faded leather chairs on either side of a barrell rescued as a table, tucked away in a corner away from the noise of the rowdy partitioners. The string lights are a particular favorite of hers, making her feel like she's beneath a Christmas tree. "I believe it's a working respite for the both of us, love." He sets the beers down and gestures to her chair. "Hold on a tick and I'll put in the order for fries with Will."

She grabs his arm before he can get too far. "Wings, too. Put it on my tab."

"I believe your tab is quickly surpassing your college education sum, darling."

"My best friend works at a brewery," she collapses into the chair, careful to keep her knees from knocking against the table and spilling the drinks. It's happened before - once or twice. "What do you expect?"

He grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like spoiled rotten but she ignores it, watching the back of his head disappear in the crowd back to the bar. She picks up a glass in his absence, clinking her fingernail against it and watching the bubbles dislodge and float to the top. It's cold against her fingertips. He must have just poured it before she came through the door. He always was scary accurate at predicting her arrival time - most times better than she even knows herself.

"That one doesn't go first, put it back."

She sets the small glass carefully back into its designated slot. She's long since abandoned trying to argue with him regarding his taste testing rituals.

"Are you going to spout some preferred taste mumbo jumbo at me?"

He frowns, tossing a stack of napkins onto the table and wrapping his fingers around his own pint. "It's not mumbo jumbo. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Swan - there is an art to beer tasting. It's not just - "

"Yeah, yeah," she waves her hand, anxious to head off this conversation before it gets to the intricacies of dry hopping and she snorts into her beer and he's disappointed by her lack of maturity, honestly Swan. "Got it. Where would you like me to start?"

He had initially gone to college seeking a degree in engineering, hoping to pursue a position in the Navy - back at home in England or perhaps in the United States, if he was granted citizenship at the conclusion of his student Visa. She had met him freshman year in one of their mutual elective classes - some bullshit about Self Defense in a Modern World. She remembers signing up for it as an easy gym credit, not expecting to have to actually physically defend herself on the first day. Killian had been hesitant as he fidgeted in front of her on the mat, the two of them singled out by the douchelord professor to act out a scenario. Eventually he had half-assed came at her, and she had full-assed slammed him to the mat.

And broke two of his ribs.

They had been fast friends. Sort of.

But his degree took a sharp left his third year when his brother - when Liam - was killed in action. Some sort of mission gone wrong or a freakish accident on his ship, Killian never did talk much about it. She remembers the vacant look in his eyes, the way he wouldn't come out of his room for days at a time - not eating, not sleeping, not even really living. She remembers the day he finally broke, his hand crushed tight around her own and his forehead pressed to her side as his shoulders heaved next to her. He went to London after that, and while most of his professors were understanding, his grades tumbled. He graduated on time, but his GPA was atrocious.

The only place he could find a job post-graduation was the dive bar they always hung out at and soon enough he started tinkering with the brewing equipment long since abandoned in the back. It wasn't exactly the same as engineering mechanics - but engineering beer did have it's perks. Same principle, he always said. And when she got a shadowing gig at a bail bonds organization in Portland, it was the perfect place for him to follow. I'd follow you to the end of the Earth he had grinned at her and she rolled her eyes but - It was nice to have a friend. For once.

He presses his pinky against the glass at the top, shaking her from her reverie. "Start here, if you would. Make your way down."

She picks up the glass and holds it just below her lips, staring at him and the stupid way he's leering at her, the comment clearly on the tip of his tongue. He stills when she arches her eyebrow in warning, a heavy sigh slumping his shoulders. "Full rundown after each?"

He grins, leaning back in his chair and crossing his ankle over the knee in exaggerated calm, both eyebrows rising high on his forehead. "You know the drill, darling."

She takes a careful sip, the smooth golden ale tipping down her throat. It's light and crisp, ice cold where her fingers wrap around the glass. She can taste the barest trace of sticky sweetness, and she takes a bigger gulp. His smile widens until two twin dimples flash at her.

"I take it that one's a winner?"

She nods, draining the glass, swiping her thumb along her bottom lip. "S'good." She places it back in it's rightful spot, knowing how freakish he gets about his god damned tasting glasses and their proper wooden slots. "Is it honey?"

"Aye," his eyes sparkle, a pleased blush climbing his cheeks. "Ah, with a touch of cinnamon as well. Thought you'd like it."

"Well, you thought right." She picks up the second one, a touch darker. "Do you want to talk out our dating timeline, or do you want to wait until the market research is over?"

"I can multi-task, darling." The statement is accompanied with a single jumping eyebrow and she only rolls her eyes slightly, proud of her restraint while sipping at her glass. She winces when the flavor hits her tongue.

"Christ, is that pomegranate?" She spits it as delicately as she can back into the glass. He shrugs and she takes it as affirmation. "What made you think pomegranate was a good idea? I want the honey stuff back. Give me the honey stuff back."

"No, try the next one." She gives him a wary look, hesitantly picking up the third glass in the row. "Easy, Swan. I won't poison you."

"Have you forgotten about your first foray into IPAs already?"

"Well," he scratches behind his ear. "We both got sick from that, so I'd say we can call it a draw. Now," he claps his hands together and leans his elbows on his knees. "What is it that we need to decide on?"

"How did we meet?" She sips carefully at the next glass, relieved when she isn't smacked upside the tastebuds with some tart monstrosity. She sips again, rolling the liquid around in her mouth.

"In college. Your parents already know this."

"Okay, then how did we start dating?" She finishes the beer in her hand and considers for a moment, tilting her head to the side and watching the way he fidgets back and forth in his chair. "This is good, but a little bitter."

"Aye? Perhaps a bit too much with the hops."

She hums and one of the waitresses chooses that moment to bring their food over, plopping it unceremoniously on the table between them. Killian is still staring at the tips of his worn chucks so he doesn't notice when the girl lingers, fidgeting with the end of her apron. Emma rolls her eyes. It would be annoying if she wasn't so used to it.

She reaches forward and grabs a fry, throwing it at Killian's head. It seems to break both of their spells - the waitress turning on her heel as soon as Killian looks up.

"Focus. How did we start dating?"

He picks the fry up out of his lap and pops it in his mouth, confiscating both the fry basket and the wing basket and placing them out of reach. When she frowns he gestures back to the two remaining glasses. "You have work yet to do, Swan. I don't want - "

" - compromised taste testing, yadda yadda, I know. Now - " She gestures between them and he huffs a laugh, a soft smile of amusement curling his lips as he considers her. She knows that face. It's his thinking face.

"Perhaps," he pops another fry into his mouth, and when he speaks it's slightly garbled from bits of potato sprinkled with garlic. "Perhaps we just say things progressed naturally and I finally gathered my courage and asked you out." He averts his eyes to the edge of the tabletop and she's too distracted by the burst of spiced orange on her tongue to notice the way his eyes keep darting between her and his glass. "No need for all cloak and dagger, Swan," he continues. " I fear I'm rather dreadful at remembering minute details." He continues with a sigh, and a roll of his wrist. "But if you wish some harrowing story of how I saved you from a rumbling trashcan coming at you in the middle of the street while your boot was stuck in a storm drain - by all means."

"That sounds familiar." He's studying the paper that lines the inside of the basket like it's life's greatest mystery instead of looking at her and she feels the pang again - a ghost pain of that anxiety from her dream. And it's not all that orange he decided to (over) infuse the beer with. The last thing she wants is to force him into anything. "Killian, listen, if you don't want to do this, then - "

His head snaps up. "What makes you think I don't want to do this?"

She shrugs, finishing the spiced orange and moving on to the last glass. "The way you're trying to set fire to our appetizers with your brain, for one."

"Apologies, love." He offers her the basket of fries when she finally finishes her last beer, humming lightly in approval. It's another honey based concoction, and she wonders just how many variations he's got stocked up. A smile quirks his lips. "I got lost in my mind for a moment. Listen, I - " His thumb taps at the top of her hand, and she meets his steady gaze. "I don't intend to let you down."

She hesitates for a moment, flipping her hand under the gentle press of his fingertips until their thumbs rest together neatly. She taps his thumb back, the way they used to do when they were drunk at the bar and too uncoordinated to make pinky promises, and blows out a breath through her nose.

"I know."

-/-

His half hour break turns into a two hour inquiry into the merits of orange versus lemon in beer where the tips of his ears turn red in his huffy frustration (lemon is wrong, if he wanted lemon he'd make a bloody shandy) and she doesn't even notice that most of the crowd has dissipated until Granny throws a wet rag at Killian's face.

"I don't think I pay you to eat my food and drink my beer."

Killian grins, standing and tugging the rag neatly through his belt loop. "No, I believe you pay me for my - what is it that you said - pretty face and annoyingly good beer suggestions."

Granny grunts and gestures behind the bar with her head. "Don't get cocky, Jones. Back behind the bar. You know what happens when you leave Will alone for too long."

Killian frowns, already heading towards the bar, craning his neck and trying to find his counterpart behind the taps. Will's habit of experimenting with both the brewing equipment and ingredients when Killian is otherwise occupied is well documented. "Aye, we end up with questionable beer brewed with chocolate cookies."

"Hey, I liked that beer."

He quirks an eyebrow at her over his shoulder. "And you're the only one who drank it. Meet you at Ruby's after?"

She nods her ascent as Granny flicks at her ear, reaching forward and collecting the empty baskets. Her tendency to mother over everyone with stern obedience earned her the nickname, something the bar patrons started calling her years and years ago. It kind of stuck. And then stuck to the diner her granddaughter Ruby opened up down the street. "You didn't pay for that - " she shakes the fry basket in front of her face. " - either."

She manages to sneak the last fry away, squirreling it away in her mouth. "It's on my tab."

-/-

Somewhere into her fourth hot chocolate, she begins to wonder just how much of her soul she owes the Lucas family. It's not that she doesn't pay, it's just that -

"Seriously, Emma." Ruby snatches the mug out of her hands with the same ferocity demonstrated by her grandmother earlier. "Your tab is insane. You're drinking me out of cocoa powder."

She shifts down in her seat, adjusting her laptop so that it covers (most of) Ruby's disapproving glare. "Did you, Granny, and Killian have a discussion or something? Because I swear I've already heard this once today."

Ruby leans down until she's eye level, one perfectly manicured hand snapping her computer closed. "Well maybe if you hear it enough, you'll actually listen."

"Highly unlikely." Killian falls into the empty booth across from her, eyelids heavy and hair mussed. He looks like he just went to hell and back - or manned the helm of last call at the bar. He reaches for the hand still plastered against Emma's laptop with his usual theatrical flare, shaking Ruby's arm up and down lightly until her bracelets dance together. "Dear, sweet, lovely Ruby - could I please have one of your finest cheeseburgers?"

Ruby rolls her eyes, but doesn't move to yank her hand away, her lips turning up just the slightest bit at the edges. She always did have a soft spot for Killian. "Emma already ordered you one."

"Ah, but did she remember no pickles and - "

" - hot sauce? Yeah, I did. You weirdo."

"Some just like it hot, Swan." He reaches across the table for her mug, the arch of his eyebrow half-hearted at best. "It doesn't make anyone less of a person to enjoy hot sauce on their burgers."

She allows him three careful sips of her hot chocolate before she takes it back, pressing her palms to the warm mug. He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and she knows what's coming.

"Ruby, have you tried adding more - "

She holds up her hand. "Just because you are next in line to inherit the brew pub, does not mean you have free reign to criticize what I serve here."

Killian sputters, twin spots of pink high on his cheeks. "I'm not - "

"You are. Everyone knows it. Granny loves you." She snaps her fingers in front of him before spinning on her heel in dismissal, heading back to the kitchens where something is clearly on fire. But she doesn't hurry her steps - just keeps the same measured, easy pace as she shouts out to Victor to turn on the god damned blower, for fuck's sake.

Emma sips at her drink again, watching him from over her mug. "She's right, you know. Granny is totally going to give you the bar."

Killian scratches at the back of his head until she fears he's going to break skin, shoulders rising in a half defensive, half confused gesture. "I don't know where either of you are getting that information, but - "

"Granny. Granny is where we are getting that information."

" - the old broad has no plans to retire any time soon, so I fear glorified bartender is what I shall remain for the imminent future."

She frowns. "You're much more than a glorified bartender."

His eyebrows shoot up the way they do whenever she gives him even a semblance of a compliment, chin ducking down to his chest. She almost feels bad for the comment teasing it's way out on the tip of her tongue, but then again -

"You can also wield a Swiffer like no one's business - hey!"

He doesn't hesitate to stick his fingers in the whipped cream sitting pretty on top of her cocoa, absolute shit-eating grin plastered on his face. This time when he raises an eyebrow, it's far from half-hearted and she fights the blush she can feel rising in her face when he pops his fingers in his mouth.

"Delicious." He says, and it sounds like something else instead. Something indecent and dark, a bit of whipped cream clinging to the corner of his lip.

"I hope you're happy. My hot chocolate is now ruined."

He curls his hand around the mug, pulling it over to his side of the table. "Pity, that."

Ruby sticks her head out from the kitchens, long brown hair pulled up in a messy bun, a bit of soot smeared on her cheek.

"What does my cocoa need?"

Killian grins in triumph.

-/-

"You know, Swan," It's hard to read his face in the dim streetlights, but the set of his shoulders is tight and his hands are balled into fists in his pockets. He's been quiet since they left the diner and started their way towards their apartments, and she'd been content to leave him with his thoughts in an attempt to untangle her own. "One would assume with pretending to be a couple, we'll have to put on a proper show."

It isn't like him to be so hesitant. It is like him to deflect with flowery words and elaborate vocabulary though, so she steps up on the little stoop that marks her apartment building, turning so she can meet his shifting gaze in the light of the moon.

"What exactly do you mean?"

He huffs out a frustrated breath through his nose, and she imagines his hands are clenching and unclenching in his pockets. "I mean it might be awfully suspicious if we were a couple that did not kiss, darling."

She freezes.

"Oh."

His lips settle into a thin line. "Yes. Oh."

She hadn't thought about that.

Well, she's thought about that. Once. Or twice. During the before when she thought they could be a thing and she didn't resign herself to just this because this is good and safe and -

She needs him. She needs him around. She needs him to bring her chicken pesto pizza after extra long shifts and stuff her glove box with peanut butter protein bars because otherwise she won't have anything to eat. She needs him to remember to get extra gauze and band-aids and put them under her kitchen sink for when she comes home with scraped knees and bruised elbows. She needs his teasing smile and shining eyes. She needs his soft words in her ear and his chest solid against her cheek. She needs Goonies and popcorn with extra butter when she's feeling sad, his fingers scratching against her scalp and brushing away her tears.

It's not worth losing that. For more.

(Because she would lose that. They would have more for maybe a month or two and then he would get bored or she would fuck it up like she always does and she would have nothing. Nothing.)

"Well," She can't help but feel like a preteen here, awkward and unsure. The barest hint of a smile quirks at his mouth and it settles her. She tugs on the lapels of his coat. "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

He leans closer, nose practically bumping against her own. Her breath hitches in her chest because she can smell the chocolate on his breath (her chocolate) and he wouldn't. Not here. Not like this.

"Are you sure - " His gaze lingers heavy on her lips and she can feel the shift in the air when his tongue pokes at his bottom lip. She thought it was some sort of romance novel bullshit - the ones that she reads on extra long watch shifts in the car - but she can actually feel the way his body presses closer to hers. " - that you don't want to practice?"

He waggles his eyebrows and it breaks the moment, the hands on his jacket fisting and pushing him away. He laughs as he stumbles backwards, and she tells herself the goosebumps on her arms are from the cold settling over the city.

"You're an idiot." She says.

His grin widens until the dimples flash in his cheeks. "Aye. That I am." He dips his head in a stupid mock bow that has her chuckling under her breath as she keys open the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Swan."

She's still smiling when she kicks open her apartment door.

(It's a good thing she doesn't have friends.)