Chapter 4

It's not that she didn't think they would have to kiss. After all, part of the whole thinking behind this plan was that she would get to have the more – for once – without any of the consequences of a real relationship. (Without her messing it up and him running away and her losing the one person she depends on more than anyone else.) And she certainly thought that their little charade would involve them kissing. Maybe a peck at dinner, a brush of lips in front of her parents. She just didn't expect it to feel so damn good.

Her belly flips as soon as her boot makes contact with the worn deck of his modest boat and she's sure it has less to do with the gentle lap of the water, and everything to do with the way his fingers curl around her own. She can still feel the brush of his lips, the way he had carefully tucked her in his arms like she was something precious. It's been a long time since she's been kissed like that and it wasn't even real.

She focuses on the eggrolls in her lap instead of following his progress around his ship – stepping over her legs and untangling the ropes from the dock to push them gently into the river. He hands her his sweatshirt and she pulls it gratefully over her head, the sandalwood soap he always uses in the shower immediately surrounding her.

It's not exactly helping her think.

Maybe she's not as settled as she thought.

(Maybe this plan isn't such a good idea if she's already feeling like she's drowning in him.)

But then he makes a quip about the eggrolls and he sits across from her with his legs stretched out and hair wild from the strong wind blowing in off the water. His boot knocks against hers and a piece of her shifts into place, her heart finally slowing down its rapid hum and that turning in her stomach relaxing. It's still just them. Just because they've kissed now (and will kiss again, christ) doesn't mean anything has to change.

Still, though.

"When we get back from Storybrooke," she fists her fingers in the material of his sweatshirt. "Do you think you can take me out to see the stars?"

She needs to make sure that at the end of all of this, no matter what happens in Storybrooke, she gets to keep him. That nothing will change and they'll still spend Wednesday nights out on the water, flat on their backs and looking up at the stars. That he'll still meet her at Ruby's for burgers after his shift and give her free onion rings when she comes to visit at the bar.

His fingers dance along the laces of her boots before circling lightly around her ankle. He taps once, eyes shining in the light of the moon, and smiles so wide that a bit of eggroll falls to the deck from his mouth.

"Aye, Swan. I think I can manage that."

-/-

She heads to the diner early the next day, thoughts still too muddled to sleep in and enjoy another rare day off. She managed to extend her vacation beyond the week her and Killian are taking for Maine, and she ignores the still half-packed bag of clothes in the corner of her bedroom for the lure of good hot chocolate and a bear claw at Granny's.

Ruby is on her as soon as she's through the door.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Uh," Emma pulls the beanie off her head, working the smooth down errant strands as she cranes her head to where the coffee is. So close, and yet so very far. "I'm having breakfast."

Ruby's eyes narrow dangerously, her fingers curling around her forearm. "No. What are you doing with Killian?"

"Oh."

"Yes." Red nails bite into her skin and she winces. "Oh. Now, please tell me why I needed to find out about this little plan of yours from my grandmother and not you."

"Can I have coffee first, at least?"

Ruby rolls her eyes, forcibly dragging her over to the counter by the hand still latched on to red leather. She stumbles along beside her, boots slipping against the floor. "I'll make it a hot chocolate if you spare no detail."

"There's really not much to tell. How did Granny find out anyway?"

"Killian told her."

"Killian is gossiping with Granny now?" She nudges the mug on the counter forward with an encouraging eyebrow lift and Ruby relents, picking it up and yelling back to Victor for a hot chocolate. She turns back to her with an eye roll.

"No, Killian needed to tell her why he is suddenly requesting a week off after not taking a single vacation day in the past two years. Except for that one time, when you were so sick you couldn't even move from your bed and he fed you soup."

There's a significance in Ruby's tone she doesn't want to consider, so she works on shredding her napkin into tiny strips instead. "Oh."

"I know you know more words than that."

"And I know there's a point you're trying to make. But I'm tired and I'm hungry and I came here for a bear claw, not a lecture, so please spit it out."

Ruby's face immediately softens, elbows pressed to the countertop. She slides a perfect hot chocolate with extra whipped cream across to Emma, and she takes it with a frown, glaring down at the sprinkle of cinnamon on top.

"You're in love with him, Emma." She opens her mouth for the standard rebuttal but Ruby waves her hand in dismissal. "You're in love with him, and he's in love with you, and I don't understand why the two of you insist on this runaround."

"He's not in love with me."

Ruby frowns at her, eyebrows raised in skepticism. There's an old man down at the end of the line of stools who keeps not-so-subtly tapping his spoon against his coffee mug but Ruby ignores him. "Emma. He is definitely in love with you."

"He's – " She pinches the bridge of her nose and thinks of lingering glances shared over bar tops, his fingers twisted through hers and his arm over her shoulder. She also thinks of missed opportunities and close to ten years of friendship. "He's not in love with me, Ruby. We aren't discussing this."

"I think we have to."

"No, we don't!" The old man abruptly stops his tapping and she hears Victor stop bustling about in the kitchen. "It would have happened if it was supposed to, and it hasn't, so this is what we are. This is what it is."

Ruby doesn't flinch, holding her gaze steady. "Maybe he's waiting for you to do something."

She shakes her head, suddenly feeling like crying.

"No, it's supposed to be like this. We're supposed to be friends."

"Then why," Ruby curls her hands around Emma's. "Why on earth go through all this trouble with fake dating and a cross-country trip? You could have made up a million excuses to your mom. Why this whole thing?"

She lifts one shoulder. "I just wanted to see what it was like?" It comes out a question even though she tries to shape her words into something firm and confident. Something flippant, so she doesn't sound so desperate.

"And you'll be okay giving that up? When you both come back here?"

"I have to be." She takes a careful sip of her hot chocolate, shoulders relaxing when she tastes the cinnamon. Ruby swipes at the whipped cream clinging to her nose with an eye roll and a smile. "I'm not willing to lose him as a friend. I'd rather us have that for forever, then try and lose everything. It's not worth it."

"You might change your mind in Storybrooke."

She shakes her head. "I won't. I can't." She sighs, suddenly feeling like she's run a mile or been thrown down a flight of steps. She didn't come here for introspection. She came here for a donut. "Now can I have my bear claw please?"

-/-

Ruby's words hang heavy on her shoulders as she stares out her kitchen window to the city below. She had woken well before her alarm, and the only way she feels any sort of calm is by watching the early morning drivers make their deliveries to the little bakery on the corner – losing herself in narrating a dialogue for them instead of focusing on the way her stomach churns every time she thinks of pressing her lips to Killian's in front of her parents – of letting him go again once the week is over – of lying.

(To her parents and to Henry and to him and to herself.)

She loses herself instead of thinking about this plan and how everyone else thinks it's a disaster.

She loves the stillness of early morning almost as much as she loves looking at the stars. The city is still quiet as dull grey light filters in through her kitchen window, her toes cold beneath her socks as she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet. She can just make out the sun cresting over the tops of buildings, a single shaft of gold brushing her cheek when she places her coffee mug down and picks up her phone to text Killian again.

He's late.

She knew he was going to be late.

As if on cue, as soon as her thumb taps at the send button on her screen, her front door bangs open, a muffled thump and then a groan sounding from the depths of her hallway. She smiles to herself as she hears the unmistakable sound of him shuffling across hardwood, and then the heavy creaking of her couch in the living room.

She leans back to see a pair of legs hanging off the end of the sofa, black messy hair on the arm rest as he buries his face in her favorite blanket. He groans again and she rolls her eyes.

"Always with the drama."

"Are we walking to Maine?" He shifts onto his side, blue eyes narrowed at her from just over the arm rest. "Is that why you required me so early?"

"I told you," she sets her mug down in the sink and brings him his own, leaning over his prone form to place it on the coffee table by his head. It's black. Just the way he likes it. "My mom wants us there in the early afternoon so we can help with setting up decorations around town. I thought you would be over this whole not a morning person thing, anyway."

"Why do you think I chose a job in which I only work nights?" he grumbles, reaching for his coffee with another dramatic twist of his torso. She scratches her fingers through his hair just as he takes a careful sip and he groans in appreciation. She tells herself it's because she's trying to soften him up and get him out the door, but that would be an excuse. "Have I ever told you that you're a remarkable woman, Swan?"

She flicks the edge of his ear, the pointed part that makes him look like an elf. "I thought you were just cursing my name for making our flight so early."

"Ah, yes, well." He lifts his coffee mug up in explanation. "A fine cup of coffee makes all the difference." He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corners over the lip of bright blue ceramic. "Are you all packed?"

"I am." If the suitcase stuffed to within an inch of its life and a backpack crammed with things she definitely won't need are considered packed. His is probably freakishly neat and organized, with rubber bands around his socks to keep them from unrolling. Freak. "Is your car downstairs?"

He crosses his legs at the ankles, burrowing further down into the couch with a happy little sigh. "It is. I think your landlord may have it towed before I muster the energy to leave, though. I saw him watch me pull up through the slats in his window."

"I don't understand why he hates you so much."

"He claims I stole what was once his, whatever the bloody hell that means. Now," he leans up on his elbow and downs the rest of his coffee in three gulps. "Shall we?"

He holds out his hand, palm up, and she reaches for it without thinking. His hand squeezes hers with a tiny little quirk of his lips and she feels her unease settle.

It's him. It's them.

Nothing has to change.

This will work.

-/-

There's a particular smell that comes with airplanes. Stale air and the plastic from the little blankets they hand out and weird peanut sauce from the chicken they're trying to pass off as Thai in the back corner where the flight attendants crowd together. It always gives her a headache just behind her eyes and she frowns, crossing her legs at the ankles and slumping down in her seat.

Killian bends closer to her to reach for the Sky Mall magazine ("Bet it's one of the last issues, Swan. They're going out of business. It's the end of an era, it is.") and she gets a whiff of spearmint toothpaste and coffee, gripping his arm tight and holding him in place, half bent over her and hand stuck in the little seat flap.

He freezes when she buries her face in his neck.

"Uh, Swan?"

"Sorry," she mumbles, the soft fabric of his flannel brushing her chin. "Airplane smell gives me a headache and you smell nice."

She doesn't have to see his face to know he's smirking at her. "Why, Swan. I think that's the kindest thing you've ever said to me."

"Shut up."

He huffs when she doesn't release her hold, pressing her nose more firmly into his neck. His skin is warm and this is – this is nice. He smells really, really nice.

"This is hardly comfortable."

"Sorry I'm not sorry."

"You're going to get yelled at by the attendant. She's already not pleased with you for switching seating arrangements around."

The plane isn't big. There's only two columns of seats; six across in each row. Three, a break, and then three more. She and Killian had been assigned the two on the end and she had tried asking the guy plastered against the window to move, but when he had refused she had taken it to a higher power.

Specifically, Cora the flight attendant.

Cora the flight attendant who had made such a severe frown at the request that Emma almost gave it up.

"You told me once you like watching the clouds when you flew," she leans back from his neck reluctantly, fisting her hands in the sleeves of her sweater and crossing her arms. "Something about an endless ocean of white."

He always smiles when she makes an attempt at his accent, but this one is different. His dimples wink in his cheeks as he blinks at her, the tips of his ears pink.

"You remember that?"

Another wave of something comes from the guy sitting on her right. Stale chips and ugh, axe cologne.

"Yeah, I do. Now please tell me you have a sweatshirt or something in your carry on."

-/-

He does. It's the faded green one from orientation week of college – the one with the ripped neckline because she hates when sweatshirts are too tight against her throat – the logo almost completely faded away by one too many washes.

He's fast asleep with half of the headphone set he's sharing with her wedged between his ear and her shoulder, so she reaches for his iPhone, switching from INXS to something a little more soothing. As soon as Vance Joy starts humming in her ear he sighs, pressing his face further into her shoulder and muttering under his breath, fingers flexing over her knee.

"Does your boyfriend want a drink?" She almost jumps out of her skin when the flight attendant (not Cora) taps gently on her shoulder. Killian grumbles and she barely gets a glimpse of blue through narrowed eyelids before he's curling into himself again, forehead pressed against the window this time. She offers an apologetic smile to the woman, and the man next to her she accidentally elbowed.

Boyfriend. It makes her stomach flip.

She supposes she should get used to it.

"A water, please."

As soon as she balances two tiny glasses of water on her tray, Killian's head lolls back against her shoulder. She taps his nose and he swats her hand away, flicking her in the side without opening his eyes.

Boyfriend.

You'll be okay giving that up?

She sighs.

-/-

He looks infinitely more alert standing in front of the baggage claim, thumb tucked into his belt loop as he scans the bags going around and around the carousel with narrowed eyes. His bag is already sitting neatly at his feet – red and obnoxious with a little suitcase tag clearly marking it as property of K. JONES.

"Mine's the black one." She supplies from just behind his shoulder, hiding a smile behind her hand when he huffs.

"I'm aware. It hasn't come out yet."

"Are you sure? Cause – " She bounces up and down on her toes. "I see a bunch of black bags."

In fact the baggage claim has only black bags at this point. And her suitcase doesn't have a fancy tag like his does.

"I assure you, love. Your bag has not yet appeared." He doesn't move his gaze from the steady stream on monotony, tapping his free hand against his lips. She's just about to question him again when he moves forward in three quick strides and plucks a bag from the belt.

"Here we are," he says with a grin, handing her the bag with flourish. She stares at it blankly, and then looks back to him.

"How did you do that?"

He's busy steering her through the crowds to the waiting area outside where they're supposed to meet her parents. She had been greeted with 10 texts upon their landing, all a various assortment of emojis from her mother.

"Do what?"

"Know which one was mine," she adjusts her bag over her shoulder to a more comfortable position. He sighs when he sees her struggling, slipping it off her arm and onto his without breaking his stride. "I didn't even know which one was mine."

"You have a burn mark on the edge of yours," he holds up her bag in explanation, pointing to the front left corner. "From where you left your bag sitting in front of Ruby's fireplace for far too long."

The brisk Maine wind smacks her in the face as they exit, a sharp breath sucked in through her teeth at the sudden cold. Her stomach flips for no particular reason when he stills as well, turning his body into her and staring down – that stupid smirk on his face that he gets when he knows he's bested her at something.

A lock of his hair falls over his forehead with the wind and she presses it back, the smirk on his face melting into something softer. She can't help it when her thumb traces the shell of his ear and then the line of his jaw, his beard rough beneath her fingertips. It's a bit much, but she can't stop thinking about the little burn mark on the end of her bag and how he had known to look for it.

His skin is warm when she slides her palm against his neck, pressing up on her toes until she can feel his breath against her lips. She means to kiss him slow and gentle, but someone bumps into her back and her hips knock into his, his palms steady against the small of her back – his pinky just barely brushing beneath her jacket to the thin material of her sweater beneath.

He makes a noise low in his throat when she tilts her chin up and allows herself to kiss him a bit harder – just to see if he still tastes like the little bag of honey roasted peanuts they gave out on the plane. It's not a part of the plan – but then again, feeling the way she does with her palm against his skin and his beard brushing against her cheek – that was never part of the plan either.

She drops back to the flats of her feet, gnawing on her bottom lip. He opens and closes his mouth – eyebrows furrowed.

"Uh, what – "

"My mom," she supplies quietly, spying the pale blue Volvo amongst the various cab companies jostling for paying customers. "I see her car."

Understanding lights his eyes. "Ah, I see." He readjusts the bags on his shoulder and holds out his hand. "Shall we make our way over, then?"

Mary Margaret is out of the driver's seat before it's in park, her arms wrapped around Emma's shoulders with a ferocious tug that defies her small figure. Emma smiles and hugs her back. It's been too long since she's seen her mom.

"Oh honey, it's so good to see you." She pulls back with a teary grin and Emma rolls her eyes.

"Easy, mom. It's only been a couple months."

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath and brushes the tears off her cheeks. "You know how I get." She finally turns her attention to Killian standing just slightly behind her, and Emma feels the tension rise in her shoulders.

"Killian!" Mary Margaret releases her to give Killian a warm hug. "What are you doing here? I thought Emma was bringing – "

Killian shoots her a look over her mother's shoulder. Emma winces.

"My boyfriend. I did. It's Killian." When Mary Margaret pulls out of Killian's arms and turns to give her a questioning look, Emma shrugs. "Surprise?"

"Oh. Well, that's – " She shakes her head and fixes a bright grin on her face. "That's lovely!"

A cab behind them lays on the horn and she mutters something under her breath. "Alright now, let's get your stuff loaded up and head to the house."

She disappears to the driver's side with a creative hand gesture towards the cab that has Emma snickering under her breath. Her mother may be sweet, but there's some fire there, too.

"Didn't tell your mother, I see." Killian mutters as they load their suitcases in the back hatch of the car. There's a collection of discarded art supplies and a soccer ball in the back trunk – a fire extinguisher her dad probably put in there and an errant finger painting from one of the students. She shoves it aside and wedges her bag next to Killian's.

She shrugs. "I figured it would be better as a surprise."

"Well, she definitely seems surprised."

"Judgmental, you mean. She seems judgmental."

Killian snickers and leans up to close the hatch when a car behind them honks, obviously not enjoying their leisurely pace. "She seems lovely, Swan. Just as I remember."

He tangles his fingers with hers as he leads her to the car, swinging their hands back and forth before opening the door and allowing her to slide before him. She rests her hand on his knee when he situates himself next to her, conscious of Mary Margaret's hawk gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Where's dad?"

"Henry missed his train from Boston." Mary Margaret's eyes smile at her as she merges into the traffic lane. It's not the first time Henry has missed a mode of transportation. The kid buries his head in a book and forgets where he is, nine times out of ten. "Your dad went to go pick him up. They should be home in time for dinner."

"Dinner?"

"I figured I'd at least feed you before putting you to work."

"A kind sovereign, then."

Mary Margaret's smile falters when Killian speaks up, eyes narrowing in contemplation. Emma knows that look. It's been directed on her more times than she can count – typically when Mary Margaret has information she wants to weasel out of her. She hums under her breath and turns down the radio. "Something like that."

Killian shifts next to her, his fingers tightening over her shoulder. It seems he realizes he's in for it, too.

Okay, so maybe Emma should have mentioned something before they got here.

"Are you still working at that bar, Killian?"

"Aye, yes, actually I – "

"Brewery, mom. It's a brewery. And Killian makes all the beer himself." Twin spots of color appear high on Killian's cheeks and Emma smiles. "Granny plans on handing it over to him though, so he'll be owner soon enough."

He rolls his eyes. "I don't know why you keep saying that. The old broad has no intentions of retiring any time soon."

"We'll see."

He smiles down at her, eyebrow raised, cheeks still pink. "I suppose we shall."

"And your boat?" Mary Margaret weaves in and out of traffic, eyes still darting to Killian every now and then. Too often, really, for a woman who should be focusing on the road. "Do you still have your little boat?"

"Ship," Killian corrects with a grin. "And yes, she is as seaworthy as ever."

The questions continue for the better part of the forty-five minute drive back to the small town of Storybrooke, the long flight and the gently amused, lilting rumble of Killian's voice against her shoulder making her doze in and out. Mary Margaret steers clear of prickly relationship questions that she and Killian had rehearsed answers to, probably waiting for her father for that particular interrogation. Instead, their conversation circles the merits of proper cookware for béarnaise sauce (she wishes she were surprised but she's not) and the tattoos on Killian's forearms – what his five-year plan is and how long he sees himself staying in Portland. She would be sorry for ditching on him mentally if she weren't so tired. Honestly, he brought this on himself – the soft flannel of his button up more comfortable against her than it has any damn right being.

Killian sits up suddenly against her, jostling her against the window. He steadies her with his hands against her shoulders, but doesn't stop craning his neck to stare at something just outside.

"Is that the infamous town sign that Emma drove into as a teenager?"

She cringes, palm against her mouth as she fights back a yawn. She definitely shouldn't have told him that story.

Mary Margaret looks delighted in the front seat. She slows down as they pass the sign, slender hand extended. "If you look closely, you can still see the folded edge where Marco was unable to bend it back."

-/-

Mary Margaret has always had her best interests at heart. It's just – sometimes – they disagree on what that is.

Like the time when she wanted to wear her converse to high school graduation and Mary Margaret had insisted upon the sensible blue wedges instead and Emma ate it in front of the entire school when she tried to navigate the stairs in shoes that made her feel like she was on a newborn giraffe's legs.

And like now, when her mom is giving her major side eye as they stand hip to hip at the sink, rinsing out the mugs of coffee that greeted them upon their arrival. Killian had retreated upstairs with their bags – probably scouting out an exit strategy.

"Killian seems nice."

She sighs, bearing down harder on the poor mug with a dancing dwarf on it. It's a wonder the thing doesn't crack, honestly, but there's a clump of sugar stuck inside and she's determined to get it.

"You've met him before, Mom."

"Yes, but that was different. You were friends then." Mary Margaret gives up the pretense of rinsing mugs and turns, delicately drying her hands on a dishtowel. More dancing dwarves. Her mother has a problem. "Just friends is different than dating, Emma."

She snorts. "I'm aware."

Oh, is she aware.

"Is it – " Mary Margaret considers her words. "You didn't say anything. Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure you're happy?"

"Of course I'm happy." It's not so much a lie when she thinks of Killian's sleepy mussed up hair from the plane, the lines from her sweater printed on his cheek. "Killian makes me happy."

Mary Margaret frowns. "Then why didn't you tell your dad and me? Henry?"

"We wanted to figure it out for ourselves first. You know how I am with relationships. We just wanted some time for us."

Mary Margaret's face screams quiet contemplation, and Emma is grateful she doesn't have a mug in her hand when she begins her next sentence.

"You know, I ran into Walsh at the grocery this morning. He seemed excited you were coming back when I mentioned it."

She angrily hits the faucet off with the heel of her hand, swiping the maniacal dwarf towel and rubbing her knuckles against it. "Seriously? You're seriously pushing Walsh when I'm here with Killian?"

"You two seemed to hit it off so well and this thing with Killian is so sudden! Who knows if it will last – "

"Oh my god."

" – and who knows how you'll feel in a month or two. It wouldn't hurt to keep communication open between yourself and Walsh."

"Keep – " she pinches the bridge of her nose. "Keep communication open? Are you suggesting I go on a date with Walsh and what, have Killian tag along?"

Mary Margaret shrugs. "Maybe Henry could – "

"Mom!" Beneath the shock that her mother is actually encouraging her to cheat on a boyfriend, there's a tiny fissure of anger that licks along her spine. Killian is her choice. Killian is the one she brought home. Killian is the one that makes her happy. That should be enough. "This conversation is ridiculous. I am not going on a date with Walsh."

"Honey," Mary Margaret reaches for her hands still clenched around the dishtowel. "I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy." She suddenly, inexplicably, feels like crying. "With Killian."

The hand around hers squeezes. "But for how long? It started quickly. These things sometimes fizzle out." When Emma opens her mouth, Mary Margaret rushes to continue. "It's no one's fault, of course. It just happens."

Maybe it's because she's in the house she spent her formative years, but old teenage rebellion rises like a flame within her. She sticks out her chin, squares her shoulders, and slips her hands out of Mary Margaret's grasp.

"Well, it's not going to happen." She swallows, eyes narrowing. "Because we're engaged."

-/-

He's carefully hanging one of his button ups in her closet when she comes tearing into the room. It doesn't look like he's heard any of the conversation from the kitchen below, his face set in a serene sort of smile as he regards the picture of little her and little Henry on her dresser.

(A picture from her seventeenth birthday party, right after they were formally adopted. Henry is on her back with his gangly arms twisted around her neck and they're both wearing party hats. She remembers it was the first birthday she ever had a party for and Henry had been so excited, he had gone all out with the decorations. Hats and all. Because she never had it before.)

He takes one look at her, hangs the shirt next to a forgotten summer dress that is a stark reminder why 90s fashion should never return, and closes the closet door, giving her his full attention.

"What is it?"

She rocks back on her heels, careful to keep her voice low. Mary Margaret isn't at the level where she would follow her up the stairs and listen at the door, but it's a close thing. "I may have done something stupid."

He smiles as he steps forward, palms rubbing up and down the outside of her arms. It makes her feel better – a little more grounded, a little less hysterical – and she closes her eyes, finally quitting the rocking.

"The last time you said that, love, it was hardly the dire situation you thought up in your mind." He pulls her back so she is forced to meet his gaze. "There are far worse conundrums I've found myself in than pretending to be yours. And now look at us, about to have pumpkin pie as boyfriend and girlfriend."

Mary Margaret had made a pointed comment earlier as Killian headed up the stairs. Pumpkin pie was to happen as soon as David and Henry arrived. There was to be no lingering upstairs alone in rooms, and doors were to be open at all times. Because apparently Emma is still 16.

She winces. "How about having pumpkin pie as soon to be married boyfriend and girlfriend?"

He blinks at her, a furrow between his brows. He opens his mouth but abruptly closes it, a contemplative look twisting his features as he tilts his head to the side. "I believe the proper term is betrothed."

"I'm sorry. I just – my mom was asking me all of these questions and she thought there was still a possibility that I could be into Walsh, despite me bringing you to this – and I panicked. I totally panicked and I just blurted it out and – what are you doing?"

She stares down at him as he releases her shoulders and bends to one knee, hand fiddling with the ring on his pinky. He grins up at her once it's sitting neatly in his palm, cradling her hands with his and pressing his lips to her knuckles. She can feel each word shaped against her skin, and she breathes out shakily through her nose.

This isn't real. She knows that.

But she still feels like a vortex has opened beneath her feet.

"You'll have to forgive the hardware, as notice was short." He grins up at her, sliding the ring that once belonged to his mother and has never once left his hand in the years that she has known him on her left ring finger. It's a perfect fit, and she feels a burning behind her eyes. "I of course accept your proposal to be your fake betrothed. Will you do me the honor of accepting mine?"

She frowns at him, throat thick. She doesn't know what she's done to deserve this man in her life, but she's pretty damn grateful for it. It only makes her more resolute with this plan – to keep him as her friend. So she can keep him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for all of this to get so out of control."

He stands up with a huff, patting her left hand reassuringly. The metal of the ring sits heavy on her finger, and she drags her thumb along the intricate braiding.

"As I said, Swan," he grips her shoulders again with both hands, jostling her and widening his eyes. "There are far worse situations to find one 's self in. Now come, I believe I hear young Henry downstairs and I don't want your father to find me in your bedroom," he drops his voice with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Door closed."

She keeps her feet firmly planted, even though she can definitely hear the heavy thump of her dad's boots and the more excitable stomping of Henry below.

"Are you sure?"

He grins and gives her a bright blue wink. "Always, darling."