Chapter 5

Her cheek finds his chest somewhere around the thirty-minute mark of their journey, his hand tangling in her hair and rubbing at the base of her neck automatically as Mary Margaret questions him on the merits of using rosemary in béarnaise sauce. He may be a humble bartender, but he is no barbarian, and he tries to keep the amusement from his voice when he quietly corrects her with tarragon and her eyebrows jump in the rearview mirror.

Emma chuckles against him, patting his knee lightly. It seems he's passed some sort of test, though he does not understand the importance of preparing a proper béarnaise, nor its reflection on him as an approved suitor for Emma. But he delights in her soft huff of laughter and the way she burrows further into his side and his flannel, so he notes to question her on it later when they have a moment of privacy.

The kiss she gave him in front of the airport as well.

She claims it was for the benefit of her mother waiting in the queue, but he felt the softness when she pressed up on her toes and pulled him down to meet her lips. He felt the way her fingers trembled against his forearm and how she sighed out soft and slow before leaning up and kissing him harder. He had hardly kept his bearings as her mouth moved against his, not quite sure if he was still asleep on the plane and it was all just a pleasant dream.

But then she had dropped back to the flats of her feet, fixed his collar and muttered something about their charade – how her mother was most likely watching from the front seat of the pale blue contraption so like Emma's bug that it made him smile.

A good reason, to be sure. But something about it had pricked at the back of his neck. He's long been a student of the mannerisms of Emma Swan and the way she looked down at their bags and then back up at him, thick eyelashes brushing her blush-stained cheeks – something about the tentative smile that curled at the corners of her lips – it, well. It bloody well gave him hope.

It could be just like this. Soft kisses and her head burrowed just beneath his chin and her fingers toying with his necklace as she dozes in and out of sleep. It could be this easy.

If only she'd allow it.

"Where do you see yourself in five years, Killian?"

He sighs and pinches lightly at the back of Emma's neck when her shoulders shake in a barely restrained chuckle.

"Happy," he answers simply, thinking of the way her laughter sounds on the open water – a takeout container of egg rolls in her lap and his favorite sweatshirt draped over her shoulders.

-/-

There's a certain sort of magic in seeing all the places from Emma's stories – the town sign she had run into as a teenager. The light pole in which she punched Jason Dempsey in the face for daring to harass Henry. The convenience store where she had her first bear claw and became helplessly addicted. Mary Margaret tells him the familiar stories with a smile and Emma burrows herself further into his side, grumbling under her breath about lapse in judgment and too old for embarrassing stories. The petulant whine in her tone makes him chuckle, tugging lightly on an errant curl and inquiring after the small coffee shop on the left – if perhaps that is the one that –

"Yes," Mary Margaret cuts him off excitedly. "That's where poor August asked her to the prom and she spilled her milkshake all over him."

"Poor August had wandering hands," Emma huffs. "And nothing about that spill was accidental."

He supposes there's magic in that, too. In the way she folds herself into him and doesn't reach to punch him stupid when he rubs his knuckles between her shoulder blades, allowing the small measure of comfort instead of pulling away. He glances down at her tangled curls pressed into the creases of his shirt and barely bites back his smile.

Definitely magic, that.

-/-

"Your tattoos, do they have meaning?"

"Aye, they do. Stories and people and moments in my life that I wish to remember."

"And are any of those for my daughter?"

He chuckles. "Not quite yet, although it's well past due. What shall it be, Swan? A tub of ice cream? A slice of pizza? Maybe the little gun you strap to your thigh?"

Emma looks up at him with bleary eyes and a smile. "How about you get moron tattooed on your forehead in honor of me?"

"Ah, Swan," he ruffles her hair. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You're hardly a moron. And there's certainly no need for you to stare at it every day."

Mary Margaret does her best to suppress her laugh, but he hears it all the same.

-/-

Her home is exactly as he pictured it.

There's a wide porch that wraps around the house, littered with a variety of gardening implements and rocking chairs that sink down low and look heavenly after a plane trip cross country and another hour spent cramped in the back seat of a Volvo. The old floorboards creak as he makes his way up the stairs and he smiles when Emma steps in an intricate pattern to keep the wood from sounding beneath her sure steps. He isn't even sure she notices she's doing it, probably a long held habit of sneaking in and out of the house as a young girl.

There's a small set of stick figures carved into the floorboard closest to the door and he tilts his head to get a better look as Mary Margaret fusses with the lock.

"Henry," Emma explains quietly. "When we were officially adopted, he carved it in there. Said it was good luck for us to actually stay."

He squeezes the gloved hand folded in his. "The one with the weapon, that must be you."

She snorts, his quip having its desired effect and chasing away her ghosts, albeit temporarily. "That's a paint brush, thank you very much. I liked to paint when I was younger."

"I didn't know that," he says, surprised.

"I know you like to think different, but you don't know everything there is to know about me."

He ignores the jab, allowing Mary Margaret to usher them both into the house. "I'd like to see it some time," at her blank look, he continues. "Your work."

She rolls her eyes and releases his hand, shucking her gloves and tossing them on the cabinet by the door. It's nice to see her so at ease, to see her in the place in which she was finally given a family. "You act like I've got the Mona Lisa hiding in a closet somewhere. It was just some little kid stuff. Meadows, sunsets – "

"She painted a lot of water scenes," Mary Margaret interjects, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. His mouth waters at the sight and he takes one gratefully. "She always did seem to love the ocean."

"Is that so?" There's cinnamon dusting the top of his coffee and his cheeks begin to hurt under the strain of his grin. "I too find comfort in the rise and fall of the tides."

Mary Margaret gives him a tight grin. "Who doesn't? I was just saying to David the other day we should go out on the water more often."

Emma gives her mother a droll look, taking careful, measured sips of her own drink. "You hate the inlet."

"I do not."

"You do. You always say – "

Mary Margaret sighs, accepting defeat. "Would either of you like pie?"

It's hardly a clever diversion, but he takes it, hoping it'll buy him some leeway later.

"Before dinner, m'lady?" Judging by the twin looks of exasperation he gets, he may be laying it on a bit thick.

"I'm feeling gratuitous, and the chicken has a bit to go yet."

He has a suspicion it has more to do with Emma continuing to burn a hole in the side of her head than anything else, but Killian acquiesces, finishing his drink with two heavy swallows. It burns on the way down, settling warm in his stomach, cinnamon lingering on his tongue.

"That sounds lovely. Is there somewhere I should put our things? Out of the way?"

Mary Margaret blanches, like she didn't consider the idea that Emma bringing her boyfriend could potentially mean that the two of them would be sharing a room. Emma turns to him and takes his now-empty mug from his hand.

"My room is at the top of the stairs, first door on the left," she leans up and kisses him quickly – a light brush of her lips that's just a peck but makes goosebumps rise on his arms regardless. "Come back down for pie?"

"Aye," she tastes of cinnamon as well. "As you wish."

-/-

The paintings in question hang haphazard on the walls of her room. He spots several peaceful scenes of a boat on the water and he chuckles under his breath, struggling with his suitcase before finally kicking it clear across the aged hardwood. Her duffle gets more gentle care as he places it at the edge of the bed, content to let himself look around for a moment before he rejoins Emma and her mother for pie.

Besides her paintings (which are fluid and beautiful and bright swathes of color across the page) there isn't much that adorns the walls. No trophies or medals, no signs of extracurricular activities. No posters of boy bands or celebrities that he can tease her about later. It makes him a bit sad, that her room is so starkly decorated, but she has the things that matter. He spies a picture of her and David tucked into the edge of the mirror, one of her and Mary Margaret in a frame by the bed. But the one that catches his attention is one of her and Henry, a party hat lopsided on her head, her smile so brilliant it makes his breath catch.

That much hasn't changed.

His gaze keeps glancing back to it as he does his best to unpack a bit and hang a shirt or two in an effort to release some of the wrinkles. He wonders how soon this was after their formal adoption, her face free of any tension or worry as a much younger Henry clings to her shoulders. It reminds him of him and Liam as small boys, Killian frequently hanging his own arms around his brother's neck as they smiled for the second-hand camera their mother bought from the pawn shop down the road. She had saved up weeks for that camera, her laughter loud and bright as the two of them went through ridiculous poses and antics.

He thinks of what happened to that camera after she had passed, and their home full of love and laughter and warmth had darkened considerably. Liam had done his best to keep things the same, but it was difficult financially for the two of them – the nights lonely when Liam was out late putting in another shift at the bar to try and make ends meet. Try and get enough money to send Killian to college.

And then Liam, well – Liam passed and it wasn't much of a home at all. The place he was raised as a child was sold off at auction and the meager funds it pulled in were used to fund Liam's funeral. He misses it sometimes – wishes he could return to a place filled with the warmth he had known when his mother was alive. But he can't. That ship has long since sailed, so to speak, and the only things he has to remember his family are stored in a lock box on the top shelf of his closet back in Portland.

Seeing Emma have that, though. That makes the ache a little less sharp.

The door to her room suddenly swings open, Emma a whirlwind with her wayward curls and wide green eyes. He takes one look at her and closes the closet door.

"What is it?"

-/-

The worst part is how perfectly the ring fits her finger, how she keeps rubbing her thumb over the band like it brings her comfort, like it means something to her.

Or perhaps the worst part is how much he likes seeing it there – the ring that was once his mother's – feeling it pressed against his skin when he tangles their fingers together and leads her out of the room.

Or maybe the worst part is her father's face when they come creaking down the old stairs, his eyes confused and then curious and then downright hostile when they light on Killian – clearly connecting the dots and not liking the picture he's getting on the page.

But the worst part, he thinks idly as Mary Margaret steers them easily into the kitchen for pie and Henry links arms with Emma, is that this is all a farce. That when they get back to Portland that ring will come off her finger and slip back on his, and they'll go back to easy banter and nights on his boat and beer shared between friends.

That's probably the worst part.

She pauses just inside the door to the kitchen and turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her nose wrinkles as she takes in his expression.

"Hey," she slips her hand from Henry's elbow to tug at his instead. "You okay?"

Ever observant, his Swan.

He shakes his head, clearing the cobwebs and rather dark thoughts, and does his best to smile the one he saves just for her. She presses her fingers to the corners of his lips and he allows himself to be swept away in their little game of pretend, if only for a moment.

"I'm fine, love," David is still looking at him like he'd very much like to switch out the chicken roasting in the oven with Killian's head. "Shall we have pie?"

"I think what we'd like," David's voice is all deep, intimidating bravado and both Emma and Henry snicker as Mary Margaret rolls her eyes. "Is an explanation – "

"The story, rather," Mary Margaret cuts David off effortlessly. She's a born politician, this woman, and he's beginning to see how she won the town election. In a landslide, if he's to remember Emma correctly.

"An explanation of how my daughter has a ring on her finger when I don't remember giving my permission."

"Hello," Emma sings, all sarcasm as she presses a kiss to the back of Henry's head and then her father's. David pats her arm lovingly, but still manages to look like he swallowed a whole lemon. "Nice to see you, too."

"Chill, Dad," Henry is already three-quarters through a slice of pie, Mary Margaret slipping another on his plate without even looking. "It's a miracle Emma even found someone worth putting up with her for the rest of time – "

"Hey!"

" – so let's just go with the flow here and see what's up," he looks up at Killian, pointing with his fork. "Still kind of pissed you didn't tell me over xbox though."

"Alas," he pulls out Emma's chair and allows her to sit before taking the piece of pie offered to him. "Telling you the good news while dodging mortar shells seemed a bit inopportune."

"And just showing up suddenly engaged wasn't?"

David looks fit to burst, angrily stabbing at his pie as Mary Margaret busies herself with readying dinner behind him. It is a bit of bad form, showing up suddenly betrothed, and he winces as he considers how this all looks. Fake relationship or no, he doesn't want to make a bad impression on Emma's parents.

"Well, I – "

"It was my idea," Emma supplies quietly. "Killian wanted to ask for permission but I asked him not to."

"And why is that?"

Emma reaches for Killian's hand after a moment's hesitation and twists her fingers through his. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze and she smiles at him over the rim of her mug. "Because we know we're moving fast," her cheeks pink and he wants to trace it with the palm of his hand, feel the heat of her skin melting into his. "Because we wanted to be selfish and take some time for ourselves before the inquisition started."

"There's no - "

"Dad," Emma gestures at him hunched over the table, the way his eyes are still glaring daggers at Killian. "Case in point."

David is silent for a moment, and then mutters something under his breath and directs his attention back to his pie. Mary Margaret pulls the chicken from the oven and the kitchen is immediately filled with the smell of baked oranges and cloves, his stomach giving an appreciative rumble. The tiny bags of peanuts on the plane hardly did the trick.

The fight seems to leave David with the announcement that dinner will be served in just a few moments, and he darts his gaze back up, eyes apologetic.

"I won't apologize for being protective of you - "

They may not be blood, but he can certainly see how Emma favors her father. Stubborn as a mule, the both of them.

"But I will apologize for not being polite, especially when you're a grown woman and this is your choice," Emma's hand tightens on his and his stomach jumps in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. He wants to be her choice. He wants so badly to be her choice. "It's good to see you, Killian."

He extends his hand and Killian releases Emma's to shake her father's. There is a bit of male posturing - one very forceful grip and a grasp that lasts just a bit too long - but he manages not to wince, and David nods as he releases his hand. Mary Margaret brings the chicken to the table and clears their pie plates away and Emma sets herself to loading everyone's dishes with dinner. He takes his with a grateful nod and a smile, once again pleased to see her so at ease. And a little shocked that she does indeed know how wield a fork and knife properly.

"What's got that smile on your face, Killian?"

"Ah, well," he scratches at the back of his neck as Mary Margaret takes her place next to her husband, curiosity lighting her brow. "I'm merely surprised that you daughter does indeed know how to properly serve a meal. I'm used to pizza from the oven that is rather hastily torn apart with sheer force."

Emma gives him a droll look, brandishing the carving knife like a sword. "Cute."

"Merely an observation, love."

"Well we'll see if you get some hastily torn apart pizza the next time we have dinner."

"By having dinner I am assuming you mean me bringing you something substantial so that you don't resort to potato chips and nutella as you are prone to do."

"That was one time."

"If by one time you mean every other day, then yes. You are correct."

"Wow," Henry looks at the two of them with wide eyes, a drumstick held loosely in his left hand. "You two are gross."

"And you," she's blushing again. "Could wait until everyone has their plates before you chow down, buddy."

Conversation drifts in and out as they enjoy their meal, Emma catching her parents up on the latest in the bailbonds industry as he quietly listens. She tells them the story of the man last month who she tackled into a ditch, her face taking on the same glow of victory as she had that night, a proud smile tugging at David's lips and a slightly terrified one pulling at Mary Margaret's.

Despite the initial shock, he's kind of surprised how easily her family is taking the news that she is engaged. To come home with a surprise boyfriend is one thing, but a surprise fiance? Surely they must have questions.

He gets his answer as seconds are doled out, Mary Margaret's face the picture of innocence.

"So, how did Killian propose?"

"He, um," her thumb finds the ring on her finger, twisting it round and round. "He, well he - "

"I took her out on my boat," he interjects, recognizing the tension in her shoulders. For someone who relies on lying in her professional life, she's utter rubbish when it comes to her personal. "She's always asking me to take her out beyond the city lights to where she can see the stars, so I did."

Mary Margaret smiles. He intentionally ignores Emma's gaze. "That's lovely."

"How did you ask her though?" Henry, not shockingly, has already moved on to the chicken breast left unattended in the center of the table. "I want specifics."

"Well, she had just stolen my sweatshirt as she always does, the thing far too big on her. And she had her winter hat pulled down low. Her hair kept getting tangled in the wind so I set myself to untwist it as I told her of the stars. She likes the story about Pyxis best, the one of the compass."

"You mean the one you made up?" Emma is looking at him with an expression he can't quite decipher, fingers idling with her fork. He smiles and rolls his eyes, this argument a familiar one. He continues, undeterred.

"She looked over her shoulder at me with the glow of the moon upon her face and I just knew I wanted to marry her. So I asked, and she said yes."

"The glow of the moon," Henry snorts. "Are you for real?"

He shrugs, used to people poking fun at the way he speaks. It's true, though. He's been compelled more than once to say or do something quite stupid while watching Emma beneath the stars, her golden hair spilled out beneath her as she lay on the deck of his ship.

He's got it bad for her. This he knows.

"The ring, it's quite unusual." Mary Margaret reaches for Emma's hand as she inspects the jewelry.

"It was my mother's. Uh, left to my brother, actually. But Liam had rather insisted I take it should anything happen to him," he looks down at his plate and shakes his head, remembering the numerous conversations Liam had with him regarding estates, wills and the like when he joined the service. He had ignored the lot of them, not willing to have the conversation with his brother. "Liam always was too bloody serious and stubborn for his own good."

Emma's fingers trail gently down his arm, over his wrist, pressing lightly where his knuckles strain under the force of his grip. He releases his fork with a sigh. Emma gives him a soft smile.

"That sounds familiar."

He chuckles, and focuses on the curve of her smile instead of the memories of Liam that settle uncomfortable in the crick of his neck. "Aye, I'm afraid I share a good bit of Liam's worst qualities."

"The good ones, too." She taps the back of his hand once and directs her attention back to her mother. "So when are we heading out?"

He's grateful for the change in topic, even more grateful for the way she shifts in her chair until her feet are pressed up against his beneath the table. It's taken a long time for him to think of Liam without losing himself in sorrow and drink. And while it still brings it's own demons, the darkness is easier to push down when Emma lends a hand.

When he looks back up David is no longer looking at him like he wants to drive his steak knife through his forehead. In fact, he looks oddly contemplative, his gaze darting to Emma and then quickly back to him.

He smiles and nods, and it's quite obvious that the older man has just imparted his approval.

He tries not to feel too elated at that. And when Emma kisses him in the kitchen as they're all pulling on their jackets, her lips tasting like orange and spice, her breath brushing against his cheek as she mumbles something about her father looking on - he tries not to feel too elated about that as well.

He fails miserably.

-/-

They spend the evening walking the main street of the quaint little town, Mary Margaret pointing out here and there her plans for the rather lavish festival she is throwing in celebration of her election. She doesn't set them to work quite yet, but his head is already spinning with their lists of instructions. Henry is already huffing and puffing in exasperation but Mary Margaret mentions something about pie and all is forgiven.

According to the itinerary, he and Emma are to rise with the sun in the morning and head to the blueberry farm. When he not-so-quietly suggests the grocery store they passed on their way into town, Mary Margaret succinctly explains that these pies need to be special. A real mayor bakes from scratch, after all.

"Just don't suggest apple," Emma whispers into his ear as they stroll back to the car, her arm hooked through his. "She has this weird thing with apple pie."

"I do not, I just think they're tired," a yawn cracks Emma's jaw and he catches it, eyes watering at the corners. It seems his coffee high has finally worn off, the long day of travel settling in his bones despite the on-flight nap. Mary Margaret gives them both a kind smile. "As are you two. We should get you home."

Emma rests her chin against his shoulder. "I would play polite and say I want to hang with you guys some more, but - " another yawn rolls over her shoulders, eyes squinting closed. "But I'm exhausted. And if you want us berry picking bright and early, we should get some rest."

He doesn't hate the idea, already imagining the thick blankets spread out on Emma's bed, the array of pillows stacked at the head. Emma is dreadful at sharing blankets. He learned that lesson the hard way at a cabin overnight trip down to the coast in the middle of winter with Ruby, Will, and some other people from the bar. Practically froze his feet off, and nearly woke up with a black eye with all her tossing and turning. He'll have to snag something on the way up to her room to drape over his feet.

She nudges his arm as they climb into David's beat up pickup truck, his knees practically pressed to his chin with how they're cramped in the back.

"I'll ask my mom for a couple extra blankets," she drops her head to his shoulder with another yawn. Another that he catches. "I know how dramatic you get."

"I'm hardly dramatic, Swan."

"Mmhmm, sure."

She's asleep withing the first few minutes home, her palm pressed to the inside of his knee.

-/-

David looks as if he has half a mind to scoop Emma from the back seat and carry her up to her bed. He's not sure the logistics of that one but luckily Emma rouses herself, blonde hair tangled in her face as she squints into the light of the overhead.

She leans on him heavily as they make their way up the stairs, collapsing on the bed face down as soon as they're in her room. He leaves her to wash his face and change in pajamas, hoping she does the same and he doesn't have to cuddle up next to leather for the duration of the evening.

Not that there will be any cuddling. It's not the first time they've shared a bed and he's under no illusions that their newly minted relationship status will translate to their default sleeping 's an aggressive sleeper at best and he'll be lucky to survive the night with a sliver of bed and one of the extra blankets to himself.

She's in her pajamas when he returns - an old pair of his sweatpants and a college t-shirt so faded the logo is no longer visible on the threadbare heather. She's curls on her side when he quietly clicks the door shut behind him, palm patting the empty space next to her in invitation.

"Come on, Romeo," she slurs, smile wavering around another yawn. "Take me to bed."

"Quite the temptation you are, love," he laughs, sliding in next to her. Her body heat has already warmed the sheets and he sighs gratefully, tossing one of the extra blankets over his feet, the other within easy reach next to the bed. She's watching him with sleepy, smiling eyes - a blanket tucked just beneath her chin - and when he lays back against the pillows, her feet press under his leg.

"You're the first boy in this bed, you know."

His eyebrows raise and he flips on his side, her feet adjusting with the move until they're pressed between his. They're warm, so he allows it. "I assure you darling, I am no boy."

When she does nothing more than give him a less-than-amused look, he continues. "What? Wandering-hands-August didn't ever see the floral wallpaper?"

She shakes her head and he softens, something about the way her breath keeps brushing against his throat with every soft exhale and the creaks and groans of the old house around them. It's comfort and warmth and more of a home than he's had since he was six years old and trying on a top hat that was far too big just to make his mother laugh. "Well, I'm honored, love. Truly."

She sighs and closes her eyes, nuzzling further into her pillow. If he were to extend his pinky, he'd be able to brush the apple of her cheek. Follow the line of it to the tip of her ear. Let his fingers thread through her hair until he loses himself in her.

It's a good thought. Certainly an easy one to drift off to.

He closes his eyes.

"Thank you, Killian. For everything."

He smiles. "My pleasure, love."

-/-

He wakes with a flick to his forehead.

He groans and rolls until he's face down in the bed, the room still far too dark for them to be up. He gets another flick to his ear and he swats vaguely in the direction the attack is coming from, his fingers just barely brushing soft fleece.

Emma sighs. "You have to get up. We need to go berry picking."

He groans again. Louder this time. "Leave me here to die, Swan."

Her nails scratch gently at the nape of his neck and he peers open one eye to look up at her blearily. Her face is tight and her eyes look a million miles away. Even in his half aware state he can see the distance she's trying to create between them, feel the tremor in the soothing gesture of her hand against his skin. He expected it, honestly. With that freeness of her affection yesterday, he knew there would be a cost.

One step forward, ten steps back. As is always the case with Emma.

It's a good thing he's a patient man.

"Get up," she sighs, lips tilted down, hand finally pulling away. He watches as it closes into a fist at her side, feet shuffling back and forth in obvious discomfort.

"Alright," he grumbles. "I'll shower and meet you downstairs?"

The shower does little to wake him. In fact, with the warmth of the water and the honey smell of Emma's shampoo lingering from her own shower earlier, he finds his mind wandering. Blonde hair plastered against wet skin, droplets of water cascading down a pale throat. Perfect, round breasts and long, long legs. He sighs and rubs the palm of his hand roughly over his face while he nudges the water a bit colder. That's a dangerous path for his thoughts to travel and while he's been there before - many, many, many times before - now is not the time.

He does, however, use her shampoo.

He's more of a human when he meets her downstairs in the kitchen, but barely. Eyes squinting at the light that is just starting to break through the kitchen window, feet shuffling as he does his best not to collapse into a heap on the floor. He is not a morning person, not by any stretch of the imagination. Emma hands him a mug and he grunts something that must pass as gratitude because she gives him a tight smile, hands working on pulling her hair back.

"I woke you a bit early so we could grab some breakfast first."

He tugs on her pony tail lightly. "You're an angel, love."

She smiles, this time genuine, and he counts it as a victory. "We'll see how you feel about that when you taste the bacon at this place."

The bacon, as it turns out, is terrible. The company, however, much more favorable. Especially when whatever seemed to be weighing heavily on Emma's mind disappears around her fourth bite of pancake and the face he pulls as soon as the bacon touches his tongue.

He spits it out as gracefully as he can in a napkin while she smirks.

"Told you so."

"Aye, so you did."

She drops her chin into her palm, smirk blossoming into a grin. "Has anyone ever told you you're stubborn?"

"That's typically my line."

"Well, I just - " Her words catch abruptly in her throat, her eyes darting over his shoulder with a faintly panicked look. Her hand immediately reaches for his, her grip crushing.

"What are you - "

"Emma?"

He doesn't recognize the voice and before he can even turn in his seat or inquire as to what has her so started, a man joins them at their table. Thin, tall, a mess of brown hair - he slides right into Emma's side of the booth without sparing him a glance. He kisses her cheek and Emma stiffens, his hand the one to crush hers this time.

"It's good to see you, Emma."

"Yeah, um," Emma looks to Killian. "This is Walsh," she explains needlessly. Killian had an idea as soon as the man inserted himself into her space. "Walsh, this is Killian."

Killian releases his death grip on her hand to extend his. He smiles, wide and menacing. It's the same look he gives to the group of underage kids led by that little shit Peter who frequently try to steal beer from Granny's bar. Emma says it's creepy. He damn well hopes so.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Emma's fiancé."