I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
…
Emily Dickinson
It was no rose from his front yard ― that was certain. It would be like comparing heaven and purgatory. But the dark maroon beauty sipping water in her vase (plastic and simple and yes, she bought it in the dollar store) was another thing altogether. Its fragrance, weak but faintly reminiscent of those of its comrades, filled her miserable little apartment until all she could think of was flowers, of sunny days spent in blossoming fields and nights used for gazing at transfixed stars.
In short, everything she never had.
Still, Emma had wanted. She had yearned. Yearned so deeply that looking back, Neal and his false promises of redemption and renewal were obscured by the shadows of her fallen dreams.
But as her shitty luck would have it, she had lost even that.
A rustling in her kitchen awakened her to the fact that there currently was a guest in her residence. Turning as she slipped on her red bathrobe, she watched as Killian Jones inspected her quarters, his line of sight somewhere between the bare walls and the sad-eyed state of anti-materialism more than evident before him. Okay, it was a little amusing to see him out of his comfort zone, so out of place among her few possessions and her self-created environment.
Truth be told, she was surprised that he didn't recognize how similar her meek apartment was to his lonely house.
Or maybe he did ― and that was why he was brooding silently, tapping her kitchen counter with his fingertips as she put on the kettle, drew the only two ceramic mugs she had out of their hiding place in the cupboard, and made two cups of sweet rooibos tea.
"Sugar?" she asked quietly, not daring to say more. The way he said "please" after a sharply indrawn breath, his accent lingering on every vowel, gave her chills, and she nearly dropped three heavy teaspoons of the sweetener into his cup. Sipping the hot tea immediately and burning her tongue in the process did nothing to help, and she hastily set her serving on the side after gently pushing his toward him across the counter.
The sound of silence prevailed ― until he opened his mouth and startled her. "You're...probably wondering why I'm here," he said thoughtfully, stirring his tea with a spoon. Clockwise, counter-clockwise...round and round it went, and Emma watched the ripples spread outwardly as the liquid swirled prettily in a circle.
When she found herself ready to reply, he continued, brows furrowed as he peered down at her object of attention. "Ever since...you left...I keep seeing and hearing our last conversation." His voice grew husky. "Every day...every morning...every instant I spent in that damn hospital afterwards was more of a torment than before. I closed my eyes and I saw your face, and that...that I made you cry..." Killian swallowed hard. "I hadn't felt so bloody ashamed in a long, long time. I wanted to drag you back, to tell you that I was angry and hurting and torn inside and that those words of mine were never meant to wound you, but me. I wanted you," he smiled a little, "to read Peter Pan with me, because I was truly shell-shocked when you brought one of my favorite books to me."
She bent her head, staring at the crappy tiles that lined her counter. "You...you told me about it. In one of your notes," she whispered.
Then his hand reached hers, covering it with warmth and feeling. Looking up, she met his eyes, and they were searching, imploring. "If only I could take it all back ― all the wrong I've done to you. Emma...I'm so―"
"Don't say it." Emma bit her bottom lip and turned away from him, hands withdrawn into her pockets. "I've listened to that useless, meaningless, worthless phrase too many times in my life. My foster parent was sorry that he beat me, my classmates were sorry that they threw ice at my face and destroyed the inside of my locker for months on end, my teacher was sorry he hit on me." She laughed bitterly, glaring at the ceiling. "At least my boyfriend didn't say it ― but leaving me in prison for his crime without such much as a good-bye was enough of a sorry for me."
Killian was standing in front of her now. So close, and yet so far. Leaning in, he murmured, "You're right ― I don't want to be another person on that list. Even though I know that I've more than earned your hate, lass...I want to make all of this up to you. To make things right." He lifted his hand to her face, and she flinched, her eyelids shut. Soft strokes against her cheek, his fingers doing the honors, encouraged her to peer at him warily once more. "Emma, I'd like to know...what it would take for you to forgive me. I'll do anything you say."
Her eyes were prickling, her mouth was dry, and her lungs were so constricted that they ached. Licking her lips, she attempted to form a response. "How fortunate for you, then...that I've already done that. Forgiven you." She hated that her voice was shaking, that she felt this strange urge to embrace him and wipe away the pain in his expression, that every part of her body was aching because hell, she had dreamed of him letting her in and not blocking her out anymore. He sounded so sincere and heartbroken, so desperate and lonely and...
He sounded like she did, every second of every day. Despite hiding it passionately, trying so hard to be 'normal' to the world's naked eye.
Well, they obviously couldn't fool each other. What a pair we make, she mused wistfully.
He smiled sadly at her. "How unfortunate that that's not enough. I'll know that I've been forgiven by you when I can finally forgive myself. When I can look you in the eyes...and not see the scars that I've left behind."
"Egotistical much?" she chuckled half-heartedly.
"Aye," he intoned seriously, pointedly ignoring the joke. "I've been too self-absorbed for years now, and while I wish I could drive that habit away forever, it always lingers. It's an edge that I've been unable and unwilling to soften, to polish. But...but...it mysteriously disappeared in that moment you told me...that you wanted me to live."
"Speaking of which...why didn't you go to your follow-up with Dr. Whale?"
He raised an eyebrow at her challengingly. "Why did you tell the hospital you're my girlfriend?"
Emma blushed. "I guess... Because in that moment, you needed me to be there for you. And that was the only way I knew how." She sniffled, feeling the ache more surely now.
"And I pushed you away." His voice was hoarse and raw. It made him sound so vulnerable.
Shrugging, she took a seat on her dilapidated couch and huffed. "It doesn't matter―"
"It does. It does." Tentatively, he toddled over, standing awkwardly above her. He glanced at the empty cushion next to her. After a moment, she nodded gently, and the old sofa groaned under his weight as he carefully settled onto it.
"How did you do it?"
Head bowed, elbows propped on his thighs, face hidden by his hands. When Killian emerged from his sudden meditation, it was like watching a figurine unravel itself from an intricate entanglement of limbs and bones and broken spirit. This man made even that look utterly, elegantly mesmerizing. "How did I do what, lass?" he replied hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes.
"How did you get to me?" Emma bit her lip nervously. "I never told you where I lived."
He shrugged lightly. "After all the times I watch you leave my house, I decided to just follow in your direction and see where my feet would take me."
That explanation was so ludicrous and impractical that she laughed out loud. "Yeah right." When she nudged him teasingly with her shoulder, it took her a second too long to realize what she had done. "Oh my god, I didn't mean to―"
"S'alright." Killian slowly grinned, letting darkness leave his gaze. "Well, truth be told...I asked the nurse at the front desk for your address from my emergency contact list when I was checking out of the hospital. You wouldn't believe what a little charm and flattery can do to a woman."
"Ha ha," she scoffed. "What's that joke again ― that God made women stupid so that they would be attracted to men in the first place?"
His lips twisted at the corners, and his eyes scintillated as they caught the dim glow of her living room lamp. "You have as many opinions as there are stars in the sky, Swan."
She just loved a good retort. "Especially knowing that everything we see in the night sky has taken hundreds of light-years to get to us, so what we're admiring are basically cheap, oldie images of a setting that may or may not be non-existent by now."
"Touché." His wide smile radiated the strangest kind of heat toward her, something between unnerving and positively enticing. His next words pointed to the latter. "It takes a pure heart to recognize the truth ― and voice it."
Emma fidgeted slightly, absentmindedly crossing her ankles. Gee, one moment she was asking a simple question, the next she was drawing him into a philosophical discussion. Just like in their notes. It had been so difficult not to take leaps of faith in their winding conversations, written or not, that she had ultimately given up on her doubts and had just spoken her mind. Apparently, judging by the intensity of his stare, he liked when she did that.
Tension caused her body to tingle perceptively. It was time to get back on track.
Sighing deeply, she slid off the couch and started to pace, finally choosing to rummage in the kitchen and organize the chaos there while she thought of something to say, or questions to ask. Killian Jones was here in her living space and she needed to focus. Not on him, not on her, but to keep things in perspective. Focus, focus, foc―
"Emma..." His voice wavered, lengthening each syllable meaningfully. "I want you to come back."
Was it possible to feel dread and hope at the same time? She paused. "It's been almost five months now―"
"I'm not talking about that." He grimaced. "I meant...that I care less about that. I should have...I should have let you go weeks ago. Months ago."
Her damn tea had been too hot. Now it was fricking cold. Emma made a face and poured it down the drain, dumping the tea bag into the garbage. "I think you made that abundantly clear in the hospital."
Groaning, he jumped up and strode toward her. "No ― not that either. I shouldn't have blackmailed you in the first place."
"Hallelujah." She rolled her eyes, tasting bitterness in her mouth at this change of topic. "You finally see the light."
"Aye, I was an arse." He planted his hands ― hand ― on the counter and leaned forward. "And a fool."
Still silent, she peered at him, all pleading and earnest and doe-eyed.
"There were so many things I should have done when I met you. For one, I should have given you the rose. Two, I should have invited you to return. And three...I should always have been a gentleman regarding you."
When he didn't continue, she prompted, "Is there a number four that follows?" With the trash swept away from all surfaces, dirty dishes plopped into the soapy sink, and leftovers stored away in the fridge and cupboards, her apartment didn't look half bad. Or maybe that was because the presence of Mr. Charisma here had brightened everything considerably.
He half-smiled at her. "Actually, yes." His good hand dove into his jeans pocket, searching until it withdrew a folded piece of paper. "This is for you."
Emma did a double-take when she noticed the amount scribbled on the check. "What...what the hell is this?" she stammered, shocked.
"Payment. For services rendered."
Her jaw dropped open, and she could feel blood rushing to her head as she processed this new information and the rather large sum outlined in bold print. "You're paying me...for all the months I've worked for you?"
"Aye." Nodding, he said quickly, "And that's not all." He bit his bottom lip, shifting from foot to foot in an antsy rhythm. "Would you...would you consider...working for me?"
She deadpanned. "As your personal slave, you mean?"
Killian snorted. "As my housekeeper, lass."
Hands on her hips, Emma narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him. "Why?"
"Isn't it obvious?" His lips carried a cheeky grin. "Because I like you." Before she could muster up a decent retort, his brief display of arrogance disappeared, and he shrugged sadly as hidden weight made his shoulders sag. "I...I missed you, Emma. Missed you badly. My home...my life...both felt emptier without you than when I was alone."
Her heartbeat slowed down, a soft thrum in her ears. He missed her. She missed him. Maybe this was a sign...a sign that they shouldn't part again. "You really know how to compliment a girl," she teased weakly, hiding her mirrored pain behind a chuckle or two. Then she gazed around her place, a place that had never felt like anything like a home. Or maybe she just didn't know what a home was, having never had one to begin with. "What are your terms?" she finally whispered, rubbing a dying petal of the rose between her fingers. It fell, softly landing on the dirty white tiles beneath.
He shook his head furiously. "No terms. You'll be paid on the dollar for every last bit of work. And...if you'd like..." His tone was shy and timid now, so unlike what she expected, that she tentatively peeked at him. "You could live with me, if you'd like. As you know, I have a spare room." He chuckled wryly. Then he was serious and brooding. "I have a lot of room ― too much room for one person."
"You're joking. Killian, your backyard is a jungle." He laughed at her sarcasm, lips pulled back to exhibit fine teeth that glimmered amid a breathtaking smile, and she joined in, adding her own amused smirk. Then the enormity of this surprise decision hit her hard.
She couldn't pay the rent on her apartment anymore ― not with one job, not even if she thriftily divided his generous sum into months and months. And she couldn't afford her expenses by working only at Granny's diner. He was offering her a way out while thinking that she had every option, that this was a matter of want, not a matter of need. He didn't know what she knew ― that this was her one chance at survival. If she were a knight on a chessboard, this move would be called a double fork. Or, in simple terms, killing two birds with one stone. God, she had always hated that saying...
"Time." Emma cleared her throat, then clarified, nervously chewing on her lower lip. "I need some time...to think about it." She thought he would argue with her, but he didn't. Instead, his fingers brushed some errant hair from her forehead, continuing downward until they had outlined her entire face.
"Thank you," he whispered, pulling back. He gently put his cup of tea, now empty, in the sink, and rinsed it out. Then he made his way to the door, his only hand lodged deeply in his pocket.
Seeing him leave without a single demand, with hunched shoulders and bent head, looking as if he carried as much weight on his mind as she did every day, reminded her why she had been grieving these past months. "Killian," she called out, one hand outstretched instinctively. When he turned, she could feel the pain in his eyes. "Don't go."
The corners of his lips twitched hopefully. She took a deep breath and dared to cross the bridge he had created by coming to see her in the first place.
"Stay? And...cook dinner with me?"
There was that winning smile of his, growing wider by the minute. "Lass...I'd love to."
Their shared moments together were all he could think of that night when he was trying to fall asleep, surrounded by two lonely pillows, smothering sheets, and a hollow house that had echoed the cries of his nightmares for years past.
Years of being alone, of rejecting the world and all it offered because it had rejected him.
Until today. Until that very instant Emma had let him into hers.
He had masked his fascination, staring at her parted lips as they chopped vegetables together, his paring knife wheedling away the tough skin of cucumbers and squash for their salad while she diced tomatoes, peppers, green onions, and mozzarella cheese. During their short meal, he had been watching her head tilt down and up, curls bouncing and gaze flickering at she picked at the beans and croutons on her plate, fingers tearing at a bit of soft dinner roll and then dipping the pieces into humble salad dressing. Every little movement, however small, captured his attention. But most of all, he saw how she looked back at him. He was caught more than once with his fork raised halfway to his mouth, food forgotten because he was too occupied with the angelic creature before him, the woman who had changed everything without knowing it. It was a simple meal, but an amazing one.
It was Emma's doing ― all of it.
He had wanted so badly to hate her for interrupting his routine, for spoiling his misery. Looking back on the fatal moment her fingertips touched that rose... He could see now why he had erupted into a mass of fury.
When she touched that rose...her face had lit up like a star. Bloody hell, it was seeing Milah again, cheeks blooming and pink, smiling at him with so much love after he had proposed to her in that damn rose garden. He could swear to God that the sudden jealousy and envy and bloody anger that had arose in him, boiling just under his skin, made his mind blank and his heart empty. This girl, alive and happy and joyful in that one second thanks to a bleeding flower, had driven him too far.
He had had an insane lust for revenge, for senselessly wanting her to suffer as he was suffering inside, because how dare this nobody be happy when he was tormented, how dare she dangle that glimpse of happiness right in front of his face like some bloody mockingbird, taunting him? He had lost his hand, his love, his future. And she dared to―
She was an innocent. She was not his to break. She had no part in creating his pain. But he had caused her pain in return anyway, his selfishness and stupidity and recklessness disregarding her feelings, her person, and respect itself. 5 months of being an utter moron, damn it.
Oh, how he had refused to admit he was wrong, that he had acted rashly and petulantly. How damn stubborn and pig-headed he kept being, ignoring what was before him, clear as day.
And then...then, like a lamp in the dark, bringing him back the gift of sight, she had still opened his eyes, when he had wanted nothing more than to shove her help far away. An impediment, he had called her. An intruder, an interfering wench.
No. Her name was Kindness. Laughter. Compassion. Forgiveness.
Emma Swan.
Despite all he had put her through, the lass had truly forgiven him. Had Milah forgiven him for not saving her in time?
Tossing and turning, Killian felt a nagging urge, one that was all too familiar. A drink. He needed a drink. Then his eyes snapped open in realization. Sadly, his collection of numbing beverages was long gone, decorating a trash heap somewhere, and he had vowed to himself that he would not amass another.
His hand fumbled over the bedside wall, searching vainly for the small light switch. But in his desperate haste, his arm flailed downward and his fingers slipped, landing in the depth of a small bowl, filled with something rather sticky.
Liquid. His nose verified what kind. Sweet smelling rose―
Inhaling deeply, he finally understood the scent pervading his house ― every sparkling, shiny corner of it. His appetite for rum forgotten, he smiled through the haze of mounting sorrow, forcing it to dissipate. Never mind that his eyes started to sting a bit, that his eyelids desperately blinked in response, that his cheeks were wet and he could taste salt on his tongue when he licked at his lips, dry and parched.
All he could hear was Emma tactfully telling him about her worst emergency room experience, her look of pride when he asked how she had learned how to cook so bloody well, her encouragement to visit Dr. Whale and check on his physical progress.
All he could see was her small grins, answering smiles, smirks, glowing eyes, gentle hands. The soft sway of her body when she walked to the kitchen. The bittersweet gracefulness of her mouth when she talked to him in between small, careful bites. Her heavenly voice to listen to.
All he could feel was how she was helping him to feel. How being around her felt.
Alive.
For the first time in God only knew how many years, he felt alive again.
And for the first night since Milah had died, he went to sleep without being in the company of alcohol.
Dreaming that perhaps Swan would say yes. Perhaps she would choose to come...and stay...
He could wait.
Morning time was not really Emma's thing. She wasn't a night owl ― God forbid ― but she wasn't an early bird either. She liked getting a good night's sleep and a sufficient breakfast at a decent morning hour. Which was why she was heading to Granny's diner right now, determined to carry out her plan.
Well, it wasn't much of a plan ― more like a request. A favor, really. Gosh, she was nervous ― and why?, she asked herself. This wasn't the end of the world; this was her, asking Granny for an extra shift.
"Hi! How can we help― Emma!" Ruby greeted, waving at her enthusiastically. "You're back!"
Emma couldn't help but grin back, shaking her head as the girl continued to swish and squeeze between close tables and customers, a few male prospects eyeing the end of her short skirt approvingly, stiff black heels clacking against the laminated tiles. She'd never learn.
Then Granny popped out from behind the counter, steaming mugs of coffee balanced precariously on one shaking tray. She was muttering to herself, wiping at some spillage with a wet paper towel. "Here," Emma grabbed the other end of the tray before it tipped downward, "let me help."
The elder woman smiled widely, finally acknowledging her presence. "Oh, hello, Emma ― thank you, dear ― what brings you here so early in the morning?"
Instead, Emma had already walked across the room, pointing questioningly at the crowded tables. On Granny's nod, she distributed the mugs to the people who were waving her over, careful not to drop any coffee on them or the floor.
"Whew." She adjusted her glasses on her nose, offering Emma a napkin when she returned. "Mornings always throw me into a whirlwind ― it's so goddamned busy in here, and that Ashley girl is late again!" Sighing, she rested her face in her hands. "You're lucky to be only here at night, I tell you ― the craziness that goes on around six o'clock..."
Hesitating, Emma fiddled with the edges of her shirt. "Um...there's something you need to know, Granny..."
The old woman was really staring at her now. "God, you're pregnant!"
Her face burned hotly. "No, no, no, no ― not that." She chuckled nervously. "Nothing like that. See, I kind of sort of lost my morning job, and I was wondering..."
The pair of eyebrows above the spectacles rose up, then down. "You want to change shifts?"
She quickly shook her head. "It's not that. It's...it's..."
"Oh." Granny exhaled deeply, a hint of understanding in her shrewd eyes. "You want to be a full-timer here."
What other choice did she have? It was hard to find a brand new job in these times. And...and she had promised herself that she would only accept Killian's offer if she couldn't find something else.
She was frightened. Frightened to be at this next set of crossroads, forced to choose between two paths. Living with a stranger, with a man who was too close to her heart already... There had to be another way.
She didn't want to be dependent on someone else ever again. She didn't want to be this...this attached to Killian.
The reply she heard made her heart drop to the pit of her stomach and her feet feel like globs of mud. "I'm sorry, Emma...but the diner is barely paying for itself. I hired on Ashley, but the girl's taking care of her newborn baby right now ― and she has a good, working husband ― so I might be able to find her an alternate job. When she stops being here, it will be just be Ruby and me and the cook ― who also wants to quit, apparently, and go abroad. My granddaughter works for half-pay, so it will just be you I'll be keeping on at full wage ― and since you mentioned before that you have cooking skills, you might have to take on cooking as well during your shift. Ruby's here all day now, like I am, because I'm going to leave the diner to her when I retire myself ― so what I'm trying to say is..."
"You can't afford to pay me for another shift." Emma peered down at her shoes, embarrassed that she had inquired at all. What the hell was she going to do now?
A gentle hand lifted up her chin. "It's not that I don't want to, dear. I do want to. But I simply can't. I wish I could help ― you know that."
She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, feeling dejected and hopeless. "It's ― it's okay, Granny." Mustering up a smile, Emma shrugged her shoulders. "I'll be okay."
Patting her on the shoulder sympathetically, the diner owner gave her an apologetic look before trudging off to help Ruby cater to the families who had ordered at least four meals per table.
Glancing one more time at the colorful atmosphere, Emma slipped out the door, and the wind outside blew against the group of bells tied to the door handle. Their incessant jingle chimed that her second path was gone. It didn't exist. This choice was no more.
One path was left, unless she could find a new job in less than two weeks.
So instead of walking back to her apartment, she peeked up at the sun, already making its descent, and judged in what direction she needed go next.
This wouldn't be an easy path, to be sure. As Robert Frost had said, per her latest English class assignment, it was "the road less taken." What he had failed to say in his enigmatic poem was that sometimes, it was the only road you had. That maybe it was a classic Hobson's choice, or a dilemma. Or maybe, in truth, life had no choices at all. She wasn't sure about any of it.
Except that she had to do what she had to do.
It took her only five hours to pack all of her belongings. She had almost no furniture, her bed and sofa both dilapidated old wrecks that she had found in a garage sale, and as for pots and pans and the usual assortment of accessories one was compelled to collect in the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom, she was more than ready to just toss them into the dumpster.
But she didn't. Instead, she pulled out the few boxes she had saved from her previous moves, weathered but still strong, and took her time to sort everything she wanted to keep.
All in all, it wasn't much...but it was hers. Her personal and hygienic items, and the few articles of clothing she had, went by themselves into her one large suitcase.
By the time Killian Jones appeared on her doorstep, looking rugged and not doubt expecting a vicious haul of goods to drag down the stairs, she was sitting on the floor in the doorway, arms around her legs as she stared at the bottom of the neat stack of cardboard, surrounded by her baggage and not much else. The rest of the apartment was empty, as it had been the day she'd moved in. She could see the tips of his heavy-duty shoes, black and scuffed and pointing at her accusingly.
"This is all you have?" His tone was incredulous, and for some reason, it was rubbing into the despair she currently felt, this scene so utterly familiar that every time it occurred again was an added blow, another notch to a long line of cuts that marked her life.
When he squatted down on his haunches to catch her gaze, she couldn't take his scrutiny anymore. Launching herself onto her feet, she sidestepped around him and grabbed a box, keeping her distance. "It's not like you haven't seen it before," she muttered, stomping down the stairs with purpose.
The thud of his boots echoed until she reached the main corridor on the ground floor. He must have run down the entire staircase, because he stepped in front of her the moment her feet touched the cement. Panting a little, he outstretched his arms, palms extended. "It was a comment, lass ― not a judgment." When she continued to hold onto the box, stubbornly wishing he'd quit this sudden chevalier attitude of his, he gently wrestled it from her. "You know...you don't have to do this...if it's not what you want."
She knew what she should do. She should keep her mouth shut, behave herself, and get into the goddamn Jeep. The one parked right in front of her apartment building door, apparently ― with a moving trailer attached in back.
But since when has she done what was expected, what was normal? She fell in love with a convicted thief, for God's sake.
Instead, the hesitation on her new employer's face was grinding into her own, gnawing at her frustration and anxiety and dismay. In one second, Emma felt her emotions explode. "I don't have to do this?" she countered, gritting her teeth together hard as anger and fear swept through her system. "Maybe I should be asking why you are doing this ― this ― this charity act, when the only person you've given a shit about until now is yourself?" She could hear her own voice, scratchy and tremulous and rising in volume as her reluctance to step forward and accept her own decision crashed about her ears, threatening to smash her into pieces. Slowly, her eyes began to burn and she knew...
Oh, she knew. The way the deepest part of her seemed to open, despair floating out the cracks. All the times she had cried as a little girl, desperately wanting her parents when foster care had screwed her over. Every time she had wallowed in her misery, finding no friends, no kindred spirits, not one soul who was understanding and kind and trustworthy. In the end, Neal had left her too, so it was blatantly, painfully clear.
She was a mistake. A reject. An unwanted. That was why she had ended up in the boat she was in now ― and it was sinking fast. Soon, she would be drowning.
Looking up through blurry vision, Emma longed to leap back into her stupid, lonely apartment, where there was nothing but ghosts and regrets and most importantly, nobody. At least when you're alone, you can be pathetic and weepy and depressed as much as you want.
Living with another person was going to kill her ― there was a reason why she never wanted a roommate and preferred to work harder to make up for more rent money. Especially having Killian Jones as her partner in solace ― a suicidal nervous wreck―
What the hell had she been thinking?
"Shh...you'll be alright, lass ― don't cry. Everything will be...okay," Killian mumbled. "We'll work it out." His words sounded uncertain, but his arms weren't. They were wrapped around her, so tightly that she could barely breathe.
The box he had taken from her was discarded on the floor, and somehow, she had fallen into his embrace, with his fingers gently winding through her hair. When he rocked her back and forth, soothing her as one might a child, she realized that her hands were curled into his shirt, holding onto him as if she would break apart when he'd let go of her. The texture of cotton was under her fingertips, so close to the leather of his jacket...the scent of him, woodsy and briny and spicy... Of its own accord, her traitorous body snuggled into him, a sudden longing for comfort stifling her common sense. Why hadn't he fought back? What had made him not snap back at her?
There was no way she could trust him, of all people. But then again, what did she have to lose?
She had no one. Neither did he.
In a twist of fate, she had been matched up with someone who couldn't be worse for her, a reminder of who and where and what she was, while on the other hand...
He was giving her the solution to half of her problems. And she was dreading it.