Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.

Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

To love is to be vulnerable.

The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis

She barely recognized the spare bedroom. The walls had been repainted, now a clean shade of off-white, and the curtains had been replaced, stiff and starched and navy blue. It looked like the colorful rainbow rug had been washed; it was now stretched out brightly on shiny wood, and the glass panes of the solitary window in the corner were surely winking at her. And then there was a glass vase on the windowsill, filled with roses of every color.

Dragging her feet along the floor, head bowed, Emma sank into the mattress and hugged herself. Moving day was supposed to be exciting, thrilling, a fresh start. The moment she had entered Killian's house again, this time to stay on a more permanent basis, she had settled into the space given, placing her possessions on the walnut oak shelves and inside the simple wardrobe. There even was a vanity set with a mirror, painted pale yellow and embellished with tiny roses, winding over every curve until it looked like the dresser had been swallowed whole by flowers. The bed itself was queen-sized and decorated with soft Egyptian cotton sheets, alternating white and red.

All in all, the bedroom was beautiful, as if he had taken special time to make it so, just for her. To welcome her home. Did he really do all this because of her?

"Do you like it?" He was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking at her with anticipation and concern.

Her fingers grasped at the yielding fabric beneath. "It's wonderful ― thank you," she whispered, wishing her voice didn't sound so...dead. So resigned to her fate, when this was a chance for new beginnings, not a condemnation.

"Hmm." His teeth were gnawing his lower lip, tugging at it. "Is there...anything else I can do?" When he tried to catch her gaze, she immediately turned away. Hurt radiated in her direction, as well as silent pleading.

She stood up, bracing her chest as if it would be torn asunder otherwise. For a second, as her feet made a path toward him, his face brightened considerably. Then, while she reached for the doorknob next to him, it collapsed.

Damn it if she felt the least bit guilty.

"Well..." he tried, "I'll...I'll let you settle in, then?"

Still, Emma was mute. Words couldn't describe how every part of her was conflicted, relief and dread at war inside. It was good to have somewhere to stay, to have avoided a repeat of her past at the worst possible time. It was bad to be stuck in this house, owing a debt of gratitude to this man, unable to leave when she wanted because now she was under obligation to him. The more she pondered the turn of events that had led to this, the more furious she became, angry at her own foolishness and weakness and stupidity.

So she said nothing. She couldn't even look at him as she pulled at the door, as he shuffled slowly out of the entrance to let it close shut. And as soon as there was a barrier of wood between them, everything churning within was too overwhelming. Nothing was right.

Knees buckling, back sliding against shiny finish, Emma covered her face with her hands and sank onto the floor.

At least when she'd cried before, there was no one to hear it through the walls.

The first day she didn't come out, Killian attributed it to nerves. He knew all too well what it felt like to adjust to a new place, even if it was one you'd seen and visited before, so he tried not to sulk as he ate his supper alone, glancing much too often at the closed door that she was hidden behind. The entire move had been emotional, though the way Emma had melted into his arms as he had done his best to comfort her had given him some hope that she didn't hate him. That she wouldn't push him away.

Then two more days went by without a glimpse of her, and he started to worry.

"Swan?" he'd called through the door, anxious for her. On his bad arm, he tried to balance the old breakfast board he'd dug out from the pantry ― so dusty and soiled that he'd had to scour it and scrub it hard with baking soda ― while his only hand knocked insistently on wood. The hot chocolate in a mug (with cinnamon sprinkled on top ― he hadn't forgotten), steaming platter of fruit-topped pancakes aside, wobbled when his grip lessened. Hopefully, the damn plank wouldn't crack under the weight.

First, getting the batter in order had been grievous, and he had almost mixed up the ingredients wrong and barely saved eggshells from dropping in with the melted butter. Then it had been hell to flip the damn griddle cakes with one hand, harder to also maintain the heat level of the stove, so after a few burns on his fingers and several missed attempts to transfer the result of his labors to a bloody plate, he was wishing desperately that she would like his effort to make a meal for her, that she would see that he did care and he did want her here and no, this wasn't some bloody act of mercy he was carrying out for the sake of it.

On realizing that there was answer, that silence was still ringing in his ears, he tried again. "Emma...come on, darling...after all, it's not healthy to skip―"

The door squeaked open, and her face peeked out. Killian's stomach soured when he noticed how red her eyes and nose, how her hair was in complete disarray, how her unkempt appearance could only mean one thing... "Hi," she stammered, clutching at the edge of wood like her life depended on it. "I...uh...I was going to tell you..." Then her gaze shifted to the contents of the tray. "What's that?"

Putting on a wide grin, he offered it to her, arms outstretched. "Um...just a little something I made...for breakfast. For you." God, he was no doubt blushing too, in addition to tripping over his tongue like some daft boy who fancied his first lass― "Thought it would help you to get on your feet again, a good early start..."

Just like that, her expression dropped and she was wary, eyeing him with trepidation. With distrust. "Oh...oh. Yes, I totally forgot." Her smile was forced, and it cut at him all the more. "I apologize ― I should have known better." Swallowing hard, she mumbled, "I guess you can...deduct these past few days from my pay...shit, I got so caught up in things that I―"

"This doesn't have anything to do with the bloody housekeeping, lass," he said, exasperated beyond words. "I didn't make you breakfast and come here because I wanted to remind you to get to work and polish the silver." She pulled back. Immediately, he softened his irritated tone and sorted his thoughts. "I only wanted...to check that everything is alright." Again, he held out the ready meal to her. "Won't you join me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He laughed aloud, then sobered when he saw how serious she was. She truly believed he would extort companionship from her? "I confess, I had hoped...you would like to. But yes...to answer your question...yes, of bloody course, you have a choice." His breathing quickened. "I'd never force myself on you, nor do I want your pity, Emma. Though we've perchance become roommates, living separately is perfectly acceptable," he hissed lowly.

Feeling terribly confused, he watched how she was taken aback by his response. It wasn't supposed to go like this. They were supposed to be friends now, friends with a purpose. Instead, they were at odds with each other again, she clearly afraid of his motives and he unable to convince her that his intentions were honorable.

Maybe he had hurt her too much to erase the past. Maybe there was no way possible to backtrack and begin again. After all, he'd been a heartless excuse for a man before. He had behaved abominably. Why should such a courageous, unselfish woman like Emma Swan think him anything but a horrid, crippled animal who had abused her?

She'd known his house for nearly a year. He'd known her presence for almost six months. Surely, amid all that time, was a touch of something good and decent out of all the contention, something that could bring both of them to a truce where they could peaceably be in the same room.

Eventually, their mutual inability to continue the conversation resulted in a heavy brickload of awkward silence, escalating so much that Killian wanted to slink back into the kitchen and wash dishes for hours instead of melting into a puddle of frustration as moments ticked by and his new house guest still refused to look him in the eye. Didn't she know she could never be his servant, that he always saw her as much, much more than that?

"I'm not good at this." He glanced at her, brow furrowing when she swallowed and then repeated her words, her voice surprisingly hoarse. "I'm not good at...being part of something. Maybe because...I've never learned how."

Bloody hell, how he wished his left hand were whole and still attached, that he could extend his right to her and help her forward by encouraging her to take that leap of faith with him. "Lass, I'm asking if you'll have breakfast with me, not go to the bloody moon," he managed with a chuckle, motioning toward the items on his arm a second time.

Then, finally, amid her wide-eyed fear was a small spark of a smile, curling her lips upward just a little. Her cheeks were flushed. Her stance was timid at best. But still, despite her apparent misgivings, she slowly emerged from her hide-out. When her hands tentatively took the board away from his tired arm, he felt his entire body sag from relief.

This arrangement would take time getting used to for both of them. A lot of time. But here was the start.

As she sat across from him, chewing on bites of pancakes and mulling over sips of cocoa, looking every bit the thoughtful Lost Girl he knew, he let himself relax. They had all the time in the world to become better acquainted. There was no rush.

But that didn't stop him from looking forward to it.

He really didn't understand her dilemma, did he?

The rest of the week was, literally, hell. The hurt look on his face that she saw every time she couldn't bring herself to feel comfortable around him, always on pins and needles and tiptoeing her way about the rooms. The awkwardness of having to sit down at the same table for each meal and stare at each other all the time, neither wanting to keep eye contact for more than a few seconds. The imposition of sharing the same bathroom and never being sure if she was creating problems for his morning routine by spending more time to prepare for school and work, if she was being a bother. The entire house was designed to be tête-à-tête for everything, and she didn't know how to handle such...such...

Intimacy. Such close quarters, where it was impossible to be out of sight and out of mind, as the saying went.

How difficult it was for her to adjust to living with another person in the same space ― how much she had to second-guess herself, anxious that she didn't do something wrong or commit a cardinal sin against his unwritten household rules through one of her habits.

The worst part was the guilt, the fact she was keeping from him...that she didn't have anywhere else to go. That she had agreed to this arrangement, knowing how precarious it was, how all was balanced on the tip of Killian's word, like a modern sword of Damocles hanging over her head, always looming threatening. He could throw her out anytime he wished, for any reason. And then where would she be?

Out on the streets. Like...like she had been before...

Emma blinked quickly, a hidden fragment within her beginning to ache. God, those memories were the unspeakable. The moment they would arise, like a tsunami wanting to drown her, she would squash them flat, willing them to disappear. But they didn't. It was just wishful thinking on her part, the foolish hope that the bad in her life would simply go away because she imagined it could.

No, all of that was never leaving her. The terrible, the horrible, and the repugnant were here to stay, standing guard and ready to take whatever happiness she gleaned and toss it into the trash.

Of course...it was hurting Killian ― how she pulled and pulled away, unable to accept the fact that his house was now her abode as well, that he was not just her new boss but also her companion, that she should stop rejecting his kindness and his efforts to please her because she didn't know how to cope with everything about this that was wrong.

She didn't want to rely on him. After Neal, there was not even a tiny spark of trust left in her. It even didn't matter that she liked Killian. It didn't matter that he was doing his best to accommodate her, that it was obvious this new roommate business was being as hard on him as it was on her.

She just did not believe in herself. She never had. How then could she even start to believe in someone else?

Tying her hair up with an old scarf, Emma whipped out the feather duster and proceeded to sweep away dust gathering on the furniture. Here and there, she polished the varnished wood with a soft cloth.

The morning had been quite eventful, leaving her with a stack of new homework assignments and class notes to go over ― not to mention that she was due for her evening shift at Granny's today. Unfortunately for her, she'd already heard from Ruby in advance that those daily shifts were soon to become tri-weekly. Damn, damn, damn.

"Emma."

She nearly jumped out of her skin, heart hammering in her chest. "God, you scared me!"

Looking sheepish, Killian stared down at his feet, which were only covered in thick, dark socks. "Apologies, lass. I was only meaning to ask―"

"Dinner will be ready by six o'clock, right after I finish cleaning," she blurted out, wringing her hands around the duster's wooden handle.

His smile was too sad. "I actually wanted to ask if you needed any help."

"Oh." Her face was in flames. She could only stare at the white sweater he was wearing, focusing in on the pattern of the threads. It was a bit too big for him, and the end of the sleeves were unraveling, but in contrast to his dark jeans and tousled hair, it was a good match. He had good taste in clothes, like he did in décor and flowers. The more she thought of him, the more she was confused.

"But I'm...I'm supposed to..." She shook her head. "This is my job."

"I didn't welcome you into my house to be my personal servant, Swan," he muttered, scratching at the back of his ear. "I want you to feel at home ― that this can be your home."

Sudden pain in her chest radiated until it had spread to her throat, choking her. She couldn't breathe. Underneath her eyelashes were unwanted tears, threatening to spill. "Didn't you know, Jones? Orphans...they don't have homes. And they don't ever get them either."

"Emma...don't..." He was so close to her, and his hand was trembling, as if he wanted to extend it to her. "I know you don't want to trust me...and I don't blame you in the slightest...but I'd be honored, if you gave me a chance to earn your trust. I'll do everything in my power to be worthy of it."

He talked so differently, as if he had dropped out of another time, where men spoke to women with respect. Or at least, Emma mused, with false respect. Nowadays, you couldn't get a person to even try. "It's not that simple..."

"No, it's not ― it never is. It's a leap of faith, what I'm asking." He hung his head. "Love, you've seen me at my worst, all broken into bloody bits. I've been a selfish bastard. I don't deserve anything from you, after how I've treated you. But if I truly have your forgiveness..."

"You do."

"Then...will you? Will you give me a chance?" His voice wavered, gruff from such raw words.

To her, he looked sincere. Completely, utterly sincere. But that was the problem. Everyone also looked like they had good intentions ― it was the first rule of pretense, after all: be convincing, lead you in...then drop you flat. It had been Neal's strategy ― heck, she still didn't understand why he had decided to leave her heart a bloodied wreck. Had she not been loving enough? Desirable enough? Good enough?

Now she would never know.

The pieces of her that remained were so conflicted, tormented by Killian's request. It was one thing to ask her to trust, to repair her doubts. Somehow, no one ever offered a way to mend either after they'd both been broken.

Emma clung to the duster like her life depended on it. Which, in a manner of speaking, it did. She didn't have any excuses left. So, perhaps, it was best to go with the truth. "What do you want me to say?" she finally answered, unable to meet his stare.

"I only want―"

"For me to trust you. Right." She swallowed. "For me to reveal myself, put my cards out on the table...and then what? What happens when I fall? What do I do when the spell is shattered and then I'm back to where I started?" She shook her head. "Maybe it's better things stay as they are. Separate. Simple. It's safer that way."

His eyes narrowed, then softened. "You're afraid to trust me," he whispered. "It's why you keep pushing me away."

"Well, it's hard not to do, seeing as the last person I lived with framed me for his crime and abandoned me when I needed him. I went through so much damn shit and pain and hell because I gave him my trust and he just crushed it. Why should I take that risk again, Killian?" Her eyelids closed, the wetness behind them hard to quell. "It's why I have no friends, why I sit in crowds of people in my classes and I'm still alone. It's why it's hard for me to find work in the usual places, knowing I'm so different. When everyone is treating you like trash, how do you believe in yourself? How do you believe in someone else?"

"You see outside yourself. You see that there are others who feel the same pain. Others exactly like you." Sighing, he gave her a sad smile, running his hand through his hair. "It's what brought us to this point. It's why we're standing here. It's why you saved me."

"But I've never mattered. I'm not―"

"Don't. Don't belittle yourself. You are good. See that, Emma. Like you saw it in me." He reached behind him. In his hand was an envelope, blank but sealed. He extended it to her. "For you."

"What is it?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest, wary.

"A sign of faith," he whispered, winking at her, the corners of his lips crinkling. "My sign of faith in you."

"And..." Slowly, she took it, cradling it as if it were fragile. She licked at her lips. "And what do you expect in return?"

Killian shook his head. "Nothing. I only ask that you read it. Don't be too hard on me, now." His expression became serious, from light to dark. "Just remember that whatever you decide, I'll support it."

He was curled up on the couch.

Sitting. And sitting. Nothing but sitting.

Had he really fallen into this? That he didn't know what to do with his day, besides drinking himself into a stupor?

Killian sighed deeply. He truly missed the times when he knew himself, not this sorry excuse for a man that he'd become.

The keys jangled in the lock, and the front door opened.

Emma padded in quietly, slipping off her shoes by the clothes rack. Then she turned to him, looking crestfallen. But there was...something. He squinted at her. She was sad, yes...but there was definitely something more there. A light, in her eyes...in the way she was staring at him...

"Hey..." she greeted weakly. "I, um...I read it. The letter?" There was the beginnings of a smile there, small and shy.

He was so surprised, he couldn't find the right words to say. "You...did?"

"Yes." She exhaled slowly. "Could I...could I sit down? We really need to talk."