There was no magic to mend things overnight.

Lying flat in bed at sunrise, staring at the blank ceiling, Emma recalled her high school counselor and his dry voice. His bored tone, the one he used to recite nonsense like "the little steps you take in the right direction get you to your destination." She would often parade into his office, sporting a bloodied lip or bruised cheek courtesy of the classroom bullies. He would lecture her on fairness, on being the better person and not punching back ― all those stupid truisms about treating others the way you wanted to be treated.

His dull sigh told her he couldn't care less about her impassioned replies. Then again, no one did. Scores of foster homes, bullies at school, the mean crowd with its casual indifference.

Even if you made your mark on the world, that didn't mean there would be someone who gave a damn. Loneliness was hard to kill.

However, small changes did count. She had picked up so many bad habits during her time with Neal that undoing them was a pain in the ass. But she had no choice. It wasn't like there were many people jumping forward to hire her after her stay in jail. She went from one minimum wage job to another, never knowing how long at-will employment lasted. The endless days and nights, always full of worries and tears, were the perfect opportunity for life to crush her even more firmly underneath its steel heel.

Live and learn. God, she had eaten that saying for years.

Then Killian stepped in, with a deeper hatred for his own existence than she had ever had for hers. His letter, crafted with so many agonized feelings, spoke volumes. Despite her instincts and her fears, she chose to stay because emotionally, it felt right for once. Logic had never been her friend anyway.

The smell of fried eggs and cinnamon and toast swirled through the air like a fume of temptation, creeping under her door until the combined scents tickled her nose into action.

Grinning, she sprang from her room ― her very own room ― and raced into the bathroom, hurrying with her usual toiletries so she could be in the kitchen as soon as possible. She tried her best not to smile at her reflection in the mirror or congratulate herself on taking a step forward in friendship. It didn't work. Her lips curved upward despite self-reprimand.

And on entering the small cooking space, his beaming face was all she could see.

"'Morning, Swan. I seem to recall your preference for scrambled eggs over hard-boiled, but I wasn't sure, so I made both." Spatula in hand, an old t-shirt wrapped around his waist (the ultimate makeshift apron), he ducked his head and quickly continued, "Then there was the matter of oatmeal ― we're out of apples, so I had to make pancakes instead, but there isn't any syrup. I dug out an old blackberry jam from the cupboard―"

His voice became a whisper, washed out by the echo of one thought in her mind.

For once, here was someone who wasn't lying to her. For once, here was a person who was offering a home he wouldn't take away. He would never just leave her. He was different.

She didn't care if he was covered in flour and egg splatters, the pan was still sizzling on the stove, or he smelled like fried food. Before she could stop herself, she strode up to him and flung her arms around him in a fierce hug.

The spatula bounced off the floor.

He was hugging her back just as tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck, whispering her name. They must have stood there like that for minutes on end, disregarding time.

But despite her tendency to hold off, to not get close, she didn't mind their proximity at all. It was reassurance that this moment was real and that something was changing ― not tomorrow, or next month, or a year from now ― right this minute, this very second.

There had been too much pain and loneliness in both their lives, always leaving them alone and hurting.

Now, they would never have to feel like that again.

Post-breakfast, they shared kitchen duty: he washed while she dried, and leftover pancakes were put in the freezer for later. Emma took a mop to the floor, cleaned any evidence of food, and then...

Well, the house was still pretty spotless. Even if she was going to be his housekeeper, there wasn't that much to do all the time. Usual chores would take her a couple of hours a week, and Killian was a tidy housemate.

Padding into the living room, she stopped at the sight of the man himself, slumped against the couch with his head in his hand. Far from his cheerful attitude this morning, he looked devastated.

Slowly, she sat down next to him, unsure of what to say. She didn't want to trigger anything or make him feel worse.

"You're upset." That didn't sound diplomatic. She cleared her throat. "You seem upset. Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"

He refused to look up at her. "I don't want you to pity me."

As if they didn't feel sorry for themselves enough. "I think that we're past that point now. You can tell me anything, and I will understand."

His gaze was wild and desperate when he choked out, "I don't want to start drinking again."

Oh, that. She blushed.

"Emma, I appreciate all you've done for me, I really do. But I've been living inside myself for years." His throat bobbed. "I am just worrying... You have obligations beyond this house, but I'm stuck here. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do; I'm practically an invalid. All those hundreds of days before you stopped in front of the roses, I spent my mornings, afternoons, and nights wallowing in misery, reliving every bad memory I ever made, surviving off my pension without moving my arse. I just want to prove myself to you, that I'm not the monster I was when we met. But if I start drinking again..."

"You'll go back into that darkness." Emma sighed. "Is this about my schedule? Because I'm only going to be at school in the late mornings and early afternoons, and then my work at the diner is only three nights a week. The rest of the time, I'll be here."

Killian huffed, growling, "I don't need a damn babysitter either."

"Then it's a good thing that I threw all your liquor to the garbage," she snapped back.

"Aye, I noticed." His eyes softened. "I'm truly touched you care."

"I'm not going to stop, if that's something else worrying you." The admittance registered in her mind a second after it left her mouth. To draw attention away from that, she weakly added, "You're not upset about that? That I dumped your booze?"

"No, you had my best interests at heart. And I'm guessing...you didn't think I had the willpower to do it on my own," he finished, his lilting voice sad and subdued.

She knew better than anyone how close you can get to breaking apart completely. Not to mention that she had witnessed his defeat firsthand. "I don't blame you. It's hard to keep going when you feel you have nothing to live for." Tentatively, she reached out and rubbed his shoulder. "We'll work it all out ― it will only be several hours a day, at most. And only weekdays."

He searched her eyes before asking, "You're sure it's alright? I don't want you to be burdened―"

"Burdened? Killian, I live here. I have no plans to leave." His grin matched hers instantly. "As your official housekeeper, I will find you a project to work on."

His smile widened. "What kind of project?"

"Now open your mouth widely for me. No, don't stick out your tongue ― please put that back in, Mr. Jones."

Emma covered her mouth to stifle a chuckle. Killian seemed determined to give Dr. Whale a hard time with this checkup, and it was showing. The doctor looked completely exasperated by his reluctant patient. When his back was turned toward the blood pressure machine, Killian glanced at her and winked, grinning from ear to ear.

Once all vitals had been jotted down, Dr. Whale finally focused his attention back on them. "So the good news is that your organs are recovering from your brief stint with death." He tapped certain figures on the medical chart with his pen. "From what I can see from your blood work, your liver is safe ― for now. But I don't think I need to emphasize how close you were to destroying it, do I, Mr. Jones?"

"Killian will do as a moniker, Doc," he gritted out, "and aye, I understand what happened. I assure you, I am doing my best to assure nothing like that ever occurs again."

"Alright, Killian, that's good to hear." Dr. Whale was scrutinizing him closely. "Have you decided to talk to an addiction counselor, like I suggested?"

Killian stared ahead at the wall. "I don't believe that is necessary."

"You said you want to change. How are you supposed to do that by yourself? Just stop drinking?"

"Exactly."

The doctor scoffed. "Killian... I'm sorry, but it doesn't work that way. You don't drag yourself out of an addiction alone like you would with any other bad habit. It's not like chewing your nails and then getting yourself to stop. You need help to withstand the craving for something that can kill you, and that doesn't happen overnight. Please explain to me your plan for making this work on a long-term basis."

Killian clenched his jaw. "I'm not speaking to another bloody shrink, Doctor." His voice was angry. "I spoke to a therapist for a year after my brother died, and I'm not wasting my time a second time by listening to another tell me the same idiotic crap."

"What about Alcoholics Anonymous?"

"Of all the ridiculous shite―"

"Look, Dr. Whale." She flashed him her most patient smile. "I think what Killian is trying to say is that...he has talked about his drinking problem with other people, and it hasn't worked so far. Maybe we could try a different approach?"

Sighing, he riffled through the papers on the chart. "The only other thing I could suggest, besides a rehabilitation center, is you seeing Dr. Archie Hopper together, as a couple. He's a licensed family therapist and right in this hospital. As far as I'm concerned, he's the best we've got. I've visited him myself. Even doctors need therapy."

"But we don't want therapy." She clasped her hands in her lap. This was not the moment to say that they were not, and never have been, a couple. "I've been to therapy as well, in the past, and... I'd really not repeat the experience."

Leaning back in his chair, the doctor cocked his head. "Dr. Hopper's a good listener. I'm not promising it will work out, but I definitely recommend you try it. I've seen many addicts go through the ER in this hospital, Emma, and the majority of them were alone, with no one to help them through rehab or therapy. Since I'm guessing Killian here doesn't want to enter a rehab center, the most logical solution is finding out the source of the problem, as privately and quietly as possible, in a manner that makes you feel comfortable and safe. This way, you don't have to shoulder the burden alone ― either of you."

Killian's hand covered hers gently, giving them a light squeeze. "I'm not saying I agree. But if she wants to try it, I will do it. For her."

Dr. Whale handed each of them two business cards. One was for Archie Hopper, licensed therapist. The other was for Whale himself, general physician. "Think about it, okay? You don't have to decide today. If you ever need to talk to me or schedule a visit, just give me a call. We are here to help, in whatever way we can."

"Liam used to say, 'The best cure for a craving is hard work. That drives your appetite away.'" Killian wiped his hand on his jeans, then grabbed the next bag of groceries from the back of his Jeep. "Bloody git would stand there and say that to me when I didn't want to do my chores, working his way through a carton of ice cream."

Emma smiled to herself as she hefted the last bag in her arms. "Sounds like you two were close."

"Aye, we were — we were all each other had, really. Mother died when I was a babe, Father took off like a shot when I was about eight or so. Liam was everything to me — parent, brother, best friend. When I graduated from secondary school, I joined the Navy so we could stay together."

Somehow, he managed to balance the bag on one arm and pull out his keys from his jeans pocket, opening the front door. Muscles aching, she hurried inside and dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter.

"I ended up in the States by chance. I met Milah in a bar, when I was brooding over my sorrows with a glass of rum. She lifted my spirits, and...you know the rest. My history isn't a romantic one."

"Neither is mine," she sighed. At least life had improved a little since then. When Killian found out that she walked every day to campus because she couldn't afford bus fare (and she definitely couldn't afford a car), he began to drive her there. Even as she closed the door and headed in the direction of the right building, she could feel his eyes on her back, guarding her. After she told him about what happened at work with Walsh, he vowed — yes, he used the word "vow" — that she would never be treated like that again.

He might not be willing to fight for himself, but he was willing to fight for her.

There really was a first time for everything, including having a friend who would defend her.

The crackle of paper bags brought her back to the kitchen — their kitchen. Killian was unpacking the items they bought and separating them into pantry or refrigerator foods. She smiled at how he organized everything. Grocery shopping had been a pain by herself, but Killian had made it an adventure. Especially the part where they argued for 15 minutes about who was going to pay. She had wanted to split the total, but he outmaneuvered her to the point where she quit out of exasperation. He came waltzing out of the supermarket, a cheeky grin on his face, humming some jaunty tune like he just won a million bucks.

All Emma could think of in that instant was the cashier's beaming expression as she told them what a cute couple they made.

"We have nothing that goes into the freezer, aye?" He opened the freezer door, only to slam it shut when a blast of cold air blew into his face.

She chuckled. "Not unless you're planning on making ice cream anytime soon."

"What about blanching vegetables, preserving fruits, that sort of thing? We aren't going to do that?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, Emma squinted at him. "Where did you hear about that? Are you — Killian, have you seriously been reading about cooking?"

He crooked an eyebrow. "So what if I have? Something wrong with that?" A sultry smile crossed his lips. "Is it unmanly?"

"Unmanly? Oh my god." Laughing, she shook her head. "It's just... No one has ever taken an active interest in things I like but me, so I'm surprised. No, there's nothing wrong with that."

"What's your craziest dream, then?" She goggled at him. He shrugged. "Anything. Something you want to accomplish but think it's bloody impossible."

When she narrowed her eyes, he leaned forward on his elbows, chin propped on his hand, waiting.

Okay, she would take the bait. She had nothing to lose, since it was just a crazy dream.

"A café. My own little café. Nothing elaborate, just a simple coffee shop. I love baking over cooking, so pastries and hot beverages would be my kind of thing. I'd own it all, I'd call the shots. And even if I went out of business, no one could take the shop away from me — because it would belong to me. College is great, but working towards a major... It will take me years, and even then, I may not get the job I want. And to be honest? I don't even know if that's something I really want. I'm doing it because the world thinks I do."

"Hmm." He tapped his fingers on the counter, staring down at the tiles. "It's not impossible, though. You could get that café."

"Yeah, right. With what, me and my student loans and my job at a diner?"

"Despite what you seem to believe about yourself, lass, I see you as the most persevering and hardworking person I've ever met. If it is the cost that worries you, I'll pitch in. And don't forget your position here is a salaried one," he winked.

Except that he has already given her a home, a job that practically doesn't exist, and means of transportation. Her cheeks flamed. He has already helped her enough, and there's no way she will ever be able to repay him.

"Nah, it's okay. Just a crazy dream." She brushed it off like it was nothing to her. Having something of her own, where she felt meant to be, was everything. It practically defined what she was looking for in life.

He searched her face for a full minute before agreeing, "As you wish, lass."

"So what's yours?" He gave her a blank look. "Your craziest dream."

His answering smile was so sad that she felt a deep ache inside. "That's the problem, lass. I don't have any dreams left."

When she came home from Granny's in the evening, wishing she could sink into a pillow, he was napping on the couch, a large book pages down on his lap. After she covered him with a blanket, she peeked at the cover of the book she had set aside.

"The Ultimate Guide to Cooking and Baking."

She never saw this on his bookshelf before. Which meant he must have gone out and bought it for himself.

When they met, he was the man who bought takeout dinners and frozen entrées, the man who didn't eat if he could help it. Then he followed her lead, wanting to show her that he appreciated her efforts in the kitchen. The man who had downed bottles of alcohol to escape his pain ― but who searched for her far and wide, never giving up, wanting to make things right between them.

He was a beast back then. If the beast wanted to change, maybe her dreams weren't so crazy after all.

It was clear that he needed a dream of own, a refuge. She could help with that. He was going to live again because she would try to help him find reasons to.

"You've got to at least try it. Don't give up before you've tried." Emma scowled. She hated arguing.

"You sound just like the bloody doctor—"

"I'm not a doctor, but I do want to help you, Killian!" she yelled back. Man, he was stubborn. "I'm your friend, and I care about you ― so listen to me, goddamn it."

He seemed taken aback by that. Hell, even she was shocked she admitted that. After a torturous stretch of silence, she added, quietly, "The journal is a new way to control addiction. One positive thought, every day. It doesn't have to be a thesis or an essay. It has to be about you. You need this."

"I need to write my way out of alcohol?"

She growled inside. "You need to find a hobby that channels that craving into a healthy energy. I read up on it. It works."

He actually rolled his eyes. "Bloody journals never worked for me."

"A paragraph a day. Just that. I'll even reward you."

"Rewards?" He immediately perked up. His grin was childish and playful and exuberant in comparison to the look of despair that he wore seconds ago. "How will the fierce, insistent Emma Swan reward me?"

"Very funny. We can make a calendar of it. A reward for every milestone."

"Hmm. I'm listening, lass..."

"You never told me what your favorite book is."

After the incident, Emma had demanded ― not asked ― that Killian buy a telephone. It could be as old-fashioned as he wanted, as long as the thing plugged into the wall and she could hear through it. Ruby had called in just this morning about needing to close up early, so Emma had practically lazed around the house the entire afternoon after morning classes were over and done.

Bespectacled and broody, the man of the house had immediately rushed over to his couch after breakfast and begun reading. Then he had returned to his book when she came back from school. However, chewing on his lips and then his tongue, he was the ultimate image of a reader who was not well focused on his reading material. He kept fidgeting, even when she brought him a cup of tea as per his request.

Now she was checking on the bookshelves to make sure they didn't need dusting. She did that just yesterday. "My favorite book?"

"Aye. You know mine. But I'm curious as to what yours is."

"Guess."

Slowly, he peeled off his reading glasses, nibbling on one end while he contemplated. She could feel his stare right through her skin.

"Pride and Prejudice."

"Hah, not even close."

He cocked his head. "Alice in Wonderland."

"Okay, I like the unusual, but I'm not that unusual."

For the next ten minutes, he rattled off a hundred books she was sure he must have read from cover to cover back in the day.

Finally, she gave up on the question-answer drill. With a weary sigh, she plopped down next to him and eyed him critically. "It never crossed your mind? Really?"

"What, love?"

Chuckling, she was about to tell him ― until she noticed its spine on one of his shelves. Easing off the smooth leather, she quickly grabbed the book and slid right back onto her seat, dropping it on his lap.

In a flash, the glasses were back on, and he was perusing her item of choice. "The Secret Garden. How appropriate."

In the many months they had known each other, Emma had watched the countless expressions of Killian Jones. How he smiled, what each smile meant. How his gaze could sometimes glitter in anger or approval, how his visage could light up a room when he was cheerful. How his stormy side triggered her own.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, settling comfortably on the couch. "Read it to me?"

His lilting voice carved out the entrance to the enchanting storyworld she had loved since she was old enough to read, the morose landscape of the dead garden and the stubborn, curious girl who helped bring it back to life. Mary the orphan — so alone and so unloved, wanting somewhere to belong. No wonder Emma had bonded with the book instantly. A main character similar to herself was a friend come true in the midst of foster care people who couldn't care less about her.

Every time Killian reached the end of a chapter, he would glance at her, clear his throat, and move on to the next. But it was his smile that was the real mystery here, more than the locked garden and the mansion full of secrets. A bright, beautiful smile, peeking out at her, posing questions and answers.

A quarter through the book, he wrapped his arm around her, and right about the middle was when they began to doze off. Her face nose-deep in his navy blue sweater, his lips pressed into her hair. She was always so skeptical about snuggling and cuddling, but he was so warm and kind and safe, and he was here for her.

She didn't believe that his beasts were gone forever, but hey, neither were hers. Despite everything, they were here for each other. Hell, there was no way she was about to let go.

They woke up in the late evening, with sheepish grins and growling stomachs. He suggested they skip dinner and settle for hot cocoa with cookies instead.

When she slid the cinnamon bottle from the spice rack to him across the counter, he laughed. Racing to the couch, they fixated on a showing of Annie, the musical Emma had loved as a kid. Watching Killian sing along with all the characters, as gleeful as a toddler himself, made up for all the sad parts in the film. When Annie decided to stay with Daddy Warbucks, Emma hid her face in Killian's shoulder so he wouldn't see her cry.

When she came home from school the next day, he was waiting for her in the living room, book in hand, knowing smirk on his face, dinner ready on the kitchen counter. She couldn't help smiling back.

That was probably the first time she realized how much she needed to stay here.