It takes him all of five seconds to go after her. He will not let her slip through his fingers a second time.
His feet pound against the soft ground, encouraging him to go faster and faster until―
"Swan!" She keeps walking, so he keeps running. "Swan, don't do this!"
When he is finally close enough to touch her, she spins back, trying to evade him. "Killian..."
His blood boils at the sight of her tight frown. "No, lass ― I don't want excuses. I don't want for you to leave my home like you did last time, so that we couldn't even speak two words to each other for days. I want you to talk to me."
"Don't be so dramatic," she snaps, tossing her hair back and crossing her arms over her chest. "If you'll recall, you expelled me last time I came here. This time, I'm doing us both a favor―"
"A favor? You think this a favor?" He can feel himself explode. "Emma, you are running away ― again ― and you won't even tell me why!"
Her eyes, so green like the sea of grass dancing about them, become glazed and downcast in an instant. He worries she is going to cry, because the sadness that hangs over her face like a veil is overwhelming. She must truly believe―
Gently, he cups her cheek and caresses it with his thumb, brushing off wetness as he does. Her skin is so soft and warm. So alive. So quiet above the surface. But her pulse is erratic. "Why on earth," he whispers, "do you deem yourself unworthy of even friendship?"
In the midst of such deafening silence, he finally notices how her dress is flapping in the wind, her hair only secured by the bonnet she hastily put on. How small they both are in comparison to the vastness below. Above, dark clouds hurry toward each other. A storm is coming.
The way she is looking at him... He shudders. No woman has seen through him like this before. And with Milah... Even now, he's not sure if she came to him because she loved him or the kind of freedom he offered her. Emma is a different picture. She speaks her mind, and when she does not, it is because she is keeping those thoughts to herself. She is no liar.
Slowly, he starts to back away, not wanting to frighten her or push her further. He wants her to feel safe around him, not ill at ease like most people in this wretched town.
His hand withdraws from her. Suddenly, Emma grabs it, intertwining their fingers. He can't take his eyes off her.
"I'm running away because you and I... We're not that different. Not at all." Her voice is almost carried away on the wind, like chaff. It is soft and trembling and yet, so certain despite her spoken qualms about them.
Which is why Killian is completely taken by surprise when she surges forward and presses her lips against his.
His mind vaguely whispers excited approval before he gives in, slanting his mouth over hers. Dimly, he can feel how their joined hands fall apart, only for hers to curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, cradling his head, then sliding down to grab at the lapels of his shirt. His hand finds her waist, keeping her close to him, while his stump of an arm curls about her back.
For him, nothing else exists but this moment ― the moment that has occupied both his waking and most secret dreams.
What starts out as a gentle brush of their lips becomes much more. He cannot contain himself, not after she has initiated what he has wanted since the moment they met. His tongue dips out to beg for entrance to her mouth. With a low gasp, she opens, inhaling him.
His heartbeat is roaring in his ears, challenging him every step of the way. Emma tastes of rainfall and wet mornings, of warm tea and sweet honey, of sunshine and the sea, of summer grasses and lush flowers. She moans quietly when he tugs on her bottom lip with his teeth, drawing her into him again.
By God, he wants to kiss her again. And again. Until she can feel how much she is wanted and needed and bloody hell, he needs her―
"Emma." He cannot stop saying her name ― in his thoughts, in his blood, aloud. He's wanted this woman for too bloody long. So much desire should be forbidden, by all accounts.
Abruptly, she breaks away. Her lips are red and swollen, and she has a wild look about her, as if all air has been stripped from her lungs. She opens her mouth to speak, and he hopes ― oh, how he hopes in the first time for over a decade ― that she's going to say―
"This was a one-time thing." Her eyes are glossy.
In that instant, Killian finally understands what it means to have the ground pulled out from under your feet. He can hardly swallow, his throat dry and scratchy and void of words that can reach his tongue. "But..." he protests, touching his wet lips.
"No ― no. I can't do this. Not again," she cries out weakly, covering her face with her hands. "Killian, I like you, but I cannot take the chance that I'm wrong about you. Please understand me when I say that this cannot be."
"Cannot be?" He runs his hand through his hair. "It already is, Emma. I feel for you, lass―"
"Don't. Please." Sniffling, she wipes at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
He sighs deeply, searching through the pockets of his trousers. Finally, he catches the edge of his handkerchief. "Here," he offers, holding it out to her.
She is careful not to let his fingertips touch hers when she takes the cloth from him. "Always a gentleman," she murmurs, blowing her nose.
"Aye, always." The smile he forces onto his lips feels too much like a damn grimace. Perhaps it is better when they are fixed into a perpetual frown. More natural that bloody way.
They continue to stand there, she uncertain of what to do and he uncertain of what to say. All he can think of is how her lips felt against his, the sensation coursing through every inch of his body and his very bones like a bloody stroke of lightning.
All he wants is for her to change her mind and stay.
Ideally, she would decide to be his guest for dinner, he would walk her home, they would or would not repeat the day's result by way of good-night farewells, and the next day would promise such happiness anew. Of course, his life has a habit of turning in the opposite direction of what he desires.
Pulling her coat tighter around her, Emma coughs, unable to meet his gaze. Loose strands of her hair are tossed by the wind, and she shivers when it rustles her clothes. Damn it, she's getting cold, Killian rebukes himself. Then raindrops begin to fall, settling quickly into a fast drizzle. Their clothes are already getting damp from the light shower. Bloody hell. What she needs now is a warm fire and hot tea and― To be with me, his mind quarrels.
"At least come back inside and dry yourself by the fire, Emma. Wouldn't want the town's only teacher to fall ill under my care, now would I?" The joking tone of his voice belies what must surely be showing on his face, the disappointment and sadness that he always tries to hide from the rest of the world. Not so with her. She is evoking all too much in him that should remain unseen, cynic that he is.
"Come now, lass. At least trust that I don't want anything to happen to you." Tentatively, he extends his hand to her.
Instead of taking it, she returns his used handkerchief to him. Lowering her head, she crosses her arms over her chest. The rain is making the ends of her hair curl. "You still don't see it," she whispers quietly, as if to the ground itself.
His stomach plummets. "And just what," he says between gritted teeth, "do you want me to see?" He waves at the house behind him, the jutting cliff to the north, the village of Storybrooke nestled among rolling hills. "This is where we are, Emma ― who we are. I, for one, am not going to apologize for meeting you ― and liking you, by God―"
"That's just it. This doesn't have to be where I am." She rubs at her shoulders, gaze fixed on at a point in the distance. "I should be elsewhere."
If he thought his mouth was parched before, that wasn't until bloody now. "Elsewhere?" he gapes, swallowing thickly.
She smiles, but it is sad and concerned and so bloody unclear what the hell she is feeling in this moment― "Yes." Her voice wavers. "An old client...a student...has invited me. To leave Storybrooke."
"Oh? Perchance in need of your services again?" Killian clenches his jaw. It is most likely a male student, from the way her cheeks flush pink. "Let me guess: you want to accept. Because you want to escape from this damn place, as fast as your feet can bloody carry you, because...because what, Emma? Because your work here is unpromising? Or..." He licks at his lips. "Is there another reason?"
Her stare turns into a heated glare. "How presumptuous that you would dare think―"
"What should I think?" Even he can hear how defeated his tone sounds. God, he really has formed an attachment to her in such a short while. "I can see fear in your eyes, lass. It's there, now, when you look at me. I felt it before you kissed me."
She suddenly looks pained ― ashamed. "Killian, I'm―"
"No." He hangs his head, shaking it. Drops of water roll into his open mouth, wetting his lips. "No, I don't want to hear those words." Gulping down a shudder, closing his eyes, he murmurs, "When do you plan to leave?"
She bites down on her lower lip. "I hadn't decided. Yet."
She kissed him. She befriended him. Bloody hell, what a goddamn fool he is, believing that for once, someone would choose him over anything. It wouldn't be the first time. And it probably wouldn't be the last time, either.
Not Milah. Not Liam. Not their parents. Not anyone. Killian will always be second-best, in the eyes of everyone.
Despite the gulf of silence between them, he still wants to reach out to her. Despite the way she has cast off any hope of feelings or regard for him, no matter how small or fledgling they might be, he still wants her. It's not just her body ― though he would be lying if he denied his desires ― it's her. Emma Swan, looking like a lost duckling, untethered to any house or home because she has none.
Just like him. How rare is that, to find someone like yourself, someone who understands?
"So just what is all this about? You wanted a bloody taste of small town life?" Anger is rearing its head, making him see stars. "The portrait, our talks...some kind of inside joke? Did you make a bet with the townsfolk to see how far the one-handed drunk on top of the bloody cliff would come out of his shell? How far I can be pushed if offered a goddamn bone?"
It's an unfair accusation, and he knows it. But bloody hell, he's hurting and hurting and he cannot bloody stop hurting. So he is lashing out blindly ― as blind as he has been to Emma Swan's true intentions.
She never wanted to be closer to him. She never wanted anything from him. What stings the most is that it is all his own fault that he is in pain ― again.
He never learns his lesson, apparently.
Still a fool for women and their charms.
Still a fool for love.
But instead of biting back, she bursts into tears. And his heart, traitor that it is, breaks for her. How ironic that she comforted him moments before, but now she needs that reassurance like air to breathe. Around them, a light rainshower steadily becomes a solid downpour. And they are still bloody standing outside. Damn this town's fickle weather.
"Killian, no," she sobs brokenly, "of course not ― why would I ― you don't understand ― how I feel, being here. Every night, I keep seeing the things I wanted to be...to happen, but they never did. I thought getting away from it all...that it would help. But this place is too small. I can't get lost here, no matter how hard I try. Nobody wants me here either."
"It's okay to trust someone, Emma," he pleads fiercely. "You can trust me. Don't go, love. Please don't. I don't want you to leave. I want you here. I want you to stay."
Finally, hiding her eyes, she whispers through her sniffles, "I don't want to go."
He hardens his tone, desperate to make her see reason. "Then don't."
He can tell that the air is chilly by the way his breath gusts upward as white smoke, hesitating for just a second before it disappears completely. Well, that's what he gets for leaving the window open in the early dawn hours.
Fumbling between the easel and his bed, careful not to touch the wet canvas, Killian searches the desk in vain for an unused cigar. All he is able to find is some leftover tobacco, squeezed in the bottom of an old snuff box. He inhales it deeply before tossing the box into the corner of the cramped studio flat.
When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his hair is terribly disheveled and his eyes are bloodshot. His head is pounding. Too much bloody rum and an overdue tab in the Jolly Roger have created the worst headache in the world. Is it normal for his vision to be so blurred around the edges?
"Oi, be bloody quieter, would you?" he yells at the walls when someone begins to knock, the noise damn persistent and good God, so damn loud.
He abruptly flings the door open to find a windswept Milah on the other side. As she stares back at him wordlessly, he notices she's not dressed as she normally is when she comes to visit. No, today must be different, because she's come in all the finery her true status allows her ― diamond earrings, silk dress, fur cape around her shoulders, leather shoes from the finest store in town. He should know, having done enough window-shopping to last him a lifetime.
But this time, she looks exhausted, dark circles blooming under her eyes. Her lips are pursed in a frown, but he can barely notice her expression, his gaze fixed on the sight of her heaving bosom. Her usual visits always meant one thing came first and others later, so could anyone blame him for having those kind of thoughts, eh? Her beauty is always first in his mind ― no other woman can compare.
Not to mention that her cheeks are flushed and he wants to see that rouge complexion all over her body, to feel her arch into him as they share the comfort of his bed.
"What an unexpected, but very pleasant surprise, love," he drawls, one eyebrow raised. "Won't you come in and join me?"
However, instead of starting their usual liaison, she is clearly anxious. Tapping her foot against the hard floor, breathing hard, running her hands through the curls hanging loosely over her shoulders in a stylish coiffure. He wants to see them bare, to have her uncovered skin in his sights, to have her unburdened and restless in his arms―
"Is it ready ― the painting?" she asks suddenly. Her tone is icy and distant.
Deep in his gut, a sense of dread flares to life. He tries to push it away with a mask of nonchalance. "Aye, but I still need to varnish it so the pastels don't smudge in the future," he smirks. "But I was thinking on waiting and giving it a sibling portrait ― but with one major difference." He reaches for the folds of her dress, intent on making his point clear. "All of this would have to go, darling. You could leave the jewels on, though."
She doesn't laugh. No, she stiffens, visibly recoiling. He feels himself sinking, whatever perception he possesses now rising to the surface. "You're clearly drunk," she snaps, wading past him to eye the full easel. "Your humor is shot to pieces when you're drunk."
"Oi, why the foul mood, Milah?" he pouts, slinking forward to stand by her. "You always like my suggestions ― I admit, some of them were a tad foolish, but rather enjoyable nonetheless, for the both of us―"
"Killian." She sounds impatient. He ignores this.
"But that's the reason you keep coming back for more. Because unlike your spineless excuse for a husband, I'm willing to take risks. Am I right?" He licks his lips slowly, glad his shirt is open wide. "And, love, we've had so much fun already. Don't you recall the endless nights of me exploring the goddess that you are? Your head flattening my pillow because you couldn't get enough of my head between your thighs, or that time you were on your knees for me―"
"Stop it," she hisses. "Stop talking about this. If your neighbors hear you..."
"What?" he challenges. "Since when have you cared about that? You didn't enjoy it, enjoy me? On the contrary. You screamed for more. You always want more. But it's no surprise. You love what you get in my bed, as opposed to your own at home." And here they are, knifing each other over the same issue again. "And that's why I'm so goddamn confused, lass. When are you going to finally separate from him so you can be with me?"
Digging inside her crocodile skin handbag, Milah pulls out a wad of currency. "This is for the portrait ― and enough for the commission, the supplies, all of it. For everything you've done."
He grits his teeth together when she hands the money to him, the feeling of so many banknotes between his fingers weighing down his heart. Bloody hell, such a fine, hefty payment should be damn good news for him, not such desolation. "For the sex, as well, you mean?" Hurt flashes in her eyes, wide from shock. "Seeing as you want to make a clean break from your new bohemian lifestyle." He lifts up a hundred-pound note. "This is very nice. Did old Rumple pull these from his special safe just for you?"
Finally, her cool façade shatters. Milah's tight posture slumps down, and the expression on her face is the very image of wretchedness. "Killian," she sighs, covering her face with her gloved hands. "This has nothing to do with you."
His jaw clenches. "Tell me, then, what this is about, love."
"I'm afraid certain people are getting ideas. Not Rumple, but his associates. Why, Cora approached me just last night at the dinner gala ― and she never, ever speaks to me ― and asked when she should expect to be invited to our house. For a viewing of the new family portrait."
"You told her?" he accuses, though knowing it is a ridiculous idea. Milah only told her husband that she was seeking out a painter of sorts, not that she had found him.
"No, of course not ― how in God's name could you think that?" she shouts, pacing frantically across the room. "That's the thing ― she knows too much. Of course Rumple could have just told her the obvious, but I don't trust it, and I don't trust her. Cora's sly, a damn snake ― and she has history with him. She notices everything and says only what's to her benefit." Her hands are now clenched into fists. "All it could take is one choice word, and I'd be ruined!"
"But you have an excuse." He gestures at the painting. Inside, his chest constricts at the look of shame and despair on her face. He is the cause. He is her dirty secret. Damn it, he shouldn't be. She should choose him― "And besides, you said you were going to leave him anyway, so what's the worry?"
"My worry," she says bitingly, "is that he'll divorce me if he finds out the truth. And then I'd never be able to see Bae again."
Milah has professed her love for Killian many times. On her back, when he's on top of her. In the early morning hours, when dawn's breaking and the world is silent. In the heat of the night, when she sneaks into his flat and he finds inspiration in the way she smiles at him. And he believes in it. But he has always known, from the very first moment they met, that her love for him couldn't even begin to compare with her love for her son. Baelfire is why Milah has stayed with her husband all these years. However grudgingly, Killian admires her for this.
But is it really so wrong that he wants to be first and not second in her heart?
"And how is the lad these days? Still playing with his trains and ships?" He tries to keep his voice light and unaffected, though he is anything but. "You rarely speak about him anymore."
"He's doing alright. He's growing up so fast ― it's difficult to keep up with him sometimes." Her lips form a small smile for her child, clearly the apple of her eye and all that folk say about parents' attachments to their young.
Killian wonders for a passing moment what it would be like to be besotted with a woman unfettered by previous responsibilities. Then he too glances at his portrayal of the lass before him, darkly beautiful as she unclasps her cape and then removes her shawl, pausing before she strides toward the window and closes it shut. Every step she takes is confident and sure, despite her words sounding otherwise.
He wouldn't have her any other way that what she is now, complex and complicated and confusing and so bloody exasperating.
"Look... Killian, I didn't come here to argue with you. I came to..."
"To finish this?" he offers, rubbing his neck with his hand. She gnaws on her bottom lip but doesn't answer.
Instead, they both turn toward the painting, each of them seeing something different in what has been immortalized across the fabric canvas. His brushstrokes, her form. His vision, her passion.
If Milah has made up her mind to cut their acquaintance off, there is really nothing he can do. He will accept her choice. He cannot fight for her if she asks him not to.
But he wants her to choose him, to choose them. To not give up.
He just needs to show her what is at stake if she doesn't fight for them.
He's got to. Because he can't lose her.
No matter the cost.
"Doesn't look like the bloody rain's letting up anytime soon, but the light in the lantern should hold," Killian declares as he clambers through the front door. Water gets everywhere from his drenched coat ― the rug beneath his feet has a damp spot and little puddles are starting to form around where he steps. His visit to the lighthouse was necessary, he said before. Sailors always need a guide at sea, during storm or calm.
Despite her previous misgivings, Emma feels fortunate to be safe and dry in the comfort of his house. The last thing she would want is catching pneumonia because she is too stubborn to admit when someone else is right.
She sighs as he struggles to disrobe, crossing over to help him remove his outer-garments. When his hood comes off, some of his hair is clearly dripping water right into his eyes. "I should have thought to get you a dishcloth or at least a small towel," she says with a soft smile. Of their own accord, her fingers groom the soaked strands, combing them to the side.
Killian's disarray reminds her of Henry and Roland, when they would coax her into letting them play in the rain and then treacherously stay outside too long, getting their heads and feet completely wet. But then they both would smile at her afterwards, mischievous but apologetic while she scolded them. She eventually relented and got them tea with biscuits, and they had too many rounds of storytelling in front of the parlor fireplace. Robin would come home from his business affairs in town and demand why there was water all the way from the bloody doorway to the carpet. The distraught expression on his face, so worried for the fate of the rugs, made all three of them laugh. Even without the presence of Regina, the boys looked quite happy. And for once, the Lord of Locksley smiled and let out a laugh of his own.
She loves those moments. The joy they brought her is part of her most secret memories, the ones she cannot afford to forget.
Reaching back to the present, Emma notices that Killian has sucked in a deep breath, standing stock still while waiting for her next caress. She bites her lower lip and slowly drops her hand from the crown of his head. Since they have met, they have touched more than many an engaged couple ― broken the rules of propriety and distance more times than she can count ― but every time it happens again, she cannot find it in herself to care. It is as if he absolves her from the need to pretend for the world, because he wants nothing but honesty from her. Reputation, gossip... Those worries melt away and she is left with raw feelings and bare thoughts.
For a man to expect this kind of openness from a woman, even an acquaintance, is truly rare. Most men of their times prefer flattery and lies as opposed to the truth.
She grins sheepishly, ducking her head. The faint flush of his cheeks means she must have been staring at him too long. When she dares to peek at him and gauge his reaction, he is smiling at her, with such brightness in his eyes. And his lips are red. Red from the cold. Red from a kiss.
He uses his teeth to peel off the stiff leather glove on his right hand. Her mouth goes dry. "You still want to leave, don't you?" he says, smirking.
Emma is startled back to life from her fixation. "N–no," she stammers, awkwardly stepping around him. Settling on the settee in front of the fireplace, she listens for the soft padding of his feet on the floor.
The cushions dip downward next to her. "It's perfectly alright to admit it. If I had let you leave when you wanted to, you would be nestled in your house right now, warm and dry," he drawls. "Not stuck inside ― unchaperoned ― with me."
"Let? Let?" She pokes his shoulder with her finger, unable to keep the words in. He gives her a cheeky grin in return. "You didn't let me do anything. The only person who lets me choose is me. Besides," she huffs, tossing her head, "that chaperone business is nothing but nonsense. I've been alone with grown men before, and no harm came from it."
Killian wrings water from his left sleeve. As for the right, he gazes at it with evident frustration. Rolling her eyes, she just grabs at the offending cloth and takes care of the matter herself.
God almighty. She is holding his arm. In her hands. His bare arm, for the sleeve rose up when she pulled it back and her fingertips are touching soft hair and curling around sun-darkened skin and―
Damn it, he is looking at her, again, as if he wants to kiss her.
Her worry is that if he does, she would let him. Not only let him ― she would kiss him back.
It was so reckless of her to kiss him in the first place ― outrageous, forward, wrong. So many adjectives to describe why she should not have done it.
Then she sees him in front of her, the shape of his mouth, those piercing eyes... And she imagines too much, wants to know too much. Excuses turn to dust.
His face buried in the crook of her neck, teeth across her throat, lips racing upward to find her. His hand roving her body, deserting safe spaces to touch by wandering. Fingers stroking under her bodice, loosening her corset. If his tongue dipped between her breasts, she would surely die and go to hell. Because heaven forbid, she would want even more. She would fall and fall until they would tumble into his bed, or into hers. If she gives herself to him, there is no going back.
She is not a nun. She may have lived near them, grown up under their watch, but that is all. She respects their values. She is grateful for all they taught her. They gave her an upbringing that is unparalleled.
But a part of her, however rebellious the rest of her is toward the idea of marriage and love, wants. Her body wants, and her mind follows. Sometime it is the other way around.
She is not unfamiliar with those hidden stories of illicit affairs, of trysts masked by the dark of night, of stealthy visits to each other's bed. What are most romantic tales but accounts of conquest and sated lust? She had almost succumbed with Neal, but something ― call it resistance, or principles ― stopped her. Dreams of love were never hers to avoid.
The chasm between her and Killian is bridged, first and foremost, by their desire. She senses his attraction to her, as he must sense hers to him. He is a very handsome man, and yes, she feels smitten. Very smitten. It was why she kissed him ― it made her feel good. It certainly made him feel good as well, if his adoring gaze had anything to say about it.
And she needed that kiss. He needed it too.
Now he is whispering her name, over and over again, as if in prayer. But he doesn't bring up the forbidden subject of the kiss. "Where on earth did you come from, Emma Swan?" he wonders.
The way he pets her curls makes her blush. "Well, the last place I was at was an estate deep in the country. A boy and his mother lived there. Alone."
"Does this boy have a name?"
Emma bites her lip. There is also no going back from confiding in him. But she wants to. She aches to. "His name is Graham. He's at university right now."
"Ah, so that's why you left," Killian muses, stroking his chin. "This man didn't need you anymore."
She cannot stop herself from bristling at that. "No ― it's more complicated than that. Graham's mother was already ill, bedridden, when she hired me as his tutor. Her health declined even before he was finally admitted to school. It was hard for Graham to focus on his studies when his mother was so sick, but he managed. He passed his exams with top marks, and then..."
"And then?" he prompts when she doesn't continue.
"Then there was no purpose for me to stay. They sold their old house so she could be with her son in the city, and as for me... I would have to be her caretaker to stay on. They were provided for, but they couldn't afford to keep me on for nothing, you understand."
"I do. What I don't understand is why you want to go back to them." He chuckles at her surprise. "You're something of an open book, love. It's more than obvious this Graham was the one who invited you away."
"It was I," she counters fiercely, "who helped him to finish his primary studies. He said himself he couldn't have done it without me. They were like family to me, Killian ― why would I stay here if I could have that? Of course I'd go."
He heaves a sigh, glancing at the ceiling. "Aye, that is true. But you just said, lass, that it would be impossible for them to take care of you that way. Have the tides turned in your favor now?"
Even to her own ears, her voice is small and sad when she answers no.
Mother needs you more than ever, Emma. She misses you dearly ― I miss you. Come home to us. You don't need to stay in Storybrooke. He'll never find you when you're with us, I promise. You have a future here. With me.
"But that's what I want ― what I've always wanted. A home. A family. They can give me that. They love me. And I love them." She turns her face from him. He doesn't need to see how it crumples up in pain, how she holds back her anguish. He does not need to know any of that.
"They love you, and yet they let you go," he argues. He is angry and tense, like taut violin strings about to be unwound. "When you love someone, you shouldn't let go of them. The world is wrong ― you can't prove your love the opposite way." His tone softens, becomes gentle. "Why did you leave, Emma? If you were happy?"
"Because, Killian, I don't know how to stay put," she chokes out. "I keep running. I don't know how to stop. I learned a long time ago that home is a place, when you're away from it... You just miss it. I care for Graham and his mother, I miss them, but being a nursemaid wouldn't work. It's not what I am."
It's taken me so long to see it, but I know now. I'm in love with you. Emma, I love you desperately. Please come back to me.
Yours truly, Graham.
Outside, rain still falls.
Her cheeks are wet. His clothes have dried. The sun is setting, for the clouds are turning purplish gray. The food he brought is lying untouched on the low table.
Killian helplessly watches Emma cry into her shoulder, lost in herself. He gets up and walks around when it becomes too much: the lass clearly doesn't want his comfort, even if every fiber of his body yearns to give it to her.
She lets out a quiet broken sob. He sets his jaw, determined, and faces the window.
When the storm is over, he will help her find home.
But he's going to need help.