When Emma woke up that morning, she hadn't expected that by day's end, she'd be locked in a staring contest with an eight year old. She hadn't expected she'd need copious amounts of caffeine simply to reach a zombie-like state either, but that was really her own fault. She'd had a self-imposed rule since she'd started as a student teacher that forbade her from staying up past ten p.m. on the eve of a new school year, and it was a rule she'd stuck with, without fail, until last night.

The pattern had begun two weeks ago, on the drive home from Boston. A pattern she'd promised herself she'd break before it got out of hand.

"Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"

Emma smiled, if only to reassure her fiancé—that was going to take some getting used to—that she wasn't still ruffled by her parents' reactions to the news. "I'll be fine." She stood on tiptoes to deliver a peck on the lips that seemed enough to satisfy his apprehension. "Go," she said, "you'll be late. I'll call you when I get home."

He cradled her face in one hand, another display of affection that would have to last them the next four months, grazing her cheek with his thumb. "They'll come around."

"They just want to make sure we're not rushing into anything. Which I get." Emma shrugged, hoping the rise and fall of her shoulders would allay her own doubts. She would've thought her parents trusted her judgment by now—would've thought she'd trust it, too. "But you're right." She tried another smile, this one feeling slightly more natural than the last. "You did manage to win over my dad, and that's more than I can say for other boyfriends I've had."

"You don't think he was being…insincere?"

"My dad doesn't fake very well—with him, what you see is what you get. Especially when it comes to scoundrels trying to steal his daughter's heart." The smile that accompanied this tease was her most genuine of the night, and she leaned into Graham's touch, suddenly reluctant to see him leave.

He'd made quite the impression at dinner. David had tried his best to be the stern, overprotective father, but he wasn't fooling anyone. When the toasts died down and the guests settled into quiet conversations, Mary Margaret pulled Emma aside to tell her how wonderful Graham was—and handsome, to boot. But was marriage really the appropriate step right now?

Graham checked his watch and swore under his breath, something he rarely did even in the worst of moods. "I've got to go." He kissed Emma's cheek and headed for his car, parked behind hers. "Love you."

Emma waved, holding her smile until his headlights disappeared on the horizon. With a quiet sigh, she climbed into her little yellow bug, programmed the radio to a station most likely to keep her awake on the drive to Maine, and set off into the night.

Clearly this kid wasn't going to blink, but Emma couldn't surrender her stance or she'd lose all semblance of authority. She wasn't entirely sure she hadn't already.

"What time did your dad say he'd be here?"

The kid crossed his arms, unperturbed by Emma's hardened gaze.

"Is he late often?"

This question was met with a shrug.

"Do you have another parent? An uncle? Someone else who might be able to come get you?"

His demeanor, which had been what Emma could only describe as combative until this point, shifted in an instant, his young features overcome by deep sorrow. "No," he said, "it's just my dad."

Just as quickly, Emma went from wondering if it would be detrimental to a child's emotional development to have him transferred to another class after only one day to wanting to buy the kid a pony or a race car, anything just to make him smile again. Few kids could do that—in her experience, the ones who could ended up being her favorite students. Not that she'd ever admit to having favorites. But there was always that one kid, every year, who got to her. She really didn't expect that kid to be Liam Jones.

"Where does your dad work? Maybe I could give him a call."

"He builds boats."

"That sounds like fun."

Another shrug as he stared down at his shoes. "I guess."

"When he gets here, I'm gonna have to tell him what you did." Emma tried to be gentle, but there was no avoiding this part of her job. "You understand that, don't you?"

The princess cut caught her eye every time she moved her hand to a new position on the wheel, as well as every light she passed, as though it meant to taunt her. She'd scarcely reached the city limits before she'd had enough. She removed the ring Graham had given her two weeks ago, to the day, and closed it in the glovebox, finally able to breathe without its knowing stare.

"You're on the air with Doctor Hopper. Go ahead, caller."

Emma went to change the station to anything but talk radio when a second voice came over the airwaves. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"You sound a lot younger than our regular callers." Doctor Hopper laughed. "I'm a psychiatrist—do you know what a psychiatrist is?"

"I'm eight, I'm not stupid."

For the first time that night, Emma smiled without wondering if anyone could see through it.

"How can I help you?" Asked Doctor Hopper.

"My dad needs a new wife."

"Did the old one not work out?"

"My mum died."

"I'm sorry to hear that, young man."

"My name's—" A sharp beeping noise erupted from the speakers.

"No names, please. There's a reason it's called Anon Hour."

Emma made a second attempt to change the station before she got sucked into the psychobabble this guy was about to feed an innocent kid. But her hand paused mid-air when the shrink—who'd probably gotten his PhD from a cereal box—said, "How are you holding up?"

"Okay," the kid said softly.

"You know it's okay to say you're not okay…"

The kid didn't respond.

"Have you told your dad you've been feeling a bit down?"

"He doesn't want to talk about it—he'd rather pretend it didn't happen, I think."

"Do you think he might talk to me? Is he there with you?"

"Don't do it, kid," said Emma. "Hang up the phone."

A brief bit of static was followed by a muffled cry of "Dad!" And a few moments later, a deep and impossibly attractive voice said, "Hello?" There was a long period of dead air after Doctor Hopper introduced himself and explained the situation.

"Your son feels that since your wife died, you've closed yourself off to some of life's most precious gifts, the greatest of which is love."

Emma made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Don't put words in the kid's mouth."

He probably had a lecture coming his way as it was.

"I think it may be difficult for him to open up to you about his concern for your well-being."

The dad sighed. "What did you have in mind? Oi," his voice grew faint, "where do you think you're going? You started this, you're staying."

"I know this is all very painful," said Doctor Hopper in an overly sympathetic tone that made Emma cringe, "but how long ago did you lose your wife?"

"About nine months."

"Have you had many relationships in that time?"

A long pause. "Not a one."

"And why is that?"

"Why the hell do you think?" Emma asked her radio.

"Why the hell do you think?" The man echoed.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Said Hopper.

You're going to anyway.

"I doubt I could stop you."

"How do you sleep at night?"

"He doesn't," a small voice answered in the distance.

"I'm getting the sense that you're afraid to open yourself up," said Hopper, "for fear of being hurt again."

Emma scoffed. "You get paid for this?"

"But you aren't the only one suffering," the doc continued. "Your son believes you might benefit from seeking out new love, and I have to say, I agree."

"I'm sure you do. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but what my wife and I had, it…it just doesn't happen twice. I was fortunate to have found that one person I was meant to spend my life with. Turns out, 'til death do us part' came sooner than either of us could've predicted."

"It sounds like you have a very bleak outlook on life."

"Screw you," said Emma.

The dad laughed, a single humorless note. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Doctor Hopper tried to diffuse the situation, wrought with tension of his own making, and while the man on the other end of the call was hesitant, having Emma's full support for being so, the conversation eventually found an agreeable rhythm. And soon, the man was detailing every idiosyncrasy that made his late wife his perfect match.

"Meeting her had been like breathing for the first time—suddenly my life had meaning. She was the part of myself I didn't know was missing until I'd found her, and I can't imagine feeling that way about anyone else. That may sound tragic—or bleak—to you, and maybe it is, but it makes it all the more special, doesn't it? Knowing that for a short while, I experienced true happiness. Fleeting and unparalleled and never to be repeated. I consider myself a lucky man, Mr. Hopper, simply for the privilege of having known her. My son and I will find our way through this, together, but marrying someone for the sake of filling an unfillable void isn't the answer."

Emma was parked outside a 24-hour diner before she realized she'd stopped. Only when the program ended, Doctor Hopper asking the man he'd dubbed Sleepless in Storybrooke to follow up and let them know if his search yielded any results, did she take in her surroundings, and the rumbling in her stomach.

She shook her head as she pulled her key from the ignition and pocketed her phone. "Didn't hear a word he'd said."

She was seated in a booth, reading over a grease-stained menu when the name finally registered. Storybrooke.

It was one of the most popular Anon Hours they'd ever had, and the station had replayed it at least twice since its first airing—once as part of their "best of" segment. Emma may have recorded it using a cassette she'd found in the boxes Graham had stored in the attic, along with the near-antique radio her dad had given her.

"Should fit in just fine with Storybrooke's advanced technology," he'd said with a hearty laugh. The one her mom called classic David.

And she may have listened to it a few times during the last weeks of summer, justifying her interest with rationalizations even she wasn't buying: the house was too quiet with Graham away on business, and listening to the same program on repeat made it feel less empty. She hadn't slept alone in years, and she needed something to counteract her tossing and turning. She thought she'd seen a shadow creep past the mirror—just the thought of that last one had sufficiently frightened her to the point that she'd turned on every light she could find, including the TVs.

But she knew the truth, even if she refused to acknowledge it. She had a crush on a voice. It'd gotten to the point where she found herself on alert for it when she went about her errands in town—waiting in line at the grocery store, grabbing a morning coffee at Granny's…

She was pretty sure she'd passed the first stages of becoming a stalker.

"All right, kid," she said to Liam when the clock struck four. "Looks like I'll be taking you home."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"In extreme cases."

"Does an hour count as extreme?"

Emma arched her brow. "You want a ride or not?"

Liam mumbled, "Yes, Ma'am."

Just as the kid slung his book bag over his shoulder, the door opened and a man, whom Emma assumed was the one they'd been waiting for, entered. He had dark hair and blue eyes and pulled off a plaid shirt like no one she'd ever seen. The sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows and the exposed skin was dusted with light blond specs.

"Sorry I'm late," he said in a deep and impossibly attractive voice—

Emma swallowed a gasp as the familiar sound tickled her ears. The sound that'd lulled her to sleep for weeks.

He looked as dumbstruck as she felt. "Are you…Miss Swan?"

"Emma," she said, amazed at her ability to maintain eye contact when all she wanted to do was crawl under a rock and hide—if he knew the things she'd thought about him when all she'd had to go on was a voice…

It was just…people didn't talk that way anymore—not the people she knew. Especially not the men who'd claimed undying affection for her. Not even Graham. She'd never realized how much it bothered her that he only ever said, "Love you," and what a drastic difference the "I" really made.

It didn't matter. Her weird obsession needed to stop.

"You must be Liam's dad."

"Killian." He held out his hand and Emma accepted, nearly jumping back at the tingle running up her arm, like a jolt, or a spark…

Like…

"Magic."

"You can't be serious." Emma gave her mom a strange look. "You don't really believe in that stuff, do you?"

Mary Margaret shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah? I mean, not the whole 'hocus pocus, abracadabra' thing, but you know that spark you get when you meet someone new?"

Emma's expression answered for her.

"Oh, honey, you don't know what you're missing. Like when I met your father—after one touch, I just knew."

"How is that possible? You didn't know anything about him—he could've been a serial killer."

Mary Margaret laughed. "Where you got your cynicism, I'll never know." She cupped Emma's face in both hands and kissed her forehead, like she was prone to do during the more momentous occasions in her daughter's life—first dance recital, first prom, graduations. "I hope you don't settle for simply good enough. I hope you hold out for the spark, because you, more than anyone I know, deserve a little magic."

"He wasn't any trouble, was he?"

"Hm?" Emma returned to the present to discover her hand still clutched firmly in Killian's, a detail she promptly remedied. "He was…" Emma looked at Liam, who waited with wide eyes at his father's side. "He was the model of good behavior."

Killian's gaze drifted to his miniature doppelganger, seeming skeptical, but he didn't press the matter. "Well, it was nice to meet you…Emma."

Emma smiled. "It was nice meeting you, too." When Killian turned toward the exit, she mouthed to his son, "You owe me one," to which the kid's response was to wink.

The little shit.

—

For the next week, Liam Jones was the perfect angel, and it had Emma wondering if that first day had been due to the stress of starting a new school, in a new town, or if his dad had known she was lying on the kid's behalf and had talked with him.

At the end of every day, Liam conducted what was feeling more and more like a job interview while they waited for his dad to pick him up. It'd started out innocently enough—"What's your favorite color, flavor of ice cream, sports team?" But it quickly evolved into, "Where do you see yourself in five years and when did you first realize you wanted to mold the minds of tomorrow?"

That afternoon was no different. He approached her desk after all the other students had gone, this time employing flattery as a means of extracting information.

"Great lesson today, Miss Swan. I wish more of my teachers back home had been like you."

"All right, kid, out with it."

"Out with…what?" He picked at the corner of her desk, not meeting her eye.

"What's your angle?"

"Angle?"

He looked up to find Emma wearing an expression that warned him against playing dumb. "What do you want? There's got to be a reason for all these cryptic questions."

"I…" he was back to chipping away the finish, scrunching up half his face until one eye closed, "…want you to marry my dad."