Emma still hasn't replied. Frowning, Killian pushes his phone back into his pocket as Robin arrives at their table with two fresh pints.

"Problem?" he asks as he reclaims his seat. Killian shakes his head, his eyes returning to the game of rugby on the bar's big screen.

"Just this bloody game - I was looking forward to a pint while watching the match live and now we're getting thrashed."

Robin smirks, "Let's just be thankful for time zones and games played on the other side of the planet."

Killian nods, lifting his glass to his friend and then taking a sip.

"So, you all set for tomorrow?"

Smiling, Killian sets down his drink. "Aye."

"So things are getting serious between you two…" Robin probes further, "You've just not said very much about her recently."

"Serious? I don't know. We're trying to take things slow," he admits, shrugging lightly.

"But…."

Always one to keep his cards close to his chest, Killian squirms a little under his friend's scrutiny.

"Mate, she's not Milah…" Robin continues, until Killian meets his gaze.

"I know."

Turning back to the game, Robin scowled, "That woman really did a number on you."

"Look, you know me," Killian explained, "I don't do monogamy very well."

"Be careful, mate, or you'll end up like me and Regina."

"Oh, how so?"

Robin sets down his pint and smiles sadly.

"We're both so used to being alone... that as appealing as being together is, it's not that easy."

"You two are completely different from Emma and me."

"So there is an Emma and you," Robin teases, folding his arms triumphantly.

Killian gives him a scathing glance, finally breaking into a small smile. "What I mean is, I'm trying. I think she's worth it."

Robin gives him a smile that he just can't work out, though his temptation to ask more is overridden by the creeping worry that he could jinx this. Everything was still so new and fragile and they really hadn't talked about where they saw things going.

"Good," Robin finally says, picking up his pint.

And with Robin clearly sensing that the subject is now off limits, Killian doesn't mention Emma again during the game.

Not that he can stop thinking of her.

/

"Mom!"

Emma sighs and turns over in bed. She glances at the clock. It's seven pm.

"Mom! You have a visitor!"

She groans, her mouth is dry and her eyes aching. She pushes back her comforter and replies, "You know I'm sick, Henry."

Standing, she glances at her dressing table mirror. Her pajamas are wrinkled and her hair has all but escaped the ponytail she had assembled that morning. Her room is dark, but she knows without further inspection that her eyes are puffy and pink.

Once at the door, she opens it and calls downstairs, "Who is it?"

"It's Mr. Jones, Mom."

"Crap," she mutters, instantly moving to smooth back her hair and dampen her lips with her tongue. At the same time, chastising herself because shouldn't she not care what this guy thinks? Isn't she mad at him right now? Or something like that.

Before she can think any further, she can hear the stairs creaking and the front door closing. Then, Killian appears on the staircase landing, wrapped up in his navy blue pea coat and grey checkered scarf; the one she said she had liked on their last date.

"I hope you don't mind," he begins, holding up a paper bag, "I was at the deli so I took a chance that your cold wasn't contagious, and brought you some chicken soup."

In all truth, she's lost for words. When she had cancelled their weekend date she'd hoped her lie about being sick would buy her some time. Turns out, a restless night's sleep was no use at clearing the mind. If anything, she felt worse.

"Oh…"

She bites her lips again, clinging to the door handle, desperately trying to think of something to say but failing miserably.

"How about I go get some silverware and a tray for you?"

"Okay," she nods, her head pounding as she slips back into the darkness of her room, flicking on the bedside lamp.

It seems like only seconds later when he was back. She's sitting on her bed when he peeks into her room.

"Hey," he smiles as he brings the tray he has made over to the bed. He's taken off his coat and underneath he is wearing a pale blue shirt over a white t-shirt. Unfortunately he looks as handsome as ever, and it just makes her stomach churn harder.

After setting the tray down, he tentatively sits next to her on the bed. This is the first time he has been in her bedroom. She's not been in his either. It was a line they had been yet to cross after they had decided to take things slow.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asks, as he pushes the tray towards her. The chicken soup does smell delicious. There is also a fresh bread roll, a glass of water and a small bottle of orange juice. "These things always make me feel better when I'm sick," he explains.

Emma shrugs. She pulls the tray over her outstretched legs. A second later Killian is reaching over and settling another pillow behind her back so she is sitting more comfortably. "Thanks," she says meekly.

The silence that passes next can only be described as awkward. Emma takes a few spoonfuls of the soup into her mouth before taking a sip of water. She tries to relax a little, but she knows he can sense something is off.

And finally he calls her on it.

"Is everything okay, love?"

She licks her lips again. At this rate they will be red raw in the morning. She shrugs again and Killian's response is to frown.

"I can go…" he begins. Emma sighs and puts down the spoon. She purses her lips and meets his eyes. "Emma, have I done something wrong?"

Now is the moment. Of course, she could lie and say she is tired and ask him to leave- but that would just be delaying matters.

"Don't," she finally replies.

He looks so confused, she almost feels sympathy for him. Almost.

"I thought when we talked, before, that we were being honest with each other. We both have a past, but that's okay."

Killian nods, small frown lines appearing above the bridge of his nose. "Aye."

There are conflicting urges to draw the story out, to make him wait, or to just get to the point. The sickening feeling in her gut pushes her towards the latter.

"I know about the bet, Killian."

The color drains from his face. Any semblance of lightheartedness in his features is quickly gone. His lashes begin to flutter, but he doesn't speak.

"And I don't even know what to say to you," she continues, lying back against the headrest of her bed, eyes flickering up to the ceiling. "I don't know what to think, or how to act…"

"Are you mad?" he asks, almost breathlessly, almost like he is scared of the answer.

She hesitates.

Because the truth is, she isn't. But she doesn't want him to know that. She knows a rational woman should be mad and angry and pushing him away.

That's what she should do, right?

Instead, she is confused.

"I don't know," she responds, sliding back the tray and drawing her feet under herself. "I don't know how I should feel."

Killian shifts where he is sitting. He crosses his legs and his free-hanging foot begins to tap an uneven rhythm. "I don't know what to say," he admits. Emma is almost tempted to laugh.

The next words slip out without thought, "You've made me feel cheap, Killian." She pushes her face into her hands. "Part of me wants to walk away. I don't need this. It's been just me and Henry for so long now, it doesn't have to change."

It doesn't, she tells herself again. So she has had a glimpse of something more, so what? She and Henry were fine, just the two of them. Just fine.

"I understand," Killian whispers, but he doesn't move to stand. "But," he continues, "May I explain myself? It's the least you deserve."

Emma shrugs and pushes a hand through her hair, pulling out the useless hair tie and tossing it on the floor.

He takes that as permission to continue.

"I know this looks bad. God, I'm kicking myself for not being honest earlier. But, damn, I didn't know how to tell you without it coming across as crass and childish-"

"Which it was," Emma interrupts, the fury that she had expected this news to cause, finally sparking within her. "God, Killian, I thought you were thirty-something, not thirteen! I thought I was past the age of having to deal with childish crap!"

She stares at him, eyes burning for a second. She can see, in his own eyes, his shame. It's visible in the way they flicker as she speaks: the subtle change in shade from pale to steely-grey blue.

Killian winces, nodding sadly. "I deserve that," he mutters, sighing deeply. "I have lived rather childishly, Emma. For a long time that affected none apart from myself. I never meant to hurt anyone, hurt you, in the process. For so long I've only ever had to think of myself."

"But you did," she whispers. She tilts her head and meets his eyes once more. They are glazed now; shimmering as if with the onset of tears.

"And I will forever regret being so stupid. Robin and I…it was just us being guys. Not thinking. I never thought that you and I would…that we would…"

His lips move wordlessly. He feels as unable to name what they have as she does, Emma realizes. It's so unexpected and new and strange that labels have escaped them.

"As soon as I realized," he swallows, "That I was developing feelings for you, I called it off. I promise."

It smarts. The lies. The betrayal. Though she knows he didn't know her or what they would be when the whole thing started, she can't help but still ache.

"I feel like this is all based on a lie."

"Oh Emma," he sighs, his eyes slipping closed, "Fuck, I'm an idiot."

"You are."

The words hang heavily in the air.

"I guess I should go." Killian stands, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he does. Her heart jumps a little. The pain on his face is a perfect reflection of her own current state. She wants to reach out and curl her fingers in the cotton of his shirt, to pull him close and kiss him and soothe him-

Emma scrunches her eyes together. "Wait," she says, despite herself.

When she reopens her eyelids, he's looking at her expectantly.

"I don't like regrets, Killian. Don't make me regret this - regret you."

He takes the few steps back to the bed quickly, reaching out a hand to brush against her cheek. Flickering her eyelids closed, Emma turns her head into his touch, his fingers warm and gentle and more comforting than they ought to be.

"Can I tell you a story?" he asks.

Tentatively, she nods and he settles back on the bed, this time much closer. He takes the tray and places it on the floor.

"Once there was a lad who thought he knew everything. He had a good job, a nice flat, great mates. Then he met a woman. She was older and, frankly, she dazzled him. By the time he knew she was married he was in too deep to get out-"

"Killian-" Emma begins, placing her hand on his arm. He shakes his head and continues.

"Of course, her husband found out. She promised to leave him. Our lad believed her. He pulled away from his mates, gave up everything for her. But her husband was wealthy and eventually she tired of her bit on the side."

"And the lad?" she asks.

"He learned his lesson. And for a long time, women to him were merely a pastime. And that led him to make some less than wise decisions."

"When you've been hurt, you do all you can to prevent it from happening again."

"You speak like someone who has experience in these matters."

"Yeah, you could say that."

A sudden urge to move means Emma is sliding onto her feet before she has time to think. She walks over to her vanity and picks up her hair brush, running it through her tresses as she turns back to face him.

"It doesn't excuse your behavior, you know. Your past."

"I know."

She sits on her dressing table stool, her knees pressed together with her hands between her thighs. She hadn't intended on sharing her sad tales with him so early, but it seemed the right time to let him know.

"I met Henry's father when I was too young to know better. He didn't even hang around long enough to find out he was going to be a father."

"That must have been difficult."

"Yeah well," she begins with a dismissive wave of his hand, "It's in the past. I learned from my mistakes." She looks him in the eye. "My trust is hard earned, Killian. And easily lost. I wish I could shake away my past, but I am who I am."

"I never intended to lie to you Emma. I mean," he stands and walks towards her, "I didn't know what I was getting into when you first came into my life. The very last thing I want to do is have caused you pain. Fact is, you are the first woman who I've even considered opening up to in a very long time."

He's close enough to kiss. And, damn, she wants to. For all the hurt and confusion she has felt in the last 24 hours, she can't deny the pull he has on her heart. But it's too soon and she needs to set boundaries. The walls around her heart are fragile, and if they are damaged so soon, he may never be able to truly conquer them.

And she realises just now how much she wants him to.

Emma bites her lip, just as her stomach grumbles loudly. The two look at each other and a smile passes between them. "I guess I am hungry…"

Killian brings the discarded tray back to the bed and Emma sits again.

A few spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup later, and she feels less anxious. The warming broth soothes her nerves; the action of eating allowing her time to think and digest what has been said.

"So…" he mutters hesitantly as she finishes the last of the soup.

He seems a little nervous - scratching self consciously behind her ear and giving her that half smile that she's beginning to learn he uses he is unsure of himself. If she's honest, she feels the same too. Right now, she can't think what else should be said. She knows, in spite of everything, she can't just push him away. They are different in many ways, but there is a symmetry to their lives that she can't deny. And it's worth a chance.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" she asks, "I mean, it's not as exciting as a jazz festival…"

"I'd love to," he sighs and she can read the relief on his features. She pats the other side of the bed as he toes off his shoes. He sits, a little stiffly at first, as she grabs the remote from her bedside table.

"Wanna see what's on Netflix?"

He nods and she presses on the TV remote.

She knows their conversation isn't over. But for the moment, that's okay.

/

One movie had turned into two. Easy talk passing between them, their earlier conversation preying on his mind but the worry lessening as they fall back into the easy exchanges that have highlighted their dates so far. Though they each steadfastly remain on 'their' sides of the bed (and him above the covers) they gradually slip closer towards each other.

There's an unspoken agreement that more needs to be said, but now isn't the time. Gradually, she grows more tired. He watches her eyes flicker closed and her body soften.

He knows things are still unsettled. Maybe tonight is a fluke. Perhaps he has blown it.

But as he watches her drift off to sleep, he holds onto a kernel of hope. She hasn't made him leave. She listened to what he had to say.

Reaching over her, he takes the remote and turns off the TV. For a moment, he considers leaving. He isn't quite sure how she will react if she stays.

He watches her sleep in the half-light of a suburban night, until he himself succumbs to the night.

A/N Thank you for all your lovely feedback and reviews! It is appreciated more than you can imagine!