Author's Note: A massive thank you to everyone who expressed their excitement at this story coming back! It means so much more to me than I can say :)


Some Sort of Neighborly

Chapter 5

Killian's eyes snap into focus just in time for him to dodge the flick aimed squarely between his brows.

"Oh good, you're still conscious," Robin says, his voice bored, unconcerned with how Killian's evasive maneuver nearly causes him to stumble on the front steps of the apartment building.

"What the buggering fuck was that for?"

"I knew you weren't listening to me. I said we need to stop by Emma's to pick up Roland."

A distinct lurch passes through his abdomen, and he forces his face to stay passive. "Why does that bear need for an announcement? Is this a full-scale extraction or can you just pop in and grab him without being a prick?"

"Jesus, okay. Sorry." Robin narrows his eyes, digging through his pockets for the building key card, but Killian can't bring himself to feel guilty. "Just thought you'd jump at a legitimate excuse to see her."

"I haven't the slightest why," Killian says flatly, but instead of the rush of adrenaline he's grown accustomed to when it comes to discussing his friend's neighbor, trepidation settles in his bones like a solid weight.

"Clearly," Robin mutters, and Killian doesn't even have it in him to argue further because, if the last two weeks have been any indication, it really is the truth.

And all it takes is the memory of an innocuous little engagement ring for him to accept that he really is the only one to blame.

He'd spent the first few days after that disastrous afternoon faulting Robin and his awful timing – for knocking on Emma's door right as he'd turned to her and her completely ashen face, the image of the ring on her finger plastered across his vision and pounding his heartbeat into his skull. He'd tried to say something then, he really had, but the window of opportunity had blinked away as soon as she'd hurried to the door and retrieved his guitar from his very disgruntled-looking friend.

He'd barely gotten out three words on his way out – Swan, I'm sorry— – before she'd shut him down.

It's fine, Killian, she'd said, but in the few seconds she'd been turned around, she'd schooled her expression into a perfect blend of embarrassment and sheepishness he'd instantly known was a sham. It's not like it was a secret or anything. He remembers still trying, though, stumbling through half-formed apologies that she'd deflected in a heartbeat, but the thing that sticks with him most is the way her smile had looked as she'd finally closed the door – tense, guarded, and more closed-off than the day he'd first blinked up at her from her couch.

It had taken until the Wednesday afterwards when he'd cancelled on dinner at Robin's, citing an excuse as flimsy as Emma's sick defense, that he'd finally admitted to himself that he was avoiding her after that horrifying faux pas.

Bloody hell. If it'd been anything but an engagement ring, he would have bounced back like a champion – the sight of Emma lip-locked with another man might have bothered him, but at least it wouldn't have been muddled with the image of her holding up the ring but with chestnut hair instead of blonde.

He thinks of Milah in the first time in weeks. And, to his surprise, it doesn't come with an overwhelming urge to break out the drink and drown himself in bitterness.

But, he soon realizes: that's the problem.

"So do you want to wait out here?" Robin's voice startles him into taking in the door to apartment 3B, suddenly right in front of him, and Killian realizes he's zoned out through two flights of stairs. "Or are you going to be a big boy and come inside to say hello?"

"I say hello to Emma all the time," he says, aware that he sounds like a petulant child to the point that even Robin knows it, throwing him a look as he raps his knuckles against the wood.

"Not to Emma. Her friend is one of the teachers at Roland's school, and she volunteered to take him home so I could help you fix your heater."

This is a mildly interesting revelation, but he's more surprised by the sandy-haired man who opens the door instead of one of the few people he actually knows in Emma's life enough to expect. He has no right, no fucking right to be jealous, but, perhaps in part due to the circumstances of the last time he'd seen her, the bubble of curiosity turns into suspicion before he can help it.

"One of you must be Robin," the man says with an easy smile. "Mary Margaret said we'd be expecting you."

"Guilty as charged." Robin clasps his hand in a firm handshake before the stranger turns to Killian.

"Killian," he says, trying his best not to sound sullen as he takes the proffered handshake.

"I'm David, Mary Margaret's fiancé, Emma's friend," David explains as he gestures them inside, which of course makes Killian feel immensely ridiculous. "Hope you don't mind that your son had a few more sitters than expected."

It's then that Killian notices just how many people are crammed into Emma's tiny sitting room. Roland he spots right away, feet swinging over the edge of the couch on the far wall, crayon in hand while happily chattering away to the short-haired brunette sitting next to him. Ruby catches his eye in the loveseat, grins over the arm of the blonde man wrapped around her shoulders, and he's suddenly wary of exactly how much she knows about the last time he'd visited this apartment.

It's Emma he's most worried about, though – and, true to that, she looks almost started to see him over the kitchen counter, halfway through the motion of settling a mug into the dish rack.

Her long hair swept off of her shoulders, lashes quivering as she blinks, taking him in, she's certainly a sight for sore, wanting eyes. But then, in a flash, she rearranges her expression, her parted lips lending themselves to a tentative smile, and it stings that he knows that isn't how her smiles – hard-earned, sometimes reluctant, but brilliant all the same – should feel.

They shouldn't feel as empty as his chest does from seeing this one now.

"Daddy!" Roland's delighted cry jolts him back into the room, though Killian doesn't miss the way Emma seems to jerk to attention as well, even as he turns to watch a mousey-haired blur slam into Robin's legs.

"Hey, buddy." His friend crouches down, equipped, as always, with that same dopey grin he'd seemingly acquired the second he entered fatherhood. "Hope you were good today for Miss Blanchard." Roland squeals in response to the tickle attack hello, his favorite way of greeting.

"Oh, please," says a bright voice, and Killian blinks up at the petite brunette sidling across the room, weaving a careful path between the furniture; it takes him a second to realize that's due to the tiny baby bump she has tucked beneath her palms. "I find it hard to believe Roland's ever misbehaved in his life." When she reaches them at the foyer, she shares a smile with Robin, then ambushes him with a warm hand outstretched. "Hi! I don't believe we've met."

"Er." Killian has to resist the urge to scratch behind his ear – that silly nervous tic he's never quite been able to purge – even as he covers her fingers with his own. These are possibly some of the worst circumstances in which he might be fortunate enough to meet so many of Emma's friends (read: while he's caught off-guard and under the scrutiny of every single one of them, not to mention his oldest), and, without his permission, his gaze flits back to the kitchen before it regains focus. "Right," he says hesitantly. "I—"

"But my ice cream, Daddy!"

Back on the ground, Roland seems to be having trouble using his inside voice (which is a term Killian isn't proud to say he's become far too familiar with over the years), despite Robin's best efforts. "What ice cream?"

"Oh!" The woman he assumes, if only by common sense, is Mary Margaret tugs her hand away as she recoils, grimacing. "I'm so sorry, Robin; I should have checked if it was okay with you." She appears to glance at her fiancé hovering nearby for support before she speaks again, sounding exceptionally guilty. "We weren't sure when you were going to get here, and I didn't want Roland to get hungry, so…"

"If I leave, it'll melt!" Roland tugs his father by the wrist, back towards the couch and his crayons. Robin shakes his head at his son, but his smile is kind and reassuring.

"Please, don't worry about it," he tells Mary Margaret, then to Roland: "Come now, Roland. Let's not be rude when Miss Blanchard's already been so accommodating."

Mary Margaret shakes her head with an earnestness that Killian suspects might make her some kind of Disney princess. "It's no trouble at all," she insists. "You're welcome to stay and finish your ice cream, if you'd like."

"Why don't you just stay for dinner?" Ruby's voice interrupts from the couch, and his head snaps up in response almost as quickly, nearly giving him whiplash.

To say he knows Ruby would be a vast overstatement, as he's pretty sure recognizing her from Granny's doesn't count, but, somehow, the red smirk stretching her mouth wide (and reminding him distinctly of the Cheshire cat) doesn't seem too out-of-place, albeit worrisome all the same. Neither does Emma's reaction, to be honest, which resembles something akin to consternation – certainly reasonable, given the eagerness of her friends to so freely loan out her apartment, but he suspects that's not the only reason when their gazes meet yet again.

"No, no," Robin says, trying valiantly to restrain his son's excited agreement. "We shouldn't intrude." Killian clears his throat, intending to add his own protest to that, but he doesn't get very far.

"It isn't a big deal," Ruby presses. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots another glare from the kitchen. "We were just about to call in an order for pick-up, actually."

"Really, we'd love you have you," Mary Margaret agrees. "You too, Killian," she adds, nodding at him with a smile.

In return, he can only blink haplessly at her, then over her shoulder to where Emma stands, then down at his friend. Robin spares him a half-shrug, and there isn't a doubt in Killian's mind that he thinks he's doing him a favor when he says, "I guess there's no reason we can't."

And, well, so it goes.

Dinner at Emma's: that's a thought he'd have probably enjoyed a bit more had he not just spent the last two weeks avoiding her.

At least, barring the obvious, they settle in with a lot less awkwardness than he feels. Roland resumes his place on the couch, ice cream in hand despite warnings of a ruined appetite, and after Killian formally meets the rest of the crowded room – Mary Margaret, of course, along with Ruby, smug as ever, and her boyfriend Victor – he's relieved to say that they're comprised of enough people who enjoy arguing with each other so much that his discomfort nearly fades into background noise the moment they decide to place their order and the room descends into chaos.

(Nearly, needless to say, being the key word here, once the topic turns to desserts and whether or not Granny's apple pie bakes are worth the extra wait.

"We don't need apple pie," insists Mary Margaret, in what Killian assumes is either a pregnancy-related drive for healthy eating habits, or lingering guilt for giving Roland ice cream before dinner, until she speaks again. "I hear Robin makes a mean chocolate chip cookie."

"What?" Robin asks, like a deer caught in headlights, before Killian grasps her meaning.

"The bake sale," he murmurs.

"I had a few of the ones you gave Emma," Mary Margaret explains, to a lovely scowl from the woman in question. "Now I wish I'd stopped by to buy the lot."

"Oh." Robin seems vaguely pleased, as though the idiot hadn't had a thousand parents tell him the same exact thing. "I had a lot of help, though. Emma lent her afternoon to help. As did Killian."

Ruby sits up in her shared seat with Victor. "Oh? And when exactly was this?"

"It was just a few cookies," Emma mutters – the first thing he's heard her say all day, and he isn't sure if that's the reason something in his chest jerks, or if it's because he's suddenly remembering the burn of a freshly-baked snickerdoodle in his hand, and the even hotter burn of her slight hand wrapped around his wrist as she brought it to her mouth.

"All afternoon?" David says skeptically. Killian keeps his mouth firmly zipped shut, but he does watch Emma throw a withering look over at her friend, her hands clasping together in her lap like she's trying to restrain herself from going over and killing him.

"Seems like an awfully long time to traumatize this poor guy with your bickering," Ruby adds, cocking her head towards a blissfully unaware Roland on the opposite couch.

"Bickering?"

"She means flirting," Victor says in a deadpan.

"They're talking about you, mate," Killian says quickly, and gives Robin a nudge with his shoulder, despite the fact that he's positive they really aren't. "I'd forgotten how much worse you and Regina are when you hate each other."

Robin reddens, spluttering. "What the hell are you on about?"

"Oh, right. You seem to be mending those bridges pretty thoroughly, aren't you?"

"There's no— there's nothing going on between me and Regina." A blatant lie, but Killian isn't sure how much of the truth he wants to know, to be honest.

"You shouldn't doubt the bond a good cookie-baking adventure can form," Mary Margaret tells Robin seriously, her eyes twinkling with sugary wisdom.

"Ugh, we don't need this story again," Ruby groans. "Between your love story and this ice cream, I'm going to get a cavity."

It's likely he'll get hell for all of this later, but for now, Killian only casts a furtive glance over to where Emma sits – and he can't suppress the swell of delight that ripples through him at the fact that she seems to be watching him, too, a hint of an appreciative smile playing at the edge of her pink mouth. But then she seems to catch herself, and just like her eyes on his face, it's gone in a flash.)

When it comes time to pick up their order, however, he stems the flow of squabbling before it can even begin. Although he doesn't think it's gotten quite cold enough for anyone to be complaining about a walk around the corner and back, he hadn't needed to step foot in Emma's apartment for more than a minute to know that even a tiny reprieve of fresh air could do him some good.

He's in for a long night, to be sure, and there's no doubt he needs to get his woes tampered down away from it all while he has the chance.

(If he also needs some time to gather all of his strength to will his eyes from pointedly drifting, well, no one needs to know that either.)

What he doesn't expect is for David to offer to accompany him.

It's a nice enough gesture, given the sheer volume of food in their order (Ruby had insisted everything would be on the house, courtesy of blatant nepotism), but the frown he spots on Emma's face has his caution prickling before they even leave the building. Though David had seemed pretty friendly, and Killian thinks he'd have to be to be engaged to someone as nice as Mary Margaret, sure enough, he appears to sober up the moment they set foot out on the street.

Killian isn't sure whether the silence is meant to be gruff or companionable.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, playing with a loose piece of lint as they set a brisk pace down the sidewalk towards Granny's. Best to at least attempt grasping onto the latter. "Thanks for inviting us to stay for dinner."

"Of course."

Killian glances over out of the corner of his eye, though the other man doesn't even seem to notice. He frowns, trying again. "I suppose I should be offering my belated congratulations to you and Mary Margaret."

David's brows furrow. "Sorry?"

"You're, er, engaged, right?"

"Oh." His head gives a little shake, as if to clear it. "Right. Thanks."

"Do you… have a date set for the wedding yet?"

"Sometime next spring," David says, then turns to him with a strange expression. "She'll probably invite you, by the way."

It takes him a split-second longer than it should for him to realize he's not talking about Emma. "Mary Margaret?" He snorts, shaking his head. "She barely knows me. It's quite all right."

"Not a prerequisite," David tells him with a shrug. "She'd probably invite half the city if she knew their names."

Their names. His heart skittering before he can even begin to process why, Killian's mind flickers back to the apartment, when she'd offered her hand in an introduction that had been prematurely aborted. He knew there was a reason his name had sounded so strange on her tongue. "I… that might make venue-hunting a tad difficult."

David chuckles. "You're telling me. It's already a disaster."

It's the kind of opening he'd wanted, but he doesn't take it. He swears Mary Margaret had called him Killian, and he doubts she'd heard his mumbled greeting to David from the doorway – but if she'd already known his name, doesn't that mean she'd had to have heard it somewhere before?

Or, more specifically, from someone before?

"Hey," David says suddenly. "Can I ask you something a little weird?"

The question alone would have been enough of an ominous start, so the unreadable look that still clouds his face is just the icing on the cake. Killian clears his throat. "I'm afraid even my remarkable prowess at wedding planning can't help your fiancée's affinity for strangers, mate," he starts to say, but he barely gets two words out before David rushes on, as if adamant to get it all out before he hears an outright refusal.

"Do you have feelings for Emma?"


"God damn, what is taking them so long?" Ruby sighs, her feet dangling over the top of the sofa as she flips through the television channels upside-down. Steadfastly ignoring the look of adoration Victor is sending in his girlfriend's direction, Emma glances at the clock and is inclined to agree. It's never taken her more than five minutes to get to Granny's – in the winter, when she's cold and craving chicken noodle soup like nobody's business, she sometimes makes it there and back in the same amount of time – but it's been nearly twenty minutes since Killian left with David (the apple bake motion had been vetoed, so no chance of a delay on that front), and she tries not to think about how that thought makes her nervous for a whole different slew of reasons.

It just crosses her mind that maybe she should have gone with Killian instead – not for anything but to avoid being cooped up with a pair a lovebirds, a father trying to calm his fussy kid, and a hungry pregnant woman, of course, because what other reason might there be? – when her door bursts open, heralding the most welcoming sight her grumbling belly has ever seen. And not in the metaphorical way, either.

"Oh, thank goodness," Mary Margaret exclaims, rising to assist her husband with the towering stack of paper bags in his arms. It's mostly knee-jerk instinct that forces Emma after her, born of an aversion to being unhelpful in her own apartment, so she doesn't quite realize what she's doing until she's already at the doorway.

That, of course, means she has almost no time at all to steel herself.

Killian's cheeks are tinged pink, his fingers cold when they brush against hers, relinquishing half of his own load of delicious-smelling food. It has to be the scent of grease that makes her stomach knot in on itself before she can even take a step back.

"Thanks," he mumbles, but takes him a moment longer than it should to meet her gaze, a steady smile on his face.

She tries to smile back. The corners of her mouth feel stiff. "Hold-up at Granny's?" she asks quietly, ignoring the way the room is bursting to life behind her. She swears, she's never had this many people over at once before, and it's weird, and different, but not in a bad way – especially when she's trying to have a private conversation (though the thought of singling out Killian while her friends bustle around them makes her insides flip with apprehension).

"Something like that," he agrees. Her internal alarm registers a faint ping, but then Ruby's wrapping an arm around her shoulders and dragging her to the kitchen, singing something about parmesan truffle fries, and the thought flies right out of her mind.

Nothing's wrong, she tells herself. It's not an unfamiliar thought to accompany the circumstances, but it's an uneasy lie all the same. Nothing's wrong.

Because, really, what is there for her to complain about? There had once been a time when the idea of being surrounded by friends and food – and in an apartment all her own, no less – would have been completely foreign to her, and if she's struggling to assign that label to the man who had somehow guessed all of that without even trying, the man she hasn't been able to put out of her thoughts since… that last time, well, that's on her.

She'd been completely genuine with him: the truth has been out there for longer than she'd care to admit, and she's had more than enough time to deal with it, often vocally, often with equally riled-up agreement.

So why does she feel like it's something she needs to hide?

(Maybe she's the one who's hiding, honestly – as if the highest walls in the world could stop her from thinking about it, could stop her heart from wrenching in her chest no matter how stupid all of this is in the first place.)

(She's reached for that empty spot on her left ring finger more times than she can count over the past few days, and it doesn't help that every time she grasps at air, Killian's stricken, though no less undeniably contrite, face flashes like fire through her mind.)

(Could anyone blame her if she admitted she didn't want to see it again?)

Everyone's gathered in her living room, despite her perfectly functional dining room table and the breakfast bar David had painstakingly installed last year – but it's all the better that they're turned away from where she escapes to the kitchen under the guise of getting another drink. Mary Margaret had unearthed the old game system they'd stashed under the television, and nothing says noise violation like watching her friends simultaneously intake and burn off their dinner calories with a cutthroat round of Mario Kart, to which Roland was invited but refused in favor of coloring (to universal relief).

Emma lingers, pretending to survey the contents of her mug cabinet. While she does wonder if it'd be too early for another hot chocolate, to hell with Victor and his stupid medical degree reminding her that the sugar would only set her nerves even more on edge, she has to admit she's running out of excuses to occupy her gaze, since her conscience has apparently chosen today to be an especially persistent glutton for punishment. As it is, she already knows too much about how Killian looks when he's picking apart a grilled cheese sandwich and being, weirdly, a lot quieter than normal.

"Need help?"

Especially against the backdrop of shouting, the voice is barely a murmur, but she jumps anyway. It takes her a second too long for her to turn, swallowing her heartbeat, along with whatever else it might have dredged up.

"I'm not that short."

Leaning against the counter, Killian reaches behind his ear, his mouth tilting at the edges in an annoyingly coy not-quite-smile. "I suppose I shouldn't be impressed that you have a dedicated cabinet for your poison of choice." He shuffles the two steps between them and grabs a black mug on one of the topmost shelves, despite the perfectly good selection within easier grasp.

She snorts. "I have a step stool, too." But she takes the proffered cup anyway.

It doesn't take a genius to suspect where this is heading, and, sure enough, her hopes are quashed the second he glances over his shoulder at her packed living room. He's stilled a good distance away, so it's how he lowers his voice even further that makes it clear he's trying to be discreet.

"Do you have a moment?"

"Is this really the time?"

"Swan," he begins, "about—"

"Killian, you already—"

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, cutting her off before she can finish the protest.

She exhales, long and slow, and she's surprised to discover it isn't born of exasperation. "I know." For the first time since he stepped foot in her apartment today, she lets herself study his face properly – and while this apology certainly holds every bit of sincerity he'd offered her before, there's a firm edge to the way he sets his jaw that she much prefers to the reeling expression in her memories. She catches herself before she can reach with her right hand for her left.

"I'm aware, but still," he says. He holds her unwavering gaze. "I'm sorry. What happened last time… it was an inexcusable invasion of your privacy, and I shouldn't have been nosing about your personal life without your permission."

"It was an accident," she corrects him. "I know you didn't mean any harm."

He shakes his head. "That doesn't negate the consequences any more than if I had meant it."

"There are no—" She bites her lip. "It happened a long time ago, Killian. It's in the past – just like what happened two weeks ago." That video, along with all the others, the pictures, and every last digital trace of the mistakes three years behind her, have been safely locked back away in the hard drive buried at the bottom of her closet. It was idiotic for her to have dug it up in the first place.

Over in the living room, Victor's laugh drowns out David's yelling about the unfairness of blue shells, but Killian remains silent, watching her with a look on his face that she knows, her spirits sinking, means trouble.

He doesn't believe her.

She huffs out a sharp exhale. "Look," she says emphatically, grasping the mug he'd retrieved with both of her hands, squaring her shoulders to face him head-on. "I'm going to be blunt. I know both of us feel weird, and we'd have to be stupid not to know why. Can't we just…" A grimace tugs at her mouth; it sounds silly without even speaking it aloud, but she doesn't know what else to do. "Can't we just pretend all that didn't happen? Go back to how things were before?"

He raises a single dark eyebrow, which is, at least, familiar territory. "And how was that, love?"

"You tell me." There's a suspicious twinkle in his eye, one that belies the glimmer of determination still fixed in his features, and, unbidden, his words come to mind: Maybe it's better not having anyone to care too much about. She remembers the heat of his thigh nearly pressed against her bare leg, the unnerving sharpness with which his gaze – far too understanding for comfort – had searched her face. She'd much rather call them friends and be done with it.

"I'm afraid," he says finally, after a long moment of consideration, "that I can't do that, Swan."

Something twists in her chest, faint but ridiculous all the same. "Why not?"

He takes a deep breath, though she has the feeling he already knows what he's about to say. "I'd much rather apologize and move on from what happened than act like it didn't." For no good reason at all, she feels like squirming under his blue stare, even as it softens into something she doesn't want to identify. "Forward instead of backward – that's the direction life should proceed, no?"

He's right, of course; hadn't she only just said it was in the past? Still, she finds herself sighing. "Killian, why are you telling me this?"

A pause – but not a hesitation.

"Because I want to know you, Swan." He says it slowly, his tongue wrapping around each word with so much conviction, she doesn't think she could find a lie in his words if she tried. Despite that, it's the way he smiles, clear and brighter than daylight, that forces her to swallow. "I want to know you, and I don't want to go behind your back to do it."

For what feels like a long time, it's all she can do to just return his gaze. There's a gentle fluttering stuck in her throat, like the sound of footsteps she's become far too accustomed to over the years, but this time, she stays right where she is. It takes her longer than it should for her to realize that he's waiting for an answer.

"Good," she whispers.

It's a quiet admission, one she isn't sure he hears – at least, until he exhales, his smile curving wide and pleased and so genuine, she feels her mouth twist in return before she can help it.

It's just as real, too.

Good.

"Oi, lovebirds!" Emma startles, watches him tear his eyes from hers with similar surprise. Only a few feet away, it seems Ruby's draped herself over the back of the sofa nearest the kitchen, waggling her controller in their direction. She supposes she should be thankful that, behind her, only two faces have turned at the sound of her voice, as Victor appears to be commemorating his utter defeat by burying his nose in his phone, while Mary Margaret has her gaze pointedly fixed on the far wall, as if determined to give them privacy.

Except – that seems to be a moot consideration, given the attention Ruby's drawn to their absence, and while Robin she can understand, she's not sure what to make of David fixing Killian under some strange kind of scrutiny, as well. Though she certainly won't complain about it, either, when that's one less person she has to worry about as she tries to rearrange her expression.

"What?" she says in the most impassive voice she can muster. From beside her comes a snort that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Are you rotating in or not?" Ruby asks, then turning to Killian: "Your buddy here could really use the help."

"At least I didn't come in dead last," Robin hedges from the other couch, which prompts a miffed cough from Victor.

"The item system is imbalanced."

"Sore losers are imbalanced," Ruby tells him sweetly.

Emma shakes her head as she turns away from the living room. There's a small but distinct irritation gnawing at the edges of her thoughts, but she doesn't have time to dwell on the prospect of uninterrupted conversations – or, worse, actually wishing for them when they don't have any business in this crowded apartment.

But, at the very least, she's glad for how easily her words for him come now, and that's what reassures her, more than anything, that the answer she'd given him (I want to know you.) wasn't a mistake. "You think you can save eighth place?"

He cocks his head. "Competitive, are we, love?"

"Only when I know I can kick your ass," she tells him, shrugging, though there's no question that her grin from before Ruby's interruption is making an involuntary appearance on her face, too.

The way his turns lopsided, mischievous – swooping low in her belly, a fucking distraction – suddenly has her not so confident that's a sure thing after all.

She sets her empty mug onto the counter, vaguely wishing she'd had that hot chocolate while she had the chance, if only to gear her up for what's sure to be a trying match (one way or another). But then, just as she passes by him, so quietly she's sure the words are meant just for her, he murmurs, "You underestimate my abilities at excelling from behind."

The laugh, cruder and louder than she means it, bursts from her lips so unexpectedly, she's sure three more pairs of eyes swivel in her direction before she can smother it with her hand. A serene smile on his face, Killian beats her out of the kitchen before she can respond to that, though she isn't sure if there's a comeback in existence that could salvage her dignity at this point.

I don't want to go behind your back to do it.

Even as she feels the heat color her cheeks, she's only too relieved that his transit to the living room has provided their friends a sufficient enough distraction to give that instinctive, goddamn irrelevant thought the secrecy it deserves. She watches him squeeze in between Robin and David, roll his eyes at something Ruby says – she's not really paying enough attention to hear it, not when she's still biting the inside of her cheek hard to keep her chagrin at bay.

(At home in her apartment indeed.)

(Except, for a mad second, it looks so right that she can't even think to complain, like a puzzle piece fitting neatly into a place she hadn't even realized was empty, until it wasn't.)

On the couch from which she's still trying to tear her gaze, Killian looks up and catches her eye, and it takes nearly everything she has to keep herself from grinning back.

Honestly?

Fuck.