Some Sort of Neighborly

Chapter 9

The one door in her apartment he hasn't opened he knows, logically, must belong to her bedroom.

Official confirmation of that fact, however, is a little dubious, considering the way she pulls him back down to kiss her again before he manages more than a glimpse.

He tastes the curve of her smile as she tugs him backward, just as sweet as the moment she'd first leaned in at the bar, and it's that, more than anything, that shuts down his thoughts – more than the subtle fog of her perfume, the feel of her bare waist under her shirt. He might be glad for it, except he knows, somewhere deep down, even as his jacket hits the floor, that he shouldn't be.

Because forcing those thoughts to the forefront of his mind had taken everything on the hurried, stumbling walk from The Jolly Roger. It'd been made worse by how she hadn't let go of his hand the entire time, until she had to dig the building card and her keys from her pocket, and even then, the electricity that hummed just under his skin kept him rooted by her side, struggling to remember why he should have been leaving.

He should be leaving. But she'd kissed him through her front door, and he's long since forgotten how to do anything but stay.

His hands move of their own accord, divesting her of her own jacket and then slipping back underneath her clothes. She's nothing but smooth temptation under his palms, and he's surprised to find that he has just enough mental capacity left to register her huff of breath against his lips, to wonder just how ticklish she really is. But then she's pulling him down, down, down, and his priority becomes tugging her shirt over her head before it becomes any more difficult, what with the tangle of limbs that seems to be happening in the space between them.

He wishes he had the time to wait, to slow, to admire all of that lovely pale skin suddenly on display – except the fierce haul of desire drags him forward, toppling head-over-heels, something he knows all too well. His head ducks into the curve of her neck so he can taste her there, too, taste the way she hums and arches against him, fingers wound so tightly into his hair he thinks it might hurt if he could feel anything but how much he wants this.

(He wants her, and it almost makes him stop – the understanding that that might be something different entirely.)

"Killian." Her whisper pricks goosebumps over his shoulders, across his neck, and all the way down his spine. Every inch of him burns from it, from her. The one arm he's braced beside her head, next to where he knows the waves of her hair would be spilling over her pillows if he looked, suddenly doesn't seem like enough support when she nudges his lips back to hers, especially when the salt of her skin becomes a sweet sigh of satisfaction on his tongue. He holds her in place with his free hand, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, even though he doesn't think she's going anywhere. Not anymore.

"I can't believe it took you this long to let me hear you play," she murmurs against his mouth. Her tiny grin he feels more than sees makes it all too clear what his response should be: Had I known this would happen, I'd have rushed for my guitar the moment we met. But he can't lie to her, and no matter how much he wants to draw that bewitching laugh from her throat, he's afraid even that might not be enough to distract him, if he says it aloud, from all the reasons it isn't true – from all the reason this can't be true.

So he grunts out an indistinct answer, leaning back down again before the words can spill from his lips. He feels the warmth of her knee at his hip, the way her hands slip down from the back of his neck to cup his jaw as the kiss begins to grow languid, savoring. It's wonderful, and terrible, and it nearly makes him lose his mind – which is why there's no way to express his relief when her fingers curve lower still, hooking into the collar of his shirt. She plucks at it with gentle urgency, and that's all the persuasion he needs to pull back, reach over his head to grasp at the fabric, and yank it right off.

Her small hands are sliding up his chest before he even has the chance to free his arms and discard the offending article of clothing, soft and cool against his heated skin, and while that does force him to suck in a quick, steadying breath, it isn't the reason why he freezes, halfway to finding her mouth again.

It isn't the sight of her, either, which he registers in the split second after he does – though, had he taken the time to properly behold her earlier, he knows it would have stopped him in his tracks just as easily: all pink flush and parted lips, darkened green eyes fuller and heavier than the night of the room around them. Her hair really is a beautifully tangled mess, strewn across the stack of her pillows knocked askew – which only makes the thick coil of hunger clench tighter in his groin, but he barely feels it.

In the end, the only thing that jolts his senses back to reality is the delicate tug of the chain around his neck, the ring at the end freed to land in a heap of silver on her skin. His mind slows to a sluggish, pounding halt, until, but for the sound of the rough breath he inhales, that ring between them is all he can process. He really had told her the truth, that he hadn't realized he'd forgotten the weight of it until it was already gone – but it all comes barreling back in full force now. Unspeakably lovely, where it sits barely covering a scar she bears just over her breast, it looks far too at home for the first time he's seen it against her skin, far too much like it simply belongs. He forces his eyes higher, back to her face, and the look with which she snares him there, her tentative smile at the way he knows he's been staring, spears through him like a bolt of lightning.

It's that smile, and the ring, and the feeling of everything – being with her, here, at last – that pushes him over the edge.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out.

And then he does the one thing he thought he'd never do when it came down to Emma Swan.

He pulls away.


The warmth of him disappears from her skin before she's even started to process his words.

She feels his ring skitter across her chest, in time with her heartbeat, as he drags himself up, but that's not the reason why the heat that prickles down her spine suddenly feels cold. He sits up, rubs his hands over his face with his eyes squeezed tight, and though the heavy throb of arousal pulses through her still, she knows without thinking that something's very wrong.

"Hey." The cool air of the room is a starkly unwelcome difference compared to only moments before, but he seems forced away by the mere action of her heaving herself up to join him, shifting over to the edge of the bed to swing his feet down. The muscles in his bare back roll as he braces his elbows over his knees; she's suddenly reminded of a very similar sight, except basked in the rays of early morning and sprawled out on her couch, though her unintentionally wandering eyes are not why she licks her lips. "You okay?"

He exhales, long and slow, but doesn't look up. It takes him far too long to answer. "I'm sorry, love," he says again, which, of course, doesn't explain anything at all.

"Killian," she says carefully. She leans in, just enough, though she almost pulls back at how he tenses at the light touch of her fingers on his arm. "What's wrong?"

It's ridiculously exasperating, the way he refuses to meet her gaze, no matter how she tries to catch his eye. His expression is one of silent frustration, the same kind he'd worn back at The Jolly Roger before he'd kissed her, fierce and hungry, and she's surprised by how quickly the sight of it rekindles the burn low in her belly, turning with apprehension as it is.

But he only shakes his head. "I can't—" The pale skin of his throat works down a swallow, one she can see even in the dim light. "Swan, I can't— I'm so sorry. I can't do this."

Her heart jerks to a skidding halt, stills, then restarts in an uneasy double gait. "What…" She hesitates. "What are you trying…?"

When he finally looks at her, long after her words have trailed off, she hasn't a clue to what to make of his face, his lips pressed together in a determined line. His words, too, are nothing short of disconcerting when he speaks.

"Why didn't you stay at The Jolly?"

She blinks. "What?"

"At the bar," he clarifies, "when Neal showed up." That's the absolute last name she'd want to hear while she's half-naked and in bed, but he presses on, undeterred. "You could have stayed. Confronted him. Why didn't you?"

"What are you—" She huffs, more confused than ever. "What are you talking about? Why does that matter?"

"Emma, love," he says, almost gently. "I've known, almost from the moment I met you, how stubborn you are when it comes to confrontation. And yet, you hid, and you ran. Why?"

The bluntness of his words sears shame right through her chest, swelling above even the brief flash of pride at what she thinks should be a compliment. She shakes her head, in mingled irritation and disbelief. "Why does it matter?" she repeats.

"Humor me." Honestly, she's in no mood.

"He isn't a part of my life anymore," she tells him firmly, trying to keep the testy edge from her tone. "Why should I have wasted my time?"

He throws her a small, pitying smile. "I think we both know that's not true."

Against the bedsheets, the fingers of her left hand curl into a fist, and she digs her nails into her palm to keep from feeling anything else. Unfortunately, the pain of it also distracts her from how he moves, in response to her silence, sliding off the bed with a creak of the springs – until he's already standing by the time she looks up. The fire claws up her throat, fierce, a bitter jolt with the way her temper sparks.

"That isn't your call to make," she snaps. She clambers to her feet after him, but he only spares her a glance over his shoulder as he bends to retrieve his discarded shirt. "When the hell did you become an expert on my relationships?"

Before I could tell him a thing, is her immediate instinct, but his answer is a pause, a tilt of his head. "I'm not." Bunching his shirt between his hands, he turns to face her fully, not looking the least bit contrite. "Why don't you enlighten me, then?"

She almost admires his nerve. Almost. She forces herself to spit her answer before she loses her own.

"I loved him, and he left." Her arms cross over her chest, stiff and angry. "What more is there to say?"

For a long time, he doesn't speak. He only stands there, the night doing nothing to mask how the bright blue of his eyes flickers between hers, and she thinks it might just be because he's just as exposed as she is that she can spot the precise moment when his muscles begin to tense, his shoulders bunching, his expression tightening as he seems to come to some sort of decision.

"I never got to say goodbye," he says. It takes her a second to realize what he's talking about, longer than the time her heart needs to plunge into the pit of her stomach. "Milah left in the middle of the night. She spared me but a note on the bedside table – that, along with the world's most sentimental paperweight." His hand goes to the chain around his neck, to the ring that hangs here, but he continues before she can dwell on it, or on the sick feeling that curdles its way through her in understanding. "All I could discern from it was that I wasn't enough. I'll never know why."

He takes a deep breath that seems to be the steadying force he needs, though, the air stuck in her throat as it is, she can't manage to find that same reprieve. She watches as he turns the ring over between his fingers once.

"There's always more to say, love," he tells her, at last. "The only question is: how much trust do you need to have to say it?"

"I trust you." The words are out of her mouth before she can help it, but, true as they are, she can't bring herself to feel chagrined.

He only smiles, that same terribly sad smile that pierces her more forcefully than the most accurate arrow. "I know," he says, and then shakes his head. "I think it's yourself you're afraid to trust."

Her mind blanks. There are so many ways to take that.

Afraid to trust yourself to move on.

Afraid to trust yourself to be happy.

Afraid to trust yourself to love, again, after everything.

But she can't think about any of them right now. The only thing she can process is the feeling of ice in her veins, a bleak awareness that the only reason she does trust him, after all, is because he'd never lie to her. He'd never lie.

(He's not lying.)

(She's always been much better with lies than the truth.)

She swallows, tries to breathe, but nothing comes out. He doesn't appear very surprised – just apologetic, as if he's loathe to have put her in distress, though not to have said it in the first place.

"I really am sorry, Emma." The deep rumble of his voice, she knows, might be soothing if she wasn't wound up so tight, arms still crossed over her chest, as if to hold herself together. He's still for the space of one, long breath, and then he shifts forward, towards her, angling his head to the side as if to—

Without meaning to, she recoils.

He draws back, lips pressed together. That look of hurt understanding on his face – it scorches into her memory in a way she knows will haunt her every thought, especially when he lingers for longer than he needs to. But then he's pulling his shirt over his head, turning to grab his abandoned leather jacket from the floor, and making his way to the door in one smooth motion. She hears the thud of his guitar in the living room, then a short silence before the heavier thud of the front door.

And, all the while, she can only stand there, cold, reeling, and alone in the dark.