It's not that she's not used to being alone on this day. She has been alone on every single February 14th for the last ten years. And the one before that, on which she wasn't, she doesn't like to think about. Not about the stolen bracelet that was probably a present for someone, a gesture of love and affection, meaningful in ways it wasn't in her hands. She doesn't like to think about the fancy restaurant in which her palms kept itching and she felt like she was sitting too straight the whole time. One of the last bills they'd ran out on but not the first by far. One of the first charity shop skirts she'd torn but not the last by far.

Emma doesn't like to think about any of that. And she doesn't like to think about Valentine's Day all that much either. She doesn't hate it – not because of missed opportunities or past sullied experiences. She doesn't even mind the hearts and the pink and all that over-the-top jazz. What frustrates her is the unnecessary hassle – the longer queues in her favourite coffee shop, the multiple questions of whether she'd like the red velvet Valentine's cupcake instead, of whether she'd like their 2for1, 2forLove promotion, of whether she wants her bear claw in a heart shaped box. No, no and what even?

She wouldn't mind the day one bit, if only it would mind itself. And keep out of her face for a good, old-fashioned, grey, just-that-bit-too-chilly-to-be-bareable February day.

So no, it's not that she's not used to being alone and it's not that she hates the holiday. It's just that it's kinda hard to completely ignore a holiday that's all about love and romance when you've found yourself in a sort of… budding romance. When you can actually picture a hand holding one of the numerous roses sold on the corner before Granny's. When you can see yourself taking out two glasses instead of just the bottle and the corkscrew. When you can just imagine putting on something cheesy and as over-the-top as everything else and tucking your feet under someone's thigh.

When you can close your eyes and conjure up that particular shade of blue that-

"MOM!"

For a bail bonds person, the way she jumps out of her skin is an embarrassment and then some.

"Jesus fuc- Kid! Easy on the eardrums, would you?"

Henry gives her that patent look every kid knows how to give an old(er) person. That inimitable 'are you serious? is old age getting to you?' look. It's not her favourite one, to be honest.

"I've been knocking on the window for a solid minute," he deadpans.

Emma opens her mouth to reply but realizes the reason she was so out of it and decides to save herself any additional embarrassment. Instead she reaches over and opens the passenger door so Henry can finally get in.

"I'll make it up to you by letting you choose dinner."

"Can I save that for future usage?"

"Huh?"

"Miss Blanchard is throwing a Valentine's party for all her students."

"A Valentine's party. For 10-year-olds," Emma gives him her own 'are you serious?' look.

"It's not so much Valentine's as it's fairytales and lots of Disney."

He says it with his most mature tone, no doubt in an attempt to convince her of Miss Blanchard's sanity but Emma can see his eyes sparkling. A fairytales party, for God's sake.

"And I may or may not have promised to bring my book."

She doesn't even have to ask which book.

"Henry."

"Killian said it's fine!"

Of course he did. Killian will probably say it's okay, if Henry wanted to organize the party in his house. Will probably fly the whole class to Storybrooke, Nowhere, Maine. Giving Henry his skype had been a huge mistake.

"I wonder what Regina would say," she mutters but turns around and starts the engine anyway.

If Killian wants half the population of NY to have read his book before it even hit the bookstores, that's his own damn business. The thing would probably be a hit regardless. And she could just imagine him telling her not to get her knickers all twisted up over it.

/

It isn't lying per say. Miss Blanchard is organizing a fairytale party with lots of Disney binging and a NTOF reading. Was it her idea? Not precisely. Is she doing it? Yes. So Henry thinks he is on the lighter side of that particular grey area.

Plus, he thinks his mom and Killian will hardly take issue with the plan he formed almost as soon as Killian told him he planned on coming to New York for Valentine's Day.

/

She makes it to 9:36pm when Henry texts her that Miss Blanchard invited him and a couple of other students that live far to stay over. Emma takes it as a sign from the universe. A sign saying 'fix your hair, pour yourself a glass of red and call him'.

So she does just that. She touches up her make up as well while in front of the mirror. Checks there's no laundry in the range of her laptop's camera, logs into Skype and shoots Killian a quick text.

Wanna Skype?

Emma nods to herself. Good, chill, casual (to the point where she knows he might cringe). Perfect for their not-really-a-relationship-cuz-we've-only-seen-each-other-once-but-kind-of-a-relationship-because-we-text-every-day-(all-day)-and-skype-every-weekend.

Tomorrow perhaps?

Oh. Emma stares at her phone screen, confusion dominating her senses while reality tries to realign with her expectations.

It's fine, of course. Perfectly fine. He is probably busy. At 10:10pm. On Valentine's Day. It's fine. She is not gonna think about it too hard. It's fine.

She texts him precisely that (It's fine.) and goes to the bathroom to remove the day old make-up that suddenly feels like it's suffocating her.

/

He honest-to-God bangs his head against the desk. Why is writing for Emma Swan so bloody hard?

Not writing about her. Oh, no, writing about her is Killian's new favourite pastime. Whether he is writing her dry sense of humour into one of his more cynical characters or writing the colour of her eyes into his (undeniably poor) attempts at verse, writing Emma Swan is both exhilarating and liberating.

Writing for her is a whole different ballgame. He honestly thought that first short story had been so damn hard because he hadn't had a clue how she'd react to receiving it. Over the last week he's realized that it had a lot to do with not knowing how she'd react to it.

As fascinated (and absolutely smitten) as he is with Emma, there is still a hell of a lot that he doesn't know about her. And trying to write her a bloody poem (for bloody Valentine's Day no less) is slowly but surely giving him a case of proper anxiety.

Would she think it too cheesy? Too frivolous? Too old-fashioned? Ridiculous? Over the top? How is he to write anything, if his head is full of more question marks than words?

His phone pings again and Killian sends a silent prayer to goddamn Cupid, or whoever is on call for poor bastards like him, that it's not Emma again because he can only exercise so much self-control when faced with the chance to see her face. Even if just on his computer.

Just about 20 hours or so and you'd get to see her in the flesh, mate. Touch her. Perhaps… kiss her.

Bloody hell. Those thoughts are worse than the doubts in his head when it comes to productivity. So whether to torture himself further or to shake himself from his daydream (is it still a day dream, if it's night but you're still awake?), he grabs his phone.

It's not Emma and the mix of relief and disappointment is one of the strangest sensations he has ever experienced. And that's saying something.

It's Regina of all people. Texting him a picture of a huge bouquet of all things. His confusion lasts for all of three seconds before her second text comes through.

'Happy Valentine's, Jones. I guess gratitude is in order.'

He can just picture Regina's face, pinched in discomfort, shooting poor Robin fiery looks at he nudges her to keep typing after every word.

And then the confusion is back.

Why the hell are they wishing me a happy holiday a day early?

His eyes fly to the little numbers above the digital clock on his phone with well-calculated dread and his stomach starts plummeting before he has even registered what he is seeing.

Tue Feb 14

14th.

"Bloody buggering fuck!"

He starts opening and logging into Skype so fast he can almost hear his laptop sputtering in indignation.

/

She is already in bed. Old pjs, hair up in a loose bun she can fall asleep in, if she so pleases, her second glass of wine on the nightstand and Donna Tart's first novel in her hands (if it feels a bit like cheating on Killian, well, maybe she has no issue with that right now).

Speaking of which-

Her Skype suddenly comes to life with a jarring ringing which is that much more annoying and loud thanks to the quiet in her bedroom. After a lifetime of one too many neighbors complaining about the crying baby she couldn't seem to bounce to sleep, Emma's body seizes in discomfort from being the source of noise so close to midnight. Then she sees Killian's face on her screen and her everything seizes for a whole different reason.

Seriously?! seems to be today's motto.

Emma glances down to make sure there are at least no peanut butter stains on her t-shirt and then hits the green button with a frustrated sigh. However, her put-togetherness (or lack thereof) is quickly pushed to the backburner when an obviously distressed Killian Jones, if the way he is pulling at his hair is anything to go by, appears on her screen.

"Killian?"

His head snaps up so fast she can almost hear his neck pop, expression sliding from mortification into unadulterated relief in a millisecond.

"Swan," he breathes it out in a way that already has him half way to forgiven for not humouring her earlier.

"What's u-"

"I'm so so so sorry! Bloody hell, love, I swear I thought it was the 13th. I've been struggling with this… thing for the last week and I completely lost track of the whole space-time continuum. Please, forgive me, I can't believe I ju-"

"Killian, slow down. It's fine," she says on a half-laugh and means it for the first time tonight.

Babbling Killian just made the top 5 of her favourite Killians.

"It is most certainly not. I cannot believe I buggered this up. I was going to come down to New York tomorrow. Today. Bloody- I'm so sorry, Swan. I didn't want to speak to you in case I let myself slip up and-"

"Killian. It's alright. It's not a big deal. I just thought…" she shrugs one shoulder. "You know… wouldn't be too bad to see your face today."

"It's marvelous to see your face any day, Emma. I swear I was just afraid I might-"

"Seriously, you need to stop explaining yourself. Though…"

It's only now that his explanation actually sets in and Emma feels her insides vibrate a little at the thought of seeing him again. For the first time since… whatever it is they started doing.

"Though?" he asks and she can practically feel the anxiety radiating from her computer screen and pulls it a little closer on pure instinct, gives him a little smile, just on this side of coy and that side of reassuring.

"Well… since you had it all planned and everything, and I'm guessing you can afford to take a day off to- I mean, if you can't, it's fine but you said-"

"Swan," he is the one sounding amused now and Emma realizes her gaze has dropped to her keyboard. "Please, don't misunderstand me. I may have miscalculated but I still very much plan to see you tomorrow. Face to face."

She swallows and watches his smile dip a little as his eyes soften.

"If you'll allow me."

She nods dumbly before realizing he'd probably like a proper answer.

"Ye-yeah. I think that can be arranged."

"Wonderful!" Killian beams at her and for a minute they seem to just stare at each other, reacquainting themselves with their faces, the way only people who haven't seen each other much but really really want to can. "I hope I didn't wake you… If you have to go to bed-"

"No, no," Emma hurries to reassure him, maybe embarrassingly fast, but she finds that her embarrassment tolerance rises with the hours she's been awake. "I mean, I'm already in bed so-"

"So I can see, love."

"Hey! You are the one who called me at-" she checks the time on her phone only to realize it is barely past 11pm. "Whatever. You don't get to complain."

"Believe me, Swan, you will never hear me complain about seeing you in bed."

She gives him her and Henry's 'are you serious?' look just to bring it all full circle. It doesn't seem to faze him much and her treacherous mind singsongs that he'll fit right into their routine.

"Whatever. How was your day?"