"Well," Mary Margaret continued, her voice clearer now that Emma had moved away from the crackling fire, "I'm glad you made good time. Even if it means I didn't get any pictures of the scenery driving up."
"I was practicing safety behind the wheel," Emma argued, full of amusement at the exasperated voice on the other line. "Killian might have arrested me for distracted driving if I pulled out my phone." She heard something from David then, a muffled noise of approval, and grinned a little wider. Killian was somewhere in the kitchen, if the noise of cans and boxes settling on pantry shelves was any indication, but she knew the illusion of privacy didn't mean he couldn't hear her.
"What did David just say?"
"He said he wants you to send us a picture of the sunrise in the morning to make up for all the pictures you haven't sent us yet."
"He did not."
"It's true. He's nodding his head now."
"I'm sure he is."
If the fire hadn't warmed the cold house up, this would have done the job. It felt like Mary Margaret was here in the room with her, like David was just around the corner helping Killian, like everything was as it should have been from the get-go. She hadn't been prepared for how big the cabin would feel with just the two of them inside it, especially after spending so much time on the road. Emma continued pacing back and forth along the upstairs hall as she held the phone to her ear, staring down at the great room and through the windows. Killian's moon was barely more than half-full, shining but not yet reflecting on the lake's icy surface, and just the sight of it tempted her to stretch her legs outside.
"Emma —" Mary Margaret's voice had changed from light and pleasant to cautious in a second. She steeled herself, preparing for questions she wasn't ready to answer yet. "Killian mentioned a big snow storm near Green Bay. Are you okay?"
"Oh. No, yeah, we were fine. The Range Rover made it through what was left on the road the next morning."
"I know, he mentioned that. But are you okay?"
Emma stilled again. Killian must have done more than just mention the storm, because that was a different kind of worried she was hearing, the kind that wrapped around her shoulders and squeezed her tight until her heart started to ache.
"Yeah," She responded, loud enough to be heard from downstairs. "Nothing a bag of Funyuns couldn't fix."
"We really do wish we were there with the both of you." Mary Margaret sounded relieved by her answer, pleased even, returning as she always did to a positive outlook on things. "I know we go every year, and I definitely don't miss sitting in traffic, but the fact that you made it happen anyway — it means more than you might think it does, and not just to me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That's not my story to tell," she replied in a frustratingly placid tone. "But it might not hurt to ask."
She said her goodbyes after that, claiming dinner and international call rates as her excuse, and Emma hung up with impatience prickling in her skull. Her steps fell with a little too much purpose after that, the chill from the floor rising up through her socks and pulling her downstairs. Maybe she would sleep in the living room tonight.
"Swan, how would you feel about —" Killian came around the corner, hands bunching up a hand towel and chin inclined toward the landing in search of her. He interrupted himself when he saw her standing within earshot and tried again, pink coloring the tips of his ears. "I was starting to wonder where you'd wandered off to. How would you feel about grilled cheese for dinner?"
"I'd feel like that was the best idea I've heard all day. Did you already make it?"
"If the lady will follow me into the kitchen…" He trailed off dramatically, reaching a hand out in the air for her to take and bowed his head, eyes never really leaving hers. Feeling up for the kind of ridiculousness she could control, she set her hand in his in her best imitation of royalty, grinning to herself as he promptly tugged her toward the smell of buttery, toasted bread.
It was the promise of a hot meal that she focused on while they trailed down the hall, Emma told herself, not the warmth that emanated from his hand or the way it clasped hers so securely. She had no trouble forgetting the sensation of his fingers brushing her palm once she sat at the counter and took a bite of grilled cheese that warmed her to her toes. He shot her a smirk when he saw how well-received the food was — it wasn't as though bread and cheese was hard to mess up — and it wasn't hard at all to bite back her own version of the grin.
"I take it I did well, then?" He pressed. "Toasted to perfection?"
"You know you did. You just want to hear me say it."
"I resent that, love. I slaved over a hot stove for a good ten minutes to make both of these."
"Ten minutes?" Emma gave the sandwich in her hands a once-over, as if she'd just really noticed it was there. "What part of this took you ten minutes?"
"Grating the cheese. Although, if you prefer I were technical about the whole venture, it was finding the cheese grater itself that gave me trouble."
"In that case…" Emma paused and licked her lips, eyes flicking back up to his. There was a hint of curiosity in them, if he was looked hard enough to find it. "Yeah. They're perfect."
"That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Just shut up and eat," she told him, smiling into her next bite without bothering to try and hide it.
Emma did manage to get a picture of the moon in the lake, but not before procrastinating. It was ten below zero out — inCelsius, she reminded herself bravely — when she finally stepped out onto the cold porch, and the work of holding her phone aloft to snap a worthwhile photo nearly froze her fingers off. The feeling came back once her clothes were emptied into her dresser, and even then they buzzed with the sensory overload. She sent Mary Margaret a picture of her sparsely filled drawers, along with a comment about needing more closet space, before she sat back and spent a moment shaking the feeling back into her fingers.
Trip after trip and year after year, this part of the house always suited her. Forest-green walls framed a bed with pale sheets and, in her opinion, the best damn pillows in the entire house. They were soft, and thick enough that they blocked the sunrise falling through the sliding door on the wall opposite the bed. It had personality, too; mismatched floorboards swelled and ebbed beneath her feet on the way to the door, books loved so well their spines were illegible lay stacked on the nightstand waiting to be demystified. Best of all was something she'd discovered on her second visit to Tradition. It didn't matter how hard the drive had been, what kind of weather they'd suffered through to get here, how much money it had cost them or how damn cold she felt, even after a shower— all of it fell away when she had that blanket waiting for her.
The top half was faded from years of unencumbered sunlight falling in the room, but the bottom still looked new. Carefully stitched Canada geese flew over a marsh on one side, half-hidden between cattails and swamp grass, and the other featured a pattern of snowshoes, bark, plaid and bunches of pine. It was also well over twice her size, and twice as thick as any other blanket in the house — she had checked. Every year it got harder and harder to remember why she had to leave it behind, but none of that mattered now that Emma was drying her hair in front of the fire, back resting against a recliner and feet tucked between two geese.
Killian joined her as she was throwing another log onto the fire, hair damp as hers and a pack of cards in his outstretched hand. Firelight glinted off of his watch as he chose a spot that didn't completely block the heat, which was a smart move on his part.
"I know the power's on this time around, love, but I thoroughly enjoyed beating you at solitaire on our first night here last year."
Emma huffed, watching him settle back against one of the corners of the sectional, his long legs brushing against an upturned corner of her blanket. She resisted the possessive urge to tug it toward her with one of her own feet. "I let you win."
"True as that may be," he continued blithely, unboxing the deck and tossing it just out of reach, "I thought the extra light might prove advantageous this time around."
"Doubtful."
"Just humor me, Swan."
She did her best, cards messily fanned out in the space between his knees and hers. She laid her one ace face-up in the carpet and waited for him to finish arranging his side, impatiently moving one of the cards askew when his efforts took too long. Killian nudged her foot aside and fixed the pile, shooting her a look that would have been evident even if she only had the firelight to work with. Just like that, she fell backwards into her memory, and it was her grin being lit by the flames in the hearth.
Last year, she'd been unsure of who exactly David deemed worthy of an invitation to a family-only vacation, right up until they stood outside shaking hands with him in front of David's car. Before meeting Killian, she'd only worried about an awkward car ride. After finding he was the perfect teammate when it came to teasing David while he drove, she'd been unsure for different reasons, not least of all being Mary Margaret's idea of subtle glances in the rearview mirror.
It wasn't that she couldn't handle a pretty face, much less admit that Killian had one. It wasn't that she was easily charmed, either. She just found it easy to notice him when she was so used to the other two people in the house, especially when he kept surprising her.
Emma remembered waking up to the most intoxicating scent in the world wafting through the crack in her door, and caught him stirring a packet of hot chocolate into his coffee. Rather than teasing her for bedhead or her aversion to early morning sunlight, he simply reached for a mug and poured her half of his own drink.
She remembered taking turns with him chopping and hauling firewood, the way their breath clouded as they complained about the walk from the woodpile to the back porch, how both of them had come up with exceedingly creative ways to use their axe should David try to pawn the chore off on them again. He'd been admirably patient with her, though, as she split her logs in shin-deep snow.
She remembered morning hikes around the uninhabited side of the lake while the same snow melted a little, and sitting on the couches and watching thick, fat flakes come down again not six hours later. She remembered watching holiday cooking show marathons when the electricity was on, and endless card games when it wasn't. She remembered the sound of his shower running on the other side of the hall and being struck with the feeling that the house had always been waiting for him to fill that fourth room.
Being alone here with him now only made it harder to keep the memories from dancing silently off the walls around her and twisting in the air, whispering in her ear when she found her eyes drawn back to his — would it really be so bad if you opened that door?
"I'm amazed a woman as distracted as you can put up such a fight, Swan. Can you even see your cards?"
Emma's eyes focused back in on her hand, a six of diamonds on its way to one of the center piles. "I can see just fine, thank you," she sniffed, pulling her knee to her chest even as she saw how much of an advantage he had on her. Round by competitive round, their neat game crept across the stretch of carpet between them until Emma's piles were indistinguishable from the ones in the center. Killian's remained as neat as they'd been in the beginning, and the more games she lost, the more she began to focus on that instead.
"You're too organized."
"That's the loser in you talking."
"I mean it. I bet you make your bed every morning."
" I'd be happy to take you upstairs and help you settle that bet, love." His eyebrows waggled as he looked up at her, taking his time as he claimed a pile of cards for himself.
"I didn't hear a denial there."
"And you won't."
She blocked his next card with one of her own, a smug smile growing on her face as she watched him falter. Neither of them had slept well for the better part of the week, but then neither of them had been as warm as they felt now, either. His reluctance to head upstairs was just as palpable as her own, so she shoved her feet under the bottom of her blanket and scratched her fingers through the carpet to pull all of her cards to herself. Killian made a noise of complaint — or maybe resignation — and followed suit before laying his head back against the cushion of the couch.
"Shall we go out and watch the moonrise?"
Emma lolled her head to the side. Her fingers felt cold just from the suggestion, but there was no missing the note of hopefulness in his voice. His determination to stay awake made perfect sense now that she was thinking of it — the sky was clear, and that meant Killian would be ending his night on the porch.
"Do we have to?" She whined, already gathering herself up off the back of the chair. "It's past freezing."
"It won't be if you bring that blanket with you." His eyes rose to hers, and twin slivers of charm and persuasiveness shone in them for an irresistible moment. How the hell was she supposed to say no? Emma could think of a few ways, in fact, to do just that, but none of them felt as satisfying as seeing him smile and rush over to the door once she stood and peeled her blanket off the floor.
"After you."
She took her first tentative step past him and paused, hissing through her teeth as her socks hit the cold wood planks of the deck. Her nose stung with cold, too, but her fire-warmed blanket provided just enough cover to help the rest of her body stand it. Barely a full minute passed by with her resting her elbows on the rail, and then she felt a strong tug on the fabric surrounding her. Emma only had time to think about protesting the sudden rush of cold air on her skin before the immediate remedy of Killian's forearm pressed up against her shoulder presented itself. Emma shivered a little anyway, if only to make her point, and he apologized by tugging the blanket tighter around them.
It should have felt stranger than it did to stand so close, but it didn't. She'd spent one night in the Range Rover and the next in a motel, and Killian had been within arm's reach for both of them. This felt a little more purposeful, though. She was almost completely tucked into his side to keep the cold from sneaking through the blanket's folds, and if she let her head fall back an inch or two she was sure she'd feel his chest there waiting.
"I can see why you hoard this thing away for yourself every year," he commented quietly, rolling a bit of fabric between his fingers. "I could stand out here all night if I had this with me."
"You can stand out here until sunrise if you want, but this blanket is coming back inside with me," she shot back, wincing at the near-opaque cloud of breath her words produced. She ducked her chin under the blankets and exhaled deeply, calling warmth back to her lips. "Consider yourself lucky I'm even sharing."
"I always consider myself lucky to be in your presence," he drawled, tilting his own chin up to get a better look at his beloved moon. It was hard for her to keep thinking of grumpy one-liners when he looked so genuinely delighted to be freezing his ass off in pursuit of the moon. There was a certain magic in trying to see it through his eyes, and Emma let it dust her shoulders until a small stripe of clouds began to blot out the stars. Tendril after tendril crept in from the edge of the lake, lazily chasing after the moon. Emma curled her fingers around the edge of the blanket as she watched the race, as if she could redirect the snow with will power alone, and tried not to imagine the feeling of fingers filling the spaces between her own instead of swaths of fleece.
"Tell me that wasn't worth stepping out into the cold," Killian said later, stubble not-quite brushing against her temple as he turned toward the door. It felt an awful lot like a last-ditch attempt at drawing her in before they both succumbed to sleep, comfortable and lazy and unending like their evening in front of the fire had been. Emma let herself fall into it for the briefest moment before taking his words for what they really had to be — a cue to go back inside, to remember that the closeness she was so used to sharing with him now was shaped by necessity, not by mutual preference.
"It was definitely a good test of this blanket's insulation," Emma told him, sweeping back into the warmth of the house. Orange embers greeted them in the hearth, low enough that neither of them would have to watch to make sure it burnt out, and it was a welcome sight.
"I didn't hear a denial there," he sang out quietly, quoting her earlier words as he closed the grate in front of the fireplace. Emma was already halfway up the stairs by the time he shut off the one remaining light, but she paused to deliver her line.
"And you won't," she whispered in a poor imitation of his accent from the landing, smiling sleepily into the darkness below.