A/N: Well...here it is, the last chapter! More cheesiness and tropes abound. Again, what can I say? I'm a sucker for this couple and them being cheesy. I love angst, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I just need Captain Swan being cutesy as all get out, you feel?

Thanks to emlovesyouu as always.

You guys are the best, thanks for your support and love and encouragement!

I'd tell you that I loved you before I ever knew you
- New York by Snow Patrol

Emma is 26 when she realizes that Killian is it for her.

She's sitting on her couch with a glass of red wine, unwinding after a long day of running after criminals. Being the Sheriff of Storybrooke has its perks – she gets to set her own hours, for one, and thank God, because she is not a morning person – but today she had to chase Will Scarlet all over town, and she's beyond exhausted. She's been dozing on and off, her head lolling against the decorative throw pillows Mary Margaret bought her when she moved in three years ago, but she doesn't even have the energy to get herself into bed.

A loud knock at her door suddenly startles her awake, and she jumps to her feet, wondering who on Earth could be bothering her at this hour.

"Emma?" A voice rings out, and Emma stills.

"Killian?" She answers in disbelief.

She has barely spoken to Killian since she moved back to Storybrooke. They're not exactly on bad terms, but he has been immersed with Milah, and she hasn't wanted to get involved. She knows he and David aren't speaking – about a year after the wedding, Mary Margaret called Emma to tearfully tell her that David and Killian had a falling out, and David had sworn not to talk to Killian until he broke things off with Milah. Emma and Mary Margaret had both tried to broker peace countless times, but the two men were stubborn, and they dug their heels in, refusing to budge. All their relationships had become strained as a result, and so Emma was truly thrown that Killian was on her doorstep.

Not to mention the fact that Emma had vowed to put distance between her and Killian after discovering that she was in love with him and her feelings were unrequited.

"Emma, please let me in," Killian pleads; it sounds like he's been crying, and Emma's heart clenches. "I know I've been a wanker these past few years, but I need you. I have nowhere else to go, and I just – please let me in, Emma, please."

She swings open the door, and there he is. Killian, black hair and blue eyes and stubble and prosthetic, just like always, except there's something wrong, there's something off, and she –

"You're bleeding!"

Killian shakes his head fervently. "Not my blood, love," he says, taking a faltering step forward. "It's – it's Milah's."

Emma's eyes widen in shock. "Milah? Is she okay?"

Killian winces, and then, his face crumples.

Emma doesn't hesitate. She simply steps closer to Killian and pulls him into her arms, feeling his heartbeat, erratic and uncertain in his chest. She walks him into her apartment, peeling his bloodied clothes off him slowly and carefully, helping him get in the shower, feeling like she might cry when he stands naked under the stream, letting the water run over his face, his eyes lifeless. She wants to know so badly what happened, but he's clearly not ready to talk, and so she brews him some tea and makes him some chicken noodle soup, and she waits.

He emerges from the shower in the sweatshirt and sweatpants she's laid out for him (they're his, of course – she'd taken them long ago), his eyes bloodshot. She wonders how long he's been crying.

"I made you some chicken noodle soup," she says tentatively.

He nods gratefully, sinking into a chair at her counter. He's quiet for a long moment, steadily eating his soup, but finally, Emma can't help herself any longer.

She covers his hands with her own. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"I don't know about that, Swan," he says darkly.

She stands up so she's in front of him, cradling his face in her hands. "I do know," she says softly, soothingly, holding his gaze. "You're my family. Nothing you say or do is going to change that."

He swallows, and she leans her forehead against his, breathing him in. She can feel his shoulders shaking, and his hands twist in the front of her shirt. She can tell he's falling apart, and she whispers, "It's okay, you're okay, you're going to be okay, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, it's okay" over and over again until his breathing starts to regulate and his tears start to slow.

(She has to bite her tongue to stop herself from telling him she loves him and she'll never leave his side.)

Finally, he pulls back from her, clutching her hands desperately, and then, he tells her what happened.

He tells her how he and Milah have been together in secret for the past few years, how they stayed in hotels on the weekends she could spare and would spend every day they had together lounging in bed and trying to stretch out their moments together for as long as they could. He tells her how he loved her so much that he would take anything she would give him, have any part of her he could, no matter the risk. He tells her how he begged her to leave her husband every time they met up, how he promised her that he would take care of her and her son, how all he ever wanted was to keep her safe and make her happy. He tells her how the last few weeks had been fraught with tension between them, how their relationship had been reaching its breaking point, how he knew they could not sustain their status quo much longer.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of her table, and she gets up hurriedly.

He gives her a curious, almost hurt look. "Going somewhere, love?"

She smiles at him over her shoulder, reaching into her cabinet to retrieve two mugs. "Alcohol," she explains, searching for Killian's favorite bottle of rum. "I think you're going to need some alcohol to get through this."

He smiles at her grimly, and she pours him a generous helping of rum before gesturing for him to continue. He downs the glass, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and she pours him another, not even raising an eyebrow. She knows grief, she knows pain, she knows loss. She'll give him whatever he needs right now.

"Milah's dead," Killian says suddenly, his lower lip trembling.

Emma stills. She knew this was coming. She hasn't spent a significant amount of time with Killian in more than a year; she knows it must have taken a traumatic event to bring him to her door. But still, she feels visceral shock and sorrow at his words.

She reaches for his hand impulsively, hoping he can take some comfort from the contact. "I'm so sorry, Killian," she says softly, and she means it. She may never have approved of his relationship with Milah, but she knows how much he loves her, and she feels herself splitting in two in response, her entire body aching for him.

"It was her husband," he says, eyes trained on her granite countertop. "She called me earlier today to tell me that her husband had found out and that I couldn't come to see her until she figured things out. I could tell she was trying to be calm, but something was clearly wrong. I could just feel it."

He pauses, seeming unable to continue, and Emma moves closer to him, stepping into the circle of his arms, her hands soft on either side of his face. "I'm here, Killian," she says, tipping his chin up and holding his familiar blue-eyed gaze. "I've got you."

He bites his lip, hesitating, and then it all comes out in a rush.

"Of course, like the arse I am, I went to see her anyways," he explains, taking another sip of rum. "I was worried about her. I was afraid Gold would hurt her. So I went up there, but as anyone could have guessed, I only made it worse. Her husband went on a rampage, screaming and throwing things. I tried to stop him, but he's stronger than me, and he overpowered me quickly. He knocked me unconscious, and when I woke up, he was gone, and his boy, too. There was only Milah."

He starts to cry in earnest now, and Emma tightens her hold on his face, trying to keep him in place, trying to keep him together somehow.

"Emma, there was so much blood," he chokes out. "She was lying in a pool of blood, and I called 911, but it was too late, I was too late, and they rushed her to the hospital but she was already dead by the time we got there, and I just – I just – it's all my fault, it's all my fault. She's gone and it's all my fault and I don't –"

Emma's heart clenches, and she wraps her arms around him as fully as she can. "It's not your fault," she promises, running her fingers through his hair. "It's not your fault, Killian. You didn't do this."

"I shouldn't have gone up there," he mumbles into her hair, his tears wet on her collarbone. "If I hadn't gone up there, she'd still be alive. I killed her, Emma. I killed her."

She pulls back so she can look him in the eye. "You did not kill her, Killian," she says firmly, willing him to believe her. "You are not responsible for this. And you are going to be okay."

He blinks, moisture clinging to his eyelashes. "I don't know what to do."

She sighs, suddenly wishing with all her heart that just this once, life wouldn't deal this man such a cruel hand. He's already lost so much – his parents, his homeland, his brother (his hero), his hand, and now, the only woman he has ever loved. She doesn't know how he bears it.

"You don't have to do anything," she says. "You're just going to sit here with me. You're going to drink, and you're going to cry, and I'm going to hold you. Then we're going to pass out. We'll deal with everything in the morning, but for tonight, you're just going to be here with me, and I'm going to do my best to remind you that you're not alone."

She pauses, her fingers twining in the thatch of hair at the nape of his neck. "Okay?"

He nods jerkily. "Okay."

And so they do exactly what she says. She pours him drink after drink, listening as he tells her about the color of Milah's eyes and the silkiness of her hair, about how Milah swallowed him whole and even though every part of him felt guilt and shame about their affair he couldn't walk away, how he's scared to face the world without her. He knocks back several shots, crying in Emma's arms, wordless, heaving sobs that leave him breathless and her with tears in her own eyes. He drinks himself into a stupor, and normally she would never suggest alcohol as a way to numb his pain, and if he tries to do this again tomorrow she's sure as hell going to stop it. But he clearly needs it tonight; she won't deny him this comfort tonight.

Finally, when the birds are beginning to chirp and fragile morning light is streaming through the bay windows, Killian slumps over, his head resting on the countertop, and she knows it's time to put him to bed.

"Killian," she says softly, shaking his shoulder lightly. "Let's get you to bed."

He grunts in reply, but he comes willingly, leaning into her as she walks them down the hallway to her bedroom. She gently eases him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, and she's about to close the door and go crash on the couch when his voice rings out, small and childish and so broken that she winces.

"Will you stroke my forehead until I fall asleep?"

She has to close her eyes, overwhelmed by a surge of affection, but she does as he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently tracing the lines of his forehead with her fingers. He curls into her almost instinctively, reaching for her free hand and pulling himself closer to her. She hums under her breath, a lullaby that Ruth used to sing when Emma was afraid of being taken away, and she watches the steady heave of his chest, hoping he can at least find peace in his dreams. He looks young like this, eyes rimmed with red, body caved in on itself, and she knows she's never going to let him go.

His breathing starts to slow, but then:

"I love you, you know."

Emma's breath hitches. Her hand stills on his forehead. She doesn't say anything. Shock coats her veins.

Killian squeezes her hand, his eyes finding hers in the dawn. His gaze is surprisingly clear for the amount of rum he's indulged in.

"You probably think I'm just drunk and I'm just sad and I don't mean it," he says, and there's no slur in his words, no hint of confusion in his voice, and Emma feels her whole world slow down until she can hear the blood pounding in her ears. "And the odds are that I won't remember this in the morning. But –"

"But?"

The word is out before Emma can stop it. They shouldn't be having this conversation for so many reasons, and she knows she'll regret this, but – Killian's gaze is heavy on her face; her cheeks are burning.

"I love you," he says again, softer now, and oh boy, now she's in danger of believing him. "I always have."

She holds her breath. She feels frozen.

"But – but – Milah," she stutters. She can't form complete sentences right now. This is so wrong, so unfair, and she doesn't even think she can process what is happening.

Tears slip from his eyes again. "Of course, I love Milah," he says, and there's conviction in his voice, as there always is when he talks about her. "But I just wanted you to know. I've tried not to love you, but I do. And maybe someday –"

"Someday," she returns fiercely, almost without knowing she's speaking.

His answering grin lights up the whole room.

…

Emma wakes hours before Killian does, her roots as a bail bondsperson leaving it difficult for her to sleep in. She makes breakfast as quietly as she can, burning bacon to a crisp just how he likes it and adding Monterey Jack to the eggs to make him smile. She makes several pots of coffee, knowing his massive hangover will need it, and generally putts about. She's nervous; he probably doesn't remember much of last night, but his words are seared into her brain, and she doesn't think she can act like it didn't happen. But she feels impossibly selfish, too; he just lost his love, and she's dwelling on whether he returns her long-dormant feelings. It's wrong.

She's lost in thought when he finally emerges, padding into her kitchen with his hair sticking up in every direction and his eyes haunted. She hands him a mug of coffee – he's not usually capable of speech in the morning before he has caffeine – and then, she waits. She'll take his cues here. Whatever he wants to do, she'll do it.

She thrusts a plate at him and watches warily as he wolfs down the food. He doesn't say anything, and she hopes he doesn't feel awkward around her. That's the last thing she wants.

Finally, he looks up at her. "Swan, I can't thank you enough for everything you did for me last night."

She swallows. "Of course. You're my friend, Killian. Something terrible happened to you. I'm always going to be there for whatever you need."

He smiles, something soft and genuine. "And I'm so grateful for that," he says, covering her hands with his own. "I haven't always been the best friend to you, and it means the world to me that you took care of me."

She nods, ducking her head bashfully.

They're quiet for a long moment, lost in thought, and Emma feel this strong pang of affection for Killian. He looks so lost sitting there, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled and scraggly, his hand clenched in a tight fist on his jittery knee. She wants to protect him, from anything and everything.

"Killian," she says at last, stepping close to him, close enough that she can feel the tension radiating from his shoulders. "I'm so sorry."

He looks up at her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He's trembling, and she covers his hands with hers.

"What can I do?" She asks, moving into the circle of his body, hoping maybe her proximity can give him some sort of comfort. "How can I help?"

He slides his hand up her knee, moving it to her waist. He tugs her into him without warning, and she falls against him, enough that he rests his head on her chest, and wraps his arms around her. He lets out a deep breath, and all at once she feels the stress leak out of him.

"You're doing it," he murmurs, nuzzling into her, and something gets caught in her throat.

"I just want you to be okay," she confesses, carding her fingers through his silky hair. "I'm here for you, I just want you to be okay."

He hums noncommittally, the vibration rumbling through her chest, and she holds him a little tighter. Killian has been a part of her since the moment he showed up on her doorstep 16 years ago, and she has no intention of ever letting him go.

"I will be," he says confidently, his voice shaky but strong. "I will be."

She believes him.

…

Milah's husband tells Killian that if he goes to her funeral, he will make his life a living hell. Killian wants to go anyways, of course, insisting that these are empty threats, but Emma manages to convince him that he shouldn't put himself in danger – and, more importantly, that they can honor Milah's memory better by themselves.

They spend the day curled up on the couch, watching Milah's favorite movies and drinking copious amounts of rum. Killian laughs and cries in turn, and Emma feels like she can finally breathe because she can tell that this is cathartic for him.

They don't talk about how he grabbed her hand in the moonlight and told her he loved her. She assumes he doesn't remember.

If she's wrong, he doesn't correct her.

…

Killian sends Milah's son a check every month.

Emma pretends she doesn't know.

(She's so proud of him she could burst.)

…

Emma is 28 when she realizes she relies on Killian for everything.

She realizes this because she decides to find her son. She agonizes over it, naturally. She doesn't regret giving up Henry (his adoptive mother named him after her father, apparently) for adoption – she was too young and too incapable of taking care of herself to be responsible for someone else – but she's had an ache in her chest for the past decade, and she finally feels stable enough to do something about it. She has a job she loves with great benefits and a support system, and she's not a mess anymore. She can do this. She wants to do this.

Strangely enough, it's not as complicated as she expected it to be. She agreed to a closed adoption when she gave Henry up, but when she inquires about changing those terms at the adoption agency, the agent tells her (with no small amount of surprise) that Henry and his adoptive mother have actually been inquiring about getting in touch with her, too, and she can try to arrange a meeting between the three of them. Emma is stunned that Henry is looking for her, too, and she feels a small flicker of hope.

Things move quickly after that. She learns that Henry lives in Boston with his adoptive mother Regina, that he is in perfect health and incredibly bright for his age, that he loves fairytales and videogames and grilled cheese. They talk over the phone once a week (with Regina on the other line, of course) and Skype a couple times (Emma will never get over the shock of seeing her green eyes reflected back at her), and after about a month, the social worker suggests that Henry come to stay at Emma's apartment for a weekend, with Regina staying in a hotel nearby just in case. Emma agrees immediately, of course. She can't wait to physically meet her son.

But as his visit draws nearer, she gets more and more nervous. She and Henry have communicated a lot since her first visit to the adoption agency, but she doesn't really know him. She's missed all the important things in his life – what if he resents her for giving him up? What if they don't get along at all? What if –

And furthermore, what if the social worker finds her wanting? She's not suing for full custody, or even really partial custody – she just wants to be able to have a relationship with Henry, and maybe see him sometimes, but entirely on Regina's terms, as she has reassured her countless times. But if the visit goes horribly wrong, the social worker has the power to prevent her from ever seeing Henry again.

Emma can't even bear the thought.

She's in the middle of deep-cleaning her apartment – she's dusting all the furniture in the living room, even though no one has sat in her living room since 2008 – when Killian lets himself in, hanging his jacket on his hook by the door and shaking the snow out of his hair. She doesn't look up from her task, probably because Killian has had a key since Milah died and she has long since accepted that he is probably a permanent fixture in her life at this point.

He helps himself to a glass of water and then puts a kettle of tea on the stove, just as he does every day when he comes home from work. He's woven himself into the fabric of her day-to-day almost without her noticing, and it works, it's easy. He's a steady presence, always making sure she eats enough on stakeouts, equipping her with snowchains when the first ice storm of the season hits, kneading her shoulders when she's been running after a petty criminal all day. They practically live together at this point – he has a drawer of clothes in her spare bedroom, and he crashes in her apartment more often than not.

But somehow, they've managed not to cross the line into romance.

Emma's not quite sure what she's waiting for. He hasn't told her he loves her since the night Milah died, and he's probably still grieving, still raw, and she refuses to take advantage of his vulnerability. But mostly, it just feels like they're both biding their time. He seems settled now, at peace. He and David patched up things shortly after Milah's death (Emma imagines that conversation involved a lot of manly tears and red wine), and the four of them often make dinner together and play board games late into the night. David and Mary Margaret fully expect her and Killian to get it together and get together, and sometimes, when she's on the couch watching Netflix, her head on Killian's shoulder and his fingers rubbing absentminded circles on her neck, the world slows down and she almost makes a move.

Almost.

But she doesn't, probably because he's the most constant person in her life and she can't stand to lose him. She's never had a healthy, functional relationship – she doesn't want to risk messing things up with Killian just because most of the time she has to sit on her hands to stop herself from jumping him.

She's jolted out of these traitorous thoughts by Killian's lilting, familiar voice.

"Emma, love, what shall I start for dinner?" He asks airily, rummaging through the cupboards for supplies. "Shall we do Bolognese? Or chicken parmesan? I'm feeling Italian tonight, what do you say?"

Emma doesn't answer; she's way too busy vibrating with nervous energy, her every blood vessel threatening to burst as she ponders if Henry will like her. She's been washing the same plate over and over again, like a compulsion, and she isn't listening to Killian at all.

"Emma?" Killian asks again, his voice the slightest edge of concerned. "Are you alright, love?"

Emma stills, her hands tight on the plate. "Um –"

Killian comes up behind her, his arm coming around her waist. As always, his touch calms her racing heart. "What's wrong? I can tell something isn't right, Emma."

He gently spins her around to face him, and she sighs heavily, fisting her hands in the front of his shirt and resting her forehead against his. It's both a blessing and a curse that he knows her so well at this point that it always takes him less a minute to figure out that something is off.

"Talk to me, Emma," he says, voice low and soft.

"Henry's coming to visit this weekend," she says after a minute.

He pulls back to look at her, and she can tell he's shocked. "Henry?" He asks, and she knows he's remembering the time she called him her sophomore year of college, sobbing raggedly as she told him the social worker sent her a picture of her son, crying because she didn't even get a chance to name him. "Your…your son?"

Emma nods jerkily. "I got in touch with the social worker a few weeks ago," she explains, her fingers dipping below the collar of his shirt so she can feel his warm skin, have something to anchor her. "Turns out Henry was curious about me, too, and now he's going to be here this weekend."

Killian lets out a low whistle. "Wow."

Emma laughs ruefully. "Yeah, wow. It's a lot."

He cocks his head, peering at her curiously. "How do you feel about it?"

She looks away, confused. That's not such an easy question to answer.

"I don't know," she admits. "Obviously I'm really excited to meet him, but it scares me, you know? I gave him up, he could hate me for that. Sometimes I hate me for that. And I just –"

She breaks off, closing her eyes, but Killian doesn't jump in to finish her thought for her. That's one of her favorite things about him, that he doesn't fill the silence. He just lets her come to conclusions on her own.

"I'm afraid to want him again," she confesses, and now she's crying, because that's what she's been so consumed with, this fear of loving him and needing him, only to have to give him up again. "I've spent the past decade trying to forget about him, trying to convince myself that I did the right thing and that we're both better off. I don't know that I can do this. I'm not sure I can open myself up to needing him in my life."

Killian tips her chin up so she's looking at him, tucking her hair behind her ear with gentle, affectionate fingers. "Aye, that's definitely scary, love," he acknowledges. "But you're stronger than you know. You can do this."

"But what if –" She hesitates. "What if he doesn't even like me?"

Killian smiles at her, and it's the smile he reserves just for her, the smile that says You're my best friend and I want to take care of you for as long as you'll let me. "Emma," he says fondly, stroking her cheek, and she wants to melt into him, wants to burrow into him and never come up for air. "Your boy is going to love you. You're his mother. And besides, you're bloody amazing."

She grins, but –

"How do you know?" She asks, and she's ashamed of how small her voice sounds, but it doesn't matter because this is Killian, the man she's seen at his absolute lowest, the man who's been by her side every time her world has collapsed. "How do you know this won't be a total disaster?"

He chuckles. "I've yet to see you fail."

She can't help but smile at that, and she lets him pull her into his arms, his embrace warm and strong as always.

"Will you…" She trails off, unsure if she's allowed to ask this within the undefined confines of their friendship. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

He nods immediately, smoothing her hair in a practiced motion that never fails to leave her a little lightheaded. "Of course, love. I was planning on it, it's late and I'd rather not drive across town when I might fall asleep at the wheel. Wouldn't want the sheriff to have to give me a ticket."

His voice is wry, and she giggles, pulling back to look at him. She shakes her head, still enclosed in the comforting circle of his arms. He stays in her guest room more often than not – a fact Ruby likes to tease her mercilessly about – but that's not what she wants, not tonight. She feels very alone, and she wants – maybe needs – him beside her.

"No," she corrects him, heat rapidly rising to her cheeks. "I mean stay with me."

His eyebrows shoot up, and she rushes to clarify. "No, not like that, not like that," she manages to get out despite the loud rush of blood in her ears, because God she is not ready for that right now. "I just – I don't want to be alone tonight."

"Of course," he says smoothly, his face quickly arranged into a mask of placid helpfulness. But Emma knows better. She saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes when she specified, and it makes her heart clench tightly in her chest. Could it…

But no. She shakes her head, shaking herself free of the tantalizing possibility. She doesn't have the emotional capacity to deal with that potential change in their dynamic right now. She has to focus on Henry.

So she leads him into her bedroom, and they get undressed in silence. It should be awkward, and yet, of course it's not. So many things that should be awkward between them just aren't, and one day when she's brave enough, she'll explore why.

They lie in bed for a while, the fan casting tidy shadows on the walls, the only sound the rise and fall of their synchronized breathing. Emma feels oddly peaceful, and she knows it's because of Killian's familiar warmth next to her, the tickle of his arm hair on her bare skin comforting. Everything about him is comforting, as always.

So she doesn't think. She doesn't hesitate. She just rolls over, slinging an arm across his chest and burrowing into his side.

His breath hitches, but he doesn't move away, and after only a moment he relaxes beneath her, his free arm coming to rest on her back, cradling her close. After another moment, he starts to skim his fingers up and down her spine, and he nuzzles her head with his, so lovingly that she has to close her eyes.

"Thank you, Killian," she whispers into the darkness. "For everything."

He merely hums in response, his hand continuing its thorough sweep of her spine, and his touch lulls her to sleep.

…

She doesn't see Killian all weekend, for obvious reasons – they're not dating, and she needs to focus her energy on Henry – and she isn't surprised that she misses him.

Henry, of course, is a complete joy. He is bright and inquisitive, and so adorable that often she can't resist the urge to ruffle his hair. He gives his affection freely, and although they have a tearful conversation about why she gave him up, he seems to accept her reasons easily and move on, as only a 10-year-old can do. She enjoys spending time with him; they watch movies and drink hot chocolate with cinnamon on her couch, they walk all over town while Henry's imagination runs wild, they play board games when the typical summer rain comes. It's much easier than she expects, and she revels in it, excited about the possibility of many more weekends to come.

But the two and a half days pass much more quickly than she would like, and soon enough it's time for a goodbye dinner at Granny's. Thankfully, Regina has already promised to bring Henry to Storybrooke again in a month, so it's not a goodbye so much as a see-you-later. On an impulse, Emma invites David, Mary Margaret, Ruth, and Killian to dinner, and on yet another impulse she invites Regina, too. Once, not so long ago, she had no one to depend on – now, she has more family than she knows what to do with. It's a lot to take in.

Dinner is a chaotic affair. David and Mary Margaret are fixated on Henry – they're expecting a baby in a few months, and they're trying to babysit as many kids as they can in the meantime. Henry chatters the whole time, and Ruth just looks on fondly.

Of course, it's Killian who Henry gravitates to the most. He's intrigued by Killian's job as harbormaster, asking if he owns a boat and if they can go sailing the next time he visits. He and Killian banter back and forth, and Killian looks at her boy with such easy, obvious affection that Emma struggles to breathe for a moment.

She catches his eye over Henry's head, and she smiles. "Thank you," she mouths. Thank you for believing in me when I don't believe in myself. Thank you for being my support system when I feel like I can't do it alone. Thank you for being you.

He nods, his eyes full of an emotion that sears her very soul, and mouths back, "Always, Swan."

Of course, what she really meant to say was I love you.

…

Emma is 30 when she finally gives in.

Henry has just left after his monthly visit, and Emma and Killian are cleaning up the remnants of dinner. The three of them had a truly magical weekend together; they went sailing all of Saturday for the first beautiful Maine summer day, then went to dinner at David and Mary Margaret's (and cooed over their toddler, obviously) before watching the new Star Wars movie, and then today they took up Henry's summer project and made a birdhouse in the backyard. It has been utterly perfect, and Emma is the happiest she can remember being in a while, sunkissed and exhausted and ready to fall into a dreamless sleep, preferably with Killian by her side.

She and Killian are loading the dishwasher, their practiced symbiosis in the kitchen on full display, when Killian clears his throat.

"Swan."

Emma hums, luxuriating in the sunset peeking out through the bay windows.

Killian lays a hand on her arm. "Swan."

She looks up, smiling when she meets his ocean-blue eyes. "Yes?"

He sighs, scratching behind his ear, and she straightens, snapped out of her dreamlike state. Is he…nervous?

"Look, I just – I just wanted to – apologize, I guess," he explains haltingly, making a small noise of frustration.

"Apologize?" Emma echoes, dumbfounded. What could he possibly have to apologize for? He was absolutely perfect this weekend. In fact, she thinks she has never been more in love with him.

(Which is saying a lot, considering she's been in love with him since she discovered boys existed.)

Killian resumes methodically stacking glasses in the dishwasher, presumably so he doesn't have to look at her. "Well, I suppose I wanted to apologize for intruding this weekend. I know you don't get to spend much time with your boy, and I feel as if I imposed, so I just –"

"Wait." Emma grabs his wrist, and he looks up at her, shocked. "You really think you 'intruded' this weekend?"

He falters, wearing his telltale sheepish expression. "Well, to be honest, Swan," he says slowly, his cheeks reddening, "I'm never quite sure when I'm intruding."

Emma stutters, then sighs. She's never been as good at putting her feelings into words as he is, and she supposes she hasn't done a very good job of communicating to him that she pretty much always wants him around. Probably because that admission involves some element of risk – what if he doesn't want to be around as much as she wants him to be? – and personal risks are not something that she's familiar with.

But she knows she has to try to express herself this time. He deserves her honesty, and at this point, she's tired of dancing around this thing between them.

So she steels herself for some confessions.

"You're never intruding," she says softly, holding his gaze. "If you haven't noticed in the past couple of years, I almost always want you here."

She's rewarded by the brightest grin she's ever seen on him, and she smiles in return, but bashfully, because she can tell they're heading down a dangerous path and she's not sure she can stop it.

(She's not sure she wants to stop it.)

"Trust me, Emma," he says gently, tracing circles on her wrist. "There's no place I'd rather be."

She looks down, flushing hotly. "Besides," she says lightly, busying herself with scrubbing a pan clean of marinara sauce so she doesn't have to address what he just said, "You know I'm not very good at being subtle. If I didn't want you here this weekend, you would know."

He chuckles, a warm, deep sound that reverberates through her blood. "Too true," he says, and there's an undercurrent to his voice that means trouble. "You're pretty forthright. So tell me, Swan –"

She stiffens, hackles raising in preparation.

"What exactly am I to you?"

Her head snaps up in surprise. His eyes are stormy, and he looks anxious, but he doesn't back down. She can see how much this question costs him – his good hand is gripped tightly into a fist, and tension practically radiates from his shoulders – but he doesn't take it back.

"What are you really asking?" She asks instead of answering. She knows exactly what he's saying, of course, but she feels frozen.

He sighs heavily, and then, he retrieves a detergent pod from under the sink, placing it in its container, and closes the dishwasher. It's a simple domestic task, something she's seen him do a hundred times, but somehow, tonight it throws her.

He's a part of her, she realizes.

He steps closer to her, gently pressing her into the countertop, and her breath catches in her throat. Physical contact has always come easily to them – they're always touching in some way, gentle kisses to her forehead and an arm slung around her shoulders when they're watching TV, not to mention the nights he spends in her bed – but rarely has it affected her so, rarely has it made her palms sweaty and her cheeks hot.

His hands ghost up her side, and suddenly he's cupping her face. "I spend most nights in your bed," he says softly, his finger skimming her hairline. "We basically act like we're a married couple. I must confess that I'm quite unclear as to what exactly we're doing. Would you care to enlighten me?"

She gulps, and she finds that she's unable to look away from him. She should be scared, she knows. His words are dangerous. But he's just looking at her like he always does; he's looking at her like he wants to stay right here forever.

(She knows the feeling.)

"You're…" She begins, determined to be brave. She can feel the tension in the air, she knows that they're dangling on the edge of the precipice. This time, she needs to let them fall off the side and into the abyss.

"You're my family," she says, holding his gaze resolutely. "You're my partner. You're the person I depend on."

He's smiling now, a grin she feels all the way down to her toes. "Is that all?"

She finds herself smiling, too. "No," she says, her hands resting on his waist, her fingers involuntarily curling into the wool of his sweater, anchoring herself to him. "But you knew that already."

He tilts forward a little, resting his forehead on hers, and she feels more than hears him breathe her in. She wonders if she smells as comforting to him as he does to her.

"I did," he says, rubbing her nose with his, and she feels almost lightheaded with anticipation. "But I feel like there's more."

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. "You're my safe haven," she admits, trembling as she remembers the countless times he's held her when her world has collapsed. "You're the only person who can always make me laugh. You're my inspiration. You're everything, and I –"

She hesitates. He hasn't said anything about how he feels, and she could be totally wrong here about what he wants to hear. Maybe he isn't asking her to be honest about her feelings. Maybe he just wanted a clarification of their friendship, maybe he wants to slow down, maybe –

But now he's tipping her chin up, his eyes locking with hers, and she feels sure about him, feels sure he wants her, too, because there's no mistaking the love in his gaze.

Maybe it's always been there, and she was just too afraid to see it.

"And you?" He asks, hope flooding his every word.

Emma smiles, feeling something in her finally, finally give in.

"I love you," she says, leaning into him. "I probably always have.

His eyes are so, so soft as he tilts his head and kisses her. It's slow, sweet, his arms winding around her waist, his every touch reverent, worshipful. He takes his time, their breath intermingling effortlessly, his fingers tracing small circles on the skin above her hipbone. She melts into his kiss, cherishing every sigh, every press of his lips against hers, and she doesn't hold back; she pours all her long-dormant emotions into him, hoping he understands.

(She knows he does.)

He pulls back at last, his eyes warm, the lightest blue she's ever seen. He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, and she shivers at the contact. She's aware of how cliché the thoughts running through her head are, but she honestly doesn't know how she got this lucky.

"Emma," he says gently, his smile fond and easy. "I love you."

She stills. She knew that was coming, of course. She's loved him since she was 12 years old, and she's often wondered if he felt the same way. Over the past couple years, he's started to look at her like she's the sun and he wants to bask in her glow for as long as she'll let him. But it's jarring to hear her own words returned to her; it's jarring to know she's not alone in this.

"I've loved you since you were 15 and I really shouldn't have," he admits ruefully, and she gives a shaky laugh. "I told you I loved you the night Milah died. Do you remember?"

She nods, dumbfounded. "You remember?"

He ducks his head, a blush coloring his cheeks. "I should have told you," he says, scratching that telltale spot behind his ear, and a surge of adoration floods her, making her stumble a bit. "I just wasn't sure how you would take it and I knew it wasn't fair of me to spring it on you like that. It just seemed easier if we pretended it never happened. I did wonder, though, why you never brought it up."

Emma tips his chin up with her fingers, staring at him, into him, until her bones start to liquefy from the heat in his gaze. "I was scared," she confesses, and she's amazed at how easily the words fall from her lips. "We hadn't spoken in forever, you were so broken, I didn't even know how to help you. It seemed like the complete wrong time to have that conversation. And more than that…"

She trails off, unable to finish her sentence, but Killian looks at her shrewdly, his eyes unnervingly discerning as always. "What is it, love?"

She shrugs, looking down. "How I feel about you has always scared me," she admits, her voice small, and there it is, that's really the barrier to this working, and she feels like she can't breathe and she knows she has to keep going anyways. "You're a constant in my life, you're the best person I know. I honestly don't know what I would do if I lost you. And that's – that's pretty terrifying."

His hands are light on her shoulders, and she forces herself to look up at him. He's looking at her like he's been waiting for her all his life.

"Emma," he breathes, his hand cradling her face, and she leans into his touch. "You won't lose me. I have no intention of ever letting you go."

Her heart stutters. "Ever?"

He shakes his head. "I will never let you go," he says firmly. "I love you. I've always loved you, and I always will."

She trembles, and she kisses him, and she drowns in his embrace.

It's the happiest she's ever been.

…

Emma is 32 when all her dreams come true.

It happens when she least expects it. It's a Sunday night, and she's just put Henry to bed. Regina moved to Storybrooke a year ago, giving Emma countless opportunities to see her son – she would feel guilty that Regina uprooted her entire life, but on a weekend visit a few months ago Regina met Robin and never looked back. Emma is in sweatpants, her hair piled in a mess on her head, and she feels like she might fall over any minute. She loves Henry more than she can describe, but she never realized how much work 14-year-olds could be. He has more energy than she knows what to do with.

She shoots a glance at the kitchen sink, almost overflowing with dirty dishes, and turns away disdainfully. "Will you be very angry with me if I leave the dishes for tomorrow?" She asks, wrinkling her nose.

Killian laughs. "Of course not, love," he says fondly, folding up the newspaper he's been paging through and pulling himself up from his perch at the counter. "I'd much rather you come to bed with me."

She smiles, and he comes closer, twining his arms around her waist and holding her flush against him. "That does sound much better than doing the dishes," she admits, leaning into him.

He kisses her, sliding his hand into her hair and tilting her head back, and it's even better than the first time, it gets better every day, because it's warm and sweet and familiar, and she knows how much he loves her, she can feel it in his every touch, taste it in every moment like this. As always, it feels like coming home.

He walks her backward into their bedroom (she still thrills at the thought that they have a bedroom), peeling off her clothes with tenderness as he braces his arm underneath her so she doesn't fall on the bed. He's kissing her reverently tonight, like he's trying to tell her with his every breath that he's never going to let go of her, and she drowns in it, gets swept away in it, gives into it wholeheartedly.

They make love slowly, gently, and she knows she's never been more at peace.

After, they're lying in bed, comfortably tangled up in each other, and Killian kisses Emma's hair before getting up to get them both glasses of water. She doesn't move, breathing in the smell of seawater clinging to the sheets, basking in her safe haven.

"Swan?" A voice sounds from beside the bed, and she blinks in confusion.

"Killian?" She asks, voice hazy with the promise of sleep as she blindly reaches out to his side of the bed. He's not there, but she hears him chuckle, low and deep.

"Over here," he says fondly, and she turns her head, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. He's kneeling by the edge of the bed, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight casting shadows in the room, and he's holding something in his hand, something that looks suspiciously like –

She bolts upright, pulling the sheet up to her chest, and tries to catch her bearings, despite her heart hammering uncontrollably. "Are you –" She stutters, unable to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. "Are you proposing?"

He grins, scratching that spot behind his ear, and she feels such a rush of staggering love that even though she swore when she was 16 that she would never get married, she already knows what her answer will be.

"I will," he says, smile so soft and sunny. "If you'll let me."

She stills, nods, stays quiet.

"Emma," he says again, and now the moonlight slants just so and she can see the tears hovering at the corners of his eyes. "I've loved you for as long as I can remember. You've held me together every time I've thought my world has fallen apart, and you've been my partner in crime since the first time you kicked my ass in Mario Kart."

Emma laughs, hiccupping a little as a sob gets stuck in her throat, and Killian catches her hand with his arm, kissing her fingers. She smiles bashfully – never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that this would happen.

"I want you beside me for all the good and the bad that will happen in our lives," Killian says seriously, his eyes calm and sure. "I want to be the one who helps you bear your burdens. I love every part of you, I love waking up next to you in the morning, I love hearing your voice on the phone when I'm at work. I want all of you, and I want you forever, if you'll have me."

He pauses, and she grins, closing her eyes. Memories flash through her mind like chaotic, gorgeous bursts of light: the time when she was 15 and he and David were home for the summer and they tried to make ice cream cake and ended up stuck in sticky sweetness, the time when she was 27 and he spent almost every night on her couch as he tried to piece his life back together after Milah's death, the time just last week when she spent her whole day chasing after the newest petty thief in Storybrooke and she came home to a bubble bath and her favorite tomato soup and grilled cheese and Killian massaging her feet and tucking her in, and how she thought she had never loved him more.

She opens her eyes, and he's just looking at her like he always does, like she's everything she's ever wanted.

"Emma Swan," he says, clutching her fingers so tight she knows she'll bruise (but obviously she doesn't mind), "Will you marry me?"

She bites her lip, overcome by emotion. "I've loved you since before I knew what it meant to love someone," she says, trembling a little. "Loving you is just a part of me at this point, and I don't want that to ever change. So –"

She sees him stiffen, and she grins.

"Yes. Yes, yes, of course I'll marry you!"

He blinks, and then he's on her, his lips pressing against hers ferociously, and she's laughing, grinning into his mouth and wrapping her arms around him, and he's kissing every part of her he can reach, and he's whispering I love you I love you I love you over and over again in her ear.

…

Emma Swan is 34 when she makes one last promise to Killian Jones.

Mary Margaret is fussing around her, rearranging her veil, touching up her blush, tittering exactly like she did at her own wedding. "Oh, Emma," she breathes, her big brown eyes glistening with unshed tears, "You look beautiful."

Emma smiles, looking at her reflection in the mirror. It's surreal to see herself in a strapless white gown, her hair in an elaborate updo. That lost little girl who got tossed around from foster home to foster home without a second thought could never have imagined this moment. She's not lost, not anymore – she hasn't been for a long, long while. She has a family. She has friends.

She has Killian.

It's all more than she could have ever hoped for, and she chokes up, overwhelmed by how lucky she's been.

Mary Margaret grabs her hands, grinning. "No crying!" She chastises fondly, picking up her bouquet. "You'll ruin your makeup!"

Emma laughs and promises she'll keep it together until the ceremony (she knows she'll be a mess during the vows, especially since she's walked in on Killian revising his at least a dozen times since he proposed), and then everything is a blur – David comes in to kiss her on the forehead and tell her he couldn't be happier she got sent to live with them, Ruth wraps her in a bone-crushing hug and smiles past her sobs, her darling Henry (16 now, almost a man, and she's so glad she gets to watch him grow up) tells her she looks beautiful and that he's so grateful she found him all those years ago. And then, it's time.

She stands by the doors, waiting to go in and marry the love of her life, and thinks that she'll remember this day forever, that she'll always remember this profound feeling of the puzzle pieces of her life finally, finally falling into place.

She rests her hand on her stomach, the gentle curve not quite there yet. She's barely showing – she's only a couple months along, apparently – but she went to the doctor a couple days ago, and it was confirmed. She's having a baby. She's having a baby, and this time around she isn't scared, or helpless. She isn't alone. She has Killian, and she knows he will always, always take care of her.

When you're ready, it'll happen again.

She's ready now.

…

Emma Swan promises Killian Jones she'll love him as long as they both shall live, but really, she made that promise when she was 10 and he came waltzing into her house like some kind of storm intended to turn her entire world upside down.

It's a promise she knows she'll never break.

...

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage" – Lao Tzu