Content note: This chapter contains mild sexual content.

Killian was relieved to see Swan's note the next morning; even if she'd found his previous note improper, she was at least telling him so. He hesitated before opening it during lunch—what if she was planning to return the favor? He had no intention of using the office bathroom for masturbatory purposes, even if he could get away with it, and the thought of riding out an unwanted erection when he needed to meet with a client in an hour was distasteful.

But in the end, curiosity won out.

My Captain,

I hope you're fucking happy because it's pretty rude to get a girl riled up and fail to follow through. If I wanted to go to bed unsatisfied, there are plenty of guys I've dated who'd be up to the task.

(Basically, it was hot, now I'm horny, good job there, but damn I'm horny, you asshole.)

I know you're not going to read this till Monday and I don't want to return the favor while you're maybe working (are you working?). So, I don't know, maybe let me know when you're home and when I get home, I'll do another note? So you don't have to wait till morning for the next one? Or is it just weird that I'm even suggesting this?

Anyway.

What did you do this weekend besides apparently worry a lot about me being upset with you? Besides convincing my dad to listen to doctors' orders, calming my mom, and trying to help while also staying out of the way, not much went on with me. I'm happy to be home, and even happy to have work tomorrow (or today, I guess, but I'm writing this on Sunday, so tomorrow).

Dearest Swan,

I'd love to pretend that I did not spend a great deal of the weekend in quite a panic, but I fear lying to you in an attempt to protect my masculinity and fragile ego would be a mistake. My weekend was otherwise uneventful; I tidied up, engaged in various health-and-fitness-related activities, and did some light reading. And some heavy reading; I prefer not to do any work when I'm home, but usually, it catches up with me anyway.

I would absolutely be amenable to an inappropriate reply from you, and welcome your attempts to leave me as frustrated as I left you last night. I hope I don't make you uncomfortable by suggesting that perhaps you could have handled your frustration? I'm sure this is not a foreign concept to you, given that you are an adult with no readily apparent misgivings about basic sexuality. But then again, I can only assume that a woman who practically challenges me to provide some erotica is playing with fire because she hopes to get burned a little.

I will be careful not to think too much about your revenge; as you guessed, I am at work as I write this. I tend to read your morning letters while I take a break for lunch. Though I am typically alone, with some degree of privacy, I do very much appreciate that you are refraining from writing me anything particularly filthy for me to read during the day.

Your suggestion is excellent; I will be sure to check your doormat again this evening for another note instead of waiting until the morning. And of course, feel free to indicate whether or not you're expecting a similar note in reply, so that I don't need to wait to repay the favor if you're eager for it before bed.

Looking forward to what you're cooking up,
Your Captain

My Captain,

Reading sounds fun. I should be better about reading, but I usually need to shut my brain off after a long day at work. Current guilty pleasure is Hell's Kitchen since apparently I love hearing Gordon Ramsay shout obscenities at people. Who knew I'd be into that?

Then again, who knew I'd be into reading a description of what you think I look like when I'm horny? It was pretty surprising how much your letter affected me, and after reading it, I decided to check and see if you were right. My breathing was definitely a bit shallow, and I checked the mirror to see that my pupils were totally dilated.

But you should think long and hard about some other details you missed. There were quite a few, although I should clarify: I could only see them once I took off all my clothing.

Swan

PS: UGH I AM NOT GOOD AT THIS BUT I WANTED TO GET YOU BACK SO BADLY.

He chuckled, but either she wasn't as terrible as she thought she was, or it had been long enough since his last tryst that his body didn't care all that much about quality. He didn't desperately need to get off, but his cock was stirring to life as he thought about how hard her nipples would be when she was aroused, and just how wet she might become.

My Swan,

You're certainly not terrible at it. Your goal was to leave me aroused and unsatisfied, and here I am, in such a state, imagining those signs of arousal that would be hidden under your clothing. It's going to take some time, and some serious concentration on some decidedly not sexy topics, before I can deliver my reply. It would be bad form to roam around our building's hallways with an erection. Might scare the children.

I confess that I do not watch any sort of reality television, but I'm intrigued. I wasn't aware of the existence of such a show. Perhaps I will catch an episode or two and report back on whether or not I also enjoy watching Chef Ramsay verbally eviscerating people. Any other shows or films you might recommend? I'd love to know more about some of your favorite media.

You weren't clear on whether or not you expected a return favor, by the way, so I will take the lack of clear indication as a negative. Feel free to make requests in the future if I'm not offering often enough. Meanwhile, I may take a cold shower before delivering this missive.

Riled up, as expected,
Your Captain

Somehow, even when there were no plans for any mild (or moderate) sexual innuendo, two letters a day became the norm. He wished there were ways to increase the frequency, and she felt the same—Maybe new anonymous email accounts? she'd suggested, before nixing the idea in her next letter. Never mind. I'm already distracted enough with a couple letters a day. I think I'd be useless if you could just email me at work whenever you wanted to.

He was a bit relieved that she'd been the one to make that decision. In response to the initial suggestion, he'd agreed it was worth looking into, and he did wish they could exchange messages more often. But there was something special to him about leaving notes. It was an intimacy that would be lost over electronic correspondence, and he also worried that the loss of anticipation would be detrimental.

He wasn't quite there yet in terms of his apprehensions. Yes, he was excited to see a return message from her, and he always enjoyed writing decidedly naughty messages to make her squirm (and squirming when he read her inappropriate ones). And he absolutely wanted to keep the exchanges going. But the thought of taking things a step further, breaking out of the realm of quirky fantasy and into that of the mundane, was uncomfortable.

He was feeling things, that was for sure. But he wasn't sure an inbox notification would have the same effect as the little bit of yellow peeking out from beneath a doormat.

And so the letters continued. Sometimes, sexy, sometimes sweet, sometimes longer or shorter. But always worth looking forward to.

Captain,

I finally watched Spellbound. I thought it was all right! Don't be offended—I liked it. But it's definitely not my favorite Hitchcock. Old-timey psychology just doesn't quite work for me, even if romantic Gregory Peck does. The ending was pretty great, though.

I don't know which laundry room you use, but in mine, someone left their clothing in the washing machine for an hour before picking it up. I finally moved it so I could get a load in before the "curfew," and when I came back to move it to a dryer, there was a note on the machine that told me I was rude for moving their clothes. As if it's not rude to leave your clothes in the machine forever and ever when everyone knows we don't have enough machines.

If you're the one who left the note (because I know how much you love leaving notes), then bad form, Captain. Bad form. Apologize. Although I don't think it was you because it looked like a woman's handwriting and the note was written on the back of a flier for an elementary school raffle. But, hey, you never know.

Her royal highness

Swan,

Actually, I have already seen Legally Blonde, so you'll have to pick another movie to have me watch. Although not the sequel, please. I looked it up online and it looks terrible, and I was under the impression you were fond of me and would never torture me like that.

Have you read anything by Jasper Fforde? I don't know how much you'd like his work, but based on what you've told me, it's worth giving him a shot. If you're not up for visiting the library, I can leave you a copy of one of his books with my next note.

Do you have a car? I've just bought a new one for the first time, and I can't quite figure out the unspoken rules of the parking garage here. Serves me right for thinking I need a vehicle of my own in Boston of all places. But as I get older, the prospect of sitting on the T every damn day to get anywhere becomes less palatable.

Yours always,
Your Captain

My Captain,

I'm still so exhausted from going out last night. I thought this was the time of everyone's lives when bar hopping was supposed to be invigorating, not draining. I demand to know who lied to me. Or am I already an old fuddy-duddy? Oh god, I am, aren't I?

I'm halfway through Watchmen. It's great so far. Are you almost done with The Princess Bride yet? I can't believe you'd never read it and had only seen the movie!

No reading for me tonight, though. I'm just going to relax on my bed and maybe watch some bad TV. Just stretch out a bit, and maybe take my clothes off to make sure I'm not feeling confined or restricted in any way. Sometimes, when I'm alone, my hands just drift when I'm not paying attention. Maybe to my breasts; they've always been so sensitive. Sometimes, I come just from having them kneaded and suckled. Or maybe I just play between my legs a little. I'm not even thinking about it, and it just happens. Sometimes, it's a non-issue, but sometimes, I definitely end up working up quite a sweat unexpectedly. I think tonight, I might do that on purpose. What better way to relax?

Do not disturb,
Your Swan

My beautiful princess,

If I see another Black Friday ad, I might have to leave the country. What is it with this made-up sale holiday? I loathe it.

In answer to your earlier question, it would be considered a houseboat. It's a yacht, but that probably brings to mind a lot of connotations regarding wealth. I'm not poor (obviously—I own a yacht), but the language makes me sound so much more glamorous than I am. And I only want to impress you with my wit, not my wealth. Although feel free to imagine me wearing a monocle, perhaps gently swirling a martini in a cocktail glass. How terribly fancy I am, I'll have you know.

Anyway, my boat. It's got everything you'd expect in terms of being able to live aboard: a washroom and toilet, a bedroom, a galley, and a sitting area. I've lived on it reasonably comfortably before, although I will say that if you ever decide to live on a boat for a few months, don't do it during the winter in Boston. It's no good.

Let me know what you think of Bull Durham. I watched it a few weeks ago with J; it's an old favorite of ours. No rush to return it, since the baseball season has ended.

I thought you'd appreciate that I ended up eating some Cap'n Crunch the other day. The only way I was able to make it through the bowl was to think of how proud you'd be.

Always the survivor,
Your Captain

My Captain,

How dare you introduce this recipe into my life? I can't afford to double my time in the fitness center or I won't have time to write you all these letters! What made you think giving me your patented macaroni and cheese recipe would be a good idea? You are a life ruiner.

I don't know if you drove in today or took the T, but oh my GOD. I thought the ride in was bad, but the car I was in on the way home was super crowded, and there were some bros having the bro-iest conversation I think I've ever had to experience. If I try to recall exactly what they said, my brain might melt out my ears, so I won't bother.

That's cool that your friend is a librarian—it explains why you have good book recommendations. My sister teaches the fourth grade, so often the only book recommendations I get are things like Little House on the Prairie. Which, don't get me wrong, is a great book, but I'm twenty-eight years old now, so maybe not a great recommendation for me right now. I'm glad to hear that you liked The Princess Bride; do you think you liked the book or the movie better? Explain your argument in detail.

Insert witty closing here,
Your Swan

My Swan,

Ask and ye shall receive. When I know that my last letter has left you wanting but not sated, I always resolve to ensure yours has the same effect. Namely, if you've had to go to bed unsatisfied, I do as well. Sometimes, it's quite painful, wanting so badly to have some sort of relief, and I have to avoid making it worse by imagining how frustrated I must leave you. I imagine you wriggling on your bed, shutting your eyes and trying to think of anything except the building need between your thighs.

Sometimes, though, especially if you've hinted that you've enjoyed your own climax, I can let my imagination run wild. I wonder how much you enjoy having this sort of control over my body from afar, and if it arouses you to know what you're able to do to me with a few simple words and mental images.

I hope it does. I hope you're beginning to flush and throb. I hope your breathing is becoming shallow and irregular. I hope that, if you are indeed wearing anything, that you recognize a load of laundry might be in your near future.

Very much yours,
Your Captain

A curious thing was happening, he found, as their exchanges continued. For one, he was sleeping better than he ever had; nightmares that had plagued him for years (of Liam's death, of Milah calling off the relationship) ceased nearly entirely. Most of the time, his dreams were vague, indescribably things that evaporated as soon as he woke up. But occasionally—and truly, such wonderful occasions they were—he dreamt of Swan.

Sometimes, his dreams were mundane, involving waking up beside her and hearing her complain about having to get up early, something he knew from her letters that she disliked immensely. Sometimes, his baser urges seemed to be in charge, and he would dream of caressing her soft skin and feeling her envelope him, body and soul.

But his favorite dreams of his Princess were the ones in which he experienced the tension and terror of revealing his identity to her; as he drank his morning coffee, he would think back on the emotions that had coursed through his dream self as dream Swan had leapt into his arms and kissed him for the first time.

But his sleep and dreams weren't all that had changed. He found himself aboard the Jolly more frequently, sometimes after work or on weekends. For the longest time, just being on his ship in chilly weather was enough to turn his mood sour, but now, he found he could enjoy the solitude and fresh air, even if he wasn't up for a sail. On workdays, he would drop off a note for Swan before driving out to the marina; he couldn't bear to make her wait for his letter.

It wasn't that he needed space from her—he didn't. It was more about rediscovering a part of himself that he thought he'd lost years ago. The Jolly Roger was so important to him, and yet for years, it was tainted with so many terrible memories. Now, at least, he could sit and relax aboard her and just enjoy the simple pleasure of relaxing on his beloved ship.

His friends all noticed that something was different. Belle was the only person he felt comfortable sharing details with, and she of course did not know everything (he would happily take some of the details of the dirtier letters to his grave). But she sometimes asked questions ("How is she doing?") or mentioned Swan in some way (after a particular absurd game of Hearts between the four of them, Belle suggested he relate the story to her). It made him feel a little less strange and lonely than he had at the beginning of the written interaction.

Graham was a little amused, but more bemused; of all three of Killian's friends, he seemed to understand the least why Killian didn't just call off the letters already. Killian found that amusing, given that it was Graham's recommendation of the dating site and messaging before meeting that had inspired Killian's communication method. But at the very least, Graham was supportive; he simply thought it was odd.

Jefferson was as supportive as one might expect, and in his own particular way. He teased Killian when they were together, and when they weren't, he'd occasionally send a mocking text. So have you banged her yet you bloody wanker was a personal favorite for Killian, but he also enjoyed, got a letter today from insurance agent, u think shes into me

Had it been any other person besides Jefferson, or if he hadn't known Jeff as well as he did, this behavior might have been off-putting or even harassing. But this was Jefferson, his best mate since they were assigned as roommates their first year of college, whose wedding he'd been best man in, and whose daughter was like a niece to him. And Jeff was capable of being serious when necessary, and would back down if Killian (or Graham or Belle) were hurt or irritated by his comments.

He could feel all of them, however, dancing around a subject he knew they were intensely curious about: just how serious was this? But it was the wrong question to ask, even if they drummed up the courage. What they should have been wondering, Killian thought ruefully, was whether or not he even knew what sort of name to put to "this" in the first place.

Thank you all for the lovely comments so far! It's been really moving to hear how much everyone loved With Affection; I'm very glad I wrote this story as well. I'd love to know what you think of this chapter!