Killian awoke in darkness, momentarily unsure of where he was. But after a few minutes, it came back to him: he'd come home yesterday, he'd fallen asleep reading Swan's letters, and then Swan herself had come over and—

Well, and shown him just how much his mistakes had hurt her.

He was a bloody wanker, that was for sure. He'd strung her along for two months, refusing to meet, denying her that one thing she asked for. It had been crucial for him—would he have been able to fall in love otherwise?—but meanwhile, what about what had been crucial for her?

How could he profess to love this woman if he couldn't treat her as an equal partner?

Asking her out had been the worst mistake, surely, but mentioning Jefferson's dare …. He could claim that he'd been so stressed and upset over the news that his father was dying and that he would have to leave her behind, he'd simply written the comment without thinking. But he was a man who said what he meant and felt; he had written about the dare intentionally, with the hopes that she would appreciate how different things were now.

All the while, he'd never thought that perhaps his love for her would not be enough to make up for the things he had asked of her, or the things he had put her through.

Wallowing in bed all day would be a terrible way to start the new year; he forced himself to get up.

As he did, something fell to the floor. It was Swan's necklace; he'd fallen asleep holding it. He placed it on his nightstand, almost reverently, unsure of what else to do with it.

His phone, which he'd forgotten to plug in, let him know that it wasn't quite eight o'clock in the morning. He chuckled, impressed that he'd slept so late given that his body believed it to be nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. It was a testament to how exhausted he'd been, clearly. He grabbed the phone and its cord in his right hand, while painfully flexing his left, and went into the living room; typically he charged his phone in the bedroom, but unless he planned to spend the entire day in there, he'd need to make an exception.

Fatigue still pulled at him, reminding him that a single night could not erase severe emotional turmoil or jetlag. Coffee was certainly in order, and once he'd gotten his phone squared away and plugged in, he made his way into the kitchen.

He stared at the packing slip as he waited for his caffeine. It was strange: if she'd known his identity since Christmas, why would she bring the slip with her to yell at him? He was a little disappointed that, if she knew who he was, she hadn't managed to find a way to contact him. Bloody hell, a quick internet search would bring up his profile and email on the law firm's website.

It would have to remain a mystery, at least for now.

He stirred some half-and-half into his coffee and wandered back over to the couch; her letters were still scattered all over the table. Perhaps he should finish reading them? Was he that much of a masochist?

It was the least he could do, he supposed. If she truly never wanted to speak to him again, this would be the last he'd ever hear from her. It was something to be treasured and valued—of course he would read them.

The first three, he skimmed, refreshing his hazy memories from the night before. He noticed that there was no indication in her Christmas letter that she'd read the packing slip. It still made little sense, but he continued on.

My dear Captain,

I can understand picking your career for personal reasons. My history in foster care is why I'm actually a social worker. I feel like it's the least I can do, you know? Help kids the way I wished I could be helped.

Obviously, it can be really difficult emotionally. Whenever a placement falls through, or a kid runs away, or a foster family has to call it quits, it really feels like a personal failure. I know it's not—at least, logically, I know it's not—but it's still so hard. But it's the personal investment that makes it worth getting up in the morning.

That break-up sounds really horrible. To be honest, I really doubt that she didn't know you were in deep. I mean, you're obviously a romantic. I've never even spoken to you face to face, but it's just plain obvious.

He smiled sadly—so she hadn't known at this point who he was. She clearly remembered speaking to Killian face to face.

For her not to have known, I think she would have had to be actively in denial.

My last break-up was actually … a week after you started leaving me notes. It was really a long time coming, so don't feel bad (or proud!) that you ended my previous relationship. You really didn't, although you definitely provided a little bit of a push. I was reading your note, which asked me if I was single or not, and I kept thinking that I really wished I was. So … well, I made that happen.

He wasn't a bad guy, but I was not the right person for him. He had all these ideas about what his significant other would be like, and it didn't seem to occur to him that, if I didn't match those ideas, maybe we shouldn't be dating. Like, he wanted me to find a less demanding job, move into his house in the suburbs, give up all my interests he didn't like, and pick up all of his. He routinely criticized my personal taste; he hated my doormat, for example. And he'd talk about the future like I'd already agreed to marry him and change everything about myself.

I don't know why I stayed with him as long as I did, when he made me so miserable. I'm not miserable anymore, that's for sure.

Seriously missing you,
Your Princess

"Oh, Swan." There was no one around to hear him, but he felt as though he were speaking to her. The man's behavior was absurd anyway; there was no point to being with someone if you didn't like them as they were. But to know that this prat had felt that way about Swan was infuriating. The man probably didn't even know just how amazing the woman he'd lost truly was.

Killian knew.

My poor Captain,

I'd like to believe that whatever you're feeling is the right away to feel. How could you not be angry with your father? But how could you not want to be the bigger person? Whatever happens, this isn't your doing or your fault. You are a good person in a terrible situation. How on earth could I possibly think less of you for telling me this?

I was about to write that I wished I could say I'd been in the same position, but the truth is, I really have no idea if I wish that. You have a chance to confront your father for what he did to you and your family, or maybe to get some kind of explanation. It's been twenty-eight years and I still have no explanation. My parents abandoned me on the side of a highway in Maine. I think if I ever found out who they were, I'd probably just want to know why they couldn't bother to leave me at a hospital or a shelter, or even on someone's doorstep.

Bloody hell, truly?

Obviously, I've found some semblance of a happy ending. I met my best friend my first year of high school, and ended up being adopted by her—our—parents. They have never, ever done or said anything to make me feel unwanted, but there are days I still wonder.

I know that this isn't some sort of personal failing of mine. I'm not the one who abandoned an infant on the shoulder of a highway in a rural area. I've dedicated my life to helping kids who're just like me. But I always have to wonder why. Was I not good enough? Did my parents ever even want me in the first place? My friend T—the therapist—would suggest I have trouble believing that anyone could want me.

Sometimes, I dream about confronting them and screaming at them for what they did to me. But I don't think I'd do that for real. I'd probably pretend that I was just some random social worker and make up some sort professional reason for having to talk to them, and just hope they wouldn't notice the resemblance and do the math. Sometimes, I'm not very brave.

Yours if you want me,
Your Princess

Of course he wanted her. His face felt hot with anger, for making her believe that he hadn't wanted her.

My Captain

Well, the good news for you is that I have never noticed anyone in the building with scars on their left hand. I hope you're okay with me being really unobservant, apparently.

To be honest, when I got your first note, I wondered if you were my ex trying to put the spark back into the relationship. I assumed that was why the note was typed, because I'd recognize his handwriting. Once I figured out that you weren't him (something that's really good, by the way), I kind of forgot to wonder about the notes being typed.

All I can say about your hand at this point? I'm sorry that such a thing happened to you. You must have been scared and devastated when the injury first occurred, and even if you knew that a full recovery was a longshot, you must have still hoped for it. I can promise you that I won't care about scars. Like, I won't really even think about it either way.

I suppose if you want to trade traumas …

I almost had to drop out of college when my first boyfriend dumped me. I'm so embarrassed now. I want to go back in time and find my twenty-year-old self and just shake some sense into her.

My boyfriend just totally swept me off my feet. He was a rich city kid, who'd gone to private school and all that fancy shit. He just said all the right things that I needed to hear—I was beautiful, I was perfect, he wanted to do all sorts of crazy sex things to me.

It was surreal after being in the foster system. No one ever treated me like I was beautiful or desirable. So I fell hard. You know, like ya do.

But within a few months, it was just this epic struggle to hold onto him. He was bored of our sex life unless I tried more and more new things, things I wasn't always comfortable with, and things that weren't always pleasurable for me. He stopped wanting to spend time with me unless I made it extremely convenient. I felt like I was always auditioning for him, always trying to convince him that he should stay with me. When he finally broke things off, he said all sorts of nasty things about how foster care had made me weird and messed me up sexually, and how it was okay for him to mess around with a lost girl for a bit in college, but he was expected to bring home someone more like him.

I basically stopped eating, stopped leaving my dorm room, stopped going to class. My parents had to call the dean and arrange counseling for me. I almost went on medical leave.

Sometimes I worry that I'm never going to be able to lose myself in a relationship again, after what happened with my college ex. I'm glad I didn't with my last ex; I was unhappy the whole time, and I'm glad I dumped him. But what I mean is, I don't want to miss my chance when it's right. I'm scared of missing out at the same time that I'm scared of even trying.

I'm anxious about meeting you, not because I don't want to. But because I think I've already lost myself.

Missing you so much,
Your Swan

He let out a frustrated sigh; how had this happened? He'd been so sure of her affections, and as he read each of her letters, he only became more convinced that she must love him back. How could she have reacted the way she had last night if she was, in fact, already lost? What could explain such a change?

My Captain,

I wish you were writing these letters in real time, in reply to mine. There's so much I've shared with you already, and so much more I want to share. I want to answer your questions and ask so many of my own.

I am 0% surprised about the name of your boat. Honestly, I haven't been on the water much, besides a whale watch freshman year of college. There just never were a lot of opportunities. As for your nickname, I was mostly just overly proud of myself for accidentally picking out such a good nickname for you. I'm still proud of it, actually. Damn proud.

Boston wasn't that much of a choice for me, although it wasn't like I didn't want to come here. I grew up all over the damn country, but I started and ended in Maine. I would have stayed there (I'm glad I didn't, for the record), but my sister was applying to colleges in Boston, and I didn't want to be separated from her, so I did, too. You may have noticed the abundance of colleges here? Maybe? Possibly? We didn't go to the same school, but we saw each other every weekend, and by the time college was wrapping up, we both refused to even consider leaving.

My sister had a better reason for staying: she got engaged right after she graduated, and my brother-in-law graduated a year ahead of us and had already settled down with a job and apartment here. I also went straight to grad school for social work, so I was going to be here for another couple years anyway. Now there's really no reason to leave: my sister is here and our parents are only a few hours away, and I've got a great group of friends. I like my job, and if that changes, there's plenty else to do here.

And to be honest? There's something about this apartment building …

Patiently waiting,
Your Swan

He was overwhelmed with information as he tried to remember just what he had written to her almost two weeks ago. There was so much he'd hidden from her for so long, and he vaguely recalled pouring his heart out to her. He'd forgotten, or he supposed it had never occurred to him, that she might pour her heart out to him in return.

And she was. She was Emma Swan, a social worker, who came from Maine and settled in Boston. She was Emma Swan, who had been abandoned and then eventually adopted, whose past lovers had treated her in a way she never deserved. She was Emma Swan, who missed him, who wanted to talk to him, who understood him and accepted him.

Who told him never to speak to her again.

One more letter to go, and that maybe he could find some peace.

My Captain,

Okay, so I didn't lie earlier about my college break up. But I wasn't telling you everything.

My college ex would have dumped me at some point, but the reason why the break-up was even harder was because he did it after we found out I was pregnant.

It wasn't the only reason he dumped me, but it was sort of the catalyst. He thought I'd gotten pregnant on purpose to trap him, and said I was just another orphan who couldn't break free from her upbringing. He said that my birth parents were probably dumb college kids who couldn't handle a baby, and I was doing the same thing they did to me.

After the break-up, I miscarried. I was maybe eight weeks or so when it happened, and I bled and cramped for days. I knew I wasn't ready to be a mother—even now, I know I definitely wasn't ready. But it was overwhelming. I know miscarriage is common, but at the time, I just felt like a failure.

I never told him that I miscarried. It happened after he dumped me; he still thinks that I terminated the pregnancy. I'm not sure if I would have; I definitely wouldn't have raised the baby if I'd had it, but I don't know if I could have handled the additional stigma of trying to get through college while pregnant.

It was excruciating and horrific, and at the time, I thought that the whole combination of events—getting pregnant, getting dumped and having my heart broken, and then miscarrying—was probably the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. It's still my most painful set of memories, and I'm still stunned that I managed to live through it all. But there are some silver linings. The pregnancy ended what was an incredibly unhealthy, damaging relationship. And the miscarriage saved me from having to make a decision about what to do. It also taught me a lot about birth control, but that's beside the point.

I know that this isn't the same thing as losing your brother in that terrible accident. But we all have scars. We all have traumas. It's okay.

Still yours,
Your Swan

He wanted to hold her, to stroke her hair, to thank her for sharing this piece of herself with him. For sharing all of these pieces of herself—for trusting him with her past.

Liam's words to him, repeated so often in his youth, rang in his head:

A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.

He wanted to be with her. He wanted to repair their relationship. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her all the reasons he was a right arse, and all the ways she was too good to be true.

If he sat in his flat and did nothing, he would have nothing.

The short walk from his door to hers felt like the longest in his life.

He stood outside her door for several moments, unsure of whether or not she was even awake. He knew from their letters that she had a studio, which meant that unless she slept with earplugs or a white noise machine, she would likely wake if he knocked. It seemed rather rude to wake her up when she was already unhappy with him.

But then he heard, faintly, the sound of feet on tile and of cabinets opening and closing. When he heard what was unmistakably a coffee maker, he knew for sure that she was awake. He knocked.

There was no reply, or any other indication that she'd heard him. He knocked again, more deliberately. "Swan?" Now he heard what sounded like ceramic on countertop. "Swan, I'm sorry. I just want to talk." Still no reply, but he could hear more activity in the kitchen. Was she ignoring him or pretending not to be home? "Love, I can hear the Keurig."

All sound, save for the sound of the coffee maker, ceased. Bloody hell, was she really not going to reply? He sighed. Clearly, she was still angry with him. But that didn't matter—he would fight for her anyway. "Okay. I'll go. But I still want to talk. I'm going to go back to my apartment and stay there and wait for you until you're ready. Okay?"

When there was still no reply, he went back to his flat. There was no use in pushing her. He would run into her eventually, as he had so many times before during the past year—nearly year and a half. He would find some way to talk to her, or at the very least make it clear that he was sorry and was willing to prove it. For now, there was nothing he could do, and so he would retreat.

He grabbed his coffee from where he'd left it on the coffee table; he'd only managed to take a couple of sips before becoming too engrossed in Swan's letters to remember that he'd made it in the first place. He quickly dumped it out in the sink and began to make a fresh cup; it wouldn't do to be groggy for the rest of the day, when it was barely ten o'clock.

He stirred some half-and-half into his fresh cup of coffee (too little this time, he realized as he tasted it, but he didn't want to overcorrect) and sat at the dining table, mulling over his plans for the rest of the day. He would have to call his friends at some point, to thank them for their gifts, to wish them a happy New Year, and to update them. He'd contacted them all after his father had passed, and Belle had been given permission to update everyone regarding his return to the States, but he would need to tell them what was happening with Swan.

He was a reasonably private person, but they would know something was wrong as soon as they spoke to him. And, quite frankly, he didn't want to have to go through this process alone. Either he'd need their support as he won her trust back, or he'd need it to get through the heartache that was sure to follow. But he preferred not to think about that.

Instead, his mind turned to domestic matters; he needed a break from thinking about Swan. The flat was reasonably clean, though it could use a thorough dusting, and he would need to air it out a bit. Laundry would have to be done in the immediate future; he'd been planning on doing it after work on the day he'd ended up leaving for London, and now his hamper was topped off with the extremely ripe clothing from his trip.

It was unlikely that anyone from the office would be answering emails during the holiday weekend, but he should at least let Spencer know he was back in the States, and that he would be back in the office on Monday. He could do some work, but if he planned to do that, he'd need to know what had been going on with his clients while he'd been away, and—

There was a soft knock at the door.

Probably just management or something, right? Oh ho ho, just kidding. Anyways, I hope you liked the chapter!