Huddled by a bonfire built to enormous heights and with all the guys taking turns quoting Tom Hanks in Castaway – "I have made fire!"- Emma Swan swiped through the day's pictures on her phone. She was the unofficial group photographer, always snapping candids and huddling everyone together for a picture.

If someone had told her two years ago when she was standing on the doorstep of the Nolan home in Storybrooke that this was it, this was her forever, she wouldn't have believed them. Too many homes and too many broken promises. too many what ifs and if only we coulds. She'd had nothing but a backpack holding some clothes and a small box that contained tokens and what Emma had always considered the totality of her sentimentality.

But now she had a family. Friends. A motely crew, really. Regina and Robin, polar opposites but they somehow bridged the gap between her big city dreams and his love of the outdoors to make it work. Ruby, the wild child. Belle, the bookworm. Mulan and Aurora, newly minted as a couple. David, Emma's brother, and Mary Margaret. She wore a small promise ring because even at the age of eighteen, they both just knew.

Recently, the group had been reduced by one. Neal's infidelity had not only cost him his relationship with Emma three months before but the one with his friends as well. Even though he'd been in the group since middle school, they ostracized him and closed ranks around her. She'd felt broken at the time after two years of being with Neal, so similar to other times when someone turned out to not be someone other than who'd she thought, but her friends had been the glue to hold her together.

Emma had hundreds of photographs of them, all carefully catalogued by date and occasion on her laptop. Far from crafty and with little patience for the pottery and painting classes Mary Margaret reluctantly dragged her to, she'd found a hobby in scrapbooking. The girl who'd never before belonged finally did, and the rows of albums on the shelves in her room were a testament to that.

Perusing her snapshots of the day, sun and sand giving way to sunset and sweatshirts, she stopped on one in particular.

Killian.

He'd been there since the beginning, first as David's best friend and then her own. Emma knew he'd wanted more, the beautiful boy with the dark hair and blue eyes she swore could see down into her soul. He breathed and bled devotion, and for a sixteen-year-old who had just found her place in the world it was too much. Lacking finesse as per usual, when Mary Margaret asked about the time Emma had been spending with him, she'd blurted out, "There is no me and Killian" loud enough or him to hear. She'd caught the devastation on his face before he could school his features and expected their burgeoning friendship to end.

It hadn't. He respected she was with Neal and made sure no lines were crossed as they became confidants and competitors; fierce friends that pushed each other to be better and do better. He challenged her to open up and she challenged him to grow up – to let go of the recklessness that seemed to fuel his every move. That didn't mean she wasn't aware of the occasional longing glance or the gravity of his mumbled "I love you" as she dragged him into his room drunk after their last New Year's party.

Now she was sitting on the beach, an extra layer of protection from the chilly night air courtesy of his leather jacket, lost in thought as she ran her fingertip down a photograph she'd taken a short while before. He was sitting on a stump of driftwood on the other side of the bonfire, bare feet in the sand and a guitar balanced on his knee. The rolled up sleeves of his flannel showed the flex of his forearm as he played, the light from the flames highlighting his cheekbones and jawline as he softly sang, she knew, to her.

"You've been my queen

For longer than you've known

My love for you has been

Every step I take, every day I live, everything I see."

"Swan."

Emma was jostled as Killian sat down heavily on the log beside her, throwing an arm around her shoulders. She juggled her phone, tucking it up into the too-long sleeve of his jacket so he wouldn't see she'd been looking at a picture of him.

"Jones." She nudged into him and looked up at the sky. "Beautiful night."

"Not as beautiful as you."

To anyone else's ears, it may have sounded like a cheesy line. Killian had been the first boy to tell her she was beautiful. It had been outside their school as they waited to buy tickets to a dance. He'd said it with such conviction, like there was no room for argument. And he hadn't stopped saying it the exact same way since. When she was dressed up for prom on Neal's arm. When her hair was piled on top of her head, the thick black glasses she'd rather die than allow most people to see her wearing perched on her nose during an all-night study session. When she was wheezing after gym class, sweat pouring down her face and arms raised in triumph because she'd beat his personal record for running the mile. When her eyes were puffy from crying, face red after she'd caught her boyfriend cheating, and wondered if it was because she wasn't pretty enough.

Emma turned, looking at his profile in the firelight. Later, she would realize what had compelled her to lean in and first kiss his cheek, then press her lips to his when he turned his head in surprise.

The fear was gone. It was love.