It was that damn family of his. Emma knew it. Sure, they have welcomed and loved the man as if he was one of their own, opening their hearts and homes to him. And Killian, sad, broken, alone; had embraced that warmth and love in his life as he'd once had embraced the darkness in order to survive.

But they have been a terrible influence on him. With no other references to modern life other than Regina's fake memories, he'd relied on them to understand the world.

And it had led to this.

First, there was the lack of toppings allowed on pizzas. She had not been able to even have pineapples near the mozzarella cheese at the fridge.

Then her peanut butter jars had taken the backspace in the cabinets in order to make room for Nutella. Jars and jars of Nutella magically appeared out of nowhere in every single available space in the kitchen.

One day, as he came home and a football match was on, she had distinctly heard him mutter under his breath about "proper football" and "a real sport".

And now, here she was, standing at the front of the coffee stand, in the middle of the summer heat, watching as he refused to even try the drink.

"I will not drink that awful concoction, Swan." He stated vehemently.

"It's a caramel frappuccino, Killian. It's coffee." She sighed frustrated as he stubbornly clinged to his ideals of food and beverage.

"That is not coffee, love." He lifted his hand in a flowerish manner "Now, if it is coffee what you want, I know this perfect little place with an espresso machine that serve the most wonderful ristretto. We could always go there…" His suggestion was cut off by the dagger stare she was giving him. He ran his hand though his hair, a sigh escaping his lips before looking at her smiling, "I am doing it again, aren't I?" The sheepish tone of his voice made her heart beat faster as warm invaded her.

"I'm sorry, Emma. It's just…"

Her hand reached for his arm, squeezing it lightly. "I know." She whispered, her green eyes looking at him with warmth and understanding.

His eyes softened at her staring, and his hand reached to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "I might seem well adjusted, love; but it's still hard." He admitted, his fingertips trailing a path through her neck before reaching to scratch behind his ear. "And that thing," He pointed out to the transparent cup she was holding, "it has ice, and syrup and whipped cream."

It was the sheer despair in his tone what drove her to remove the straw from her drink and playfully run it through her lips, leaving a trail of whipped cream in them. She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes as she leaned into him, her lips almost brushing his.

"Trust me." She whispered against his mouth, as she captured his lips with hers softly before deepening the kiss and letting their tongues mingle with each other, enveloped in the caramel and cream flavor.

When she pulled back to look at him, his eyes had darkened lustfully and a sinful smile was plastered on his face.

"Didn't that taste good?" She asked, her tongue darting out of her lips to playfully lick the straw.

"Aye." He admitted leaning closer, his arms wrapping her and pressing her against his body, his lips playfully caressing her earlobe as his voice was barely a whisper, "But you always taste good, Swan."