Contrary to popular belief, Emma Swan enjoyed parties.

Not as much as her friend Regina did, as she was dead on determined to be the main attraction of the night, like any former prom queen freshly discovering the freedom and wildness of college would, but definitely more than her other friend Mary-Margaret who almost had a mental breakdown not being able to choose which dress to wear and had eventually decided on a pair of jeans and a slightly cuter than usual top. Mary-Margaret had nothing against parties, parties had something against her – or so she said. Somehow, she always managed to spill something on a couch or tell someone's secret after a couple beers and then she'd call it a night. Thank God she was a people person and her kindness and charisma had saved her from blacklisting.

Emma would never know such thing as blacklisting. She blacklisted people, not the other way around. She played fair, liked to call people out on their shit, and somehow that had gained her respect across the campus. The fact that she was friends with restless it-girl Regina Mills, the lovely Mary-Margaret Blanchard and cousin to the campus golden boy David Nolan (Mary-Margaret liked to call him Prince Charming, more as a sarcastic joke but it was an accurate description) also did not hurt. Although, there was no way on earth Emma Swan wouldn't be invited to this particular New Year's Eve party – for the mere reason that it was thrown by Killian Jones.

She had tried not to stare when Killian had walked up the stairs of his mansion, all smirks and glory, holding a glass of rum in his hand and gesturing theatrically with the other as he gave an already drunken but still coherent speech to welcome his guests and officially open what promised to be a debauchery of a night. To say Jones liked parties would be quite the understatement. Killian lived for parties. He liked music, alcohol and games. He liked to be the center of attention. He liked losing control. He liked sex. All of the above were coursing through his veins, animating him as he motioned on the stairs, seeking Emma Swan's attention in the mass. He was not doing it all for her. But he sure would try to make her feel like it. As he was warming up his crowd, standing tall and proud on the marble stairs, the fourth button of his already slightly unbuttoned silk shirt threatening to give in and a dangerously enticing smile plastered on his handsome face, his piercing blue eyes were focused on nothing and no one else but her, fighting a knowing expression in his direction. She had to admit, he was quite the view.

"I think he really likes you." Mary-Margaret had told her at least three or four times this month, after witnessing yet another one of Killian's attempts to get Emma's attention. Of course she'd say that – Mary-Margaret was a believer. Emma was more of an observer. And what she had observed until now was that Killian Jones enjoyed the flirting almost as much as he enjoyed a challenge, and her unbothered manners apparently had him completely obsessed. He couldn't like her, he did not know her. That was, until they had been paired up by Ms. Mader on a stupid french project and Emma hated to admit his company had proved more endearing and genuine that she had expected it to.

Now, there was no stopping him from trying to wow her as much as he could. They had something when spending all this time together at the library, something Emma could not and did not want to name. But it was there, and it was enough to have her take her distance while he held onto it almost as hard as he was now holding onto his rum. All it took was Emma laughing at his jokes and letting her guard down three inches for Killian to shimmy in those three inches and hang in there as long as he could.

"To all the stupid decisions we'll make tonight." He finished his speech, his glass raised in the air, Great Gatsby style. "For they are the best memories we'll ever make."

Something on the corner of his lips gave Emma the feeling "we" were two very specific people.

"Okay, here's my prognostic," Ruby started as soon as Killian walked down the stairs and everyone went back to their dancing and drinking. Her voice almost had Emma jump out of surprise, which was a very rude way of forcing her to realize she had been staring. "I say, Regina totally nails cute blond guy over there."

"Jeremy? I'm pretty sure he's gay."

"Who's gay?" Mary-Margaret's voice joined right after she had successfully avoided a coalition with two frat guys apparently playing tag.

"Jeremy." Emma said.

"Oh yeah, Jeremy's gay."

Emma laughed, amused by Ruby's frustration. "Your predictions are off to a rough start."

"Okay, here's one I'm definitely right about." She resumed, challenged by Emma's unimpressed tone. "I say, you and Killian make out tonight."

The blonde nearly choked on her drink. "Please."

"Don't 'please' me Emma; there will at least be some over the cloths action. I say he's already got the candles and perfume set up in his bedroom."

"I'm sure he has. That still doesn't mean I'll set a foot in it."

"Why, though?" Ruby almost pleaded. "The guy's hot." And with that incredibly well-put argument she pointed her chin to her left, where Killian had started playing a very loud game of cards and vodka shots. Emma allowed herself one glance. His laugh somehow made its way above the music and directly to her ears. She couldn't help but notice the fourth button of his shirt had finally given in.

"He…" Emma began, then realized her eyes were still in his direction and immediately redirected them to her beverage, shaking the image off her mind. "That's really not the point. He's got short-temper and daddy issues written all over. Trust me; I've got better things to get my focus on."

"He's just a guy, Emma." Ruby argued. "Hooking up isn't going to stop you from graduating."

"As a matter of fact, that is exactly what guys do. They distract you from what really matters just to let you down eventually. Been there, done that." The blonde rolled her eyes, let out a humorless laugh and finished her drink.

"He's not Neal…" Mary-Margaret said with her softest voice. A dark shadow of unresolved hurt and anxiety crossed Emma's eyes.

"Well actually, we don't know that. And it doesn't matter if he's not. There is more than one type of asshole."

The worst part about this thought was not that it was accurate, but that she didn't even truly thought of Neal Cassidy as an asshole. She was pissed at him – that was for sure. But she could not bring herself to properly hate him. She was mad at his clumsiness, his cowardice. But he was not cruel per say. More like a lost boy – which was a trait he most definitely had to share with Killian Jones, because nothing rhymed with loneliness more than a cautiously crafted bravado and a restless need for attention. Emma wasn't fooled by Killian's unshakable assurance and ridiculous audacity. It was faked. He was part of a kind of people so desperate to fill the void in their chest that they tried to do so by chasing after romance, sex, challenge, things to own, without ever realizing that the thing missing was true self-esteem, which only they could ever fill. Emma knew this, she could read it all over his face, and she would not be another vain conquest the boy would eventually leave in a corner the minute he'd figure she was nothing like the fantasy he had made up in his mind.

It was a burden, being able to read people like she did. Sometimes she wished she didn't have that tingling feeling in her guts whenever someone was lying to her. She called it her superpower. It was efficient, often came in handy. But ignorance was bliss.

"I'm sorry I brought it up." Mary-Margaret said, a genuine look of concern on her face as Emma had stopped smiling for several minutes now.

"No, it's fine." Her friend reassured. "I don't even care anymore. And I don't care that much about Killian Jones either. Let's go get more drinks, shall we?"

If Mary-Margaret had Emma's superpower, this last sentence would have given her a headache.

It had almost happened, once.

Emma had tried to push the memory way back somewhere in the part of her brain where she kept stories she would never tell out loud – not that this one was something to be that ashamed of. But if she started thinking about it too much, or worse, tell it to anyone, than it would make it real, and she'd have to admit things she didn't want to admit, didn't have the luxury to. So she had just shoved it in a tiny imaginary box and thrown it in a wide imaginary ocean and pretended it had drowned many, many feet deep underwater, buried in the sand, where it would never have to resurface. Except it did, sometimes. Only partially, just a blurry ghost of an image passing briefly in her mind and the lingering shivers it sent down her spine every time she'd remember the rasp of his voice and the steely blue of his eyes were exactly why it all had to stay in the box, buried in the sand, miles underwater.

But maybe, just maybe, tonight she would allow herself to think about that moment without immediately scolding herself for it because the effects of alcohol were slowly but surely making their way to her brain, exhilarating her as she started actually having fun, dancing with her friends, looking – only momentarily – in Killian's direction, then immediately closing her eyes and ignored him the second she'd realize he had been looking at her too.

It couldn't hurt to think about it just a little. Just once, then she'd stop.

It happened the very first week they met.

Robin had been talking all summer about this childhood friend of his who was about to fly all the way from England to the United States, curious to live the American college experience – a story Emma had immediately found fishy, but she didn't have the time to care. David had chosen to dislike Killian from the very beginning, asserting the boy Robin described, a guy fueled by nothing but reckless ideas and stories to tell sounded like bad news. Truth was, David and Robin had been best friends since freshman year of high school and he did not feel like getting competition. Although when Killian Jones did arrive on American land and directly into their lives, David soon realized it was not Robin he needed to worry about. The look in Killian's eyes when Emma had walked in the amphitheatre that very first day had been enough for David to decide he would definitely not like the new boy, and would have to keep an eye on him because after everything Robin had told them about Killian Jones' behavior around women, there was no way he'd ever lay a fingertip on his cousin.

Oh, but Killian wanted to.

From the very second Emma Swan had walked in the room, long blond hair like melted gold flowing over bare shoulders, ivory skin slightly shining from September's last heat waves, calling at him so intensely it made the rest of the place dissolve in the background. He had to admit, he had a thing for blondes. But this one had something in her posture, in the way she nonchalantly walked down the amphitheatre's stepped alley as though she hadn't just lit the whole fucking room that made Killian's eyes unable to stare anywhere else for several seconds. Until he had been made aware of his staring by a brief shot of hazel eyes glaring in his direction, and so Killian had started pretending he had merely been looking around the room and had hid half of his face in his hands, both elbows pressed on the table, as if minding his own business, absentmindedly rolling a pen between his fingers. But his mind was everything but absent. It was pondering, desperately trying to find an idea. Soon, she'd walk past him. He had never been one to let such a woman pass by without getting himself acknowledged. He had to talk to her. He had to know her name.

Emma had almost reached her seat – or the one she had decided was going to be hers for the two following hours – when something had hit her calf. She had immediately stopped, not minding the crowd of students who had to cautiously avoid bumping into her and had picked up the pen that had been carelessly tossed in her legs. She had glanced on her left, where it had come from, and had laid eyes on a dark haired guy with a black hoodie and a single earring apparently looking for something underneath his seat. His brows were frowned in an exaggerated manner, his teeth biting the tip of his tongue like a four year-old trying to concentrate… or a twenty year-old trying to hold back a bad joke. She had stepped towards him (as he had definitely known she was) with a sigh and an unamused smile, handing his pen back to him. She had been met with eyes of a blue so deep it had almost startled her while Killian had had to shove back inside the desire to linger on her legs too long to greet her a warm, toothy smile instead. And god, her face was quite the kind of view he had wished he could have lingered on as well.

"This yours?" Emma had asked – though it hadn't sounded like a question at all. She may have had all the features and beauty of the princesses in distress Killian had heard stories of as a kid, she sure as hell did not sound like one.

He had reached for the pen. "I'm afraid it is. I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to hit you."

British. Uh.

His mouth had said something the look on his face definitely had not believed in. This guy was everything but sorry. He was very much satisfied with himself. He had tossed that pen on purpose, but why?

"Yes, you did. You're lying." Emma had pointed out, her last words tangled up in a confused laugh.

The blue eyes and the cocky smile hadn't moved one bit as she had tilted her head to the side, both arms crossed over her chest, to try and see who was sitting behind him. There, she had seen her cousin and his best friend right next to the liar and his pen. Then she had connected all the dots and she hadn't been able to hold back a stupefied expression on her face as she had realized Robin hadn't been exaggerating when he had told stories of his foreign friend being quite the seducer. Although, throwing a pen on her leg to try and catch her attention wasn't the subtle schemes Emma had pictured this Killian Jones to come up with. This was… uninspired, really.

An opinion she and Killian definitely shared, as he had mentally slapped himself at least a hundred times for making such the spontaneously idiotic move, desperate to have her turn around before he'd lose her sight and hell he thought, wasn't he fucked if the girl already had him act like such a fool ten seconds after seeing her for the very first time.

"I'm not." Killian had mumbled, trying his best to sound convincing. Bloody moron. "I apologize…"

He was about to ask her for her name when David's newly familiar voice had given him an answer before she could.

"Emma!"

And then it was set. The mysterious beautiful blonde was David's cousin, the one he had been warned not to approach unless it was with nothing but friendly intentions – even those, David did not quite trust – and Killian had sworn to his friend Robin he'd do his best to get along, be nice, fit in, not stir any kind of conflict or broken hearts in the friend group.

"As far as I'm concerned, you can hook up with any girl you want – or guy, for that matter – in the whole freaking town. As long as you stay clear of my cousin" David had very seriously told him in the cab on the way from the airport to Killian's father's house. "Oh, Mary Margaret's also out of line. Well, technically she's not mine to protect but I'm not too worried anyway, she's not into guys like you." Robin's friend had continued in a bit less threatening but still quite sincere tone. Killian had no idea who this Mary-Margaret was, but he had almost been able to hear David add "she's more into guys like me" in the back of his mind, according to the shy blush of red that had colored his cheeks when he had pronounced her name.

Ok, then. He would stay clear of Mary-Margaret, and David's cousin Emma Swan. He was not an animal. He didn't have to flirt with the whole bloody promo. And even if that Emma turned out to be hot, he could make that sacrifice. Nothing was worth jeopardizing his friendship with Robin.

Except David hadn't mention one very tiny detail, being that Emma wasn't just hot like many other girls he had already spotted on campus were – Emma Swan was bewitching, ravishing, drop dead gorgeous, making him feel so many kind of things in the inside by just laying her eyes on him that she might as well have been a siren alluring him with nothing but beauty and songs until he'd willingly let his ship sink. Maybe it was just the fact that he knew she was out of reach that made it even more intoxicating. Maybe it was the rest of summer's heat melting his brain cells and making him slightly hallucinate. Maybe it was the jetlag and the adjustment of moving to a new continent that had his mind completely upside down and he'd wake up the next day, see her again and realize he had totally overreacted.

But it didn't happen.

He hadn't overreacted at all.

On the second day, Emma was as outrageously beautiful and tempting as the day before. Her blond hair had been tied up in a high ponytail this time, complimenting the curves of a face he got to know a bit more each time he'd steal brief glimpses of her, whenever she – and David – weren't watching.

He wouldn't make a move on her. Not like he'd normally do for some random girl he didn't even really want to care about.

He had to wait for the perfect moment, when there would be just the two of them, and there'd be a chance she'd be open to the flirting, or at least the attention. Emma was not the easy kind to approach. She was guarded, unbothered, unimpressed. Truthfully Killian wondered why David had put such seriousness into talking him out of trying to flirt with her because she frankly did not need anyone to bodyguard her – she did that very well on her own.

But Killian wasn't delusional. If she had been utterly disregarding of him, he would have let it go. Well – maybe not, but at least he would have stopped waiting for that perfect moment to try and slowly, gently offer to break through the fortress of walls she had built up all around herself for some unknown reason he was dying to find out. The thing was, he had caught her attention. She would never admit it, didn't want to (yet, maybe) but he had seen something.

On the first day, when he had tossed that stupid pen her way and she had given it back to him with a mix of startlement and curiosity in her eyes.

On the second day, when the four of them had eaten lunch at the campus cafeteria and he had told a tale of his bold and wild teenage years in South London and she had listened carefully, not amazed one bit but rather perceptive of every single one of his exaggerations, calling them out with clever comebacks that had seemed to amuse her greatly, and then he hadn't cared anymore if she hadn't been awed by his stories like he usually enjoyed people to be because he had made her listen and laugh anyway and the satisfied smile on her lips was more than enough encouragements for him to keep chatting with her all day long if she let him.

On the third day, they hadn't seen each other, and he had hated how much it had upset him, because he then had to acknowledge the fact that he had thought all night of new stories to tell, new ways to intrigue her and make her emerald eyes shine with the captivated glow of someone about to call someone else on their bullshit. She was good at that. Bloody brilliant as she was, she was probably good at many things. He wanted to see every one of them.

On the fourth day, he had spotted her in the hallway as he was roaming alone, trying to find his classroom, and he had run to her hoping she'd help him and she had, but immediately disappeared afterwards, had barely even looked at him, and he had realized how incredibly avoidant she'd get whenever it was just the two of them.

It had happened on the fifth day. Or rather, on the fifth day, it almost had.

Fifth night of the first week of school was Friday night, and David had invited a dozen of his friends to hang out at his house, like he did almost every weekend, having been enjoying for the last two years the space and comfort of his new house, the one her mother had bought with his step-dad right after they had gotten married (and it was the sole advantage of this union, he hated the man). It was usually Robin, Will and Victor, and the girls, Emma, Mary-Margaret and Regina (if she wasn't busy somewhere else like she often was), and Ruby, and sometimes his neighbor Archie would tag along, plus a handful of guys from the football team and Robin's girlfriend Marianne (usually when Robin and she had a fight earlier in the day and she didn't feel like letting him go to a party without her). This time, Killian was there too, and he'd probably always be starting from now, as Robin was determined to make his two best friends grow closer. It hadn't taken long before Mary-Margaret, Ruby and Regina noticed Killian's enticing grins frequently thrown in Emma's direction.

"You're seriously gonna pretend we didn't see the yearning looks and the doe-y eyes?" Regina had snapped to Emma in the kitchen, sincerely amused by the situation (who's so perfect now, developing a crush on the British womanizer?).

"I don't yearn." Emma had sighed, at the same time making sure no one was around to hear them.

"Well, maybe. But he does."

The blonde had immediately tried to shove that comment in the tiny box in the big wide ocean she'd have to invoke later on in the evening, not without reluctantly complaining about it first in her head, deeming Regina's use of "yearn" as quite excessive. Yes, Killian and she had a good… vibe, and he was quite entertaining to be around, but surely his endearing attitude towards her was only due to the fact that she had been the first girl he had the chance to befriend ever since moving here, and he would've probably acted the same way around Mary-Margaret, Ruby and Regina, or anyone else, really.

Except he was around them right now and his whole attention was still pretty much directed towards her.

Well, maybe he did like her.

Why would she care? She didn't like him. She hadn't thought of him that way.

(…)

Except maybe for that first time, when she had handed the pen back to him and thought he had to be new on campus because she'd remember such a boy with ocean blue eyes, jet black hair and a frighteningly inviting smile, sitting on the amphitheatre's bench like he was a famous guest on a late night show's couch.

Perhaps, also, on the second day when he had told them all the ridiculous stories of his teenage fooleries back in England, and he had talked about how he had once sneaked out and climbed up a girlfriend's window and her father had found them naked in bed the next day, and he had nearly lost his life jumping back down before the father could attack him and Emma had wondered what it would've been like being that girl, having Killian freaking Jones climbing up a window to see her and make love to her all night and then she had mentally slapped herself so hard she got scared the boys would be able to see the look of utter panic and self-loathing in her eyes.

But other than that, she hadn't thought of him that way. And she didn't intend to.

Until she had dropped an almost emptied bottle of vodka on the ground in the kitchen and cut her hand trying to pick up the glass, and David had been too busy teaching Mary-Margaret how to play Call of Duty to stop Killian from taking Emma to the bathroom, making his personal mission to take care of the wound.

"It's fine, Killian. I can take care of it myself." Emma grunted as Killian closed the bathroom door behind them. She said that, and then she sat on the side of the bathtub and cursed at her bleeding cut, letting him roam in the drawers to find something to disinfect her hand. After a few seconds of finding nothing, Killian took a brown leather flask out of his pocket, opened it and poured its content on Emma's wound. She cried out, her face distorting in a pained wince as the burning liquor attacked her flesh. "What is that?!"

"Rum" Killian informed, cautiously putting the flask back in his jeans pocket while keeping both eyes on the blonde's bleeding hand in his own. "A bloody waste of it" His gaze left her wound to meet her startled glare. "I'm sorry, I couldn't find anything in here and your hand had to be disinfected. Thought you could handle it" he added with a provocative smirk that made her eyes roll.

"I can handle it; I just wish you had prepared me first."

"Alright" Killian said, wiping up around her cut with the tip of his sweatshirt's sleeve. "Next time, I'll tell you."

Emma watched him silently, her eyes traveling down his face, taking the time to notice all the details she hadn't let herself linger on until now. The curl of his eyelashes, the shy freckles on his nose, the stubble beard running along his jaw line and the tiny scar marking his right cheek… her eyes wandered lower on his neck as he was attempting to tame the roll of band aid. He had broad shoulders, quite a large posture, and she wondered how lean his muscles were underneath the black hoodie and – god. What was she doing? It was the alcohol taking control over her mind and making her completely stupid. Yes, Killian was handsome, it would be insincere of her to deny, but wondering about muscles was something for teenage girls to do and she needed to stop before her mind went some place she would no longer be able to stop it or worse, before he noticed.

He did notice. Truthfully, he could have pulled the end of the band aid half a minute ago, but the way her gaze was not so discreetly running all over him was too damn delicious to cut short.

This was his moment.

It was just the two of them in the bathroom, at least three rooms away from any potential disturbance. The light was dim and the music a distant, muffled sound in the background. He was about to take her hand in his own and she was about to let him. He could say anything. Being in a lack of words really was not one of his habits. He could tell her how he had enjoyed chatting with her those past few days; even if it had been light, superficial conversations where she'd mainly make fun of his stories in her all so glorious disbelief. He could try to apologize again for the pen incident. He could make a joke. He had tons of jokes.

But all the sudden they all sounded stupid and old, his compliments and apologies felt like a desperate cry for attention in his head and she was too damn attractive, long golden hair in a gentle mess of curls brushing the skin of her breasts, like purposely alluring him to the tenderness of their curves, that it almost enraged him, not being able to pull himself together and think straight as though he was a fourteen year-old boy seeing a woman for the first time. It got even worse when she realized what he had been doing and snapped at him with a disconcerted tone. "Are you staring at my boobs?"

A pair of guilty eyes blinked in her direction, and the instant shame on his face almost had her smile in empathy. She wasn't actually insulted. It's not like he was a stranger twice her age checking her out at a gas station with zero concern of how it might make her feel, or a date pretending to be listening to her while really he was just picturing her going down on him. It was just Killian, a guy her age who had been poorly trying to hide his interest for her in the past few days and had a moment of drunken distraction, the exact same thing she had done at the exact same time, except he hadn't had the heart to call her out on it. She tried to hold back a giggle, thinking about how uncomfortable he must be feeling now, as he usually had such a pleasant time being collected and in control.

Control had to be taken back.

"Pardon me?" he simply said with a cocky smile and an innocent raise of brows, as though he had no idea what she was talking about.

She feigned annoyance, because if she didn't then he would take it as an invitation to dazzle her with angel eyes and sexual innuendos and she was far too inebriated and weak to handle such a show. "Just give it to me," she ordered, trying to grab the roll of band aid off his hands but he must have seen her coming because her fingers didn't even get to brush the item before it was held off in the air by Killian's arm.

"Uh, uh" he forbid with a click of his tongue, "I'll do it."

Her lips remained slightly parted at first, like she was about to protest but decided not to, letting out a heavy sigh of resignation instead. She even held her hand up slightly in Killian's direction, granting him permission to touch her. That small gesture had him smile with pride as he stepped closer, the arrogance in his eyes making her instantly regret her decision.

She knew guys like him.

They were fun to be around, all jokes and flirtatiousness, making a girl's head dizzy with attention and ambiguity until they let her down completely without a care in the world and she'd only have herself to blame for feeling betrayed because the writing was on the wall since the very beginning. She had almost lost her mind to a guy like that less than a year ago. It would not happen again. She couldn't be that stupid.

(…)

Or maybe she was being stupid for overthinking it.

Maybe refusing to let another man in because she was too scared he would the same thing he did was proof she still cared. Therefore letting Killian flirt with her a little bit would prove the exact opposite. Maybe if she had to run away in order not to be affected by Killian than that meant she already was. Maybe letting him do his little show on her was the smart decision. He would do it, and she wouldn't care, and all would be right in the world. She could handle one tipsy, good-looking guy playing nurse on her hand for a few minutes. Hell, they had known each other for five days. How bad could it get?

"So now you're gonna be a gentleman?" Emma teased as Killian started wrapping her hand in the material. It wasn't much of a question, more of a general skepticism referencing the handful of stories he had told the group in the past few days, where he came out as a gentleman in precisely none of them.

That disbelief again. She couldn't let him get a bit closer without throwing a barely dissimulated insult his way, determined to remind him every second he didn't fool her one bit.

Except both of his hands were on hers, one maneuvering around her fingers and the other gently holding her wrist, and that was more physical touch he had hoped to get with her in a few days, giving how reserved she was – and she would've never let him so close so soon if she didn't think of him as an at least partially gentle man.

"You would've got blood everywhere," Killian said in a whisper, his voice taking a low rasp she hadn't heard from him yet. "And I'm always a gentleman."

The mocking chuckle that had formed in her throat didn't get the time to properly come out because suddenly Killian's torso was approaching her face, the heat and scent of his body invading her space, and she swore her heart skipped a beat when he lowered his posture so that it wasn't his chest proceeding towards her anymore but his face dangerously brushing hers, and she didn't dare to flinch as his breath tickled the skin of her neck for a moment that felt like time had frozen until he stepped back, holding the pair of scissors that was previously lying on the shelves behind her. She watched every one of his movements cautiously as he tied the band aid around her wounded hand, and then approached his face again to hold the material between his teeth before he cut it and placed the end under a band.

"There", he muttered casually, as if he hadn't just tried to take all the air off her lungs. "All good."

He put the band-aid back in the drawer and the scissors back on the shelf, except this time Emma hurryingly slid twenty inches on her left so his body wouldn't come as close to her as it did a couple minutes ago. She decided to stand up and stopped at his level, eyes fixated on her banded hand because she couldn't bring herself to look at him in the eyes right away but had to say something, anything to ease the tension he had set in the tiny room.

"So," she cleared her throat. "You keep a flask of rum in your jeans pocket everywhere you go?"

"I don't. Not always. It was my brother's." He whispered that last part and the shadow that darkened the blue of his eyes made Emma's heart compress in her chest.

"Was?" she asked, not sure if it was very smart of her to.

Killian opened the tab and washed a small taint of blood off his hands, turning his back to her as he explained. "He died a couple years ago. He was in the navy. Quite old fashioned, my brother. A great man, though."

She could picture the ghosts of memories flashing before his eyes, and she couldn't imagine how he must feel, dealing with such a young, abrupt death of someone he had clearly loved very much.

"How did he die?"

The tone of her voice as she asked those questions about his brother's death didn't sound insistent or intrusive, more like genuinely concerned. Had she lost people too? Maybe he was reading into it too much, but weirdly enough answering her questions didn't feel as uneasy as it normally did with everyone else.

"At sea. Like he always wanted," Killian let out a humorless laugh. "I just wish he had waited another fifty years to do so."

Emma nervously traced the lines of the band-aid on her hand with her fingers but stopped when she met his eyes, and the effort he was making not to let sadness and grief be too transparent in them made her forget about her taking distances for a while. "I'm sorry."

He smiled at her, worried he'd upset her with his personal sorrow. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault."

She gave him the same sad smile he had given her, refusing to let him turn down her empathy. "Still. I'm sorry this happened to you."

The sincere concern on her face was so strange to him that he brushed it off with a nervous laugh he hoped convincing. "Hey, don't you start pitying me over this, alright Swan? I'm fine. I've made my peace with it."

"Sure you have." She said, granting him the comfort of drifting off to an easier conversation.

"There!" He pointed a finger at her with a sincerely content smile this time. "That's what I want – your sarcasm."

"My sarcasm?" she repeated in a chuckle.

"Yes. I quite enjoy it. I enjoy this thing we have – wouldn't want it any other way."

She laughed, surprised. "We have a thing?"

"Yes."

"You and I?"

"Very much so." Killian ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip and there he is again, she thought, almost relieved she hadn't completely bumped him out with her questions about his brother. "You know, whenever I talk and you can't help but try to get my attention by commenting on my stories like a know-it-all." His smile widened in a friendly expression as he noticed the semi-amused, semi-hurt look on her face. "Don't take it the wrong way, love. I like it." And then, he added those three little words he had died to say to her ever since he had first laid eyes on her in the amphitheatre. "I like you."

Her expression shifted from surprisingly entertained to just plain surprised, although it wasn't the kind of surprise that made her scowl and take a step back, but the kind that let a shy, flattered look on her face, her lips slightly parted in something that seemed like a smile but wasn't quite there yet. In barely five minutes, this boy had nursed her wound, made her lower belly twirl with unadmitted desire as he had brushed his lips on the skin of her hand, opened up to her about the loss of a family member in a way she felt he trusted her to keep that moment just between the two of them and confessed he was indeed attracted to her.

Oh, and she had caught him glancing at her boobs. Again, she had only been able to do so because she had also checked him out at the same moment. So, really, why did she feel so strongly about those three little words, after everything they had done ever since they had stepped in the stupid bathroom? Of course he liked her. It took half an hour for her friends to catch up on it. But there was something in the rasp of his voice, the uncertainty in the blue of his eyes and the magnetism of his lips that unsettled her – he was sincere. It wasn't part of a game of seduction, it wasn't a line he had thrown with a tone she had heard dozens of times from dozens of men before. If it was, he was a damn good liar, the best one she had ever encountered, because her superpower did not hang on any word, any display of unease or exaggeration. He actually meant it. How?

Slowly, she stepped closer, got up on her toes, her wounded hand brushing his fingers ever so slightly on the sink's counter, and Killian watched eagerly as she approached her lips to his, afraid that if he made a move she'd scare away.

It was up to her. If he crashed his lips onto hers – and God knew he wanted to – she'd push him away and walk out the door before he could even get the chance to apologize. Therefore he commanded himself not to move, waiting for her to take the lead, however and whenever she'd want the kiss to be. Slow was good. He could do slow. For her he'd probably do anything.

He had just barely started to feel the touch of her lips brushing his when the warmth of her body suddenly vanished, her heels coming back to the ground and her fingers leaving his lonely on the counter. She pursed her lips, both eyes locked on his sweatshirt now facing her as he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

It was gone. The moment was gone. She hadn't kissed him.

Silently, Emma took a step towards the door, cautiously avoiding his startled gaze.

"Swan?" he called, desperate to make her turn around and she did, but her eyes persisted to focus on anything but him.

"Thanks for the band-aid." She simply said before stepping right out the bathroom door and disappearing in the obscurity of the hallway.