This is the result of watching too many Hallmark movies during the Holiday.
TW: domestic violence
Chapter1
The sofa groaned in protest as Ruby, one of Emma's best friends, collapsed onto it, wielding a wine glass filled with her signature crimson concoction. "What the hell will you be doing there?" she quipped, casting a sideways glance at Emma. The air hung with the subtle scent of sarcasm, or maybe that was just the fermented grapes talking. "You've been a city slicker your whole life. You probably can't even tell a carrot from a pumpkin." Emma briefly wondered if Ruby herself could pass that vegetable pop quiz. After all, both are orange—seems like a match made in agricultural confusion.
Mary Margaret, the unsung hero of their dynamic trio, eagerly joined the verbal jousting. "Maybe I should clue you in that it's not the pig you need to milk. Though, feel free to give it a shot," she chimed in from the comfort of an armchair, the picture of sophistication with a side of sass.
"Yeah, yeah, you two should take your show on the road," Emma retorted, taking a bold swig of her beer. With a pensive drumbeat of her free hand on her thigh, she sat cross-legged on the sofa, contemplating her rural fate.
Ruby and Mary Margaret exchanged glances. It seemed like Emma was genuinely contemplating her agricultural heritage, and if they didn't present enough cons, she might just trade the city skyline for a panoramic view of prairie sunsets. Undoubtedly, Emma Swan embodied the spirit of a gritty heroine in a Western film—her nature and character as mysterious as discerning whether a snake is a pet or a peril. A decisive woman, sometimes silent, often on the cusp of wild adventure. She thrived on movement, chose her bed partners with surgical precision, embraced challenges, and was acutely aware she wasn't exactly an eyesore. The radiant blonde hair, verging on golden, with narrow bluish-green eyes, a resolute chin, and a fit yet slender figure, only added to her allure. Yet, Emma was insatiable, perpetually yearning for more, especially for someone who could captivate her beyond a fleeting night.
"And what about your love life?" Ruby inquired, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Emma shrugged nonchalantly, "What about it? Perhaps a flock of handsome farmers and cowboys are waiting for me?"
Mary Margaret leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, "Real men live there, you know? Strong, rugged, straight out of a romance novel – sheriffs, ranchers, and..."
"Easy there, Wild West enthusiast," Emma interjected with a dismissive wave of her hand. "This isn't a frontier movie or a Heartland remake. I'm sure there are normal, simple guys there too."
"If you say so," Mary Margaret replied, a playful smirk on her face. "I bet you'll be back within a month."
"Long before that," Ruby quipped.
"We'll see," mumbled Emma. Determination etched across her face, she was ready to explore her roots. It had been ages since she last visited her grandfather's place, a cherished childhood haven. Last week's funeral in Hood River made her realize she hadn't considered the fate of the estate. Now, with it standing empty, perhaps it could be the fresh start she needed – a departure from the mundane, even if others perceived her life as pretty decent so far. They only saw the present, but maybe life should be about more than this. Right?
The house unfurled its rustic charm before Emma, a picturesque scene straight out of a countryside fairy tale, where even the mice seemed poised for chitchats with bluebirds. It struck the perfect balance between grandeur and quaintness—a place where the porch whispered tales of leisurely afternoons, two stories harbored secrets behind each window pane, and a hammock swayed gently, a relic of her grandfather's romantic inclinations. She could almost envision the spectral figures of her grandparents, nestled side by side, exchanging stories while her grandma worked her crochet magic. In the background, horses neighed, her grandfather and father in a symphony of clinking tools within the barn. It was a frozen moment from a time when they were all together under one roof, a memory now relegated to the archives of nostalgia.
Since the age of sixteen, Emma had been choreographing her solo dance, never entertaining the idea of an Oregonian sojourn. Life, post her father's departure and her mother's subsequent demise, had become a solo act. Crafting her existence from scratch, she navigated her modest inheritance with shrewd precision. But now, with her grandfather's legacy sprawling before her like an open canvas, a vast estate brimming with a thousand possibilities, Emma felt the magnetic pull of Oregon. She embraced the challenge, ready to learn the secrets of the land. Trusting in her adaptability, which had been her reliable companion through the corporate jungle, she was confident it would guide her through this new chapter. If she could survive the cutthroat world of the city, a countryside safari shouldn't ruffle her feathers too much.
Leaning nonchalantly against her car, Emma soaked in the rural panorama—house, barn, stable—a countryside symphony that made the distant city sounds seem like elevator music. Trees exchanged gossip in hushed tones, winds wove tales about the resident critters, and a hint of Eau de Farm teased her nostrils. A wistful smirk touched her lips. Pushing off her yellow Bug, she turned to survey the estate, now hers, reminiscing about the family who once inhabited it. The fence demarcated the boundary, a reminder of a grumpy old neighbor her grandfather, Robert, rarely engaged with, especially after her grandmother's passing. Loss had turned him into a recluse, much like her mom. Emma, the rebel in the family saga, vowed to defy that fate. No reclusive tendencies for her. Love, she decided early on, wouldn't be the architect of her loneliness.
With the estate officially hers—an event sealed with signatures and notary stamps just an hour ago—Emma politely declined the lawyer's offer to guide her through the grand tour. She knew her way around, or at least she intended to rediscover it after years of abandonment. The plan? Immerse herself in farm life, decipher the enigma of animal husbandry, and maybe weave herself into the intricate fabric of the community. Hood River, with its ten thousand souls, felt like a different genre from the hustle of New York. Not a tourist magnet, perhaps, but with its scenic landscapes, basketball courts, entertainment venues, and eateries promising a dance on the taste buds, it had its own quirky charm. Let's not forget the Hood River farmers' market, a stage where her grandfather once showcased his agricultural prowess. Soon, Emma would step into those shoes. But before the hustle, the house demanded her artistic touch, the animals clamored for attention, and the echo of Robert's love for horses serenaded in the background of her countryside overture.
As if scripted by fate, the estate came with its own farm-savvy superhero—Marco. A man of solid build and middle-aged wisdom, he approached barns, fences, and sheds with the precision of a conductor leading a symphony of tools. He even tangoed with the tractor when duty called, a rural Batman safeguarding the farmstead. But here's the twist: Marco, as dependable as he was, had a schedule as flexible as a stubborn cat on a leash. Not exactly ideal for Emma's grand plan of transitioning from city slicker to farm maven. They got along fine; he acknowledged the changing of his employer with a nod and even spilled some tea on Robert's exploits when asked. But when it came to stepping up his game and investing more hours in the estate, Marco was more cautious than a cat with a cucumber.
For a week and a half, Emma grappled with farm beasts, tried to befriend the obstinate tractor, and contemplated adding "fence repair expert" to her LinkedIn skills. Then, on a day dedicated to a bovine rescue mission near the estate's boundaries, the winds carried echoes of discontent—shouts and grumbling. Emma, usually distant from neighbors, had an epiphany. Maybe, just maybe, these seemingly irritating folks could be her ticket out of the one-woman circus act.
Approaching the source of the commotion, Emma peered over the fence. The sun illuminated two figures— one bent over, the other a picture of dynamic defiance. She squinted through the sunlight, realizing the older figure was orchestrating a verbal symphony of disapproval, possibly sprinkled with a dash of cursing. The older man, not content with just words, decided to play catch with an unidentified flying object, landing a hit on the younger man. Shockingly uninterested, the younger simply shrugged it off, as if dodging airborne objects was part of his daily workout routine. Emma's eyebrows practically scaled her forehead as she observed the spectacle, fixating on her grumpy neighbor like a detective closing in on a suspect. The grumpy neighbor, having exhausted his verbal arsenal, noticed Emma's scrutiny. He spat—a parting shot, perhaps—and, like a disgruntled actor leaving the stage, pivoted on his heels, leaving the younger man and a fallen fence in his wake.
The younger man, making his way to the fallen fence, snagged Emma's attention. The fence, a silent victim of neglect, leaned on a dry branch, caught in the crossfire of the farm's internal skirmish. Yet, the stranger captured more of her attention—a tall, dark, and handsomely rugged figure with a hat perched casually on his back by a string around his neck. Dressed in black jeans and a shirt as dark as a noir thriller, his eyes were as blue as the Pacific. Emma couldn't help but find him intriguing. He exuded a mix of resilience and tranquility, even as his jaw clenched in anger. It was the kind of allure that made Emma momentarily forget the chaotic farm drama unfolding around them.
Their eyes locked, and the stranger, now closer, wielded a hammer like a prop in a Shakespearean play. His gaze ran over her with an undeniable interest, but a fleeting shadow crossed his face—likely realizing she had a front-row ticket to the recent verbal duel. Undeterred, Emma decided to take the high road, ready to greet the stranger, the potential farmhand savior. Before she could unleash her most charming greeting, a van roared to life, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
The dark-haired guy of tension halted at the fence, his expressive headshake sending ripples of weariness through the air.
"He left, didn't he?" His voice, a symphony of almost weary tones, echoed in the suburban theater.
Fully embracing the unnecessary drama, Emma allowed her gaze to casually wander past him, confirming the van's departure.
"Afraid so," she confirmed, her tone tinged with a blend of amusement and sympathy.
The man let out a sigh that could rival a deflating bouncy castle.
"It's going to be a long walk to the house," he grumbled.
Now keenly observing him, Emma caught a whiff of his scent, akin to a connoisseur sampling a fine wine, and listened intently to the cadence of his voice. Her inner Sherlock deduced that this man was precisely the kind to spark her hunting instincts.
Feeling generous, or perhaps just intrigued, she offered a solution. "If you're up for it, I could save you from a potential episode of 'The Longest Walk' and give you a ride."
The man, after briefly inspecting her like a suspicious TSA agent, shook his head. "Not necessary. It would only fuel the old man's rage."
Emma nodded sagely, not one to force her generosity on those who couldn't appreciate the artistry of her goodwill. She sensed heavyweight issues lurking in the wings, and the old man's anger seemed like just the opening act.
Her curiosity, now fully awake and buzzing like a caffeinated bee, propelled her into detective mode. "So, who's the old man, and what's got him auditioning for the role of Scrooge?"
The man, bracing himself for the impending interrogation, sighed, "My father." The lack of joy in his tone painted a vivid picture of a less-than-Hallmark family moment.
"And you?" she tilted her head, her grin undeterred by the absence of pleasantries.
"His son," he grumbled, a symphony of unfriendliness, evasion, and a hint of crudeness.
Unfazed by the frosty reception, she couldn't help but appreciate the spunk. "Couldn't have guessed."
The deep blue eyes, like a pair of sunbeams contemplating life, met hers. "Killian," he uttered, adding a touch of mystery to the suburban saga.
Sauntering to the other side of the fence, Emma nonchalantly claimed one of the posts as her territory. Killian's gaze embarked on a swift reconnaissance mission—fingers, palm, and back to her eyes. She basked in the triumph of his subtle inspection. It seemed her enigmatic neighbor had a keen interest in her as well.
"Hi, Killian. Emma Swan, your resident neighbor," she announced with a playful flourish of her free hand, gesturing toward the sprawling farm expanse.
His response dripped with a hint of disbelief. "So you're the one who bought Robert's estate?" His tone suggested that farming wasn't the first word that came to mind when he pictured her. Emma couldn't blame him; she had yet to rock a pair of overalls.
"It's a family heirloom. Grandpa Robert's thoughtful parting gift to yours truly," Emma clarified, observing Killian's expression shift.
His eyes softened. "I'm sorry. I liked him."
Emma arched an eyebrow, skepticism etched on her features. "Really?" she quizzed, her tone carrying a subtle challenge.
Killian, in a gesture that danced between charming and awkward, scratched behind his ear with one hand while maintaining a firm grip on the hammer with the other.
"Well, I guess he wasn't too fond of us. My father, Brennan, he's a rather difficult man," he sighed. "The name's Killian Jones, since you introduced yourself so nicely," With a casual flourish, he tossed the hammer from one hand to the other, offering a handshake. Their palms met and lingered, a moment stretching into a minor eternity before they reluctantly pulled away.
"Pleasure. In more ways than one," Emma grinned, savoring the lingering warmth of the handshake.
He blinked a few times, slightly caught off guard. "While I fix this fence, care to elaborate?"
He bent down to pick up the fallen branch, and Emma instinctively moved to assist. Together, they cast the wood aside, inadvertently letting their forearms brush—an unexpected jolt of contact that left them momentarily awkward, reminiscent of teenagers navigating unfamiliar terrain. Emma grumbled inwardly, and Killian, undeterred, offered a faint smile as he reached for a few nails, squatting down to initiate the repairs.
Half-watching his work, Emma's unintentional focus fixated on his genuinely muscular thigh, snugly clad in jeans. The mental image of him on horseback flirted with her imagination before she cleared her throat to snap back to reality.
"See, this is one of those shared responsibilities. I didn't even know the fence was staging a rebellion," she confessed.
Killian, as she held the broken slat for him, nodded appreciatively. "Left side is ours, right side is yours. An unspoken pact to avoid a clash between Robert and my father. If it's broken, I fix it," he declared, a touch of finality in his tone.
"Neighborhood war brewing? Should I start hating you?" Emma raised an eyebrow, injecting a playful tone.
Under the sunlight casting a glow on his face, one eye deep blue, the other icy, Killian looked up. Handsome was an understatement, and Emma's fingers itched with the temptation to confirm if his hair was indeed as silky as it looked.
"I'd rather you didn't," he replied.
"Good, because I'd prefer not to. You seem more likable," Emma assured.
"Is that why you're thrilled we met?" Killian asked, punctuating the question with another swing of the hammer. It was a direct inquiry, devoid of the flirtatious banter.
Emma, deciding he deserved a straightforward response, didn't hesitate. "Oh, absolutely. An attractive and, hopefully, helpful neighbor is always a great joy." She emphasized 'attractive,' and his ears subtly reddened, adding an endearing touch to his demeanor. A man of contradictions—strength coupled with shyness, expertise in property matters overshadowed by inexperience in emotional ones.
"So, you need help."
All she could do was nod.
Killian, catching the subtle cue, proved himself a quick study. "This is all new to you, isn't it? A crash course might come in handy, right?"
Perceptive to the subtle cue, he responded, "This is all new to you, isn't it? A crash course might come in handy, right?"
Emma, appreciating his insight, nodded. "At least for some hands-on experience. Marco is a lifesaver, but I've been a city girl until now. I like animals, but I'm not their whisperer. I know what each tool is for, but I'm not ready to wield them like a pro yet. Right now, the place is an expense, not an income. I know you must be busy too, but if—"
"I'd be happy to help," he interrupted, the plea met with genuine willingness. "I rarely go into town anyway. My father prefers solo expeditions. That's when I have time."
Emma had a sneaky suspicion they might be tiptoeing into a covert affair, considering Killian's less-than-enthusiastic vibe about his father catching wind of his visits. But beggars can't be choosers.
"Fantastic," she grinned. "Now I've got a partner in crime and a crash course. Thanks, Killian."
Caught off guard, he blinked before responding, "For the partnership... I'll happily oblige." His smile, sincere with a hint of shy challenge, earned Emma's admiration. Respectful of his unique way of expressing interest, she lightly touched his other arm.
"How about tomorrow? Ready to take the plunge?"
He met her gaze, well aware they weren't just discussing estate matters.
"Yes, let's ease into it to ensure a smooth ride."
Emma beamed at him. Killian, with his shyness and a touch of innocence from his obvious lack of experience, didn't come off as easily swayed. Emma, well-versed in the art of seduction, was used to sealing the deal swiftly. It promised to be a delightful novelty if he didn't succumb so readily. She found it intriguing—a man who was attractive all-around, vying for attention and willing to put up a fight. She was more than ready to play along, as long as it proved to be worth the challenge.
As days passed, it became abundantly clear—investing time in Killian was like discovering a rare gem at a garage sale. Emma, accustomed to the swift rhythm of fleeting connections, found herself entangled in the web of his cautiously crafted charm. He unraveled his layers, shedding trust issues like old skin, and with each passing day, morphed into a more enchanting version of himself. Together, they pirouetted through the challenges of estate management, Killian proving to be the secret sauce in their recipe for success.
"Stardust here is one of the gentlest in your stable," Killian murmured, his hand caressing the chocolate-brown horse. Stardust turned her head, nuzzling him affectionately. "She's the perfect companion for estate exploration, a gas-saving alternative to your car, and always finds something delightful to graze on."
"Solid advice," Emma grinned, propped against the stable wall, relishing the sight of Killian's equine prowess. "I can handle a bit of riding, you know."
A strangled sound escaped him, a curious blend of surprise and amusement, swiftly shrouded by a strategic cough. With nimble finesse, he reclaimed his composure, casting her a sly sidelong glance. "We'll put that to the test. Wouldn't want you breaking anything."
"That would be tragic, wouldn't it?" Emma laughed.
"Aye," he replied, the sincerity in his eyes mingling with a hint of shyness. "Very much so."
Emma, feeling a surge of desire, resisted the urge to close the gap and give him a sneak peek of what he might be missing with her hypothetical demise.
"It's getting tougher resisting you when you say things like that. I have to stop myself," she said in a peculiar tone.
Killian shivered slightly.
"Apologies," he muttered, his hat casting a shadow over his face.
"No need. Not at all, Killian," she assured him, moving closer. Tracing his jawline with her thumb, she leaned in. "But I hope you appreciate my heroism," she added playfully, noting the blush taking over his ears. "Nevertheless, I'd very much like to kiss you now," she continued softly, eyes fixed on his lips.
Killian, breathless, rested his hand on Stardust's side, as if attempting to redirect the rising tension towards the horse.
"I don't want to play games or deliberately keep you waiting," he said quickly. "I just... I'm not a virgin, but I don't have much experience either. I don't want to disappoint."
His honesty hit her like a curveball, catching her slightly off guard. Of course, her own romantic track record wasn't a highlight reel she'd proudly showcase at a film festival. After all, her past relationships were like fast-food meals—quick, satisfying in the moment, but ultimately leaving her craving something more substantial.
As the revelation hung in the air, Emma pondered the rarity of someone laying bare their romantic credentials. Most of her past flings were mere footnotes in her life, and she certainly didn't have a trophy shelf for them. Yet, here was Killian, swiftly etching his name into the acknowledgments section of her emotional memoir. She already felt more attached to him than anyone else, even though their interactions remained within the realm of mutual understanding and friendship. It was like adding a splash of vibrant color to a black-and-white canvas, turning the ordinary into a masterpiece.
"It doesn't matter at all, Killian." The atmosphere between them crackled with a blend of cedar and a hint of sweat. Emma wanted to make it clear that, in this moment, her past relationships were as relevant as last season's fashion trends—out of style. "So, would you like to kiss me as well?"
Killian, with those captivating, chilly blue eyes, responded with a blend of shyness and longing, a cocktail Emma found utterly intoxicating.
"Very much," he murmured softly.
"That's all I wanted to hear," Emma whispered before gliding toward him with the grace of a ballroom dancer, pulling him in close. Their chests collided like plotlines in a gripping novel, creating a narrative tension that left them suspended in anticipation. As she reached up to remove his hat, she wasn't in a rush to fast-forward this scene. Instead, she orchestrated the moment, her hand exploring the uncharted landscape of his back. Their faces rubbed together, a tactile dance of textures—prickly yet soft beard, warm skin, and the enticing scent of cedar. Emma reveled in the sensory composition, sensing that her breaths were caressing Killian, evoking a pleasurable response.
Killian let out a sigh, his arm wrapping around Emma as if he intended to create a safety bubble against the world. His fingers clung to the fabric of her shirt, caressing the well-worn threads around her waist. In response, Emma's hand played a tantalizing game, offering comfort and, perhaps more shamelessly, a dash of arousal. The latter seemed to be winning the round, evident in the subtle quake of his fingers. He tilted his head back, pupils dilating, a blush meandering up his neck like a slow-burning flame. At this point, she could see he desired her more intensely than his morning coffee.
Emma, the architect of this tactile symphony, sported a mischievous smile as her arm encircled him. She leaned in, a magnetic force pulling him closer by the nape of his neck, and their first kiss was a delicate dance of lips – his mouth tingling with impatience and excitement, yet trembling with an impatient sigh. He explored with fervor, and the fabric barrier between them became a mere suggestion as his fingers ventured beneath her shirt, tracing the canvas of her back, setting off a cascade of tingles. Emma, responding with a sultry moan, met his hunger with a growl, sealing the second kiss.
The sequel was a fiery spectacle, Emma tossing restraint to the wind. She reveled in Killian's clinginess, tasting his mouth unabashedly, mapping every contour. Groans of approval accompanied her fingers tangled in his dark strands, inviting his tongue to join the exploration. He inhaled provocatively, a breath that danced on the edge of temptation, pulling her closer by the hips. The chemistry sizzled, but practicality intervened. His firm warmth against her hip hinted at a mutual excitement that needed a pause. They had to stop before Emma abandoned all reason right there beside the stable.
Emma retreated from the fiery moment, placing soft kisses on Killian's lips, chin, and face. Her chest rose and fell like a marathon runner's, attempting to maintain composure in the face of this infernal temptation. The time would come when caution would be tossed to the wind, ready to seize him anywhere, anytime. But for now, she resisted, not wanting to spook him. Uncertainty flickered in Killian's foggy blue eyes, realizing they wouldn't be venturing further – at least not yet.
"Do you not want me?" he inquired in a voice that could rival gravel in its intensity, his grip on her waist bordering on a human vice, as if he feared she might attempt a daring escape.
Emma released a disbelieving huff. "Why the hell would you think that?" she grumbled, lunging toward him, skillfully sliding one of his hands into her jeans. "Do you feel like I don't want you?" Her other hand firmly seized the back of his neck. "I wan to do this the right way, and I don't want to pressure you into something you might regret later."
His gaze dropped between them, perhaps instinctively – or, if not, with a calculated and seductive finesse – he licked his lips, then returned his gaze to hers.
"I could never regret this," he whispered with an air of longing. „I want to be inside you," he declared with fervor.
Emma felt a rush of impatience surging through her, almost escaping as an audible gasp.
"Come on, Killian, you can't just throw around words like that without consequences," she hissed, a warning laced in her words.
"I certainly hope not," her seductively advanced partner quipped, aligning his hips with hers.
Well, it seemed an aroused Killian was the antithesis of restraint, an allure too magnetic to resist. Emma, embracing the mutual fervor, decided silence was the most eloquent response. With a swift pull of his hand, she led him on a journey where doors, both to the house and the bedroom, closed with a resounding slam. At that point, Killian's escape prospects mirrored those of a cat surrounded by laser pointers – practically nonexistent. Not that he minded; he craved Emma desperately.
Her eyes locked with his, a magnetic force drawing them together. She took a step back, leading him further into the room, their connection growing with every stride. The air was charged with an electrifying tension, echoing the unspoken yearning that had lingered between them for far too long.
The air crackled with anticipation as they stood locked in a tender embrace in the intimate sanctuary of the bedroom, the fabric of restraint slowly unraveling between them.
Emma, exuding confidence, met Killian's gaze with a sultry smile. Her fingers traced a path down his chest, teasingly unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness. Killian, slightly shy yet eager, reciprocated with a grin, a flush of excitement coloring his cheeks.
With the shirt now discarded, Emma pressed her lips against his, a gentle exploration that deepened with every passing moment. As their kiss lingered, she skillfully guided him toward the bed, a haven awaiting their shared passion.
Killian, his nerves blending with desire, allowed himself to be led, feeling the softness of the bed beneath them. Emma, breaking the kiss, took a moment to savor the sight of her partner – a mix of anticipation and vulnerability in his eyes.
A whispered promise hung in the air as she continued her exploration, her hands tracing the contours of his torso with a feather-light touch. His breath caught, a symphony of sensations playing across his skin.
Noticing his slight hesitation, Emma, with a tender gaze, reassured him. "Relax," she murmured, her words a soothing melody.
With newfound assurance, he reciprocated, his fingers delicately undoing the buttons of Emma's blouse. The lace-trimmed fabric revealed more of the artistry beneath, and a quiet gasp escaped him as he admired the beauty laid bare before him.
As clothing fell away, a delicate dance of exploration unfolded. Her confidence became a guiding force, her touch an invitation for Killian to shed his reservations. Each caress and kiss became a testament to their shared intimacy, a harmonious rhythm building between them.
In the soft glow of the full moon outside, Emma and Killian discovered a language of connection that transcended words. Their bodies moved in unison, a dance of desire and vulnerability, a celebration of a newfound connection that bound them together.
As they lay there, breaths slowing, hearts still entwined, he couldn't help but smile. The eagerness that had driven him into the room had transformed into a profound contentment, a sense of completion that only Emma could evoke.
And in that quiet moment, as the world outside faded away, they basked in the warmth of their lovemaking, knowing that the journey they had embarked on had only just begun.
The inaugural ominous smooch and bedroom escapades from the past few days had multiplied faster than rabbits on a double espresso, until Emma realized that she was knee-deep in a normal relationship. Well, as normal as it could be, considering Killian mostly sneaked over to help with estate matters and collect the accompanying benefits in kind. The perks of their covert rendezvous, the engaging conversations, and the stolen glances were like ambrosia, but Emma wasn't one to don rose-tinted glasses.
Killian's physique, beautifully sculpted and kissed by a gentle sunbeam, bore more battle scars than an average farmer's life warranted—definitely more than Emma had deemed her personal quota of acceptable ruggedness. Some marks were only visible if she played detective during their intimate moments, while others seemed to scream haunting tales. It wasn't the lack of aesthetic appeal that bothered her—oh no, Killian was a walking canvas of beauty, passion, and dedication. But there were moments when he'd retreat, pulling back like a ninja who sensed danger in the sudden rustlings of life. Behind those scars, pain lingered—an entire museum of memories waiting to be explored.
This particular aspect pricked at Emma like a pesky thorn, prompting her to transform into a Sherlock-level sleuth. As the narrative of their lives unfolded, she found herself playing a mental game of Connect the Dots, drawing parallels between her own story and Killian's. While her elusive father floated somewhere in the realm of the living but not quite tangible, Emma considered that, despite her solitary existence, she might still have drawn a slightly luckier hand than Killian. An early semi-orphanhood, a dead brother, growing up in the company of a father she could already barely stand— his life script resembled a tragic drama. She wasn't blind to the struggles; she noticed Killian's cumbersome movements, especially after Brennan assigned him tasks that involved his supervision. Pains manifested in bruised skin, an unsung symphony of hurts beneath the surface. When Emma confronted him about new marks during their intimate moments, he almost physically recoiled—shifting his gaze like a master illusionist dodging a spotlight, never uttering a word.
In some rare instances, she played the role of a reluctant city spectator, catching snippets of the old man's occasional soliloquies, where he effortlessly blended gossip about her. Sometimes, she'd also overhear the elder Jones berating Killian, flinging curses and humiliations like confetti, the poor guy enduring it all as if he had a VIP pass to the insult party, nodding along as if the old man was sharing timeless wisdom rather than disdain. How many relationships had Killian lost due to his father's toxic influence? It appeared his friend circle was as sparse as a cactus in a desert bloom. Anger and concern brewed within her, while Killian grappled with shame as he realized Emma had pieced together his complicated puzzle.
And now, Killian shot a pleading look at her above the flatbed of the truck, catching her eyes as she spotted them coming out of the store. As Brennan Jones unleashed his verbal storm, Emma's expression darkened faster than a solar eclipse, signaling the imminent arrival of trouble, complete with ominous background music.
"Killian!" The name echoed through the air, dripping with disdain as if it were a secret incantation designed for maximum hexing effect. Emma couldn't help but wonder how did Killian manage not to cringe every time someone said his name, considering the way Brennan pronounced it with all the warmth of a popsicle on a winter day. "Pay attention when I'm talking to you, because if you fail to complete the task as instructed, don't expect accolades."
Emma held serious reservations about this man ever uttering words of praise; he seemed to be a true connoisseur of tyranny. Yet, against the backdrop of Brennan's verbal lashes, Killian merely diverted his gaze, a silent nod serving as his submissive response to the elder Jones's decree.
"I've paid attention. I've already informed August I'll swing by for the lumber this afternoon."
"Those who pay attention don't gawk!" Brennan's voice thundered, punctuated by the resounding slap of his hand on the car's exterior. Killian, like a wary cat, began a slow retreat. "There's nothing of interest in this damned town. Especially for you." The older man surveyed the street and its inhabitants with eyes narrowed to slits. His robust, muscular frame projected an aura of perpetual readiness for battle, a silent declaration that everyone was a potential adversary, and he was armed accordingly.
Deep furrows etched a map of hardship across his face, a visage devoid of any hint of warmth or friendliness. His sharp, deep-brown eyes, squinting in perpetual suspicion, may have required the assistance of glasses, but he likely refused such vulnerability. Beneath his hat, graying hair hinted at the passage of time, though not entirely surrendering to the mantle of dark brown. His hands, weathered and wrinkled from labor, spoke of toil, while his clothes, though comfortable, seemed a size too large, perhaps a sartorial choice echoing the excess bitterness he carried. Threat and acrimony radiated from every fiber of his being; there was no love in the gaze he cast upon Killian. It was a tableau of familial discord painted in shades of resentment and authority.
Emma's hand curled into a defiant fist, frustration dancing beneath her skin like a firecracker itching to burst. She strutted toward the street-side spectacle, fully aware that turning the bustling thoroughfare into a theater of chaos was hardly the epitome of sophistication. Killian, sensing her approach, shot her a look of near-panic, once again shrugging off the pearls of wisdom his father generously dispensed. The patriarch growled, swinging open the van's door with all the finesse of a wrecking ball, sending Killian staggering as it hit him. Wincing and recoiling, Killian involuntarily rubbed his arm, earning an approving nod from Brennan. As he had warned, neglecting his father's instructions carried consequences. At this point, Emma was primed to throttle the cantankerous older man.
As Killian, sensing the storm brewing, locked eyes with Emma and shook his head, it was a silent plea for her to holster the throttle. Despite the itching palms yearning to intervene, the desperation in Killian's eyes stayed her hand. Meanwhile, the elder Jones, catching wind of his son's divided attention, shot a glare colder than a polar bear's breakfast at their nosy neighbor.
"Do you know her, boy?" he barked at his son.
"As well as you do, Father," Killian retorted quietly. "Emma Swan now oversees Robert's farm."
Brennan cast a disdainful eye over her, then snapped his attention back to his son.
"And how exactly do you know this? Are you conversing with her? Is this how the state of the estate have improved?" It was evident that he had Emma under surveillance, likely gathering intel at the market like a nosy economic detective. In that moment, she felt an unexpected surge of pride in parading her success right under the nose of the seasoned Jones. The old man might be shrewd, anticipating her downfall, but Emma was determined to debunk that notion thoroughly.
Killian took a deep breath, summoning his courage before responding. He was determined not to let Brennan tarnish his opinion of Emma. After all, she was a woman who worked tirelessly, learned quickly, wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty, and, in Killian's eyes, was nothing short of amazing. She had effortlessly swept him off his feet, and he wasn't about to let his father stomp all over that.
"It improved because she's a skilled and smart woman, who is getting—"
"I'm not a fool, Killian!" Brennan's gruff interruption sliced through the air. "Are you romantically involved with her?" He shot a suspicious glare.
Killian's complexion shifted to a paler shade.
"I don't..." he began uncertainly, caught off guard by the sudden accusation. He never anticipated his father noticing his frequent escapes, akin to a teenager managing a covert affair. The horrifying notion that Brennan might turn his attention to Emma now and cause her harm unsettled him.
"Mr. Jones," Emma interjected, unable to endure it any longer, and her intervention granted Killian a brief reprieve. "I'm right here. If you have questions about me, ask them. There's no need to attack Killian unnecessarily," she declared firmly, her words dripping with disdain.
Brennan, true to his predictable nature, straightened up with displeasure etched across his face. He wasn't accustomed to a twenty-something woman attempting to school him.
"I'll decide what's unnecessary and what's not. A city girl like yourself is oblivious to the local situation and the significance of hard work. Obviously, no one has taught you, whereas Killian didn't miss the lesson."
Emma's brow knitted, and her eyes simmered with an indignant heat. She could all too vividly envision how he hammered his subjective "values" into Killian.
"Killian only learned from you how painfully destructive it can be-"
"Swan, please," Killian interjected with surprising authority. "We still have matters to attend to in the city, and I presume you were on your way home," he scanned the bustling street with a sly look.
Emma got it. He didn't want to be the star of the latest gossip column. Rumors were already sprouting like daisies, but she couldn't fathom how, with all eyes supposedly open, no one had thrown a lifeline to Killian. Sure, people were busy with their own dramas, but it was as clear as day that Killian had been the main course at the bully buffet since childhood. Somebody should've hit the emergency stop button ages ago; Brennan had already caused enough havoc.
Emma gazed into Killian's eyes, then down at his reddened arm – a souvenir from Brennan's recent actions. Another bruise to add to the collection, one that could have been avoided. Emma, not quite an expert on the psyche of abuse victims, couldn't just stand by. Killian had somehow become a cornerstone in her world, making it increasingly challenging for her to play the silent bystander. However, the bustling street wasn't the ideal stage for heroics; she didn't want to embarrass Killian further for a gesture of kindness.
"Yes, I've finished in town. Heading home alright," she managed to squeeze out the words. Killian shot her a grateful nod, and Brennan, in a rare moment of self-restraint, assumed the role of a silent spectator. Emma, wearing a poker face sharper than a deck of cards, strutted toward her car, lips pursed tighter than a miser's coin purse.
Goodbyes were omitted, though Killian's soft gaze lingered on her back, contrasting sharply with another, more malevolent stare. Seated behind the wheel, time stretched out like an infinite ribbon as Emma peered through the windshield, contemplating the shitty feeling of helplessness and fear. With unwavering resolve, she resisted the urge to glance back at Killian before driving away, leaving the chaotic scene behind like a noir heroine in her own narrative.