Belle should have closed the library. Nervous tension filled her up and insisted on coming out in strange ways. If her knee wasn't jiggling, then she was tapping her fingers on the desk. If she wasn't doing that, then she was pacing the stacks, dropping books left and right from her shaking hands. Waiting was torture, not knowing was the worst of fates, and Belle wished more than anything that Rumple had woken her up in the dead of the night and dragged her back to Boston with him.

But, no. No, if this boy was really his son, then he needed time with him. He needed to be able to focus on just his son, not on entertaining Belle.

But if it wasn't his son…

Belle bit her lip and rubbed her hands over her arms as she paced back and forth behind the circulation desk. She should be there. He'd need her. Rumple didn't have anyone else in his life, and for all the horrible things she'd gone through, at least Belle had always had people she knew cared for her. The very idea of being so alone… It made her shudder and think of that day so long ago, Rumple coming into the diner, all skin and bones and loneliness pouring off of him in waves.

"Oh, please be his son," she whispered.

That was the first six hours. By the time she hit her lunch hour, though, Belle's mind had raced on ahead to more selfish thoughts.

Like the fact that they'd only been dating for a couple weeks, and if Rumple really had found his son, then he'd naturally be completely swallowed up in whatever Baelfire needed to recover. Which would leave nothing for Belle. Rumple would have no time for her, no attention to give her, no reason to spend evenings teasing her in the library or coming up to her apartment to tempt her with the top buttons of his suit he'd undo when it was just them.

Furious with herself, Belle frowned and left the library in favor of taking a long walk down toward the docks. The air was a bit warmer now, but still chilly enough to have her inhaling a deep, bracing breath.

Rumple deserved to have more than just one person to love. She wouldn't demand any special care from him. She was a grown woman, perfectly capable of taking care of herself, while his son…well, who knew what he'd gone through. Belle would never make Rumple feel bad for choosing to focus on his son.

Of course, she was getting ahead of herself. It might not be his son, in which case, Rumple would be crushed all over again and still not be in the proper mood for courting.

Belle dropped her head into her hands and wished she could smack herself.

There were so many more important things to consider.

No matter what happened today, Rumple would need her. And if he needed her in a way that required her to take a backseat, then that's what she'd do. She wasn't dating Rumple just to have someone to kiss—though, goodness, could the man kiss—or because she craved company—though, really, Belle hated being lonely, and did crave intelligent conversation of the sort Rumple seemed to find so easy to provide. She was dating him because she…cared about him. Yes. Cared. That was a responsible, rational, level-headed emotion to admit to, and that's what she felt for him.

Care, with a whole heap of brimming potential for more.

After lunch, Belle tried to focus, but since Mrs. Hubbard complained about the western rather than romance Belle had given her, Dr. Hopper stared in confusion at the children's section she led him to, and Dr. Whale snickered at being told about a gothic horror book when he'd asked for a recommendation on medical journals, she didn't figure she was succeeding particularly well.

And then her phone rang.

Belle lunged across the desk, sent the phone skittering to the floor, landed hard on her knees to snatch it up, and then nearly dropped it again before she could get it up to her ear.

"Hello? Rumple?"

"Belle," he said, and just with that, she knew. She'd never heard him sound so incandescent. So happy. "Belle, it's him. It's my boy. He's alive."

For one moment, Belle could do nothing but breathe, relief and gratitude and wonder all pouring through her heart as she clutched the phone so tightly her fingers were left with indented marks for nearly an hour afterward.

"Oh, Rumple," she breathed. "Oh, I'm so happy for you. Is he okay? You have him?"

"He's alive," he said again, his tone all wonder and awe and disbelief. "Oh, Belle, he doesn't hate me. He was told I'd died. That's why he didn't come back home after he got away from them."

Belle nodded, though the details of the case escaped her. What mattered was the happiness in Rumple's voice and the fact that his son—the son he'd been missing for half a decade!—was alive. "Do you get to bring him home?"

"Not yet." Rumple took a deep breath. "Actually, that's why I called. He…he learned that the police were moving on the Neverland gang and he wants to help. David says it'll take at least a few days to finish the briefings, and then…"

"Then?"

"If he wants…I'll…"

"You'll bring him home?"

"What if he doesn't want to come?" he asked, his voice abruptly terrified. "He's not a child anymore, technically."

In that moment, Belle was proud to say that she wasn't selfish in the least. She didn't even hesitate before saying, "You'll stay with him. No matter where he goes. He'll need his father to get back on his feet."

Rumple let out a shaky breath. "He's alive, Belle. I found my boy."

Belle had to bite her lip, hard, to keep three words inside. Three words that were the opposite of slow and careful and logical.

"I'm so happy for you," she said again.

"Thank you, Belle," he said, and then there was the sound of voices somewhere in the distance, a muffled moment as Rumple must have covered the phone with his hand, before he said, "I have to go, Belle, but I'll…I'll call you later, yeah?"

"I hope you do," she said as warmly as she could.

Then he hung up, and Belle was alone again.

"He found him," she whispered, and took a moment to be as happy for him as he deserved.

The days without Rumple dragged. Belle did her best to keep busy—idle hands were never good for her—and arranged for a night out with Ruby, an extra Story Hour on a Saturday morning so the parents could do some early Easter shopping, and then also rearranged her entire apartment, including how she alphabetized her extensive collection of books. She was tired of having them arranged normally, so she decided to put them in order they were written. It made for an interesting journey through literature, to see how imaginations changed and narratives shifted, but more importantly, it was incredibly time-consuming and demanded the full of her attention.

Rumple was very good about calling every night. He never had much to say aside from constantly, probably unknowingly, reiterating that his son was alive and found. He and Baelfire were staying in a hotel Rumple had booked for them, but Rumple said his son rarely slept, choosing instead to stay up for hours writing down everything he could remember about Pan and his movements. During the day, the police walked Baelfire through the last five years with what must have been endless tedium, though Belle noticed that each day, Rumple seemed to grow quieter and more withdrawn.

"Are you okay?" she asked him the third night, thinking despite herself of that list he'd asked her help with.

"I just…I should have been able to find him faster. He went through so much, Belle, while I was just sitting at home doing nothing. How can he even look at me?"

"You did everything you could," she said without a flicker of doubt. "There's no way he doesn't know how much you love him."

"He…he barely talks to me," Rumple admitted in a small voice. "By the time I'm allowed to take him for dinner, he's so quiet. And in the hotel room, he's either writing or sleeping…or pretending to sleep."

"He's going through a lot," Belle reminded him. "Has he said if he's coming home with you?"

Rumple was silent for so long she could read the guilt in it even through the distance.

"You haven't asked him yet," she realized.

"What if he says no?" he asked quickly. "Maybe if I—"

"You have to ask him, Rumple. Give him a choice. Let him make his own decisions. If you don't, he might resent you for it."

He didn't say much after that, and she hoped he was thinking about what she'd said.

The next day, he called mid-afternoon to say they'd be stuck there for a little while longer.

"Bae was able to give them an address the police didn't know about yet, and they think it might be where Pan's holed up. There's going to be a raid and they want Bae at the station in case they have questions about the layout of the place."

Belle couldn't help thinking this sounded more like some procedural show on TV than real life.

"Belle?"

"I'm here," she said. She was always here. Everyone else went off and lived their lives, had adventures, and here she was, stuck back in her boring life, going to work and reading the same books over and over again.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "How have things been there?"

Despite herself, Belle couldn't help but smile. "They're the same as always," she said. It surprised her that she felt better just having him ask, even though her answer was as boring as her routine days. "I think Henry might be teaching himself to read. He gets his own copies of the Story Hour books and reads along."

"You've found a kindred spirit in that little tyke," he said warmly.

"If only he were several decades older, you might have a bit of competition," Belle teased.

Rumple laughed, and she hoped it was only her unsettled mood that had her thinking it sounded uncomfortable. All too soon, he was saying goodbye and Belle wished she'd asked if he still planned on calling that night.

He didn't.

Or the next night. She did get a text saying, Everything's all right. Bae needs me. But then nothing after that.

Finally, in desperation, Belle called a number she tried not to use more than a couple times a year.

"Belle, hey, how are you?"

Belle leaned her head against the cold window of her apartment and closed her eyes against the sight of the Rabbit Hole down the street. "Hey, Aurora. How are things?"

"Great! Well, I mean, Phillip's been working insanely long hours the last few weeks, but besides that, everything's great. I've been meaning to call you—we just found out we're having a boy!"

"Congratulations!" Belle closed her eyes and pictured Aurora as she must look now, belly slightly rounded, pale blue eyes sparkling with happiness, her face probably pale with exhaustion. Aurora had always had trouble sleeping. "I'm so happy for you both. When's the baby shower?"

"I don't know yet, I can't think that far ahead." Aurora took a breath. "But enough about me. You only call me when you're feeling desperate but not worried enough yet to bother Ariel. What's going on?"

When she'd called, Belle had fully meant to confess everything. Ariel, Aurora, Phillip, and Mulan had all saved her back in her darkest hours. They'd never left her either, no matter how little she'd deserved their loyalty, and in much the same way as Rumple had asked her to keep him accountable, Belle relied on her group of friends to keep her on the straight and narrow.

But now, hearing about Aurora's perfect life, thinking of how Mulan was overseas with a nonprofit group advocating for the less fortunate, mind filled with pictures Ariel had sent her of her and her husband, Eric, all Belle could think was that she didn't want to tell them about Rumple.

They cared about Belle—they loved her—but that meant they'd be protective of her. Automatically wary of Rumple. She'd tell them that he was an older man who'd lost his son and seemed so lonely, and they'd draw conclusions about how Belle liked to find projects and fix them. She'd confide in them that he was depressed and possibly suicidal, and they'd wonder if she was confusing pity and obligation and empathy with caring. She'd tell them that he'd been gone for five days and she was already thinking of going to the nearest dive bar, challenging someone to a pool game, knocking back three or five shots until things started seeming more interesting—until buying a plane ticket to Asia, or setting out on a rafting trip down the Mississippi, or buying a new car and giving it away to the first down-on-their-luck person sounded like the best idea she'd ever had. She'd confess all that, and they'd immediately think she was backsliding and it must all be the fault of this new guy in her life.

And Belle didn't want them to think of Rumple that way. She wanted them to see him the way she did—all cleverness and wounded heart and fierce love and a complete inability to view himself as anything but a monster. She wanted them to be happy for her that she was moving on. That she'd found something new and exciting in her mundane and carefully structured life. An adventure. A mystery that just kept unfolding in new ways in front of her.

Not a mistake. But definitely an endeavor.

So she didn't tell Aurora about Rumple. She didn't tell her about the jitteriness that had been following her from day to day, the insomnia that had kept her from sleeping three days in a row, the way she kept staring toward the Rabbit Hole or the road that led out of town.

Instead, she said, "Just been a bad few days. I wanted to hear your voice. Have you heard from Mulan recently?"

And where Ariel might have called her on the vagueness of it, Aurora believed her because Belle hadn't lied to her in years.

Finally, Rumple called and just by the way he said her name, she could picture him: small and thin and broken but still, somehow, holding himself together.

"I'm so glad to hear from you," she said. "How's Bae?"

He was silent for a moment before he said, "I'm bringing him home. We're going to drive back tomorrow. I think we should arrive about six or so. I'm going to drag him to some stores in the morning and get him some things. You should see his shoes—there's barely anything left of them."

"A father-son shopping trip," she said, and smiled, hoping that lightness would translate to her voice, and then through to him.

"Yeah." Rumple took a breath, one that shuddered so loud she heard it over the phone. "Belle," he said.

Belle felt a frisson of unease run through her. "I'm here," she said. "Whatever you need, I'm here."

"He's alive," he whispered.

"I know."

"I found him."

"You did."

"So why…?"

"Rumple?" she asked. She wished she were there, right beside him. She'd always been a tactile person to begin with, but the way Rumple seemed to melt into her caresses, seemed to accept each touch as if it were the first he'd ever been granted, made reaching out to him almost an addiction. And she was definitely in withdrawal. Worse, she thought he probably was too. She hoped his son let him hug him often and long.

"Belle," he said again.

"I'm here."

"He's so different." The confession came quickly, blurred all together, and was bitten off so quickly she knew he must hate himself for saying it. For thinking it.

"I'm sure he is. He's grown now," she said. Her own father had never been able to accept Belle's growing maturity and he'd been there for nearly all of it. She couldn't imagine how disconnected and lost Rumple must feel with a five-year absence and who knew what horrors between. "But he's still your son."

"Of course he is!" Rumple snapped, and Belle had to bite back a grin.

"Have you eaten today?" she asked.

"What?"

"You're grumpy," she observed. "You're probably hungry."

"I'm not grumpy."

"I think you are."

"I'm not."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Belle!"

Belle laughed, and only a moment later, something in her heart unclenched at the sound of Rumple chuckling too.

"Fine," he said. "I had breakfast with Bae."

"Eat something," she advised. "And then get some sleep. I don't want to think of you falling asleep on the drive back home tomorrow."

"I'll eat," he said. "I promise."

A sudden fear that he'd say good night and hang up—that she'd be left alone again in her too-empty, too-quiet apartment—had her tensing and blurting, "I could get the house ready for you, if you want? I could pick up some groceries, maybe throw a dinner together, and have it waiting for you. That way you wouldn't have to worry about going to bed hungry tomorrow either."

"I couldn't ask you to—"

"I want to," she insisted. "Please, Rumple. Give me something to do."

"Oh, Belle, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I know you hate waiting." The tenderness in his voice had tears springing to her eyes, even though she couldn't explain why. "Okay. Thank you. I keep a spare key under the back mat. Whatever you spend, I'll pay you back."

"I'm not worried about that—"

"I'll pay you back," he repeated firmly, and Belle knew better than to argue. "If you…"

"Yes?" she prompted when he fell silent.

"If you wanted…you could air out his room."

Belle pressed the phone closer to her ear, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine Rumple just beside her. So tentative, so cautious to believe in good things, so desperate to hope they might happen anyway. "His room," she said.

"It's the room just at the top of the stairs. There's extra bedding in the closet across the hall. His window isn't locked; if you crack it open, it should be enough to air out the dust."

"I'll do that," she assured him. "Don't worry about anything, Rumple. I'll make everything ready for him. For you both."

"Belle…" His voice was so soft. The softest she'd ever heard it. All she could think of was kissing him. Holding him. Keeping him safe from the worst the world had to offer. "If you were there, at the house, when we got there…you could meet Bae."

Excitement lodged like glitter in her veins, sparkly and impossible to shake loose. "Do you want that?" she asked, trying to be careful. To be thoughtful. To be anything but impulsive and rash and a liability.

"I do," he said. "Please."

She had to bite her lip and hug herself to keep from dancing through her apartment. "I'll be there," she said. "I can't wait to see you. And to meet Bae."

"Belle…" Again, he trailed off. Again, she waited, breathless. "Good night," he said instead of anything else, but it was still sweet enough to keep her buoyant and elated the rest of the night.

She didn't sleep well, and got up far too early to make a list of everything she wanted to get done. Today would be one of the library's half-days, she decided without even deliberating over it, and it was only her hard-earned self-control that kept her at work for the required five and a half hours. As soon as she locked the doors, Belle sprinted up to her apartment, changed into the dress she'd picked out in the wee hours of the morning, brushed her hair and half-tied it back, then slid into a pair of flats—the better to carry around loads of groceries and do some light cleaning in—and was back out the door.

The temptation to snoop through Rumple's house was so overwhelming that Belle had to focus all her attention on the roast she was seasoning and putting into the oven, the potatoes she was peeling in preparation of boiling them, the groceries she'd thought long and hard over that she stashed away in Rumple's too-empty pantry. It looked like the man mostly survived on tea, crackers, pickles, and a freezer full of meals, labeled in sharpie and frozen in preparation of his housekeeper pulling them out for him every day.

Shaking her head, Belle wandered out to the only room she'd spent any length of time in. The cold fireplace made her smile, the sight of the couch warmed her, and she breathed in deeply. The smells of the house reminded her, heavily, of Rumple's scent, and a sharp longing for him pierced her.

"Soon," she reminded herself, and drifted upstairs. The banister was smooth and soft beneath her hand, and Belle found the first bedroom easily. The instant she pushed the door open and saw beyond, she thought she understood Rumple a thousand times better.

It was pristine. Frozen in time. Clean and ready, at a moment's notice, for its occupant to stroll back through, sling a jacket over the chair, look past the sketches still laid out behind glass, throw himself into the neatly made bed.

"Oh, Rumple," she murmured. She couldn't help but try to calculate how many times he must have come in here to clean, to remember, to mourn his lost son.

It took her no time at all to change the sheets and shake out the blankets, open the window, turn the framed picture of Rumple hugging a young dark-haired boy from behind so that it was easily visible from the doorway.

Then, if she took the time to wander farther down the hallway, to peek into the only open door and see the master bedroom…well, Rumple knew how curious she was and had still invited her in. Besides, she'd seen the bedding marked Master Bedroom in the linen closet and it was easy enough to make his bed too and prop his window open. Rumple deserved a good homecoming too.

Which reminded her. Belle headed back downstairs and put the finishing touches on a colorful banner that said Welcome Home. She hoped it wasn't too much—hoped she wouldn't overwhelm Rumple's son—but he'd been gone so long and Rumple was so happy and Belle couldn't not do something for the occasion.

It was a quarter to six when Belle got Rumple's text that they were a half hour away. It gave her time to mash the potatoes, toss the salad, turn the roast, close the bedroom windows, and then check her hair and her dress in the bathroom mirror.

Her heart pattered like pool balls bouncing off the pockets. Belle clenched her skirt in her hands to keep them from shaking as she stepped out onto the porch in time to watch Rumple park the car.

His eyes found her immediately, and some bit of tension eased out of her to see the tentative smile he offered her. Waving, she tried to decide if she would appear too eager if she skipped down the steps to meet him at the car. Perhaps she should just stand here beneath the porchlight, watching the twilight shadows scatter before her.

The choice was made for her when the passenger side door opened and a young man spilled out. "I'll get the bags," he said shortly, not even looking to Belle.

"Belle," Rumple said, his free hand held out toward her.

Belle nearly tripped in her rush to reach him. "Rumple," she said, taking his hand, and then she threw her other arm around his shoulders and hugged him. A kiss would probably be too much in front of his son, but she refused to stand a full foot away from him. "I missed you," she said.

It was a selfish thing to say, with his reunited son just behind them, but the confession escaped her anyway.

Rumple sagged against her. She was right: he hadn't been eating. She could feel the knobs of his spine through his suit coat. "I missed you too," he murmured back.

An instant later, he was upright, bustling back to Bae, asking if he'd gotten everything. Bae tried to shrug him aside, but Belle knew how hard that could be and swooped down to pick up the last bag before Rumple could try to manage it, his cane, and the suitcase he was already carrying.

Once they were inside, the bags all dropped, Rumple looked at Bae. "Son, this is Belle, the woman I was telling you about. Belle, this is my boy. My Baelfire."

His fierce pride, his unconditional love, positively dripped from his son's name.

"Hey," Bae said. He looked, Belle supposed, like an average teenager. A boy awkwardly hovering on the cusp of adulthood, still learning the new dimensions of his body, feeling old and young all at once. If she'd run into him at her library, she'd never have guessed that he'd been kidnapped and forcibly kept from his family for years. But then, she also wouldn't have seen him and immediately guessed him to be Rumple's son. There was little to connect them. Well, little aside from the love pouring from Rumple as he looked at the boy. The tiny fidgeting motion Bae made with his fingers, identical to the one Rumple often made. The tentative, untrusting, but still hopeful look each could wear when they looked at her.

"I'm so glad to meet you," she said. "Rumple's told me so much about you."

It was a pretty generic greeting, positively banal, but something in it obviously took Bae by surprise.

"Uh…yeah," he said, his hand coming up to touch the bandage over his right temple. His eyes widened again a moment later when they made it through into the living room and he caught sight of the banner. "Oh. That's…thank you, Belle."

"It's lovely," Rumple said. He sounded a lot more sincere, and looked it too, his eyes going wet and dark as he squeezed her hand.

"I hope dinner turns out better than that banner. I could have sworn it was straight when I hung it," she said, purposely casual.

Truthfully, she was beginning to think she shouldn't have come. There was an awkwardness between Rumple and Bae that might have smoothed itself out if they were alone. Bae mostly concentrated on the food, sparing a few syllables to thank her, and Rumple asked her about her last few weeks while intermittently—and sporadically—trying to fill Bae in on the library and Belle and how they'd met and the volunteering he did. If Belle hadn't lived the events, she'd have been as confused as Bae probably was.

"It's delicious, Belle, thank you," Rumple said.

Belle bit her lip and tried not to be worried that he'd eaten barely half his food. Not that he'd probably notice if she said anything to scold him. His attention was fixated on the boy across from him.

"I'm tired," Bae said suddenly. The first words he'd offered without prompting. "I think I'm going to head upstairs. There still a bed in my room, Papa?"

Rumple looked as stricken as if his son had stabbed him. "Of course," he stammered. "Of course. Here, I'll show you—"

"I remember where it is." Bae pushed his chair back and stood.

"Bae—"

"Good night," Bae said, already halfway out of the room while Rumple was still trying to find his feet.

"Good night," Belle said softly.

Bae's shoulders went rigid as he froze in mid-step. Then, suddenly, he turned, his chin tucked low to his chest, and barreled back toward Rumple. His arms came around his papa for just an instant, squeezed once, he murmured something so low Belle didn't catch it, and then he was gone, thundering upstairs with his arms full of bags.

Rumple fell heavily back into his chair.

"Hey," she said tentatively after a long moment.

And Rumple shuddered. His cane clattered against the floor as he lifted his hand to cover his eyes, his shoulders shaking.

"Rumple!" Belle hurried to kneel at his side, wishing she could enfold him completely in her arms. But before her hand could more than alight on his shoulder, he was suddenly standing, his eyes tight, face dry.

"Thank you for everything, Belle. Really, I can't tell you how much of a help—"

"I'm here, Rumple," she said, unable to take one more polite word. She laid a hand on his back—and Rumple yanked her close, his arms so tight around her she could only breathe with an effort. Not painful, but noticeable.

"I don't know what to do," he muttered. "He's here, but I can't reach him. He's alive, but he still feels so far away. What do I do, Belle?"

"Be here," she whispered back, breathing in his scent, memorizing every detail of this moment. "Just keep being here for him."

It's what her friends had done for her. It's what they still did for her. They were there whenever she needed them. It's what she wanted to do for Rumple.

"He loves you. He'll come around. It's just…a lot to adjust to. For both of you," she added in case he wasn't planning on giving himself any grace.

Rumple tried to pull away, nodding, his eyes averted. "I'm so happy to have him back. I'm happy you're here. I shouldn't—"

"It's hard, of course," she said. "But I am here for you."

His smile was wobbly and a trifle strained at the edges, but Belle was glad to see it anyway.

"Do you have to leave right away?" he asked. "I could make tea…?"

"Tea would be lovely," Belle said, warmed all the way through at this second invitation. Unable to stop herself a moment longer, she tipped up on her toes and kissed him. A tiny sound escaped him that had her stroking her fingers back through his hair, and his hand spanned across her hip as he pulled her closer. His lips were warm, his mouth familiar against hers, and the kiss lasted just long enough for her to sigh happily.

"I'll bring the tea to the living room," he said quietly. "Just give me a moment?"

She gave him ten before she finally went looking for him. He was in the first place she looked: in the hallway outside his son's closed door. His knuckles were white over his cane and the fingers of his other hand rubbed furiously against each other.

"Rumple?" she asked softly, mindful of the boy who might be sleeping inside.

"What if he's dead?" he asked, frantic, not even looking at her as she came up the steps. "He…he was hurt. You must have seen. That gash on his head. What if he's slipped into a coma? What if he snuck out the window and is gone?"

"Okay," Belle said as soothingly as she could manage. "Well, just open the door and check."

"No!" Rumple jerked his head almost violently as he glared at her. "I can't do that! He… When the police were questioning him, he told them he was kept in a room with dozens of others. He didn't have any privacy. I won't make him feel like that here."

But now he was pacing, his breaths sharp and panicky, and Belle felt her own calm slipping.

"Shh," she tried to soothe them both. "Rumple, I'm sure he's fine. You said they had a doctor look at him, right? And it's been almost two weeks. He's fine."

"Doctors aren't always right!" he cried. Instantly, he shot a nervous, repentant look to Bae's door, as if he expected his son to come out and start blaming him for keeping him from sleep. "Oh, Belle, what if he's afraid? Or hurting? He could need me and I won't know because I'm too scared to open the—"

He was starting to frighten her. And Belle hated few things more than being afraid.

"Okay. It's okay, Rumple. Here." As lightly as she could, Belle knocked on the door. Rumple very audibly held his breath, but Belle wasn't actually planning on waiting for an answer. She probably should. That was almost positively the right thing to do. But Rumple's panic was feeding her own nerves, and Belle couldn't stop herself from opening the door.

There was a shape wrapped in blankets on the bed. It shifted, snuffled, then exhaled back into sleep.

"Good night, Bae," Belle said so quietly she doubted even Rumple heard her—it made her feel slightly better, though, as if she were just saying goodbye rather than intruding on his first night home in his own bed. With a quiet snick, she closed the door.

Rumple backed up until his spine was pressed against the opposite wall, his whole body shaking. Then he slid to the floor, his cane rolling away, his breaths so short and fragmented that Belle was pretty sure he was hyperventilating.

"Oh, Rumple," Belle said. She smoothed her skirt down and sat beside him, looping her hand through his elbow.

"At the hotel," he gasped out between shallow breaths, "I could see him. I could hear him breathing. Even if he didn't talk to me, I knew he was there. Oh, Belle, I can't lose him again!"

Belle turned and caught him as he collapsed. She kissed his brow, petted his hair, tried to hold him together—and ignored the tiny, selfish part of herself that delighted in the fact he still needed her.