Archive of Our Own

Emma is avoiding him.

There’s no better word to express her absence every time he enters a room, every morning he drinks his rum-spiced coffee solo in a booth that feels more like a solitary confinement cell, every knock on the royal’s door that ends with the same answer “she’s not here right now” . Even his talking device, a modern oracle, informs him she’s unavailable and cheerily invites him to “leave a voicemail,” though he’s still not certain what one of those actually is. The younger Lucas had once urged him to send her a text instead, but the advice only left him baffled. Where, he wonders, does one procure a text, and how does it reach her?

(He thought about asking her once, but even for all his bravery, he can’t stomach the idea of looking like a hopeless fool in this strange new world.)

So here he is, turning over every possible misstep in his mind, struggling to piece together what might have gone wrong two nights ago, when they’d returned together from the past. He searches for anything he might’ve done, anything careless or hasty, to make her flee like this. But he remembers being careful—exquisitely so. After all, this was Emma. He guarded his heart with the caution of a dragon hoarding a trove, especially after the thrill of their kiss.

The one she initiated.

They’d returned to the diner afterward, basking in the night’s warmth, her laughter mingling with the lingering scent of starlit possibilities. They even shared a few nightcaps, her parents appearing briefly in the glow of the late evening, until the newborn prince announced his bedtime in a vocal protest, which sent the family off with a chuckle.

Afterward, Emma had let slip that she was tired. They’d shared a gentle goodnight, with a promise to meet again for breakfast, and she’d mentioned that Henry might join them. It all seemed promising, normal, even… domestic. But by morning, only Henry appeared at the table, a bit rumpled and sleepy, reporting that his mother was “off on an errand” and “might be late.”

Except “late” turned into “missing.” No breakfast, no lunch, no supper, not the next day, either. It was a disappearing act worthy of the finest magician, though he managed to catch the occasional glimpse of her in passing, her golden hair glinting like sunlight.

One afternoon, as he drifts from the docks to Granny’s, deep in thought, fate decides to intervene. He rounds the corner when, suddenly, a flash of gold and scarlet slams into him with such force it nearly sends him sprawling. He catches his balance, steadying himself, and when he looks up, the person who collided with him is none other than Emma Swan herself.

Stunned into silence, Killian collects his wits, feeling the weight of everything he wants to say pressing against his tongue. Whatever words escape him, he knows one thing with absolute clarity—he has to act now, while Emma’s here, right in front of him, before she slips away like mist. She might not know Regina’s teleportation spell, but Emma has her own knack for vanishing, leaving him in the dust and wondering what went wrong.

“Swan—”

“I...I have to go,” she interrupts, slipping from his grasp as though his touch might set her ablaze. Her eyes avoid his, skimming over the ground like she might find the answers there.

“Emma,” he says, his voice edged with pleading. “If I’ve done something—if I’ve hurt you or upset you in any way—tell me. Give me a chance to make it right. I’ve been accused of many things, but mind reading is not among them.” His words hang between them, open and vulnerable, as he watches her with a kind of desperation.

She’s already halfway to her yellow contraption, hands deftly working the lock. She doesn’t look up, just mumbles something about “stuff to do,” her voice a mix of apology and evasion. “You haven’t done anything, but I’ve got...a lot going on. I’ll explain later, I promise.” With that cryptic assurance, she fires up the engine, her face set with the determination of someone guarding a high-stakes secret. In a blink, she’s gone, the growl of her four-wheeled device fading into the distance, leaving him alone on the empty street.

Killian stands there, watching her disappear, the warmth of her skin still tingling on his palm as if she’s left an invisible mark.

He turns the encounter over in his mind, refusing to believe her insistence that he’s blameless in this twisted scenario. In his experience, there’s no smoke without fire, and there’s no Emma Swan pulling a disappearing act without something brewing beneath the surface.

With a mix of stubbornness and impulse, he decides he isn’t letting her get away this easily. He takes off in the direction of her retreat, sprinting down the road like a man possessed. Rationality urges him to stop—reminding him that outrunning a car is the stuff of fantasy—but he pushes past it, fueled by the absurd yet unshakeable notion that if he just tries hard enough, he might close the distance.

About 90% of his mind berates him for this futile chase, but the other 10% clings to the hope that where there’s a will, there’s a way—even if that way involves a half-mad sprint down Main Street. He knows that tailing her like this is skirting the lines of decorum, but he’s long since let logic fall by the wayside, and right now, his heart is driving.

A familiar, taunting whisper rises from the shadows of his past, a ghost of his former self. If she truly trusted you, it sneers, she’d tell you what’s going on. After all, he’s done everything short of hiring a skywriter to prove his loyalty to her, to show that he’s here for the long haul.

Coming to a panting halt at the end of the street, Killian stares, his eyes fixed on the yellow vessel parked just across the way. Truth be told, catching up to her was never part of his plan; he’d simply been chasing her shadow, needing somewhere to direct his frustration. But against all odds, here he is.

And there she is—Emma, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, her expression unreadable yet somehow expectant, as if waiting for something. Or someone.

Just as he gathers the nerve to cross the street, the door of a nearby building swings open, and a figure steps out, moving toward Emma with an ease and familiarity that stirs something uncomfortable in his chest. It takes him a second to place the man—dark blond hair, casual swagger, that blasted black leather jacket. Slowly, his mind catches up. It’s August, the once-wooden man-child who’d shared a past with Emma that Killian could only half understand.

Killian watches, his heart sinking as Emma’s face lights up in greeting. She moves to embrace the man, and he holds her close for a beat too long—a beat that echoes inside Killian like a sour note. Something clenches in his chest as he watches them, the two of them looking for all the world like an easy, familiar pair. He can’t tear his gaze away, even as August slides into the passenger seat of her car with the naturalness of someone who’s done it a hundred times.

In an instant, they’re gone, her yellow insect car - Bug? did she call it - disappearing around the corner, leaving him staring after it with a hollowness that aches.

For a moment, his chest tightens sharply, his heart stumbling in a way that sends a flash of heat and cold through his veins. The world blurs as he swallows against the lump rising in his throat, and the air around him feels unbearably thick, weighed down with a revelation he hadn’t prepared himself to face.

He fights against it, but the thought is relentless, pressing in on him like a blade: Emma is seeing another man.

It’s absurd, he tries to reason with himself. They’d shared moments, real ones, that meant something—hadn’t they? But the image of her leaning into August’s embrace, the easy way she’d driven off with him without a second thought, replays in his mind, and he can’t ignore the bitter twist it brings.

That familiar, unwelcome voice slithers back into his mind, a mocking echo from a past he thought he’d buried. If she wanted you, she wouldn’t be slipping off with someone else. It’s a whisper from the darker corners of his heart, the same ones that doubt and question, that feed on jealousy and insecurity. He shoves it aside, but it clings stubbornly, making his heart pound in angry rhythm.

She is avoiding Killian. Sort of.

But it’s not like before, after New York, when she returned to Storybrooke only to be thrown into battle with Zelena—and forced to confront her growing feelings for him. Because back then, it really was a battle. And not because those feelings were unwelcome, but because they were almost too welcome. He made her feel things she’d craved her whole life, things she’d thought were out of reach. And she knew, deep down, that if she opened that door, if she let herself really feel… she’d finally have the life she always wanted.

And that was damn terrifying.

Because if she had everything she’d ever wanted, she could lose it. Just as easily.

But then Killian almost drowned, and then they got thrown back in time together, and she saw how close she’d come to losing him. She realized that isolation was no protection. Trying to keep herself in a bubble, avoiding anything that could bring her pain, was only hurting her in the end.

So, she made a choice. She’d rather feel everything—joy, love, even the possibility of heartbreak—than go back to that lonely life she lived before Henry and Storybrooke.

But it wasn’t a simple, graceful change. She needed a push.

When their time-traveling adventure finally wrapped up, and everything settled back to normal, Emma felt like she could breathe. For the first time, she knew what she had to do. That night outside Granny’s, she surrendered to the whirlwind of feelings she’d been holding back. Killian was right there, as he always was. He never let her down; he was her steadfast anchor, believing in her even when she didn’t believe in herself. She’d relied on his words and his faith in her, not only in Neverland but through every crazy twist and turn since then.

And then, he’d gone and told her what he’d done. That he’d traded his ship—the only piece of his brother he had left, his home—for a magic bean. Just to come find her. Just to save her and her family from that curse and her amnesiac life in New York.

How had she repaid him? With coldness, with walls she threw up faster than she could break down. She’d hit him with lines like, "Why don’t you try enchanting the lips of someone, I’ll actually kiss?" and "What is he gonna do? I have magic. He’s got one hand." All defensive barbs to keep him from getting too close, because she was afraid of what he’d see if he did.

Looking back, she felt nothing but shame.

She’d hurt him. And yet, after everything, Killian had kissed her that night with a warmth and tenderness she didn’t feel she deserved. He never held her words against her, never resented her for putting up walls, even after all they’d been through together. Even when she’d refused to admit how much he meant to her.

In fact, Emma is sure he wouldn't have told her that he traded his ship for a magic bean in order to find her.

How did he even manage to track her down in New York? It’s a sprawling city, and to her knowledge, he’s only been there once. Is he that skilled at navigating any sea—or just that determined? The specifics don’t matter, though; what matters is that Killian didn’t deserve the cold way she’d treated him when he’d returned. And kissing him now, calling him by his true name, won’t simply erase the hurt she’d caused.

She’d seen the flicker of surprise in his eyes the first time she called him Killian instead of Hook. Unless they were role-playing around Henry, she’d always used his alias, and while he’d never once corrected her, it was clear he liked hearing his real name on her lips. She’d never realized how much it might mean to him.

He had sacrificed his home for her.

The weight of that sentence presses on her as she lies awake, staring at the ceiling. Killian would never bring it up, never admit how much he missed the Jolly. But of course, he must. For centuries, it had been his home, the only piece of his brother he had left, and he’d just given it up to be help her and her family.

That has to change, she thinks. I’m getting his ship back.

She’s certain of it now. He deserves to have the Jolly back, not just because of everything he’s done for her but because it’s the right thing to do. But as she lies there, her mind racing with plans, she knows he’ll misread her intentions. He’ll think she’s doing it out of guilt or gratitude, which might be partially true—but it’s more than that. So much more.

If only she could shut up the part of her that’s whispering, “love.”

Yes, she’ll bring it back for him. But the question is… how?

Even if she could find a way back to the Enchanted Forest, how would she transport a ship? She can’t sail, and whoever Killian traded with probably won’t just hand the Jolly back over. Her magic is still too rudimentary to rely on in a real fight and whoever Killian traded it to is most likely a better swordsman than she is.

This will require some serious help.

But who could she trust?

Henry? He’d want to help, but knowing him, he’d probably just recite details from his book and cheer her on from the sidelines. No, she needs someone with more experience, someone with knowledge of the realms and magic. Someone resourceful, someone who’s been through as many strange worlds as she has.

August! The name hits her like a bolt of lightning. Of course—August, the man who once was Pinocchio, who traveled the world seeking answers. If anyone can help her get the Jolly back, it’s him.

The idea fills her with excitement, and for the first time in days, she’s almost too thrilled to keep the plan to herself. She can already picture Killian’s face when he sees his beloved ship again, his eyes widening, his jaw dropping as he realizes what she’s done. Just imagining his reaction brings a huge smile to her lips.

Yes, this is why she’s doing it. It’s a small way to repay him for everything he’s done for her, everything he’s sacrificed. But keeping this plan a secret is going to be its own challenge. Killian is sharp, and he’s incredibly perceptive—if she’s not careful, he’ll figure it out before she’s ready.

Her only solution, then, is to keep her distance. With any luck, she and August can get this done quickly. But the thought of avoiding Killian—even for a little while—feels almost impossible now. After finally opening up to him, after those long, electric kisses and the warmth of his hand in hers, the idea of staying away from him feels like a punishment she didn’t sign up for.

But he’ll understand, she tells herself. Killian is patient, and he knows her well enough to know that if she’s acting strange, there’s a reason for it. She’ll explain everything once she’s returned his ship to him, and he’ll understand. He always has.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Emma closes her eyes, a plan taking shape in her mind. She’s going to make this happen, to see the look on his face when she brings the Jolly back to him, to watch his eyes light up in a way she’s never seen before.

And maybe, just maybe, she’ll feel brave enough to tell him why she’s done it.

But for now, she has work to do. And she can’t wait.

Devastated, Killian trudges back to Granny's, defeated and haunted by the image of Emma with August. His plans for the night have narrowed down to a bottle of rum and his bed, anything to dull the ache that’s spreading through him like poison.

What went wrong? What could he have possibly done to push her toward another man? Had there always been feelings there—some secret affection she harbored for the man of wood and shadows? Or worse, had he misread everything? The signs, the stolen glances, her hand in his…

The memory of her kiss outside Granny’s replays in his mind, that spark of tenderness he’d thought real. And what about Neverland? Those fleeting touches, the way she seemed to look at him with something more than friendship. Had he imagined it all?

With a thousand questions echoing in his head, Killian enters the diner. Life continues as usual for Storybrooke’s residents; families, friends, and heroes carry on without a hint of his torment. He notices Snow and Charming in a booth nearby, laughing softly as they cradle their new son, while Regina and Robin share a quiet moment in the corner.

They don’t glance his way as he drops the last of his dubloons on the counter, buying a bottle of his favorite rum. He almost asks Granny for that strange, colorful jelly substance that purportedly cure ailments here, but he doubts it’ll do much for a broken heart. Rum, at least, will numb it—temporarily. And that’s all he can think to hope for tonight.

He trudges upstairs, passing the dwarves, who are already well into their night’s revelry, with mugs of ale and merry shouts echoing through the hall. As he reaches his room, however, a new, sharp pain rips through his left forearm, catching him by surprise. It’s a familiar hurt, one he’s endured countless times, but the ache is worse tonight, raw and relentless.

Because such is his luck, he shuts his eyes and falls onto the bed.

With a sigh, he stumbles to the bed, sinking down as he undoes the buckles on his brace. He’s known for a while that it was past time to remove it—the chill in Storybrooke has intensified since autumn ended, making the leather press cold and unforgiving against his skin. But he’d avoided taking it off. The looming threats lately—witches,curses, bloody Dark One—always made him feel he needed to be prepared, ready to fight at any moment.

Still, he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much in this world. He’d hoped maybe, just maybe, it was only painful in realms thick with magic. As he carefully peels back the brace, he grimaces, bracing himself for the inevitable sight. His wrist, already tender from days of neglect, is red and slightly swollen. The skin looks even worse than he expected, a testament to the days—weeks, perhaps—since he last tended to it. A small relief as the brace fall away, but he closes his eyes against a new wave of pain.

In a twisted way, it feels right. Fitting, even, for his heart and his arm to throb in unison, both damaged from a lifetime of battles.

Then, a stray thought slips in, unbidden, cutting him deeper than any physical pain. Perhaps this—his arm, his past, his missing hand—is why she’s turned away from him. Maybe Emma sees him as incomplete, not a true partner, someone incapable of being what she needs.

After all, she’s said it herself. In anger, yes, but her words ring in his ears: “What’s he going to do? I’ve got magic; he’s got one hand.” She never said it with malice, but there was frustration, maybe even doubt. He’d told himself it didn’t matter, that she’d meant it in passing. But tonight, the words stick, anchoring themselves into his chest.

She’s been right, in a way. There are things he can’t do as easily as others. But he’d always hoped that she saw past all of that, that she could see him for who he was beneath the scars and missing pieces.

Maybe she can’t. Maybe, after that kiss, after the warmth faded and reality set in, she realized she deserves more. Someone whole. Someone who could stand at her side, unburdened by a history that weighed him down as much as his missing hand.

With these tangled thoughts swirling in his mind, Killian uncorks the bottle of rum, taking a long, fortifying swig. The familiar burn rolls down his throat, grounding him, even if just a little. Rum is old company, a reliable friend in moments like these, and tonight, its warmth feels like a balm. Still, he knows better than to lean on it for too long. He places the bottle aside, heading to the bathroom, where he dampens a towel with warm water and wraps it around his wrist. The heat is a welcome relief, soothing the dull ache that’s been building under the weight of his brace.

In the Enchanted Forest, pain management was a luxury—there were no hot springs out at sea, and even fewer in Neverland. Fire was too risky on the Jolly; a rogue ember would send his beloved ship up in flames. So rum became his go-to for pain, but he’d since found other ways. It wasn’t the same as the man he once was, drowning in a bottle night after night, haunted by the mistake that kept him from joining the Royal Navy with his brother. His brother had been the last family he’d known, his compass, and his conscience. After Liam’s death, he'd fallen back into its pull when that weight felt too crushing to bear. After too many nights spent in delirium, he'd promised himself he’d never cross that line again.

But now, here he is, alone once more. Only, there’s no quest for vengeance to distract him this time, no adrenaline-fueled chase to drown the ache of loneliness. Just the cold, heavy truth pressing on him, and he’s painfully aware of what this loneliness feels like. And worse, he knows drinking isn’t the answer. It’s a temporary crutch, a one-time respite he tells himself he won’t lean on again.

He doesn't want to add to the list of reasons why Emma doesn't want him.

“A one-handed pirate with a drinking problem? I'm no grown-up, but I'm pretty sure that's less than appealing.”

Instinctively, he reaches for a small object in his coat pocket, a piece of his ship’s rigging that he’d kept hidden since he traded the Jolly Roger to Blackbeard. It’s just a fragment of wood, but it holds more meaning than most people would understand. A piece of his home, of his brother, of everything he’d had before. Holding it close was a small comfort, a reminder of who he was and what he’d left behind.

For Emma, he reminds himself. That thought still holds a kind of magic, even if it’s tinged with the bitterness of recent doubts. He never regretted it, not truly. The Jolly had been his home, his constant through so many storms. But the chance to be with Emma, to reunite her with her family—that meant more than even the ship. She made him feel like a man who could belong, a man who could be more than a pirate.

But as his fingers search for the small piece of wood, he realizes it isn’t there. His heart skips a beat, panic lacing through him as he digs deeper, his fingers growing frantic. He hadn’t taken it out; he knows he hasn’t. Losing that piece of the Jolly would be like losing his compass, his anchor.

Desperation takes hold as he searches the room, pulling open drawers, sweeping his hand over the nightstand, checking every inch of his coat again. But the fragment is nowhere to be found. In the face of all his fears and his aching arm, this loss feels strangely devastating. For a moment, he stands still, hollow, uncertain if he’s lost the one small token that kept him grounded in this world.

It’s not just his arm that hurts now, or even the missing piece of wood; it’s everything piling up, threatening to drown him. He feels a strange mix of helplessness and determination as he realizes what he needs to do. He has to talk to Emma. He has to know if any of what they shared was real or if he’d misread it all.

He stares at the bottle for a long moment, sighing as he realizes he’s already made it through nearly half. The familiar burn of rum dulls the edges of his frustration, but it does nothing for the ache pressing in his chest. A single tear slips down his cheek, then another, but he can’t bring himself to brush them away. Instead, he stands, pulling himself up with a weary sort of resolve, and makes his way to the window.

From his room, he has a view of Granny’s front porch, where soft, glowing lights cast a warm hue over the entrance. His gaze falls on the Merry Men’s leader and the queen, stepping out hand in hand, their faces lit with quiet contentment. Robin wraps an arm around Regina’s shoulders, pulling her close, and they pause for a brief kiss under the gate’s arch.

Killian grimaces, feeling a pang that’s as familiar as it is bitter. He lifts the bottle to his lips again, taking a slow, deliberate swig. The sight stirs up a torrent of questions that echo through his mind: Why do others find their happy endings, while he’s left struggling to hold onto his? Why does it seem that every chance he gets slips away just as quickly?

He turns away from the window, away from the happy couple who have somehow defied the odds. But as he steps back toward the bed, his foot catches on something on the floor—likely his brace. In his tipsy state, he stumbles, and before he can right himself, he crashes onto the carpet, his head hitting the floor with a sharp thud.

For a moment, he just lies there, his head throbbing, his pride bruised. He gathers enough strength to pull himself up, leaning against the bed frame as he closes his eyes, trying to let the pain and dizziness pass. A hollow, bone-deep exhaustion settles over him, and he lets himself sink back, closing his eyes, surrendering to it.

In the quiet darkness, his mind drifts inevitably to Emma. Her name lingers in his mind like a whisper, soft but unrelenting. It’s her face he sees, her voice he remembers. Despite everything, she’s the only one he wants to think about as he slips into uneasy sleep, holding onto the faint, fragile hope that maybe, someday, he’ll be more than just a ghost in someone else’s happy ending.

It takes nearly a week, but they finally succeed.

When Emma first contacts August with her plan to return the Jolly Roger, she’s skeptical. Bringing an entire ship across realms? It sounds impossible. But August, ever one to rise to a challenge, assures her it can be done. He dives into research, and only a few days in, he comes back with a solution. According to him, to teleport or transport an object from one world to another, you need a piece of that object—or at least something closely connected to it—as an anchor. He tells her he already has the other materials covered, and Emma is left with the task of finding something from Killian’s ship.

At first, she’s stumped. She hasn’t been aboard the Jolly since Neverland (or well since their trip to the past), and she certainly didn’t think to bring any keepsakes back. But then, she remembers. After they returned from their adventure in the past, that night after a few drinks, Killian had confided in her that he kept a small memento from his ship. He’d shown her a smooth, round piece of wood with small holes in it—a part of the rigging, or something like that. Killian had enthusiastically launched into a detailed explanation of ship mechanics, ropes, and sails, his eyes lighting up as he animatedly described every little detail. He looked so genuinely excited that Emma didn’t have the heart to admit she couldn’t follow most of what he was saying.

Still, she’s unsure how she’ll manage to get the piece from him without raising suspicion. Avoiding him has been harder than she expected. Sitting in her car, watching him from a distance as he sits alone at the diner bar or walks along the docks, she finds herself wanting to just walk over, brush away the somber look in his eyes, and wrap him in her arms. She hates seeing him like this and can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she’s part of the reason.

Then, luck is on her side. They run into each other - literally -  on the street one afternoon, and Emma seizes the opportunity, pulling the piece out of his coat. For a moment, she thinks he notices, but he seems more focused on just wanting to talk to her.

But it feels so wonderful to have his arms around her again, to hear him call her “Swan.” Once, the nickname had irritated her—something about it felt too personal, too intimate. But now, she realizes she actually loves hearing it. Somehow, it feels warmer than her first name, more hers. He’s the only one who calls her that, after all. Well, Regina does too on occasion, but only when she’s annoyed. With Killian, it’s different. He’s made it his own, a term of endearment that speaks volumes.

Emma finally pulls herself away, clutching the small, splintered piece of wood in her hand, and rushes off to meet August. They need to act fast, before Killian even notices that it's gone.

She’s lucky August is available—it's nearly sunset, and she knows he usually helps his father close up shop at this hour. Fortunately, though, he’s ready to jump into action without delay.

When Emma parks outside his building, August is already waiting. He greets her with a warm hug, but it doesn’t feel quite right. She can’t help but notice: it’s not the same as being wrapped in Killian’s arms just a few minutes earlier.

Damn. She didn’t think she’d miss the pirate this much, this fast.

They waste no time. Standing by the water’s edge, August takes the circular piece of ship timber and, before tossing it in, adds a few drops of some enchanted substance into the sea. Almost immediately, the water churns, forming a vortex. Then, with a mighty splash, a ship begins to emerge—the Jolly Roger, rising from the depths, as familiar to Emma as any place she’s ever called home. She knows every inch of it from their adventure in Neverland. It’s more than just a ship to Killian, and she gets it. The captain’s quarters, carefully curated and surprisingly cozy, had served as their refuge, even giving Emma a safe place to rest while they transported Henry (or rather, Pan in Henry's body) back to Storybrooke. She’d even had another glimpse when she distracted Killian aboard the ship on their journey back in time.

In a way, the ship had become precious to her, too. She understands exactly why Killian treasures it.

But for now, the important thing is that it’s back. Emma’s grin stretches wide as she watches the Jolly Roger drift gently into the harbor, fully restored and looking as though it never left Killian’s side.

The next step is simple: show Killian his ship. She’s fairly certain he won’t be near the docks at this hour—he’s more of a sunrise visitor. The early-morning sea always seems to call to him. For now, at least, her little surprise is safe, though she has to admit she might have gone a bit overboard learning his habits.

Killian’s likely at Granny’s by now, either down at the counter nursing a late-night drink or upstairs in his room.

“Thank you, August,” Emma says, pulling him into a grateful hug as they arrive back in front of his building. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

August grins and shrugs. “You know me; I like a good challenge. Plus, it’s nice to see you this happy.” He digs his keys out of his jacket pocket, then pauses with a wink. “Give the captain my regards.”

Emma chuckles and makes her way to her car, still buoyed by excitement. She’s so thrilled she can barely focus on the drive, but luckily, it’s only a few blocks to Granny’s, and she arrives in one piece.

Once inside, she glances around but doesn’t see Killian in the main dining area, so she makes her way toward the stairs. Just as she’s about to slip away, Granny catches her eye and waves her over with a pointed look.

“Tell your pirate he’s overdue on his room fee,” Granny says with a stern frown. “Maybe next time he’ll think to spend his coins on rent instead of rum.”

Before Emma can respond, Granny’s already disappeared into the kitchen, barking orders.

Emma blinks, standing there for a second, and then shakes her head. Of course.

His possessions—all of them—are still on the ship. He probably only brought what he could stuff into his coat pockets when he arrived here. And naturally, he wouldn’t have told her if he was running low on funds. Knowing him, he’d suffer in silence before mentioning anything, probably planning to tough it out on a park bench when winter hit.

Emma shakes her head, exasperation and affection for Killian mingling in her thoughts.

As for her own situation, she’s not keen to stay with her parents for long. As much as she loves them, their place has been chaos since her baby brother arrived. Privacy? Practically nonexistent. She’s already scrolling through apartment listings, eager to find a place of her own again.

Of course, the thought of moving in with Killian has crossed her mind—just a fleeting idea she hasn’t seriously entertained. Yet.

But that’s a bridge she’ll cross later. Right now, she’s too excited to wait a second longer. She practically flies up the stairs to his room, anticipation buzzing in her veins as she stops in front of his door, her smile wide and uncontainable. On impulse, she leans in and listens, hoping to catch any sign of him inside.

Silence. She raises a hand, knocks softly, and then, after a beat, tries the doorknob. It isn’t locked, which means he must be here. Hopefully, he hasn’t already fallen asleep—if he has, well, she’s willing to wake him, because she’s too excited to wait.

Slipping quietly into the room, Emma keeps one hand on the doorknob as she takes in her surroundings. The wall lamp casts a soft, warm glow, giving the space a gentle, almost cozy ambiance. She’s never been a fan of these dim lights, especially during the brief period she stayed here herself—she’d always preferred cool, bright lighting that left nothing in shadow.

Her gaze sweeps the room, and for a moment, she doesn’t see him. But then, as she closes the door behind her, her eyes settle on a familiar figure slouched on the left side of the bed, apparently fast asleep.

“Hook?” she calls softly, stepping closer. He’s stripped down to his black shirt, half unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of his chest, and his leather pants. His black jacket, waistcoat, and boots lie scattered nearby, as though he’d shed them without a second thought.

She tilts her head, a little puzzled as to how he ended up like this—half-dressed, awkwardly leaning against the bed. There’s no sign of any struggle, no damaged lock or indication of an unwelcome guest or, worse, a new villain.

Then her eyes fall on the half-empty bottle of rum resting on the floor beside him. She can’t help but chuckle, shaking her head. Figures.

Must have been the rum.

But she pauses, her amusement giving way to concern. Why would he open an entire bottle on his own? He rarely drinks like this these days; he’s told her that he’s careful now, that he knows his limits and wants to keep them. What could’ve pushed him to this? She can’t shake the worry that maybe it’s been the past week—that she’s kept him in the dark about her plans, leaving him to fill in the blanks himself.

She promised him she’d explain everything soon. Maybe she underestimated just how hard it’s been for him to wait.

Emma crouches beside him, and her breath catches as she takes in his worn, vulnerable state. He looks rough—more than she’s ever seen him.

There’s a small gash on his right brow, with dried blood caked around it. The bleeding has thankfully stopped, but it’s still a jarring sight. It looks like he might have hit his head after slipping on something, but it’s hard to tell.

She hopes he’s just out from the rum, not a concussion.

“Killian?” Her voice is soft as she leans closer, gently patting his cheek, but he doesn’t respond. She can’t help the pang of worry that twists in her stomach as she shakes his shoulder a bit more firmly, calling his name.

Finally, after a tense moment, he stirs with a low groan, and she lets out a relieved sigh.

Emma’s gaze sweeps the room, searching for clues as to what might have happened. Then her eyes land on something beside him—a familiar black leather object. It takes her a second to realize it’s the brace that usually secures his left arm. The hook is absent.

Her breath catches again as she processes the scene. This is the first time she’s seen him without it, and, slowly, her gaze moves to his left arm.

A small towel, damp to the touch, covers his limb, and she reaches over, gently lifting it away. She thinks about using it to clean his head wound, but something stops her as her gaze falls to what’s beneath.

She’s never seen a severed limb before, but even so, this isn’t quite what she imagined. The skin at the end of his arm is heavily scarred, healed but still raw and red in places. Despite the healing, it’s obvious that he’s dealt with a lot of pain over the years—and probably still does.

Emma’s heart aches, feeling the weight of what he’s been through. She doubts he had the chance for proper medical care back in the Enchanted Forest. In fact, knowing him, he probably soldiered through the pain without much help, figuring out how to adjust to his new reality on his own.

Without thinking, Emma reaches out, her palm moving softly over his stump, her fingers tracing the rough, scarred skin. It’s dry and chapped, as though it hasn’t seen a proper salve in far too long. She imagines the constant ache he must feel, even if he’d never admit it. He probably doesn’t want her to see him like this—doesn’t want anyone to see—but all she feels is a deep affection for this man who’s fought through so much.

Emma picks up the damp towel and gently dabs at the dried blood on Killian’s brow. She must have pressed a bit too hard, though, because he winces and lets out a soft hiss, his hand instinctively moving to cover the wound.

“Hey, sailor,” she murmurs, trying to keep her tone light.

His eyes crack open, a flash of blue peeking through his lashes. He looks around the room, his gaze dazed and unfocused, as if he’s not quite sure where he is. When his eyes finally settle on her, his brow furrows in a deep, puzzled frown, as though he can’t quite believe she’s there.

“How are you feeling? Does your head hurt?” she asks gently, continuing to tend to his brow.

He blinks, trying to make sense of her presence. After a moment, he breathes out, “Swan?”

The word falls from his lips, tinged with disbelief, relief, and a hint of awe. It’s like he’s not sure if she’s real or just some dream he conjured up.

“Think you can stand?” Emma asks, hoping to help him off the floor and into bed. She moves to adjust the blanket on the bed, giving him space to settle.

Killian blinks slowly, struggling to focus. “I…what happened?” He shakes his head, wincing as if trying to shake off the haze clouding his mind.

“You fell, I think. Got yourself a pretty nasty cut,” she explains, gesturing gently to his brow. “Let’s get you more comfortable, yeah?”

He frowns deeper, his expression uncertain. “Are you…are you really here?” His voice is thick with doubt, and his gaze flickers as though he’s still questioning if she’s real.

Emma nods, offering a reassuring smile. “I’m here. But you’re definitely not staying on the floor.” She reaches for his arm to help him up, but he recoils, shrugging her hand away with a look that’s a mix of alarm and vulnerability.

“No—you can’t be here,” he mutters, his voice rough and shaky. “You need to leave.” His words hold an intensity that halts her, and she sees a flash of something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded, like he’s balancing on the edge of breaking.

For the first time, Emma notices the red rims around his eyes, the shadows beneath them, as if he’s been awake far too long or fighting off something deeper than exhaustion. Her heart sinks, a thousand unspoken questions hovering between them.

“Why?” she whispers, her voice soft, almost breathless. The question escapes before she can stop it.

Killian turns his head, pain flickering in his gaze. “Please, just go. I don’t…I don’t want you to see…” His voice trails off, and he pulls his left arm behind his back, trying to hide it from her view, the shame clear in his averted gaze.

The realization dawns on her. He didn’t want her to see his arm—didn’t want her to see him so vulnerable, so exposed.

Emma’s heart aches, but she keeps her voice steady. She reaches out, undeterred. “I’m not going anywhere, Killian. You should be in bed, resting, not lying here on the floor,” she says, reaching for him again, this time gently but firmly.

He shrugs her off once more, a flicker of stubbornness in his eyes as he braces himself and, with effort, pushes himself up from the floor. Emma sighs, stepping back to give him space. He sways unsteadily, the effects of the rum still clouding his balance, but after a few moments, he manages to stand upright.

As he looks at her, his expression shifts, as though something painful has resurfaced—something he’s tried to keep buried.

Emma opens her mouth to speak, but he raises a hand to stop her.

"Why are you here?" His voice carries a faint edge, and though he tries to hide it, a mix of emotions flicker in his eyes—sadness, longing, and something almost like resignation.

"Well…I…" Her voice trails off, her initial excitement vanishing under his guarded gaze. She had hoped to surprise him, to see that familiar spark in his eyes. But now, she’s faced with a side of Killian she’s never seen before—a side that seems almost reluctant to see her.

Her gaze drops to his left arm, which he’s tucked behind his back, his posture subtly angled to hide it from her. She realizes with a pang what he’s doing, and the thought is almost too painful to bear. He can’t possibly think that…

Steadying herself, she tries again. “I wanted to tell you something,” she says, her voice gentle but certain. His eyebrows rise slightly, but his expression remains tight, shadowed with the weight of whatever hurt he’s holding onto.

“Save your breath, Swan,” he replies, his voice low and edged with a bitterness she’s rarely heard. “I’m already aware of your little secret.”

Emma’s heart stumbles. How could he possibly know? She thought she’d been careful, keeping her distance just enough to keep the surprise hidden. Could he have somehow figured it out?

“You…you do?” Her excitement and anticipation begin to evaporate. After everything she’d planned, it seemed her efforts were unraveling right before her eyes.

But something feels off. If he truly knew what she’d been up to, why does he look so wounded? Why is there such raw hurt simmering in his voice?

“Aye.” His jaw tightens, and when he speaks again, a flash of bitterness cuts through his words. “I saw you with him. Saw how you embraced.”

It takes Emma a beat to piece it together—and suddenly, it hits her. He’s talking about August. He must have seen her with August during one of their secret planning meetings. Relief washes over her, and before she can stop herself, a small laugh escapes, light and relieved.

But Killian misreads the laugh, and it seems to crack something inside him.

“Oh, I’m glad my suffering amuses you, Swan,” he snaps, his voice rough, a flicker of betrayal flashing in his eyes. “If you didn’t want to be with me, you could’ve just said so.” His gaze pierces her, sharp with anger and the kind of vulnerability that twists at her heart. “I thought I at least deserved the truth. If I did something wrong, you could’ve told me. But if this is the problem…”

He steps closer, hurt etched across his face, and grabs the hem of his left sleeve, yanking it up to reveal his scarred stump. Emma’s heart wrenches as she realizes what he’s thinking. He believes she’s been avoiding him because of this.

Killian takes a steadying breath, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “If that’s the issue, then there’s nothing I can do to change it. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wished to be whole again since meeting you. To be enough for you. Because you deserve that, and I—”

Emma can’t bear another word of it.

“Stop it, Killian. You’ve got this all wrong,” she interrupts, stepping forward, her voice firm but warm. How could he even think she’d pull away over something so meaningless in her eyes? Did he really believe she would judge him for that?

He scoffs, disbelief darkening his gaze. “Am I?”

“Yes!” Her frustration mingles with the ache she feels for him. “I think you’re one of the smartest, bravest people I’ve ever met, but right now, you’re being an absolute idiot.”

He lets out a hollow laugh. “Then enlighten me, Emma. If that’s not the issue, then why have you been avoiding me? Why wouldn’t you even talk to me?” His voice, once edged with anger, now holds the weary resignation of someone who’s given up hoping for answers.

Emma swallows down her guilt. “It’s not an issue. It never has been,” she begins, but she falters, catching the pained furrow of his brow. She knows what he’s thinking—recalling that offhand remark she’d made in anger during a fight. She wishes she could erase those words, but they hang there, a shadow between them. “If I ever made you feel like it was… it was just me being stupid. I didn’t mean it.” She sighs, hating how inadequate her excuse sounds, knowing how flimsy it must feel to him. “You know me—I say things I don’t mean when I’m angry. But that doesn’t make them true.”

Killian lets out a sharp, controlled breath, his expression hardening into a mask. "Could’ve fooled me, Swan," he mutters, bending down to pull on his boots. But as he reaches, he stops short, his body seizing up with a quick, pained hiss. “Bloody—” He clutches his left arm, instinctively turning away, a futile attempt to hide the flash of discomfort.

Emma’s eyes narrow, and she steps closer. Without hesitating, she places a steady hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn toward her. “Is it your arm?” she asks softly, though his reaction already tells her the answer. She knows he’ll try to brush it off, but she needs to hear it from him.

“I’m fine,” he says stiffly, his voice full of defiance, refusing to turn and face her.

“Killian—” she begins, her tone gentle, but he cuts her off, sharper than before.

“Just leave, Swan.” He’s trying to sound firm, even stoic, but she can hear the tension undercutting his words.

She crosses her arms, eyes fixed on him, and replies firmly, “No.”

Without waiting for his response, she steps around to face him directly, catching him off guard. Gently but firmly, she takes his left arm in her hands, and this time, he doesn’t move to pull away. He stands rigid, his breathing shallow, his gaze averted, as though bracing himself for her reaction.

Slowly, she lifts the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the raw, scarred skin of his arm, marred by the battles he’s survived. Her heart clenches at the sight of it, a vivid reminder of everything he’s endured. She knows how he must see it—an ugly reminder of weakness or loss, a history he wishes he could erase.

He breaks the silence first, his voice laced with a bitter edge. “It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” He keeps his gaze turned away, his tone heavy with self-mockery. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to see this every day.”

She brushes his words aside, letting them slide over her. She knows he doesn’t believe her reassurances—not yet, anyway. He’s too stubborn, too convinced that he can protect himself by pushing her away. If words alone can’t reach him, she’ll have to show him—she’s always been better at actions, anyway.

Emma adjusts her hold on his forearm, and her mind flashes back to her early days as a bail bondsman. She’d faced plenty of rough moments then—bruises, sprains, pulled muscles—and quickly picked up a few tricks to cope with the aches that came with the job. Over time, she’d learned that half the skill lay in knowing how to handle injuries, especially if you wanted to stay in the game. Right now, that same knowledge might just do Killian some good.

With a gentle yet steady touch, she presses her thumbs into his wrist, moving in slow, controlled circles, just as she’d done a hundred times before on her own body. She methodically works her way up his arm, feeling the rough patches where his skin has rubbed raw against his leather brace, and the thin scars from battles long past. As her fingers reach the more sensitive skin near the end of his arm, she feels him tense—and then, as she continues, he lets out a quiet sigh, his shoulders finally relaxing. She’s found the spot.

“What...what are you doing?” he murmurs, his voice low and surprised, almost caught off guard by the relief spreading through his arm.

“Better?” she asks, drawing back a little to meet his gaze, studying his expression.

“A lot,” he admits after a moment, blinking, as if trying to understand the unexpected sensation. “The pain—it’s almost gone. How…?” His eyes flicker with gratitude and a trace of wonder, though he tries to mask it with a nonchalant shrug.

“Pressure points,” she shrugs, as if it’s nothing, and heads to the bathroom.

She remembers Granny mentioning that every room at the inn is stocked with a basic first-aid kit. Digging around beneath the sink, she finds the kit and pulls out a roll of gauze, wetting it under warm water until it’s thoroughly soaked. Squeezing out the excess, she heads back to the bedroom, where Killian stands watching her, an unreadable expression on his face, somewhere between astonishment and admiration.

Without saying a word, she gently wraps the damp gauze around his arm, securing it firmly but not so tight that it would cut off circulation. “There’s another roll in the bathroom,” she says, finishing up and glancing up at him. “Wrap this over your arm before putting on the brace. It’ll keep the leather from rubbing so much, and it might hurt less.”

Killian’s gaze shifts down to her, his eyes softened with a blend of wonder and gratitude, as if he’s trying to find the right words. Finally, he manages, “Thank you, Emma,” his voice barely above a whisper, as if her name itself carries something sacred. He starts to reach out, his hand hovering near hers, but he stops, pulling back, uncertainty flickering across his face.

Emma’s heart pounds as she closes the distance between them, the week of distance and tension melting away as she presses her lips to his, unable to hold back any longer. She cups his face in her hands, pouring all the pent-up emotions she’s carried into that single, fervent kiss.

Caught off guard, Killian stumbles back a step, releasing a surprised “oof,” but he quickly recovers. When she deepens the kiss, he responds with a fierce intensity, his arms wrapping securely around her waist, pulling her close as if he never intends to let go.

He kisses her back with an intensity she’s never felt from him before, like he’s starved for this closeness.

Their connection feels electric, and the way he kisses her back—like he’s been starved for her touch—is almost overwhelming. They stay like that, lost in the kiss, until they finally come up for air, foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. Neither moves, neither speaks, as if even a whisper could shatter the moment.

“Emma…” he finally murmurs, his voice laced with a hopeful hesitation, as though he can hardly believe this is real.

“I’m not with August,” she says firmly, meeting his gaze, her eyes steady and serious. She wants the words to drive away every doubt and fear that’s been gnawing at him.

“Truly?” His eyes close, but his grip tightens around her, as if she’s the only thing grounding him, and he doesn’t want to let go.

In response, she squeezes his hand gently, stepping back just enough to look at him fully. A grin spreads across her face, and without another word, she gives his hand a gentle tug. “Come with me,” she says, her eyes sparkling with excitement and mystery.

Killian follows her as she leads him to the coat rack by the door, grabbing his heavy jacket and handing it to him. He slips into it, his movements quick but slightly clumsy in his eagerness, and Emma can’t help but marvel at how he wears the weight of it as if it were nothing. When he’s bundled up, she takes his hand again, intertwining her fingers with his, and together they head out into the brisk evening.

He trails behind her, amusement and curiosity in his eyes as they make their way down the stairs and out into the crisp autumn air. “Love, where are we going?” he asks, a touch of playfulness in his voice, though she can see genuine curiosity there too.

The Jolly isn’t docked in its usual spot but has drifted a bit further down the shoreline, just enough to be out of sight to a casual onlooker.

As they reach the beach, Emma only sees a row of sleek, modern boats bobbing under the glow of distant harbor lights. The only other light in the port comes from the streetlamps lining the main road and a single flickering lamp in the harbormaster’s cabin. Across the way, storm lights flash, illuminating the docks in bursts as if warding off an impending winter chill. Though dusk has set in, autumn is still holding back winter’s harsh bite, leaving a crisp, lingering chill in the air.

Emma inhales deeply, savoring the scent of salt and sea—a smell she’s come to associate with Killian. She glances up at him, their fingers still entwined, and meets his gaze. His expression holds a million unspoken questions, but he doesn’t voice any of them. He just watches her, a quiet trust in his eyes that makes her heart flutter.

“Come on,” she whispers, giving his hand a gentle tug. “Let’s go a little further.”

She casts a glance at something in the distance, a shadowy outline, but Killian hasn’t noticed it yet. He starts to say something, his lips parting, but then he falls silent, letting her lead.

They walk along the docks for several quiet minutes. Though Storybrooke’s port is modest, the docks seem to stretch endlessly, offering space even where boats rarely anchor. Emma knows what to look for, and in the dimming light, her eyes can already pick out the silhouette of the Jolly Roger. But to anyone else—including Killian, apparently—the ship would blend right into the shadows.

Suddenly, she halts, turning abruptly to face Killian. He’s not ready for her sudden stop and nearly bumps into her with a surprised “oomph.” Instinctively, his arms reach out, steadying her by the shoulders. She grins and, without a word, places her hands on his biceps, guiding him to turn around slowly until he’s facing away from the Jolly.

His brows furrow in confusion, and he tilts his head—one of those little quirks of his she’s come to adore, especially when he’s curious or learning something new about this world. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice laced with bewilderment. “And what exactly are we doing out here?”

“Trust me,” she says softly, her voice a gentle reassurance. Killian lets out a small sigh, nodding reluctantly, and allows her to position him.

He now has his back to the Jolly, and Emma holds onto his arms. She begins to push, and Killian steps back.

“Swan, what—” he starts, but she cuts him off, her voice light and teasing.

“Just keep walking.”

He lets out a grumble but doesn’t resist, his steps tentative as she guides him closer to the water’s edge.

When they’re close enough that the Jolly Roger’s helm and masts are clearly visible against the sky, Emma stops. The ship looks striking under the faint light, its silhouette bold and familiar against the open water.

Emma takes a steadying breath, chewing her lip as she braces for his reaction. This is it—the moment she’s been waiting for.

But before she can encourage him to look, Killian speaks up with a note of hesitant humor. “You know I trust you with nearly everything, Swan,” he says, giving her a sidelong glance. She raises an eyebrow, sensing he has more to add.

“I do question your eating habits, of course,” he continues with a smirk, his tone half-joking. Then he grows more serious, his expression softening. “But I sincerely hope you haven’t brought me here to murder me by the sea. Although,” he adds thoughtfully, “a sailor couldn’t wish for a better spot to meet his end.”

Emma laughs, unable to hold it back. “Just turn around, Hook,” she instructs, using his moniker on purpose.

With a reluctant sigh, as if he’s bracing himself for anything but this, Killian turns. He takes two steps, and then he freezes, eyes fixed on the ship docked just ahead.

Emma watches his face closely, noting the flicker of disbelief and the raw emotion that rises to the surface. He doesn’t move for several long moments, just stands there, staring. She wonders if he’s even breathing.

“Killian?” she finally says, gently placing her hand on his arm, half-jokingly worried he might actually be in shock.

Slowly, almost as if in a trance, he turns his gaze to her. His eyes shine, even in the dim light, with a kind of wonder she’s rarely seen. “Do you…do you see it too?” he asks, his voice rough with awe.

She can’t resist a mischievous smile. “Oh, you mean that boat parked over there?” she replies, aiming to nudge him out of his daze.

“Ship,” he corrects automatically, exactly as she knew he would. “And it’s docked.”

Her grin widens. “Right, the ship. Looks like the Jolly, but it seems a little smaller than I remember.”

He turns to her, looking positively scandalized, as if she’s just committed an unforgivable sin. She bites her lip to keep from laughing, knowing how defensive he gets about his ship. “Swan,” he says, straightening, “this is the Jolly Roger. And nothing of mine is small.” He wags his eyebrows but his voice softens, almost reverent. “She’s the most magnificent ship in all the realms.”

Killian’s eyes narrow slightly, the aquamarine in them flickering with suspicion and disbelief. He tilts his head, studying her. “You don’t seem particularly shocked to see the Jolly returned to her former glory,” he murmurs, his voice laced with curiosity. “Do you happen to know anything about how she got here?”

Emma’s lips curve into a mischievous smile as she takes his hand, tugging him gently toward the ship. “Maybe,” she teases, letting just enough mystery linger in her tone. “Want to take a look inside? See if everything’s as you left it?”

Killian doesn’t budge, his gaze flickering between the ship and her as if he’s just now connecting the dots. He swallows, his disbelief giving way to a mixture of awe and gratitude. “Swan…you really did this.”

She steps closer, tightening her grip on his hand. “That’s why I was meeting with August,” she admits softly, placing her other hand on his chest, her fingers lightly tracing over his skin. “Are you happy?” Her voice drops to a whisper as she searches his face, unable to read the cascade of emotions flickering there.

His throat works, and he lets out a shaky breath. “Happy? Swan, you brought back my ship. I never thought I’d see her again.” His eyes shine with gratitude, and he gives her the kind of smile that takes her breath away, pure and unfiltered. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

Without another word, he leans down, capturing her lips in a kiss that feels like a release of every emotion he’s been holding back. Emma’s hand slides from his chest to the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she deepens the kiss, a small gasp escaping her.

Killian’s arms pull her in closer—his hook resting against her waist while his good hand presses her against him, their bodies melting into each other. For a few moments, the world fades, and it’s just them, the waves lapping softly in the background.

When they finally part, Emma pulls back slightly, her cheeks flushed. Killian makes a low, frustrated sound, leaning forward as if trying to capture her lips again, but she stops him with a laugh.

“I see you’ve picked up a thing or two from me about saying ‘thank you,’” she quips, and he grins, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"Except this isn't a one time thing?" He asks, his voice lifting slightly as if testing her reaction.

Emma chuckles, shaking her head. “Not a chance.” She arches a brow, watching his expression soften with relief. “You know that’s why we haven’t seen each other all week, right?”

Killian raises his eyebrows, caught off guard. “Ah…” he mutters, looking slightly sheepish, though she suspects he still doesn’t entirely believe it.

Emma rolls her eyes and grips his lapels, half-ready to shake some sense into him, but instead, she sighs and tries, once again, to make him understand. “Look, if I hadn’t avoided you all week, you’d have figured out I was planning something, and you’d have started asking questions. Questions I wouldn’t have been able to lie about. I wanted to surprise you.”

Killian opens his mouth to speak, but she presses a finger gently against his lips, stopping him. “And I didn’t bring your ship back because I felt like I owed you or out of some sense of gratitude. I mean, yes, those things are true in part, but…they weren’t the main reason.” Her gaze is earnest, and she hopes he can feel the truth in her words.

Killian’s brows knit together, a question in his eyes. “Then why, love?”

Emma’s heart stumbles. She knows exactly why she did it, but saying it aloud, putting it into words… that’s different. She’s not sure if she’s ready—but then again, if not now, when? Killian deserves to know; he opened his heart to her long ago, and she had done nothing but sidestep it since. Tonight, it’s her turn to be vulnerable.

Taking a deep breath, she gathers her courage. She looks up at him, meeting his gaze as his blue eyes, filled with hope and a gentle longing, hold hers.

“I…I did it to make you happy,” she finally says, her voice a little unsteady. But there’s still more to say, the part she’s kept guarded for so long. Killian blinks, a gentle smile forming on his lips, but before he can respond, she speaks again, her voice firmer this time. “And because I love you.”

Killian’s whole body stills, his eyes wide as they search hers. He doesn’t even blink; he just stares at her with an expression so stunned and disbelieving that she almost laughs. But she can barely breathe herself, feeling the weight of the moment between them.

Then, as if rebooting his brain, his lips extend into a brilliant smile that practically lights up the dark port.

Then, like a sunrise, a brilliant smile spreads across his face, bright enough to light up the entire port. He steps forward, and Emma expects him to kiss her, but instead, he pulls her into a fierce embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if he never wants to let go. He rests his forehead against her shoulder, and she clings to him just as tightly, her face buried in his hair, her arms locked behind his neck.

Killian turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to her neck before he whispers, “I love you too, Swan. So bloody much.”

At his words, Emma feels a shiver run through her, tears welling up unexpectedly. Then, as if overcome with joy, he lifts her right off her feet, squeezing her tighter as she lets out a delighted laugh, her feet leaving the sand.

After a few blissful moments, he sets her back down and pulls away slightly, his gaze filled with wonder as he looks into her eyes. “Thank you, Emma. For everything.” And though he doesn’t say it, she knows his gratitude goes far beyond the ship.

Emma nods, a warm smile lighting her face as she gestures toward the Jolly Roger. “How about we celebrate with a nightcap? I know the captain’s cabin is well stocked.”

Killian chuckles, but instead of a roguish grin, he ducks his head, scratching the back of his ear—a telltale sign of his rare but endearing nervousness. She can’t help but feel a surge of affection seeing his walls drop like this.

“Aye, Swan,” he says softly. “Lead the way.”

She takes his hand, and together they practically sprint up the gangplank and onto the deck.

The evening, which began with so much uncertainty, now feels like the start of something wonderful.