#i dont think mary margaret and david have a garage

[accio-ambition]

This chapter is mostly banter. So enjoy. As always, a million bajillion thanks to @shipsxahoy, @queen-icicle-fandom, @sotheylived, and those crazy kids at @captainswanbigbang. With each new chapter, I get a little sadder that this project is wrapping up and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank them enough.

Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she’s happy in the city. It’s where the most camera operating jobs are, and that’s how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she’s never been with people she doesn’t know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But when the captain of the ship she’s filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU Rating: M Content warning: Character death, some violent situations

FFnet/Ao3/Cover/Snapshots/Gifset/Manip

Chapter Eighteen

“We’re not getting another ship.” Killian slides onto the bench across from her at Granny’s, nabbing an onion ring as he scoots by her plate.

“What?” she asks, confused about both the statement and the idea that he thinks she won’t mind him stealing her onion rings. Rotating her plate so her rings are closest to her side of the table, Emma repeats herself. “What do you mean, you’re not getting another ship?”

He shrugs. Somehow, the action conveys sass. “What part don’t you understand, Swan? ‘We’ refers to my brother and I. ‘Are not’ means - ”

“I mean why aren’t you guys getting a new ship?” she interrupts, glaring at him. “You said you were looking into it before the Jewel sunk. Why stop looking now that it has?”

Glancing anywhere but at her, Killian explains, “There’s nothing out in the market right now that’s what Liam’s looking for. I think he wants to try and salvage the Jewel, build it up again from scratch and make some changes.”

“How long would that take?” she asks, ticking her head to the side.

“It’s anybody’s guess,” Killian says as Ruby comes up to their table with a smile on her face, asking Killian if he needs anything. He orders a cup of coffee, more out of kindness than necessity or desire. Once she’s gone to place his order, he looks back at Emma. “He’s calling up some of his mates in the Coast Guard and throughout the harbor to see if any one of them is willing to help haul what’s left on the shore back to a shop.”

“Huh,” she hums. It’s an interesting proposition, one that could make for good TV. She isn’t sure if that’s at all what they would want - they being the Jones brother or the executives - but it could be interesting. That is, so long as no one is breaking their contract. “Have you told Jefferson?”

Killian shakes his head. “He’s the next call, after Dave.” Reaching across the table, he steals another onion ring, narrowly avoiding Emma’s slap. He takes a bite and chews it for a moment. “I didn’t know Granny made onion rings,” he comments idly.

Emma smirks, taking a bite out of one of her own rings. “She does for her favorite customers,” she snarks.

An extremely dramatic frown crosses his face. “I thought I was one of her favorites,” he mumbles.

She knows he’s playacting for her pity, but Emma still feels the need to comfort him. “I don’t think there’s anyone in town who isn’t Granny’s favorite.” She reaches across the table to pat his hand. “Don’t worry, you’re one of my favorites,” she says.

He grins. “As much as I will cherish that admission,  I don’t get free food out of our relationship.”

“Hey, I still have to pay for this stuff,” she whines. “And I can make you food.” His eyebrows shoot up and she shrugs. “It’d be free for you.”

“I feel like we’ll have more time for that in the near future, what with there being only one ship in our possession.” Sighing again, Killian rests his head on the table in front of him, grasping blindly for her hand. He entwines their fingers together. “What are we going to do, Emma?”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles, relishing in the warmth and weight of his hand in hers. “We’ll figure it out.” In the meantime, Emma uses her other hand to slide her plate reluctantly between them, a silent offer for assurance in the form of onion rings.

Peeking up from his arms, Killian smiles. He actually thanks her this time as he takes an onion ring and munches on it thoughtfully. “What do you think Jeff’s going to say about the show?” he asks.

She shrugs this time. “He’s probably going to refer back to whatever contract you guys signed, then take it up to the channel execs. See what they say.” Ruby finally returns with his cup of coffee and another small plate of onion rings for her. “It’s a huge guessing game until the end of this season. I’m sure it won’t end badly. They might just find another trawler somewhere nearby and focus on them instead of the Jolly Roger and the Jewel.” She rolls her eyes. “Who knows?”

Looking off into space, Killian reaches over to the plate of fresh onion rings, only to be met with empty air. He looks up to find Emma hoarding the plate close to her, Gollum protecting the one ring.

“I don’t care how good looking you are,” she threatens him. “You want onion rings? Fucking order some and stop stealing mine.”

A huge smile breaks across his face before he salutes her sarcastically. “Message received loud and clear, love.” Still, he actually stands up and grabs one last ring from her possession. “They just taste so much better when it makes you feisty.”

Bending over to press a short kiss to the top of her head, Killian pops her onion ring into his mouth and smirks on the way out of Granny’s, leaving Emma fuming.

0000

Jefferson’s reaction, at least according to Liam and how Killian relays it to her on the phone later that night, is more positive than either of them had expected. While Emma prepared herself to hear about screaming and cursing in true Jeff fashion, Killian tells her that their producer understood considering the circumstances.

“Liam said that Jeff said that he’d inform the proper executives and get back to me if there was anything else he needed,” his voice crackles through the line. Emma’s walking in the front door, a bag of Chinese food dangling off her elbow and her cell wedged between shoulder and ear.

“Well, that sounds kind of promising,” she assures him, shutting the door behind her. “Hold on a second.” Taking the phone from her shoulder, Emma yells for Henry to set the table before returning to their conversation. “Do you think he’ll have something to get back to you with by the barbeque?” she asks.

“Dunno,” he grumbles. She can just imagine him scratching behind his ear, the uncertainty of the future causing a frustrated blush to rise on his neck. He sighs, and then says, “I’ll let you and the lad get to supping. See you soon, love.”

“Bye.”

Emma hopes for all their sakes and sanities that Jefferson does have something to tell the crew by the time the Nolans’ barbeque rolls around in a couple of days. It’s the end of summer though it feels more like fall, coming up on the end of regular trawling season, and to celebrate that or maybe just help each other grieve and mourn the recent past. Either way, Mary Margaret had brought up the idea and Emma had wholeheartedly volunteered her and Henry’s manpower to help set up.

“Mom, Phillip’s mom was gonna take us to a movie,” he complains where she tells him of their plans.

“Well, you’ll have to call Phillip and tell him sorry,” she says. “It’s going to be a beautiful day and David promised me there would be ice cream.” Flopping back on the couch they share and changing the channel, Emma adds, “Invite him to the party while you’re at it. Phillip and his parents.”

“This is Mary Margaret and David’s party, remember?”

She shrugs. “We’re setting it up, I’m saying we can invite people.”

And Emma really begins to agree with her own words as she’s helping David set up the eighth fold-out table in an hour in their backyard, his wife directing them on its placement and Henry plugging in lights around the fence. Mary Margaret keeps saying she needs to keep an eye on food she’s pre-cooking in the kitchen, but Emma’s sure she just doesn’t want to do the heavy lifting. Literally.

All the while, the possibility of having to leave Storybrooke - of no longer being able to use her son for chores, of no longer being close to Mary Margaret and David, or Ruby, or even the Joneses - lingers in her mind.

It’s something she doesn’t want to do unless it’s absolutely necessary.

But now that there isn’t a second boat and no intention of getting one, there might be no show that needs a camera for her to operate. She’s in a bit of a tight position. She has enough saved up for her and Henry to survive for a little while, but the mastering of camera operation can only take you so far in life.

These frightening thoughts sneak in and out of her mind during the party, almost ruining the beautiful sunset that cools what remains of a scorching day. Henry’s having a blast, he and Phillip shooting each other with water guns in between hot dogs and ice cream. Mary Margaret’s in full-on hostess mode, talking with everyone she walks by to make sure their drinks are cold and their stomach are satisfied. And David, standing next to Emma, taking in the scene with his own internal commentary.

“What am I going to do?” she asks David in one instance of darkened thought, beer in hand.

Reading her mind, he shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “What are we going to do?”

Emma chuckles darkly. “At least Mary Margaret’s got a job.”

“Hey,” David reprimands her. With a shrug, she rolls her eyes at him. “I know you don’t particularly like asking for help, but you know you don’t have to do this alone.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulls her into his side, a brotherly gesture of comfort. “Some other project will come up. And in the meantime, enjoy your time with Henry. Relax.”

“Easier said than done,” she grumbles. She takes a swig of her beer only to find it empty. A frown growing on her face is halted by the somewhat magical appearance of another drink in David’s other hand.

“Maybe you just need a little push in the right direction,” he suggests, handing the beer over.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

David nods to Killian, who’s now chasing after Henry and Roland, Liam and Robin and Regina laughing at his antics. He’s spent the majority of the evening doing so, choosing the adventures of children over alcohol for entertainment. Liam even had to scold him for running about the deck too fast.

(He’d been sheepish naturally, being treated like a child, but Emma had to admit that the entire situation was adorable.)

“Don’t make me spell it out for you,” David nearly begs.

Catching his drift, Emma grimaces. “You’re gross.”

“I’m right.” She glares at him as he takes another drink of his beer, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smug smile. When he finishes, David shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“There’s nothing for you to know, we just - ”

“Don’t want to know,” he interrupts her, his hand coming up between them. “All I need to know is if he makes you happy. Because I can lie to myself all I want and pretend that you’re happier here because you have us. But even I have to admit you look a hell of a lot happier when he’s around these days.”

Taking a moment to contemplate the idea, Emma finally shrugs, hints of a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “I’m not unhappy.”

David nods once sharply. “Good enough for me,” he says, taking another drink. “The rest of that stuff, you can talk to Mary Margaret or Ruby. Not my department.”

Emma nudges his shoulder in good humor. “You mean you don’t want to know the intimate details about-”

“Nope,” he interrupts her. “Not my department. Not at all.”

With a nod and a smile, David takes his leave, mumbling something about making sure there’s enough food. It’s as much a fake excuse to get away from the uncomfortable conversation as it is an inside joke - like Mary Margaret would ever let anyone go hungry at her house.

As though his ears were burning, David’s space is quickly occupied by Killian himself, out of breathe and damp from being chased with water guns.

“Those lads are quick,” he says nonchalantly.

Emma chuckles. “What, Captain Hook can’t keep up with the Lost Boys now?” she teases him. “Finally admitting defeat and letting old age and a croc get you?”

Killian’s frown is so dramatic - honestly, it makes him look like a blobfish - that her laughter flourishes into guffaws and even a few tears. “I am affronted, Swan,” he says. his voice equally put off. “How dare you insult the captain as such. I should make you walk the plank!”

So she’s had a few drinks, as he probably has too, but that matter doesn’t do anything to quell the warmth that bubbles up inside with this ridiculous man next to her. She thinks of what David said and maybe it’s just become obvious to her how obvious she and Killian are together. How often and how much time they spend with each other, how their countenances change when in each other’s company.

It nearly makes her sad when she forces the conversation to other, less amusing topics.

“Did Jefferson get back to you yet?”

Shaking his head, Killian runs a hand through his hair. “I even inquired about it the other day after Liam’s check up,” he tells her. “Alas, nothing from executives or any other higher up.”

“I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything,” Emma assures him, though a different discussion sets off in her mind. She knows better than Killian that, unlike in other realms of the world, no news in show business isn’t good news. Sea of Chaos is quite a money maker for the network: it’s grown a fanbase, it’s interesting enough and original enough that it could bring in more ratings, and the cast is memorable enough that they can quote them on merchandise. Changing it in any way - or worse, cancelling it - could be detrimental to their entire lineup.

But Killian doesn’t need to know that.

“No news is good news, right?” Emma lies easily.

He shrugs. “I can only suppose so.”

[let-it-raines]

I was reading this "ex prompt list" and while I want you to write all of them, I really liked this one: "You talk about me in your new song and I get mad over it, so I’m standing outside your apartment door to argue, only to see you open the door half naked." Thank you, darling! You're a gift!

She’s on her way home from work when she hears it. Listening to the radio isn’t something she does, not anymore, but her car can’t connect to her phone’s Bluetooth and she forgot the aux cord, so it was either the radio or silence.

She probably should have stayed in silence.

Because for the first time in three months, for the first time since she was in Target and heard one of his songs over the speakers, she hears his voice.

And she hates it.

But she apparently hates herself a little bit more because she doesn’t change the station or turn the radio off. She doesn’t recognize the opening chords to this song. She recognizes the chords to every song. She knows all of the lyrics, all of the rifts and pauses. She knows everything.

But she doesn’t know this one.

It’s quiet, sullen, the usually prominent instruments muted in the background so that his voice comes through as clearly as possible. It takes her thirty seconds and two references of a swan flying away – really subtle there, Jones – for her to realize that the song is about her. She has to pull over to the side of the road, making several different cars blare their horns at her, but she can’t…she can’t listen to this while driving. She can’t hear him sing a song that’s clearly about their break up. She has to listen, but she can’t do anything else.

She can barely breathe.

He sounds broken. But she knows that’s on purpose. He records those songs a million times over, until he gets them exactly how he wants them to be, so she knows that he’s manufactured it this way. She’s watched him record enough songs to know how things work.

How dare he do this.

How dare he put their private life out there for anyone with ears to hear.

Hot tears sting behind her eyes, and she has to bury her face in her hands while her throat constricts, emotion lodging itself there and making her feel as if she has to vomit. Or as if she can’t breathe. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything.

All she knows is that she misses him. She misses Killian.

But right now she hates him for making her relive their breakup, for making her relive the agony that was the weeks and months of separation that inevitably led them to walking away from each other.

Or maybe it was her.

She’s not sure. If anything, it’s all a blur of tears and alcohol, sobs wracking her body while she was unable to feel anything but pain. She’d waited so long to find someone who understood her, who wanted to be with her with no reservations, who wouldn’t leave. But then he had left. It had been for work. She knows this. She understands this. Despite everything, she wants nothing more than for him to be happy and to follow his dreams. She just wishes it didn’t come at the expense of them.

She just wishes she’d been strong enough to handle the months of separation and the way that their schedules never matched up, the way that they were constantly missing each other when they tried to call.

The song ends and immediately something happy, upbeat plays through her speakers. She’s having some kind of meltdown on the side of the road, and the world keeps going by. Cars continue to drive by, shaking her bug with their momentum, and the song that’s about one of the worst periods of her life is quickly forgotten and replaced by something about…dancing in a club. It’s literally just about dancing.

She lets out a watery chuckle, the emotion that was lodged in her throat clearing the slightest bit so that she can breathe. Was she not breathing? She might not have been breathing.

Now that she can breathe again, she inhales, sucking her chest in before letting out a gush of air in an attempt to calm herself. In her review mirror she can see that her face is red and splotchy, that her eyes are still watery, and she has to wipe away the snot that’s formed at her nose.

It’s as she’s rubbing her eyes, trying to clear her vision, that all of the sadness starts to twist, transforming into something else entirely. She’s pissed. Absolutely pissed. And she can’t help but think of her earlier thoughts when the song first started playing.

How dare he do this to her.

How dare he write that song and put it on the radio.

Before she knows it, she’s putting her car in drive, looking over her shoulder to make sure the road is clear, before she’s pulling off of the dirt and onto the pavement, speeding down the road in the direction of Killian’s apartment instead of toward hers, driving in the direction of the place where she lived for so long. She knows he’s home, that he’s in town. And she only knows this because David still talks to him, still talks about him, and she overheard David talking to Mary Margaret about Killian being home for the next few weeks and how they’re going to go out for a pint to catch up.

She knows the path to his apartment better than she knows the path to her own, a right here followed by another until it’s a straight shot to the parking garage underneath his building. She still has her sticker, the one that lets her inside. She never could get the damn thing off.

But now it’s useful as she pulls into an empty guest space, hastily getting out of the car and slamming the door shut as she makes her way over to the elevator, hoping that the code hasn’t changed and she can still get inside. It’s only two minutes before she’s standing in front of his door, the momentum and adrenaline propelling her hand forward until she’s banging on the wood so roughly that her hand might actually hurt.

She hurts.

Every bit of anger, of malice, of disappointment that she has is on the tip of her tongue, posed to be spit at him as soon as she sees him, but then the door is swung open and she sees him for the first time in…shit. It’s been five months. It’s been three months since she heard his voice in Target, but it’s been five months since she’s seen him.

And he’s now standing in front of her with his hair damply falling across his forehead, water trailing down the hair of his chest, and the words of his tattoo peeking up over the white towel he has slung across his hip.

Fuck.

She doesn’t have any other words, especially as his fists clench and the muscles in his arms strain while his jaw ticks. He’d look surprised when she first showed up, his lips parting before closing, almost as if he had something he wanted to say. But now he looks angry, a storm raging behind his eyes, and all she can think about is the time that they went to Bermuda for their anniversary and spent the entire week either in bathing suits, a towel, or nothing at all.

“What are you doing here, Swan?”

There’s no anger in his voice though. It’s calm, even, and it’s that fact that gets her back on track. He sounded broken in the song. He’s obviously not broken like she is.

“How dare you write that song,” she spits, trying to keep her voice just as steady, knowing that she’s failing. “You just put our life, my life, out there for everyone to hear.”

“No one knows it’s about you.”

“I do! I know! Our friends know! Everybody goddamn knows! I’m driving down the road on my way home from work, trying to live my life, trying to move on, and I just have everything that I’m trying to forget thrown back in my face like that.”

“Love – ”

“Don’t call me that,” she cries, hating how her voice cracks. She shouldn’t have done this. She shouldn’t have come. She should have never let her emotions drive her, but that’s always what’s she’s done. She’s never been one to be able to hold back when she really feels. “I am not your love. You’ve made that very clear.”“Swan,” he grits, crossing his arms over his heaving chest, “if you want to yell at me, come inside. I have neighbors, and I don’t think we want them witnessing this.”

She huffs, disbelief that he’s actually inviting her inside so that she can continue this emotional breakdown, but her feet still carry her inside, her eyes glancing over the apartment the moment she gets inside. It all looks exactly the same.

She hates that it all looks the same.

Something should have changed.

All of her stuff is gone.

She’s gone.

Something should have changed.

She turns around to look back at Killian, who’s locking the door behind him before running his hands through his damp hair, pushing it back on his forehead, before he’s rubbing his fingers over his scruff. She hates how good he looks almost as much as she hates that that’s what she’s focusing on.

“Why are you here?” he sighs, the indignation he had replaced with acceptance. “The song? You’re mad about the song?”

“Of course I’m mad about the song. How could I not be? Have you heard it?”

“I wrote it. And in case you’ve forgotten, I have dozens of other songs about you, nearly every one of them on a record somewhere. You never seemed pissed about those then.”

“We weren’t broken up then.”“Well whose bloody fault is that? Because it’s not mine. I didn’t want to break up.”

“You think I wanted to break up?” she screams, not caring about staying calm while her entire body heats, her skin feeling overly warm and her head throbbing while her heart pounds. “You think I wanted to be having breakdowns on the side of the road because I can’t handle reliving parts of our relationship. You think I wanted to be the girl who sat at home and cried every time you didn’t pick up the phone? Every time you had to go one minute into our conversation? Every time I went out with my friends and heard your voice on the speakers at a bar when I hadn’t actually heard your voice in days? You think I wanted that?”

She can’t…she can’t breathe again, her heart beating far too quickly in her chest. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t good. She needs…she needs to sit down. So she does, collapsing to the ground and resting her back against his hallway wall while she wraps her arms around her knees and lets herself have another breakdown.

Who the hell needs dignity?

“Emma,” Killian sighs, and that only makes things worse. He never calls her Emma, not unless something is important, and she hates herself for this entire situation. She hates that he is able to still have this power over her, that she still loves him so much that she can’t fathom the fact that she’s not with him.

“Emma,” he repeats, kneeling down next to her, his towel opening as he squats, which really doesn’t help the situation at all. “Are you okay?”

“Do you think I’m okay?”

“No.” His thumb reaches up and wipes away the tears on her cheek. That’s the first time she’s felt his touch in five months too. And it’s also what makes her look up to see that he’s got a tear falling onto his cheek too. “I’m sorry, lo – Swan. I’m sorry that you heard the song and that it hurt you.”

“Why’d you write it then? You had to know that I’d hear it eventually.”

“Because I hurt too. Music is how I deal with things. You know this. You’ve always known this. And how the hell else am I supposed to deal with my heartbreak?”

“By writing the damn song and then not putting it on the radio.”

“I had to fulfill my contract. I had to release a new single.”

“Don’t you have another one? One that’s not about us?”

“No.”

She sighs, leaning her head back against the wall and tightly closing her eyes all while she physically aches. She aches for them to be back to normal, aches for this to not be happening anymore. She should have never come here.

“How long are you home?”

“What?” he stutters, his voice visibly shaken.

She opens her eyes and looks back at him, attempting to even her breaths. “How long are you home this time? How long until you have to leave again?”

“A few weeks. I’ve got to go back and meet with the guys for a couple of days at the end of September.”

She doesn’t know why she does what she does next, but before she can stop herself, before she can think straight, she leans forward and slides her lips over his in a harsh, demanding kiss. Her hands are in his hair in an instant, using the soft strands to tug him closer, and his hands find her face, the warmth and roughness of the pads of his fingers holding her to him as well. It’s like being connected, like being right, after so many months of not feeling like herself, of feeling like something in her life is off kilter.

Like something is wrong.

She doesn’t care that they shouldn’t be doing this. She doesn’t care that she shouldn’t be pushing Killian against the floor, the hardwood uncomfortable under her knees, and she doesn’t care that she’s losing her mind over the way that Killian’s groaning into her mouth and thrusting his hips up against hers, the towel doing nothing to hide his arousal.

And she really doesn’t care when they stumble away from the entrance of his apartment and fall back into his bedroom, quickly and surely moving against each other in the way that they always have. He feels good, fantastic, and she knows she should never be thinking about she and Killian together when they’re very obviously having a relapse, a collapse back into the them they used to be.

So she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let herself not enjoy this, but she can’t speak, she can’t return Killian’s words of ecstasy and affection while he moves inside of her and above her. She simply falls into how good, how right, this feels, and figures that she’ll…she’ll figure it all out later.

It turns out when later comes that she’s still not ready to figure it out. She still doesn’t know what to do. Instead of getting up and leaving when they were finished, she didn’t. She stayed. She’s not sure that she had the strength to leave, that she even wanted to, so now she’s wrapped up in one of Killian’s sweaters while her legs are stuck in between his and his hands are trailing through her hair. She feels his heartbeat under her palm, the slow rise and fall of his chest a rhythm that she knows better than any other.

A rhythm that she knows better than any song he’s ever written.

“Sex doesn’t solve our problems, Swan. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she confesses, snuggling closer to him despite everything. “I don’t…we shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t even still be here. I’m not sure what came over me, over us.”“A hell of a lot of emotions.” She feels his lips against her forehead, the sweat that’s gathered there being pushed away. “We’ve got…there’s a lot left between us, love. There was never anything wrong between us, I don’t think. I just wasn’t there.”

“That’s kind of what went wrong. You can’t be in a relationship without being there.”

“But it’s not us. It was the distance, my job.”

“Which is your dream.”

“Aye, it was my dream,” he confirms softly, running his fingers through her hair and down her back. “It is my dream. But I should have never let it come between us. You’ve been my life for half a decade. You have been there for absolutely everything, and I should have tried harder, should have done more.”

“I don’t think there was anything either of us could have done.”

“I could have made more time to call. I could have scheduled breaks between cities. I could have booked a flight for me, for you. I could have done so much to save us, to make you feel less alone.”

“Killian, this isn’t all on you.”

“No, no, it’s not, but I’ve had five months of living alone, even when I wasn’t here, to think about all of the things I could have changed.”

“Me too,” she sighs, lifting her head from his chest and untangling her legs before she moves to the other side of the bed, putting distance between them all the while Killian rubs his hand up and down his face trying to work out the stress lines. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t either. Do you even want to try again? Or are we chalking this up to a one-time thing? To a fallback?”

For the first time since she’s shown up here, he sounds as broken as he did during the song. He sounds like she feels, like there’s something missing, something just out of reach. He sounds…he doesn’t sound like Killian. Not the one that she knew. Not the one who woke her up in the mornings with a smile on his face and laughter in his eyes. Not the one who sang while he cooked, often burning the food because he would start writing down the beginnings of a song.

He doesn’t sound like the man who loved her.

The man who she loves.

“I don’t want it to be that,” she answers honestly, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. “But I can’t go back to how we were…what do you want?”

“You.”

A shiver runs down her spine, gooseflesh popping up on her skin.

“That’s all. You just want me?”

“Always, Emma,” he promises, his lips ticking up on the right and the lines around his eyes crinkling while his tongue clicks. “But you’re right. We can’t…I can’t leave like that. I can’t do things just for me without considering you. And you can’t let me just do it and say that things are okay.”

“I kind of figured you knew things weren’t okay.”

“You’ve never lied to me, so I didn’t expect it then. I always believed the words that you said.”

“So what are we doing, Killian? What do we do?”

He shrugs, sitting up against the headboard. “We try again. We make compromises. We do better. For ourselves. For each other. And maybe I don’t put a song out without letting you know.”She smiles, the first genuine smile without heartbreak hidden behind it, for the first time today. Maybe for the first time in months.

“I’d like that.”

It takes more than one day for things to get back to normal. It takes weeks, months really. Killian was a constant part of her life for five years, but after nearly half a year apart, things don’t simply snap back. Trust has to be rebuilt, routines have to become routine again, and she has to learn that things are never going to be perfect and that compromise is a hell of a lot harder than simply saying the word. You actually have to break and bend, give and give up, but it’s worth it if you want to make things work.

She wants to make things work.

Killian does too.

And the next time she hears a song on the radio that’s about her, Killian’s voice isn’t broken. And neither is her heart.