A/N: Written for giggleswan as an alternate CSSS gift on Tumblr.

She snuggles closer into his embrace as he pulls her towards him, arm slung securely around her waist. Emma molds herself across his bare chest, nose rubbing against his shoulder as she swings her leg over his thigh. Killian lets out a long exhale, sighing contentedly as he turns to press a kiss into her hair. There is an ease with which they cling to one another, fitting together so naturally, and Emma muses on the fact that, not too long ago, she would have been weary of such intimacy; would have second-guessed every step along her journey to get this point.

Emma doesn't like to think about Walsh—or any of her past lovers, but especially not him—and she hasn't since leaving behind her apartment in New York once and for all. But on this night, beneath the soft sheets tucked under a thick bedspread, in a cozy cabin in the woods her mother had dubbed Storybrooke's version of her summer palace, with a man she had the pleasure (and oh what a pleasure it had been) to call husband as of that afternoon, she thinks back to that night when Killian had interrupted their date. When she'd stormed out of the restaurant after an unexpected marriage proposal, her pulse racing and her thoughts burdened with baggage she couldn't quite explain.

She remembers their conversation clearly—or rather, the amount of questions she'd flung at Walsh, the doubt and the fear she could practically taste on her tongue. She had asked him how he knew; what made him so sure that he was ready to settle down with her. How do you know that it's right?

Killian shifts next to her, hand coming up to tangle in her messy, golden strands, absentmindedly combing his ringed fingers up and down. He can't seem to get enough, she's noticed. No other man has ever made her feel so precious with just a simple touch. Emma feels more like a princess here, in this moment, than she knows she ever would back in the Enchanted Forest.

Propping herself up on her elbow, staring into his deep blue eyes that are still hazy and love-struck from the evening's activities, Emma asks him. "When did you know?"

He perks up at her question, tilting his head to get a better view of her. "Know what, love?"

"About... this," she smiles bashfully, blush creeping up her cheeks as she plays with the charms of his necklace. "About us."

"I'd say... some time between tying me to a tree, and holding a dagger to my throat." She laughs at that, almost embarrassed by the memory.

She smacks his torso lightheartedly, exasperated. "I'm being serious." He's about to respond with something sarcastic, meant to rile her up and avoid answering the question for the sole purpose of being stubborn. Killian sees past her apparent cheerfulness, however, and can tell that this matters to her. His face softens, eyes darting between her own pale green ones.

"I don't know exactly when," he replies, voice raspy and sincere. And Emma seems happy to just leave it at that, to not pursue the issue. But Killian, he wants to leave her completely satisfied in every way he can, and so he continues. "I certainly knew I liked you since the moment we met." Her grin widens, teeth peaking through stretched lips, and she flattens herself on top of him, chin resting on overlapping palms in rapt attention. "Perhaps"—Killian takes in a deep breath—"it was when you nearly drowned, and you came to on the deck of my ship."

Emma stills, taking note of his unease at he says it, the thought of nearly losing her all those years prior still evidently fresh in his mind. "Are you sure it wasn't that kiss," she teases, trying (and succeeding) to improve his mood.

"Aye, there was that." Killian's eyebrow shoots up, hand wandering down her back and lower—and lower—until she shivers and gasps, scooting herself up higher to capture his mouth, body flush against his. Their foreheads connect when they break for air, conversation not forgotten but instead engulfing them; the act of reminiscing, of examining their long and complicated history filling her to the brim.

"I can't pinpoint the precise moment, love," he breathes against the shell of her ear. "All I know is that when I did, I never looked back."

The temptation to roll her eyes is there, the cynical part of her still believing it impossible for anyone to be so eloquent and smooth and yet so genuine. But Emma doesn't need to read him to know he's being entirely truthful; it wasn't his words, after all, that won her over, but his actions, his presence, his loyalty.

"And you?" he prompts, rolling them over so they are face to face, fluffed pillows sinking with the change in pressure and mattress springs creaking under their adjusted weight.

Without hesitation, she answers. "The beanstalk." Killian regards her curiously, surprised by the confidence in her statement, that she had know so early on. "When I told you that I had loved someone before... I'd never told anybody that." She pulls his arm from under her, averting his intense gaze. "I knew... if I left myself, I could... fall for you."

"Swan—"

"That's why I left you up there," she admits, needing to get this out. When she looks back at him, there is a tenderness there that she has yet to get accustomed to: he is built of compassion and empathy and patience, and she feels now more than ever that she should have trusted her gut; she should have trusted him. "Because I was afraid."

He brings their joined hands to his lips, brushing them along her knuckles and paying special attention to the spot where her wedding band resides. Killian had never needed an apology—and he's sure that's what she's getting at—and seeks to reassure her that it's all in the past; that so much has changed between them since, and yet the connection, the passion still remains.

"Are you sure it wasn't my dashing good looks?" She giggles (actually giggles) in return.

"It certainly didn't hurt."

They continue in much the same way after her admission, with the flirtatious banter and spirited quips that were hallmarks of their early courtship, mixed in with the occasional caress and suggestive graze. The fact that they are able to flow from one extreme to the other, from loving proclamations one minute to mischievous conduct the next, is how she really knows. They can handle anything; can adapt to any circumstance or obstacle that comes their way. For the first time, Emma has no doubts, no creeping insecurities about this, about them.

And she'd choose him, and their life, every time. Because when you know, you just know.

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