They shouldn't work. They're too different. How do they work—why do they work?

He was so… not like her. She thought it was because of the difference in their lives: she laid claim to as much space as she could. She never knew when she'd have to fight for it, or when she'd lose it again. Whereas he was used to military life and close quarters, he needed little space and it didn't even need to be that soft to sleep (she would never go back to sleeping on hard surfaces—live-in piratey boyfriends aside)

Another thing: he was always awake. Again, the military-pirate-captain thing. The bastard was the last person to fall asleep but awake again at dawn and lived to watch her wake up, which was embarrassing enough because she was hardly awake by noon, let alone by the time they left the apartment, or even when the damn alarm clock went off. Yet there he was awake and smiling, coffee made and ready for her (only once did he try to talk at her—he was such a talker in the mornings, why would you do that—and he quickly learned his lesson about mornings and talking) The worst thing was that Killian looked the best in the morning, so she didn't even have the heart to be mad at him for being awake and cheery and not hungover. His stupid sexy hair sticking up all over, the morning light on his bare chest (no clothing for her pirate before it was necessary), looking at her like all the light and goodness in the world came from her.

While she multitasked in the mornings (there was a system, Killian, don't ask questions before noon), he was meticulous and thorough. One thing at a time, completely done before the next was started. He would read while she showered, (unless she was awake enough to invite him to join her), sometimes not finishing his chapter until after she was half-dressed. His books were neat and organized on his half of the room, and only his current book would rest on the nightstand, angled just so. He'd kiss her on the cheek before he went to bathe, even if she was texting someone and her toothbrush was still hanging out the side of her mouth.

He was so rushed, so active, had such a bad habit of throwing himself into a situation with no thought for the consequences, so full of putting himself one-hundred percent into a role he played, how on earth was he the tidiest person she'd ever met? Even his damn socks—no, she was done with the socks, never to be spoken of again.

Sometimes she watched him get ready, as she gently toweled her hair dry and ran a comb through it. The kohl was applied carefully (though some days she wasn't sure if he wore it or not—him and his stupid, full, gorgeous sooty eyelashes. And she was careful not to mention the time she'd had him try sunglasses, or else he'd get that glint in his eye and suggest they attempt to break the record they'd set—look, it wasn't her fault he looked like he'd stepped off the tarmac on Top Gun, all right?), the jewelry donned easily even with one hand, the frogs on his vest reattached (he did switch it up with modern clothes on occasion, but he found all the buttons harder than the frogs, and it wasn't like she was going to help him cover himself). Slow, methodical, thorough. Three words she never thought she'd apply to Killian Jones, but they were very, very good words.

Of course, some words were discarded when the occasion arose.

He had this thing for her hair, could hardly keep his hand out of it, and she had a thing for him playing with her hair. She had to limit her own exposure to it, or they'd never get anything done. It was just so damn relaxing, and so damn aggravating when he would find his way to the base of her neck and tug the hair there a little harder than necessary… and just when she started to tense up to turn and rip his clothes off, he'd kiss the side of her neck, untangle himself, and leave her dazed and tingly.

So yeah, she had some payback before they left. If he was going to play dirty and leave her wanting him all day—how did he do that? Even when he'd already shattered her in the shower, or in the bedroom, or both?—she could fully pay him back in kind. He called it their 'good morning' kiss, some kind of charm against the day ahead. She called it a promise for the night. Maybe it was a little overboard to grab him by the lapels and push him against the doorframe, maybe she was being unfair to bite on his lip in that way that made him rumble deep in his chest, and just maybe she shouldn't slide her hands down his back and grab that fantastic ass and pull him into her further, but damn if she didn't need it as much as he did, like it was some kind of lifeline she was clinging to and wouldn't have relief for hours yet. She needed her head clear for the day, and pouring her entire self, her entire need for him into this one kiss to start their day seemed to hold her over for the next twelve hours.

And maybe, just maybe, she loved the way he looked at her when they parted, like she'd poured all the stars in the sky into him. It was scary, how he glowed from how much he loved her, but after a kiss like that? A love like that was armor.

She could face anything, as long as he was by her side.

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