I know, I know, I have other things I should be working on. But sometimes when I'm feeling stuck I like to shake it out elsewhere. Thanks to shady199100 for the prompt on Tumblr. Enjoy :)

He likes her the first time Neal introduces them, his best friend and the new girl he met at a park enjoying a book in the early summer light. Neal's mentioned her a few times, casual coffee dates that led to drinks that led to dinners. She's pretty, prettier than he pictured from Neal's vague descriptions. He wouldn't just say she's a cute blonde – no, he would say she's breathtaking, with green eyes that make him think of a stormy ocean, a faint blush in her pale cheeks like she's been kissed by rose petals. She's got a smile, a rare smile that lights up her entire expression, and it only pales in comparison to her laugh.

Neal makes her laugh, and it's good that his friend is happy. Eventually, Killian learns to make her laugh, too, but her eyes don't linger on him like they do on Neal.

All the same, it's good he likes her. They spend a lot of time together – dinners and concerts and hot summer days on his boat. Somewhere along the way, he stops just liking her – he starts wanting her…only she's not his to want.

He blames the boat for it, especially. Her pale skin doesn't stop her from stretching luxuriously in the sun, lean legs and narrow waist on full display. He tries not to look, not to follow the curve of her breast as it disappears beneath a slip of fabric she calls a bathing suit.

He fails.

He tries not to feel the burn of jealousy as the sun sinks and it grows cool out on the water, and she burrows herself into Neal's side, steals his sweatshirt and sighs with contentment as they watch the sun slip below the horizon and he guides them home.

Those are the nights he drinks the rum straight from the bottle once they're gone, flashes of Emma dancing before his eyes. He can see them, Neal and her, laughing in the water, sharing a kiss when they think he isn't looking. He notices the way her hand lingers on Neal's skin, and he wishes, just once, she would turn those wide green eyes on him with half the affection she holds for his friend.

One day bleeds into the next, and he knows he should stop accepting their invitations until he can get a handle on this, but he can't seem to refuse her anything. But he also can't want his best friend's girl, and even if he can't find a way to make himself stop wanting, he certainly can't do anything about it.

He goes out to the bars again, and he goes home with women that are beautiful and charming, but he wakes with the bloody wanting, and it doesn't matter how many blondes he beds, there's still one he wants.

The one he can't have.

Long summer days bleed into the brilliance of autumn, the air growing cool and the wind rising more readily on the seas. The end of the boating season has always been a melancholy time for him, the act of readying the boat for the winter's storage a dreaded task that will leave him with a heavy heart, but this year, he's especially bitter.

He looks at his beloved boat, and all he sees is Emma. Emma, lounging on the deck. Emma, giggling when he attempts to teach her to steer while Neal looks on with affectionate amusement, content to spend the days with his girl and his best friend. Emma diving gracefully off the prow and into the water, only to emerge dripping wet and tantalizing.

The guilt is the worst of it, the way Neal says things to him about Emma, how glad he is they all get along, because she might be the one. Killian closes his eyes and exhales slowly, tries once more to wash away the visions of Emma that morph into fantasies he can't be having, can't even entertain for a moment, because she's not his.

He's having an especially bad night when he runs into her in town. She's alone, and there's something about the look in her eyes that makes him want to pull her into his arms and tell her it will be okay. But he doesn't – that's not his job. So he slides onto the bar stool next to her, orders a rum and sits beside her while she drinks her vodka in silence.

They're three drinks in when she starts talking. "You're his best friend. You're the last person I should be telling any of this to, but…" Her fingers curl into the sleeve of his leather jacket, and when he looks up from the scarred bar, her eyes are glassy. "I need to talk to someone, and I don't have any friends in town. I trust you," she whispers, her voice so low he has to lean closer to hear in the crowded bar.

He should stop her, get her some water, call Neal to pick her up. But he doesn't. He knocks back his rum, throws some bills on the bar, and pulls her out of the crowd and onto the street.

His apartment is close by, and that's where he takes her. He sits her down on the couch, pushes a warm mug of black coffee into her hands and takes a seat in the armchair. Then he waits.

It comes out in fits and starts. How things were so good when she first met Neal, but how they've slowly been changing. How she constantly feels like she's not good enough, like she's not enough. He knows Neal – is it like the man to just have a summer fling and throw her aside? Is it worth fighting for?

She appreciates the coffee, but does he have any vodka? It's a vodka kind of night.

He does what he can to reassure her, to be the friend he's supposed to be and try to save his friend's relationship. He tells her the right things – Neal cares for her. Neal is a good man. Neal can just be a bloody idiot on occasion.

He remembers Neal telling him not that long ago this girl could be the one, the way the jealousy curled around his heart like a snake, and can't understand how things could be so different now.

He sleeps on the couch, lets her have his bed, and drives her home in the morning. She says thank you, kisses him on the cheek, and gets out of the car with sadness in her eyes.

The fantasies shift after that night. It isn't just the thought of what their naked flesh could accomplish together, the way her hair would spill over his pillows or the way her curves would fit in his palm. He starts wanting more than that – he wants to fall asleep with her pressed to him, wants to be the one to wake her, to see that sleepy morning smile once more.

He wants to be the one to have her, because he would make sure she knew every second how much he wants her, cares for her, desires her.

The next time he sees them, there's shadows under Emma's eyes, like she hasn't slept in days. She's quiet and withdrawn, and Neal is tense, hostile toward him. He assumes they've had an argument, and he knows he should make his excuses and leave them to sort it out, but there's something about the lines etched in Emma's brow that anchors him to his spot. He makes it his mission to make her laugh before he walks away, but in the end has to be content with the ghost of a smile.

He's a bad friend, and he should ask Neal about, but late that night, it's Emma he texts.

Are you okay?

Her response comes back almost immediately. Are you home?

Yeah. He frowns at the phone, holding it in his hand and waiting for a reply, but none comes. He's about to text her again when there's a knock on the door.

She's been crying, and when their eyes meet, the tears start all over again. He doesn't think anymore about what he does or doesn't owe Neal; he simply pulls her through the door and into his arms, an ache in his chest for the sorrow spilling down her cheeks.

They could stand there for seconds or minutes or hours, he isn't sure. He's just aware of her in his arms, her hair still soft as spun silk in spite of the tangles and the way she's obviously been tugging at it.

Her tears slow, her breath evening, but still, she doesn't move. "We broke up," she mumbles into his chest eventually, her voice hoarse and cracking. "He…didn't want me anymore."

"He said that to you?"

"Yes. He said that if he had known who I really was when we met, he would have walked away."

Killian curses, his temper flaring. "What does that even mean, love? I am hard pressed to believe there is a single thing about you that could make a man walk away."

"You don't…there's things in my past." She's struggling to get the words out, and he only holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her hair and letting his eyes slide closed.

"Darling, he's a bloody idiot. Whatever you may or may not have done, you're plainly not that person anymore. You are lovely and beautiful and you deserve to be loved just the way you are."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew."

"There is nothing you can tell me that will change how I feel about you." He doesn't mean to say it, this inadvertent admission of his feelings for her, but once the words are out, there's no taking them back – and he's certainly not telling her tonight of all nights that he didn't mean it.

She pulls back from him, tear-stained with mascara smudges under her cheeks, but he barely notices. She's a mess, but she's still beautiful, even with the confusion in her eyes. "What does that…how…how do you feel about me?" she asks in a hesitant whisper, like she's afraid of the answer.

"You truly don't know?"

She shakes her head, and he knows what it is that keeps her silent, can see the way the fear has grabbed hold of her, the irrational worries that he's about to tell her something awful, because she's had that happen to her once tonight.

But he won't let it happen to her again, not if he has any say in it.

"I'm in love with you, Emma Swan. I've been in love with you far longer than I've had the right to be, and I shouldn't be telling you this now, but I can't let you believe for another moment that you don't deserve love, that you aren't perfect just as you are. Because you are. To me. I love you." He wants to kiss her, but he's gone too far already, said too much. His heart is racing, and it's hard to breathe, hard to think, when all he can see is the way she's staring up at him in wonder and confusion.

He expects her to leave, to curse him, to rail at him for unleashing his emotional confession on her when she's already drowning in emotion, but he should know better. He should know he fell in love with her for her heart, for how deeply she feels even when she pretends she doesn't. She leans into him, hesitates, her breath on his lips, and then she kisses him, a slow, soft kiss that leaves the taste of her tears on his tongue.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" she asks as she pulls back, her gaze falling to the floor again, but not before he notices the way the color has risen in her cheeks, a spark of life back in those beautiful emerald eyes.

"Aye, of course. I'll just…"

She doesn't release him as he turns to make up the couch for himself, battling his own emotional response. He was so sure when she kissed him that it meant something, that though she doesn't love him, she cares for him, but now she won't even look at him. It's plenty of an answer.

Except it's not, because she pulls him back to her side, her hands sliding tentatively up his chest until they rest of his shoulders. "I meant…I, if you…could you just hold me, tonight? I feel like…it's hard to…you might be the only thing keeping me together right now," she finally blurts out, eyes flickering to his before running away again to stare at the floor.

He sucks in a breath in surprise, but nods. He's the one who's too overcome to speak now, and though they crawl into bed together in silence, it's far from awkward. He hates that she's in pain, but wrapping her in his arms, burrowing his face in her hair and holding her against his chest is everything he wants and more.

It's the first night she spends in his bed, but it's far from the last. It's months later when she whispers it, breathless from making love and tangled in the sheets with him, the scent of her skin on his and his on hers, and he's more deliriously happy than he ever thought possible, her lips curving in a contented smile as she gazes up at him.

I love you, too.