There's a cat in her kitchen.

It's not the strangest thing to ever happen to someone on their first night in their new rental place in a new suburb, of course.

The thing is, though, Emma doesn't own a cat.

Even if she did, she's pretty sure she wouldn't pick the weird-looking pale grey feline that's currently eyeballing her from its perch on her kitchen bench.

Emma eyeballs the cat right back, warily noting that its oversized (and overly furry) ears are so far back they're almost horizontal. It's as big as a small dog, with whiskers that almost reach down to its broad shoulders (do cats even have shoulders?) and an obvious attitude problem.

"How the hell did you get in here?"

The cat regards her with mild disdain, its blue eyes unblinking to the point of making her own eyes water, and Emma suddenly feels the ridiculous urge to cry.

It's midnight. She moved into this house this morning, leaving behind an apartment she loved and a boyfriend she'd finally realised was all wrong for her. She's exhausted and dusty and is longing for her newly assembled bed. She has no idea how the damned cat got inside, and she has too many memories of a neighbour's evil ginger cat scratching the hell out of her arms when she was five to try to pick this one up or even shoo it out. Maybe if she turns off the lights and goes upstairs to bed - shutting her bedroom door very firmly against cat invasion, of course – the ugly thing will see itself out.

"You know what?" She glares at the cat even as she's rummaging for an old bowl to fill with water and set down on the kitchen floor. "I'm too tired to care. Knock yourself out, cat."

Maybe it's just her imagination, but she could swear that a flicker of satisfaction dances across the little furry face.

"Rygel!"

The first hissed word has her opening her eyes. The second sound is of someone tripping over one of the large potted plants she'd left at the bottom of the front steps, and it has her sitting upright in bed.

"Bloody hell!" It's a male voice, nicely accented despite the cursing, and Emma finds herself smiling at the almost comical frustration in the owner's tone. "Rygel! Where the devil are you, you fuzzy bastard?"

Fumbling for the phone on her nightstand, she sees that it's barely seven. This is what she gets for sleeping with her bedroom windows open, she thinks. Seven o'clock on a Sunday morning, and some guy stumbling around outside her house, clearly searching for something or someone called –

Oh.

Oh.

Emma throws back the covers and climbs out of bed, glancing hastily down at her summer pyjamas before deciding they're decent enough for a quick conversation with what is obviously one of her new neighbours. She flings open her bedroom door, running her hands through her bed-messed hair as she heads downstairs to the kitchen.

Unfortunately, there's no sign of her giant feline visitor from the night before, and Emma blows out a huff of frustration. She'd closed all the doors before she'd headed to bed, so if the damned cat is still here, it's hiding out in her living room. Problem is, her living room is filled with half-empty packing boxes and haphazardly placed pieces of furniture, and she knows from her childhood experience – again with the evil ginger cat – that felines are capable of squeezing themselves into the smallest and most unlikely of hiding spots.

"Rygel, you worthless creature, show yourself at once." She hears cautious footsteps on the path that runs between her house and her neighbour's place. "I should have let that bloody raccoon have at you yesterday instead of saving your scruffy life if this is how you're going to repay me," the disembodied voice goes on, and Emma finds herself smiling for the second time that morning.

Seven o'clock on a Sunday morning and she's smiling. Twice. What kind of upside down universe has she stumbled into here?

A quick glance into her newly hung hall mirror confirms that she doesn't look like the proverbial Wicked Witch of the West, then she opens her front door carefully, scanning the immediate area for the owner of the charmingly irritated voice that had woken her. There's no sign of him, and she sighs. Shoving her feet into flip flops, she grabs her house keys (she's not getting locked out, not this early in her tenancy) and steps out onto the porch. Catching sight of the top of a dark head about to vanish around the other side of her house, she clears her throat loudly.

"Can I help you?"

The dark head freezes, then seems to droop a little. "Sorry to wake you, love. I did try to keep my voice down."

The guy's clipped English accent shouldn't make butterflies dart blindly around in her belly, but it does. Damn it. "Are you looking for someone?" Emma walks to the edge of her porch, leaning on the wooden railing just in time to make eye contact with her mysterious visitor, promptly almost dropping her house keys into the garden bed below.

A human being has no right to look that good so early in the morning, she thinks resentfully as the guy smiles up at her, white teeth flashing against a dark beard, his impossibly bright blue eyes skimming over her with polite male interest. "A cat."

In a vain attempt to distract herself from the sight the guy makes in his grey sweatpants and faded black t-shirt, Emma thinks of the large, cold-eyed beast with the oddly flat ears she'd encountered the night before. Something's tugging at her memory, something from too many nights spent alone watching late night television with only her own thoughts for company. "A cat called Rygel, maybe?"

"That's the one." He does a little foot shuffling move (his feet are bare, she realises) one hand going up to scratch the back of his neck. "The name was my brother's idea. He's something of a sci-fi buff."

It all clicks into place, her head suddenly filled with visions of a sour-faced puppet with weird ears and entitlement issues. His brother pretty much nailed it with that name, she decides. "I think I had the pleasure of His Majesty's company last night in my kitchen."

"Excellent!" His blue eyes light up as he grins up at her, and she's dismayed by the sudden fluttering of her pulse. If this guy is her new neighbour, the last thing she wants is to get entangled in some Melrose Place bullshit before she's even finished unpacking. "Is he still in residence?"

She hates to disappoint him, which makes no sense, given that she doesn't know him from Adam. "I couldn't see him, but he could be hiding somewhere, I guess."

The guy scowls. "Aye, he's most proficient at that particular past time."

Emma hesitates. She's no fool when it comes to her personal safety, and maybe the notion of inviting a stranger into her home to look for a cat, of all the clichéd excuses, should send her fleeing inside, but the invitation is spilling from her lips before she can catch the words and cram them back into her mouth. "You're welcome to come inside and look for him, if you want."

He takes one step towards the bottom of the steps that lead to her porch, then he stops, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "Are you sure, love? I don't want to impose."

"I'm not a fan of cats," she tells him, wondering if she's ever come up with a more flimsy excuse to keep talking to a gorgeous man in her life. "I'd rather he was out of my house, to be honest."

"Some cats are delightful." The guy's mouth quirks in a wry smile as he begins to climb the steps. "Rygel, on the other hand, is hardly the best ambassador for his species."

Emma wraps her arms around herself. The red tank she'd slept in last night had seemed perfectly respectable inside the house, but suddenly she feels a little underdressed. "He did seem a little standoffish."

"He's a right arsehole, is what he is." He reaches her side, grinning as he puts out his hand. "Killian Jones."

Up close, those eyes are even more disconcertingly blue. She awkwardly swaps her house keys to the other hand, then her palm is flush against his. His fingertips are rough and warm and make her think things she has no business thinking this early in the morning. "Emma Swan."

He releases her hand a split-second before it becomes awkward, and she's grateful. "I saw the removalist's van in the street yesterday. Was that your doing?"

She nods, curling her nails into the palm of the hand he's just shaken. She's known plenty of UK-dwellers in her life, and never once has this particular accent made her want to touch her fingers to their lips and feel the words as they speak. Fuck. "You live next door?"

"My brother and his family do." His gaze searches hers, and she's both pleased and a little nervous that he looks almost as blindsided as she feels. "I'm just housesitting for a few weeks."

"So Rygel isn't yours?" She's stupidly relieved to learn that not only is he not the owner of the unfriendly beast that's probably still lurking in her living room, but that he doesn't live next door to her.

He purses his lips. "Technically, I suppose he'd be classed as my nephew."

Emma finds herself laughing, another first this early in the morning. "In that case, you'd better come in and find him." She pushes open the front door, gesturing for him to go in ahead of her. "Did you want coffee?"

His eyes light up once again (she recognises the glee of a fellow caffeine addict) then he looks down at his bare feet with a sheepish smile. "I'm not exactly dressed for a social call."

"I can hardly claim the moral high ground." Emma gestures towards her own tank and cotton shorts ensemble, immediately regretting it when a flash of awareness glows hot and bright in his eyes. She goes on quickly, her hand tightening on the keys in her hand to stop herself from tugging self-consciously at her shirt. "Pretty sure weekend dress code rules apply this early on a Sunday, anyway."

He smiles, but this time it's a soft, gentle thing that makes her feel as though her flip-flops are hovering an inch above the ground. "In that case, coffee would be lovely."

They spend the next half hour looking for Rygel the Unpleasant, as Killian refers to him, but Emma doesn't mind. Not when she's being provided with the very pleasant spectacle of a very attractive man searching packing boxes and shifting furniture aside. He insists on doing the actual searching, taking sips of his coffee in between muttering very unflattering cat-related insults under his breath. "How did he even get in here?"

Emma sits cross-legged at one end of her couch, her coffee mug cradled in her hands, her flip-flops on the floor. "I have no idea. I was careful to keep the doors closed when we weren't actually carting stuff in, and I think I would have noticed a cat that big scoot past me."

"Very security conscious of you," he murmurs approvingly, then pulls a face. "Right up to the moment you invited a strange man in for coffee, of course."

She gives him a serene smile. "Don't worry, my taser and cuffs were the first things I unpacked."

He looks mildly alarmed, and more than a little impressed. "Dare I ask what you do for a living?"

"Skip tracing, mostly." And a whole lot of stuff besides, but it's too early in the morning for a complicated conversation. "I'm a bail bondsperson."

He flashes a grin over his shoulder as he peers behind the bookshelf the idiot removalists had put against the opposite wall to where she'd actually wanted it. "Sounds exciting."

"Sometimes." He sounds genuinely enthused, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him about the hours she's spends sitting in her car drinking cold coffee. "What about you?"

"I teach at the local community college." He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and she feels a pang of guilt at the dust sparkling in the early morning sunlight streaming through the window. She really should have vacuumed before the furniture had arrived. "Celtic history and language studies."

Great, she thinks despairingly. Hot and smart. Her eternal Achilles Heel when it comes to guys.

He gets to his feet, putting his hands on his hips as he surveys the room for further hiding places. Emma buries her nose in her coffee mug, but that doesn't stop her from seeing the way his biceps flex. "Rygel is supposed to be an indoor cat, but I'm afraid he sees his status as more of a political prisoner, and takes it upon himself to escape whenever he can."

"Maybe he sneaked in with a load of boxes or furniture," she offers apologetically. "Things were a little crazy yesterday."

He gives her a carefully considering look, one hand smoothing down the front of his rumpled t-shirt. "No one to help you move?"

"Nope." Emma pushes aside the thought of Walsh and the apartment that she'd left behind. "Just the removalists."

If he's trying to keep from looking pleased at this bit of information, he's doing a terrible job of it. "Ah."

"What about you? No one to help you look for the cat?" she hears herself ask, and wonders if he'd notice if she slide beneath the couch in mortification, because come on. She doesn't like to stand on ceremony when it comes to a guy she likes, but this is ridiculous.

"Not at the moment." An awkward silence wraps itself around them, and Emma frantically tries to remember the last time she'd asked a guy if he was single this early in the conversation. She chances a glance in Killian's direction, and finds him smiling at her. "Not for a while, actually," he adds in a quiet, almost wistful voice, and she finds herself offering a clumsy platitude.

"That's too bad."

"Oh, I don't know." He shrugs, his gaze contemplative as he studies her. "I've always thought it was better to be alone than be with someone and still be lonely."

Her chest tightens at his words, as though someone's plucked at her skin and drawn it up in a knot. What the hell is happening here?

After a few long seconds, Killian clears his throat and studies the row of packing boxes lined up underneath the bay window. "Ten bucks says he's hiding behind those boxes."

Emma blinks. The cat. Right.

Once again, her mouth seems to be one step ahead of her brain. "That's not much of a bet."

He looks surprised at her comeback (he's not the only one), then a flicker of mischief flares in his vivid eyes. "I bet you brunch at the café down the street that he's hiding behind those boxes?"

Emma tightens her grip on the coffee cup in her hands. She thought she was the one steering the direction of this conversation, but it seems she might have gotten ahead of herself. "And if he's not?"

His smile is a hopeful one. "Brunch at the café down the street?"

Coffee-drenched butterflies swoop through her belly. She should say no. She's literally just split from Walsh. She's just moved into this house, and she really likes it. She'd like to enjoy living here for as long as her lease allows, and if she has a disastrous date with her neighbour's brother, that's not exactly the most sensible start to her new life.

Then again, she never was very sensible this early on a Sunday morning. "You're on."

He doesn't exactly rub his hands together with glee, but it's a close thing. "Rygel," he croons in a coaxing voice as he walks towards the row of boxes. "If you show yourself, you can have all the chicken mince that your shriveled black heart desires."

There's no sign of the scruffy-eared intruder, and Emma has to bite back a grin at Killian's patent disappointment. As she leans down to put her empty coffee cup on the floor, her gaze falls on a torn scrap of packing tape sticking out from underneath the couch. She tugs at it, and several things seem to happen at once.

There's a loud, strangled hiss, a streaking pain in her palm, and a large blur of fur and fangs as Rygel the Unpleasant darts from his hiding place underneath her couch. "Son of a bitch!"

"Aha!" Killian is across the room and scooping up the cat before Emma even has the chance to get to her feet, but not before a wobbly end table has been knocked over and a stack of books sent flying. "Got you, you ravening beast." The feline struggles briefly against the man's chest, then the fight seems to go out of him, as if he knows resistance is pointless. Emma has to admit, she'd probably react the same way. The cat tightly clutched to his chest, Killian gives her a beseeching look. "Give me a few minutes to take him home, and I'll be back to help put your living room back to rights."

Emma opens her mouth to tell him not to bother, that she can handle it - her usual ingrained reaction in these kinds of situations - but she bites back the words. It's crazy, but she likes this guy. Maybe even likes him enough to take a chance that he's not like Walsh. "Sure."

As soon as he vanishes through her front door, Emma springs into action. Ignoring the mess in her living room, she races upstairs. She doesn't change - that would be too obvious - but she brushes her teeth, splashes her face with water and pulls a brush through her hair. Her palm is still stinging - that damned cat - but she's definitely had worse.

True to his word, Killian knocks on her front door a few minutes later. This time he's wearing a pair of black flip-flops and seems to have run a damp hand through his hair in a vague attempt to get it under control. "His Majesty is safely stowed away in the second bathroom for now." He darts a grin at her as he steps past her into the hallway. He smells of spearmint and newly applied deodorant, and her pulse does a ridiculous little dance. "Let's hope the blinds are still intact by the time I get back."

During the next half hour, she learns that his brother and sister-in-law are holidaying in Maine, their last vacation before his human nephew arrives in two months' time. He'd jumped at the chance to housesit as his current flatmate has just started seeing someone, and three is definitely a crowd, as he delicately put it. As they stack books and pull furniture into place, she confides that she'd only taken a six month lease on the house, because she wasn't sure if she'd like the neighbourhood enough to stay a whole year.

"Well, I hope Rygel and I haven't soured your first impression of the street," he offers teasingly, and she feels her cheeks grow hot.

"Well, the cat I could have done without, but I guess you're okay as neighbours go," she shoots back as she hefts a large first edition Harry Potter onto the top shelf of her bookcase, sucking in a sharp hiss as the cat scratch on her palm makes itself felt.

"Your hand, it's cut." She looks up in time to see the concern etched on Killian's face. "Let me see."

She has to fight the childish urge to hide her hand behind her back. "No, no, it's fine."

"No, it's not," he insists politely, catching her wrist in his fingers. "May I?"

Emma sucks in another breath, but this time it has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the fact that he's touching her, his fingers sure and warm as he examines her palm. She swallows hard, but her voice still comes out a little shaky. "Are you always this bossy?"

"If you call being a gentleman who merely wishes to assist a lady in distress bossy, then yes." Still holding her hand, he fixes her with a bright blue gaze. "Do you have any antiseptic?"

She blinks, struggling to remember where the damned bathroom actually is in this place, let alone where the antiseptic might be. "Probably in a box on the bathroom floor upstairs."

"Come on then, Swan." He tilts his head towards the stairs. "First aid time."

A moment later, they're in her bathroom, and she so doesn't remember it feeling this cramped before. As he rummages through her medical supplies with the air of a man who knows exactly what he's doing, she closes the lid of the toilet and perches on it, her hand lying awkwardly on her thigh. "I guess you need to know basic first aid, being a teacher and all."

"You guessed right." He sits on the edge of her bathtub, his knees on either side of hers, his hands gentle as he examines her palm. "Bloody cat," he mutters, brushing his thumb alongside the bright red scratch. "I'm so sorry he snagged you."

"It's okay." Emma's breath catches in her throat. His hands are warm on her skin, each chaste touch like flint sparking over dry tinder. She's far from a blushing virgin, but this guy is seriously making her sweat. "Maybe he worked out I wasn't a cat fan."

"Ah, well, that explains it." He leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cats can smell fear."

Her heart is pounding so hard so hard it's a miracle he can't hear it. "I thought that was dogs."

He quirks one dark eyebrow as he soaks a cotton pad in antiseptic. "You've met Rygel, have you not? He's more the psychotic despot than ordinary house cat."

She tries to smile, but it feels crooked on her face. "Good point."

He's so close now that she can see the silver flecks in the blue of his eyes. There's a thin scar on his right cheek, and the urge to trace it with her fingernail is almost overwhelming. "This might sting a little."

He's right. It does.

She sucks in her breath, but the stinging sensation is fleeting, and she barely has time to be grateful for that before he's resting her hand, palm side up, on his knee so he can rummage in the packing box again. "Cat scratches are notorious for becoming infected, especially deep ones like this, so I think a bandage might be in order."

"Oh no, it's fine, really it is-"

He looks at her, obviously amused, then picks up her hand and start wrapping it in a light bandage anyway. "Are you always this stubborn?"

She does her best to sound annoyed. "If you call objecting to being bossed around by a perfect stranger in my own bathroom stubborn, then yes."

He laughs, and it makes him look younger, almost boyish. "Fair point." He ties off the bandage, then rubs his thumb from her wrist to the base of her pinkie finger, setting off yet another round of sparks along her skin and down her spine and everywhere in between.

Fuck.

He releases her hand and busies himself with leaning over and putting her meagre selection of first aid supplies on the vanity. Finally, he turns back to her, his smile oddly shy. "May I say something?"

"Sure."

"I never thought I'd be grateful to that bloody cat." He shifts on the edge of the bathtub, his knees bumping against hers, his clear blue gaze never leaving hers. "I was wrong."

Emma stares at him. Her last couple of relationships - especially Walsh - had left her feeling like there wasn't a single guy left in this city capable of shooting straight from the hip. This guy met her an hour ago, and he's already decided he likes her enough to put his cards on the table. The simple brush of his fingertips on her palm had felt more erotic than anything she'd felt in bed with Walsh for months. She might be playing with fire here, but she's so tired of her life being lukewarm.

She's sitting on the closed toilet seat, her hand gently throbbing after a mutant feline attack, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. It's possibly the least romantic location for a first kiss in the history of first kisses.

She doesn't care.

He inhales sharply through his nose when she kisses him, and she knows she's shocked him. He recovers quickly, though, and a heartbeat later she feels a gentle hand on the back of her head as his mouth opens to her kiss, letting her taste heat and mint.

They breathe each other in, falling into a slow, lazy rhythm, the first slide of his tongue against hers sending arousal curling low in her belly, desire a languid pulsing beat between her legs. It only lasts for a few seconds, but Emma knows she's officially been spoiled for any other first kiss she'll ever have.

When it's over, they stare at each other. Just like she had during their first exchange, she sees her own sense of shellshock glittering in his eyes. "Nowthat," he finally says, his voice as rough as sandpaper, "I was not expecting. '

Emma struggles to think of the right answer to that. Her lips are still tingling, along with several other parts of her body, and what she really wants to do is to kiss him again. In the end, though, she decides to go the twin routes of honesty and common sense. "Me neither."

He seems to be waiting for her to say more, and when she doesn't (she's still processing what the hell just happened, to be honest), he gives her a hesitant smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps I should go."

He makes to stand up, and Emma reaches for his arm before she can think better of it. "You're not trying to welch on our bet, are you?"

"Pardon?"

"You owe me brunch, remember?"

That damned eyebrow shoots up again. "Are you sure, love?" He rubs two fingers over his lips, and she sees the memory of their kiss burning in his eyes. "We do appear to be rushing things somewhat."

He's giving her an out, she knows, and she's grateful, but to be honest, she doesn't want one. She's had more fun this morning than she's had in a long time, and anyone who can make her feel like her clothes are about to catch fire with one little kiss is definitely worth a second glance. "I kissed you, remember?"

His gaze never leaves her face, but she feels the heat of it over every inch of her. "I doubt I'll ever forget that."

Emma swallows hard. She might have kissed him, but right now she's one flirtatious comeback away from being officially flustered. He's right about one thing. They're definitely rushing headlong into something here, and she feels herself take a mental step backwards, just to get some breathing space. "A girl's gotta eat," she quips, hoping that he understands that she's just teasing. "There's nothing in my fridge but a six pack of beer and a tub of butter."

Judging by his pleased expression, he definitely understands that she's just teasing. "In that case, it would be my pleasure to take you out for breakfast."

"Maybe you could come back and pick me up in an hour or so, though." She gets to her feet, then waves her bandaged hand towards the open bathroom door. "I'm not exactly dressed for café society."

His smirk makes it very clear that he hasno problem with what she's currently wearing, and she feels the back of her neck prickle with heat. Then he dips his head in a little bowing nod, and she marvels that he can switch from scoundrel to gentleman in a blink of an eye. "If I'm not back in hour, Swan, perhaps you might consider calling an ambulance?"

She leads the way out of the bathroom and heads towards the stairs, darting a startled glance backwards at his odd request. "What the hell for?"

His forearm brushes against hers as they reach the bottom of the stairs, and her belly does a warm somersault at the feel of the soft hairs on his arm against her skin. "Rygel might decide to exact revenge for his inglorious recapture."

Laughter bubbles up in her throat as she opens the front door. "From what I saw, I think you can handle him."

"I'm ahead on points so far, I have to admit." Maybe it's just her imagination, but his chest seems to puff out a little at the compliment. "Nevertheless, if you hear any manly screams coming from next door-"

It appears that he's gorgeous, smart and funny. God, she has to get him out of her house now, before she drags him back inside and indulges in some incredibly inappropriate house-warming activities. "I'll call 911, I promise."

He pauses in the open doorway, rubbing the back of his neck in the same nervous little gesture she'd noticed earlier, then gives her a smile that manages to be both bashful and wicked. "See you in an hour, Swan."

Emma leans against the closed front door, her eyes closed, her nerves shot to hell in the best possible way. It's just a brunch date, she tells herself. Sure, she kissed him, but that doesn't mean that she's jumping into anything serious with this guy.

It's just brunch. What's the worst that could happen?

There's a cat in her kitchen.

It's a skinny ginger thing, with obscenely large eyes that follow her every move, adoration shimmering in their topaz depths.

Emma grins at it as she dumps her purse onto the counter. "Hello, little fuzz face. Did you have a good day?"

The cat chirrups loudly, and over her shoulder she hears a deep chuckle. "They say talking to your pet as if expecting them to answer is the first sign of madness."

Emma leans back against the solid warmth of a chest that suddenly presents itself behind her, two muscled arms looping around her waist. "In that case, it's a good thing I've got you to talk to as well, isn't it?"

Killian scrapes his whiskered chin lightly along the crook of her neck, laughing softly as she squirms in half-hearted protest. "I'm quite sure Julius had a marvelous day. He is, after all, a cat." He kisses her shoulder, his hands squeezing her hips. "I'd much rather hear about yours."

Turning in his arms, she hooks her arms around his neck, smiling up into his face. "It was okay. I caught two bad guys." She pauses, then remembers one important detail she knows will impress him. "One guy's arm might have accidentally been broken, but he was totally asking for it."

He purses his lips, his dark lashes fluttering in exaggerated admiration. "I do so love it when you talk dirty."

"Idiot." She brushes her nose against his, then presses a warm kiss on his mouth. "Speaking of work-"

Sliding his hands down to cup her ass, he gives her a stern look. "I was actually alluding to far more interesting things than work, but do go on-"

"Your brother left a weird message on my voicemail this afternoon while I was busy catching bad guys." Killian's expression instantly stills, and Emma gives him a stern look of her own. "Apparently, he's very grateful that I agreed to babysit tonight."

"Ah."

She knows that tone all too well. He never was any good at keeping secrets from her, she thinks in amusement. "You know," she goes on, watching his face, "we babysit James all the time, but Liam's never felt the need to leave a message thanking me in advance."

He clears his throat. "Well, the thing is-"

Emma feels the familiar brush of a lithe feline body against her calf, but she refuses to be distracted. "Yes?"

Killian reaches down to pick up Julius, letting the cat rub its face against his bristled chin. Julius' expression is nothing short of rapturous, a reaction Emma completely understands. "It's not James we're babysitting."

Emma looks at the ginger cat in his arms (her cat, the best Christmas present she's ever been given in her life) then back at the guilty expression worn by the man who's been sharing her bed and her life for the last year. She opens her mouth to speak, but is rudely interrupted by a long, gruff yowl coming from the direction of the laundry.

Emma looks towards the laundry, then back at Killian. "Seriously? He's here already?"

"Look on the bright side." He puts Julius in her arms, then kisses her forehead. She can feel his smile against her skin, and has to fight the urge to kick him gently in the shin. "At least he's in his crate."

"You can't leave him in there all night, though, he'll yell the house down." As if to prove her point, another throaty yowl splits the air, and Emma gives Killian a smilingly pointed look as she extracts herself (and Julius) from his embrace. "Looks like you're on cat-sitting duty tonight, then."

His face falls. "Swan-"

"Rygel's just a cat, Jones, not a psychotic despot with delusions of grandeur." She doesn't bother hiding her amusement at his glum expression. "Nothing you can't handle, right?"

Killian mutters something about Liam owing him, then tickles one indulgent finger underneath Julius' orange chin. "Bloody creature. He'll probably have my skin flayed off by bedtime."

Emma laughs quietly. "Don't worry." Leaning forward, she kisses him again, more lingering this time, breathing in his soft hum of pleasure. "If he draws first blood, I promise to kiss it better."

A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he taps the back of her hand where it's cradling Julius, and she knows he's thinking of the faded scar on her palm. "In that case, love, bloodshed would be a small price to pay."