Looking back at it a few months later, Emma blames it all on Ruby.

She moves from Middle of Nowhere, Maine to Boston for college, and is randomly paired with Ruby to share a dorm. When she enters the room, carrying two heavy duffel bags and with her father trailing behind her, she finds herself nose to nose with a pretty brunette who grins at her like the cat that ate the canary. Emma gulps audibly – even if the roommate thing was mandatory, she had hope for a shy, quiet bookworm so she wouldn't have to do the whole socialising thing. Instead, the ball of energy bounces on mile-long legs in front of her, introducing herself as Ruby Lucas, biology major, I love your hair, it's so pretty, and Emma says goodbye to whatever she thought college life would be for her.

Instead, she learns everything there is to know about Ruby in more or less five minutes – the girl speaks fast, Emma doesn't know if she wants to be impressed or scarred for life. That's basically how she learns that Ruby is somewhat of a big thing online, with hundred of thousands of followers on Instagram (how?) and quite the impressive number on Twitter and Tumblr too.

Emma finds herself agreeing to make an account for each and every one of the social networks, mostly because Ruby has that gleam in her eyes that says she could as well be a serial killer in the making, and Emma quite enjoys living.

It is, as they say, the beginning of the end.

She doesn't get addicted per se, but she checks her accounts daily and even build a nice little gathering of followers after a while – nothing of the likes of Ruby's, but Emma doesn't mind, because Ruby's number are frightening – and even starts a tentative friendship with a Norwegian girl called Elsa. She learns that Thursday nights are a religious experience in front of the television, otherwise known as Shonda Night, and knows better than to question Ruby on her less than stellar tastes when it comes to shows from The CW.

Ruby becomes her friend, and friends don't judge each other over their shitty fandoms. Or something. It confuses Emma more often than not, before she goes back to reblogging pictures of cats, beautiful landscapes, and cute gifs of Daniel Radcliffe. It keeps her busy when she's bored, and she can always pretend she has to work at the library when she doesn't want to watch one of Ruby's shows.

It's early February when Emma comes back to her room to find Belle lounging on Ruby's bed as she waits for her girlfriend to come back from a lecture. The petite brunette is, unsurprisingly, with her nose in a book, barely looking up to smile at Emma as the blonde plops down on her own bed.

"Watcha reading?" she asks, because Belle always reads interesting books, and Emma ran out of stuff to read a week ago.

"It's called Heroes and Villains," she replies, still not looking up. "It came out today."

And, if the fact that she's already three-quarter into it is anything to go by, it's as fascinating as books get. With a groan, Emma leans forwards to grab her laptop on the desk, and opens it as soon as it's propped up on her stomach. A quick Google search and a read of the summary later, she knows it is the kind of book she wants – needs to read, and she tells Belle so. Belle promises to lend it to her as soon as she's done, which might as well be in ten minutes, knowing what a fast reader she is.

And indeed, before Belle leaves for her own dorm that evening, she puts the book on Emma's desk with a smile, before adding a little hand wave. Emma waits until the door closes behind her before she grabs the book, settles on her bed, and opens it to the first page.

Later, much later, she'll blame it all on Ruby, because she was the one to introduce her to Tumblr, and Belle is her girlfriend. So, really, when it comes down to it, this is all Ruby's fault. Not that Emma is aware of it right now, because she's too busy losing herself in the story to care about anything else in the world. It's been a long while since she's put an all-nighter over a book – ever since the last Harry Potter book, actually – but she can't put it down, enthralled in the story as she is. When she finally reaches the last page, with a gasp and a sob at the awful cliffhanger the author gave them, it's past four in the morning.

She has a lab at eight, and she looks like a mess.

She feels like a mess too, something that hasn't happened over a book since the last time she pulled an all-nighter to read, and so she spends the morning daydreaming about Leia, strong beautiful Leia and her brave son Henry. Daydreams of their adventures, of their relationship built on love and trust and heartbreaks. Leia and Charles, the coward pirate who helped her on her quest, and Emma would be lying if she says it doesn't make her a little weak in the knees just thinking about it.

She knows Leia is not the main character of the book, and so her (love) life will not be the focus in the sequel, far from it, but those characters get stuck in her head somehow. It's been a long time since she's identified with some random character in some random book, but this one touches a nerve even if she can't explain why. Too familiar in the way she got hurt by love, too close to home in her insecurities and fears.

Emma is a mess running on three hours of sleep, and she blames it on Ruby when she falls in bed later that afternoon. She can't quite sleep, though, mind still racing with thoughts and dreams and scenarios, and so she grabs her laptop and opens Tumblr, hoping against hope cat pictures will help her calm down. What it does is the exact opposite.

Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees the post, reblogged by jeweloftherealm. She knows him, more or less, the way she knows all her mutual followers – the online equivalent of nodding at each other in the hallways – and so knows he particularly likes to reblog seaside landscapes and history posts.

So when she sees the post – nothing but a "charleia, reblog if you agree" that has 8 notes – and sees that it's coming from him, she can barely hides her surprise. Because, really, what are the odds that some random guy on Tumblr would read the exact same book at the exact same time, only to share her feelings about some obscure couple? The odds aren't that good, and yet…

She reblogs the post with a simple 'don't I know it' in the tags, and then decides to stop fighting her exhaustion as she puts the laptop away and snuggles under the covers.

…

She wakes up to Ruby throwing her bag on the floor and four asks on Tumblr.

Ruby, she is used to by now – the girl as delicate as a bull and as quiet as a freaking thunderstorm. Actual messages on Tumblr though? Nah. So she frowns at her screen even as she clicks on the little red envelope, and then frowns some more when she sees all four of them are from the same person – all four of them are from jeweloftherealm. She scrolls down to the last one, and immediately her eyebrows shoot up, her eyes widen. A little, albeit hysterical, laugh escapes her lips and has Ruby frowning at her, but Emma ignores her as her eyes remain glued to the screen.

'oh god you're into Charleia too please marry me'

'Alright, that was too bold and forward of me, and I do apologize for the outburst. I won't even pretend it was meant to be sent on anon, it would only make things sadder than they already are. Please do ignore the previous ask. I hope you have a nice day.'

'Truth be told we have been following each other for a while now and I was toying with the idea of messaging you for even longer, so hello. Killian, professional disaster, nice to meet you. Feel free to share all your headcanons with me.'

'Am I doing this all wrong? Bloody hell, I am. Just ignore me, really. No hurt feelings or anything of the like.'

Emma has no idea how to reply to the guy, besides telling him to find some chill he very obviously needs. Instead, she clicks on the link to his blog, if only to know whom she is dealing with. The description doesn't give her much clue other than his name, age, and location (Killian, 20, London) and he doesn't have an 'about me' page linked anywhere. Not all that helpful to know if she's dealing with a potential serial killer, or a lunatic.

So she comes back to her askbox, frowns some more, and wonders if she should reply or not. It would be, all things considered, the polite thing to do, even if it's to gently tell him to back off, you weirdo. Emma has never been one to ignore people on the Internet, and she doesn't really feel like starting now – her mother taught her better, but her mother also told her to be careful when she talks to strange people online, so there's that.

Not knowing what to do, Emma goes for the second best option.

"Hey, Rubs," she calls, and her roommate looks up from her handiwork of applying a new coat of nail polish on her left hand. "Some guy messaged me on Tumblr, I don't know what to do."

"Is he cute?" Textbook Ruby. "Check if he has a selfie tag."

She does. He doesn't.

In the end, she busies herself for a few hours with the essay she needs to write for her Introduction to Business Law class - a bore, but the kind of boring that keeps her mind from wandering too far, which is exactly what she needs more often than not. It's time to head down to the dining hall once she's done and, by the time she's back in her bed with Ruby watching some ABC show by the other side of the room, she has almost succeeded in forgetting all about jeweloftherealm's messages.

It, of course, all comes back to her when she opens Tumblr again. She hesitates for a few moments, nails drumming against her laptop, before she throws all cautions to the window. If the guy turns out to be a creep, which she suspects he will, she can always stop replying or even block him. Easy, efficient, no headache. So she wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue as she opens her askbox and starts typing out a reply to his first message.

'All wedding proposals are to be addressed in handwritten form and sent after a three-month long courtship. Sorry, I don't make the rules.'

And if it has underlying tones of flirting to it, oh well, it is too late to change it once she has clicked on the 'Send' button. She rolls her eyes at her own antics as she grabs her headphones on her desk and puts on some music before she gets lost in the never-ending stream of cat pictures and Harry Potter fanarts. She lets the website distract her with its colourful content, until she blinks at the little red envelop that pops up at the top of her screen.

Her eyes immediately move to the clock in the corner, doing the maths of time zones in her head. It's starting to get late in Boston, so it's obviously the middle of the night in England, but Emma knows better than to judge other people's sleep patterns – hers was a mess during finals, after all.

His icon, some random ship on the sea in a flurry of whites and blues, welcomes her when she opens the askbox yet again. It feels strange having it there instead of on her dashboard – feels strange actually talking to him, even with the nonsense of his messages, instead of acknowledging his existence from afar. The Internet is fascinating that way.

'Dulled noted, love,' he writes, and she arches an eyebrow at the nickname. 'Now on to more interesting matters: our runaway princess and dashing pirate. Thoughts? Feelings? Need to beg Isaac Heller on your knees until he gives you the tiniest bit of spoiler as to where those two are heading?'

A small, tentative smile settles on her lips. That, Emma can do – talk about those character who won't get out of her thoughts, talk about Leia's bravery, Charles' devotion. This is an easy subject, far away from the guy's barely-there innuendos and half-covered flirt attempts. Her fingers fly over the keyboard as she types out her reply, something she hoped to be short and concise, right to the point, but turns out to be the size of a small essay as she goes on and on about this detail and that scene.

She would feel bad or embarrassed about it – then again, she thought those years were behind her after the last Harry Potter movie came out – but this is the guy who proposed to her over one silly text post. If he doesn't embrace her word-vomit about those two fictional characters, no one ever will.

Once the message is sent, she turns off her laptop, ready to finally catch up on some well-deserved sleep before her afternoon class the following day. She nestles against her pillow, the soft clicking of Ruby's nails against her keyboard lulling her to sleep in a matter of minutes.

…

She wakes up to no less than eight messages on Tumblr, and barks out a laugh.

…

It's easy to share her Twitter account with him once they are tired of testing the limits of Tumblr's flawed ask system, and easier still to share her phone number when Twitter's character limit becomes even more of a pain in the ass. He has a habit of sending her the most random emojis when he's bored in class, so sometimes she'll wake up in the middle of the night to her phone blinking, only to find three little cats waiting on her.

Emma stops trying to understand those.

They don't talk every day, per se, but still regularly enough that he becomes – not exactly one of her closest friends, but close enough. She has no idea what he looks like – his Whatsapp profile picture yet another boat – and only learns a bribe of his life here and there but…

But that's the way online friendships work anyway, right? They don't have to share their deepest secrets to trust each other and have fun together, and she can share her silliest, most annoying thoughts with him, knowing it will make him laugh. He's that good an audience.

'let's talk fancasting,' she sends him one day, when she's bored out of her mind in her Introduction to International Law class. The subject in itself isn't half-bad, but Professor Hooper has that kind of voice that has Emma dozing off in about five minutes.

'I'M GLAD YOU ASKED!' comes Killian's reply a few minutes later, capital letters and all. He might be a nerd, but moments like those give Emma a glimpse of something else in him, of a guy who likes the theatrics that come with showing off a bit. Not that she minds. 'I was at a mate's house the other day and the show he was watching actually gave me the perfect casting for our dear Leia'

'did you just use 'mate' unironically?' she asks him, and has to bite down a mocking grin. She's still in the middle of a lecture hall, after all.

'hush, swan,' he replies, having adopted the nickname when he first saw her Whatsapp profile picture. 'I'm guessing you know fringe?'

Screw the lecture hall, she's left gaping at her phone like a fish out of the water. The guy sitting next to her gives her a weird look, before shrugging and going back to taking notes – he's seen weirder things on campus, they all have.

'Anna Torv?' she asks Killian, then quickly adds, 'that's so fucking perfect I'm actually mad at you for thinking about it first'

He replies with four smirking emojis, just to fuck up with her a little. She pouts, actually pouts at her screen, which is of course useless since he can't see her anyway. The guy next to her still looks at her strangely, as if unsure of letting it slide or calling campus security on her, but Emma ignores him.

'we need a Charles too now'

'you need to listen in class is what you need right now'

'hey you're not the boss of me!'

'no but I'm the little angel on your shoulder who refuses to hear you complain during finals week'

'#rude'

He doesn't reply, but instead sends her five pictures of Ryan Gosling with the 'hey girl you should be studying' caption, and Emma has to turn off her phone so she doesn't do anything embarrassing, like burst into laughter in the middle of her Introduction to International Law class. She shakes her head, and focuses back on Professor Hooper's monotonous voice.

…

"Okay, let me get this straight."

"There is nothing straight about you, Ruby."

Ruby stops her pacing to glare at Emma, but her lips twitch a little with the amused smile she's repressing, and Emma counts it as a win. That is, until Ruby starts pacing again – it's all about being dramatic, really, because nothing called for such extreme measures.

"You met a guy on Tumblr because he ships the same obscure ship you do. He's English, and apparently a musician, and you've been texting him for months?" Ruby stops in her track if only to run a hand through her hair and stare at Emma with wide, crazy eyes. "How the fuck did you swing that?"

Emma huffs a little, but she can't exactly refute anything Ruby says when her phone lightens up with a Whatsapp notification at the same time she opens her mouth to say something. Which, obviously not helping, thank you very much Killian.

"We're just friends," is all she finds to reply, shrugging a little.

Because they are, okay – they waste a great deal of time gushing over the same book and complaining about their classes together, and he's still just a friend. Hell, she doesn't even know what he looks like, and it seems like an important detail to take into account when you need to decide if you like a guy that way. Which she doesn't. He's just a really good friend.

"If you made a post about it, people would be all 'omg I ship it' and 'imagine your otp', just so you know. It's just that obvious."

Emma wants to huff again, because the conversation is getting more ridiculous by the minute. Hell, she doesn't even want to have this conversation, but Ruby forced it on her when she saw her smiling at her phone for what is, apparently, the thousandth time today, jesus, Swan. Emma doesn't think it particularly fair – Ruby smiles and laughs and even cackles at her phone all the time, and no one has ever said anything about it.

But it's apparently different when it involves an English dude.

Go figure.

"I can't have this conversation with you," she says, standing up as she closes her laptop. She grabs her phone too, and one or two books, shoving it all in her messenger bag. She needed to work on an essay, anyway, so it's all good.

"Are you going to Egypt?" Ruby asks, now grinning from ear to ear. "Because you're in denial."

Emma slams the door, for good measure.

She glares at the wall for a second or two before walking towards the elevator. It only takes her a few minutes to make the trek to the library, and then she finds an empty table, far enough from anyone else that it allows her to mope in peace, without anyone staring at her for being the lunatic who mumbles at her phone. Phone she still needs to check, and she hates Ruby even more for having a point – she can't go on for long without having to check if Killian sent her a message, and being reliant on a guy is the last thing she wants to do.

Been there, done that.

Never again.

They're just friend, she tells herself as she grabs her phone and her bag – she isn't sure if it's a fact, of if she's trying to convince herself, at that point. She's afraid it's the latter. Emma hasn't let herself develop feelings for anyone ever since Neal, two years ago, and she refuses to start with a guy living across the ocean. Even for her, it's a new low.

'I hate my roommate,' she sends him before she even second-guesses herself. 'she always makes a big deal out of things that are not a big deal and – ugh'

His reply arrives while she opens her essay's draft on her laptop. Emma is proud to say she doesn't pounce on her phone, because it would only prove Ruby right.

'do you want to talk about it?' he asks, with a worried emoji.

Technically, she knows he doesn't believe in the friend-zone – they talked about it, once, and he had some very crude, very British words for his half of the world population. Technically, she knows that. It doesn't make what she's doing any more okay, but she really can't help herself, at this point.

New low in her low.

'she thinks I'm into some guy, even if I'm not, and won't stop bothering me with it. which is stupid, I'm not into him. she just won't leave me alone.'

'well, that's unfortunate'

Emma believes he will leave it at that – he should, really, because she isn't comfortable with the kind of conversation that could ensue. So she flips her phone over, for good measure, and focuses on the essay she needs to focus on. Five pages. She has this totally under control, and sits a little straighter, a little closer to the edge of her seat, and starts typing.

She adds a page and a half to the two she already had before she decides that a break is well deserved at that point, and makes the mistake of checking her phone. Whatsapp is still open on her conversation with Killian once she has typed her password, and a new message awaits her at the bottom of the screen.

'how have I never heard of this mysterious bloke?'

She scoffs, and rolls her eyes a little. 'did you miss the part where I told you I'm not into him? why does it matter?'

Does she sound on the defensive? Gosh, she does.

'he's important enough that your best friend noticed.'

Period at the end. It sounds so final that Emma glares at the screen, like this little bundle of pixels offended her and her family for three generations. The jealousy she reads in that single sentence is probably just projecting, anyway. He's a friend. Nothing more than a friend.

'you never tell me about the girls you meet either.'

Period at the end, and two can play this game. Emma doesn't care if her message sounds defensive (because it does), just as she doesn't care why this particular subject has her all riled up all of a sudden. He's just a friend, she tells herself, and it starts to sound less as a fact and more as an excuse.

'who said anything about girls?' is his reply a few moments later, and it takes all of Emma's self-control not to cackle here and there.

'you're a musician with an English accent, don't pretend there aren't girls'

'you do know having an accent is null when everyone around you have the exact same accent, right?'

And then, a few seconds later, 'there are no girls, don't worry'

It is those two late words – don't worry – that have her losing it, more than anything. With a huff, Emma flips her phone over so she doesn't have to look at the screen, then thinks better of it and shoves it in her bag instead – if she keeps it in on the table, she'll be tempted to check for new messages, and she can't deal with this right now. Or ever.

She fights back a groan, hands running through her hair, before she leans forwards and presses her forehead to the table. She hates Ruby for putting those ideas in her head to begin with – Killian is her friend, period. Why is it so hard to believe, why the permanent idea that a man and a woman can't be friends without it always leading to more? Emma is more than fine with what she has now with Killian – the easy banter and teasing, the private jokes and long rants well into the night. It is simple, uncomplicated, and it suits her well. She doesn't need gross, misplaced feelings to come and ruin what they have, especially on the grounds that she is horny and he is nice.

And, let's be real, what even would be the point? Emma isn't, has never been, relationship material, she knows it all too well. So a long-distance relationship would be doomed to fail from the start, and she doesn't want to compromise her relationship with Killian when she knows it not to be worthwhile – all on the assumption that he has feelings for her, which is farfetched too.

They're friends. They're going to stay friends.

End of the story.

…

Finals come and go, as stressful as can get when you have to cram an entire semester worth of studying in about two weeks – Emma's pride comes into place as she refuses to complain about it, if only not to prove some people right. By the end of her last exam, she feels exhausted enough that she could pass out and sleep for three days straight without waking up.

Of course, Ruby has other ideas. They're going back home for Christmas break in a few days, which means they need – emphasis on need – to celebrate while they can and while they're still on campus. Which is how Emma finds herself in a too short dress and too high heels, in a cab driving them to Jefferson's house.

Jeff is one of the few freshmen not to live in dorms, instead renting a house off-campus with two other guys, Victor and Billy. 'Ex-boyfriend,' Ruby says, and Emma doesn't dare ask which one the brunette is talking about. Both, probably. Next to her, Belle rolls her eyes.

The house is already packed when they arrive, loud music barely muffled by the closed windows. Emma is handed a red solo cup before she even has time to say hello, or even to find someone she knows, and she stares at the drink for long seconds before discarding it and heading for the keg – if anything else, her sheriff of a father taught her how to handle herself during parties.

When she turns around, sipping on her cold beer, she isn't surprised to see that Ruby and Belle have already disappeared – to make out in a corner or make a show of dancing in another room, who even knows anymore. Emma sighs a little, if only because she doesn't want to stay alone. The last thing she wants tonight is to be hit on by some random fratboy, especially when all she wishes for right now is her bed and at least twenty hours of sleep.

It's not exactly a fratboy she stubbles upon when she moves closer to the buffet table (a big name for one table with various salad bowls full of chips, doritos, and candy). Instead, she finds herself bumping into a guy, tall and athletic and not-douchey-looking. He smiles down at her, grey eyes kind and gentle, and her heart beats a little faster because he looks cute. You're-welcome-to-bring-me-home cute, actually.

"Hey," she tells him, a little lamely.

"Hey," he mirrors, before laughing a little. "It's nice to see I'm not the only one who feels out of place here."

His voice is rich with an accent she can't exactly place – Irish, maybe? – and Emma finds herself grinning back at him. It's been a long while since she last flirted with someone, a too long while. Cute Irish guy is what she needs right now, even if he doesn't know it yet.

"The things we do for our friends, right?" She holds out her hand for him to shake. "I'm Emma."

"Nice to meet you, Emma. The name's Graham. Do you want to dance?"

Which is how Emma finds herself with her arms around Graham's shoulders as they sway to the music, a little out of sync because he keeps telling her the lamest jokes she's ever heard in her life, and she keeps bursting into laughter, either throwing her head back or pressing her forehead to his shoulder. It feels good, easy – he's nice and cute and funny, and it's not too complicated to talk to him even with the loud music swallowing their words every so often.

He offers her another drink, and she shows him how to play beer pong against Jefferson, which is a small disaster in itself. Jeff is high as a kit, his pupils so dilated it's a little scary, but it doesn't make him any less of a fierce opponent, each ping-pong ball he throws hitting its mark. Emma drinks more lukewarm beer than she should, probably, her mind a little hazy around the corners as she holds on to Graham's arm and laughs at his poor attempts at winning the game. He doesn't land a single ball in a single cup, and Jefferson laughs at him too until he and Emma admit defeat.

She takes his hand and leads him outside – she needs the cold December air to clear her mind a little, and it's a nice night, and there are too many people inside anyway. There are some people outside too, smoking pot and whispering to each other, but Emma ignores them as she sits on the first step of the porch, gesturing for Graham to do the same. He sits, pressed against her from hip to knee, and it feels good. The warmth of him feels good, even more so when he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her toward him.

She knows he's going to kiss him before he does, and she knows it's a bad idea – they're both too drunk and out of it, she's exhausted, not in her right mind. It is textbook bad idea, but Emma doesn't stop him when his lips brush hers softly. She welcomes him, with a sigh and another kiss, tongue darting out to brush against his bottom lip. They deepen the kiss, softly, tentatively, until she grabs his neck and opens her mouth to him, making the kiss more ardent, more feverish. He groans against her mouth and grabs her waist, just tightly enough for her skin to tingle under his fingers. It's good, and nice, as far as first kisses go.

"Emma," he breathes against her mouth when they break apart, his voice hoarse and deep, bringing a shiver down her spine.

Later, much later, she'll blame it on the alcohol, and sleep deprivation. Right now, she can't stop the way she replies, "Killian," in a whisper, a little broken and a little wrecked.

She doesn't even notice it, until Graham still under her hands, and moves away from her. She almost whines at the loss of contact – he's so warm, the night is so cold – but he's looking at her funnily and then he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head a little, too, and it dawns on her.

Her face in on fire as she looks away, shame taking over her body. "I'm sorry," she says, even if it isn't enough against the humiliation of the moment.

Graham chuckles, but it sounds self-deprecating. "Don't be. Whoever he is, I'm sure he's a lucky bloke."

She opens her mouth – 'this isn't what you think, it's not what it looks like, I…' – but no words come out. She shakes her head, as if it would help, before standing up. Too quickly, the world spinning around her, but she doesn't let it affect her as she mumbles another empty apology before running away from the scene of the crime and back inside. Finding Ruby and Belle isn't all too hard, since they are indeed putting on a show while dancing in front of everyone.

Emma grabs Ruby's forearm and her friend stops moving immediately, eyes widening as she takes in Emma's state. Anger settles on her features in a matter of seconds. "Who do I need to kill?"

"No one," Emma sighs, and rubs her eyes. "I want to go home."

She sounds like a little child, perhaps, but she is past caring at this point. Ruby nods and takes out her phone to call a taxi, while Belle goes to grab their coats. They're outside waiting for the car not five minutes later, and Emma presses herself against her best friend with a heartbreaking sigh.

"You were right," she says simply.

Ruby is perceptive enough – or perhaps Emma is transparent enough, who even knows anymore – not to ask for details. She just gets it, and wraps her arm around Emma's shoulders to pull her into a hug.

"I always am," she says.

Emma snorts.

…

Christmas is always a grand affair at the Blanchards' – Emma's parents spending the day in the kitchen, the tree heavy with decorations, everyone forced to wear red hats all through the day. Emma rolls her eyes good-heartedly as she and Leo stuff themselves with cookies when their mother isn't looking. Grandma Ruth arrives in the middle of the afternoon, as always, so Emma gets ready a little before that, putting on her best dress and making sure her hairdo is perfect.

She lets her grandmother pull her into a hug, and only huffs a little under her compliments. "You look so pretty as always," Grandma Ruth says, and Emma bites down a laugh as Leo fake-gags behind her back, "Have you met a charming young man at the university?"

She tenses, only a little. "Not yet."

"That's cause she's a loser," Leo chimes in with a shit-eating grin.

"Leo, enough," her father says as he enters the room, and pulls his mother into a hug. Leo complains, for the heck of it, and Emma kicks him in the shin when no one is looking. He kicks back.

They spend the evening bickering, half because it's what siblings do, half because it's their way of showing they really did miss each other with Emma away for college. It's strange, not complaining about him to her parents all the time, and not having his video games as background noise when she's studying. So Emma makes up for lost time, both with annoying her little brother and stuffing herself with her mother's food. Being home really has its perks.

It's late into the night when they're finally done with dessert, and Emma kisses her grandma's cheek before heading to her bedroom. Her belly is full and she feels light-headed on bliss and love. She smiles at herself in the mirror – her eyeliner has smudged, a little, and her cheeks are pink with laughing too much but. She looks good, she looks pretty.

Her eyes fall on her phone, on her bed, and she doesn't second-guess herself as she grabs it. The champagne she drank tonight may be the liquid courage she needs as she turns on the front camera of her phone – she's never been one for selfies, no matter how hard Ruby tried to change that, so she has to take several pictures before taking one that she doesn't want to delete immediately.

She hesitates, only a second, before she opens Whatsapp. Liquid courage, and all that.

'Santa's little elf wishes you a merry Christmas,' she writes, and sends it along with the picture.

She doesn't expect the two little check marks to turn blue that quickly, and does the mental math in her head. It's more than the middle of the night where Killian is, but she's not really surprised that he's still awake – he does have the most random sleep schedule ever.

Emma doesn't exactly know what she expected when she sent her the picture, but it doesn't stop the gasp from escaping her lips when he sends one back and – shit. He's obviously lying in bed, eyes heavy with sleep and hair a dark mess on top of his head, smiling crookedly at the camera. He looks good. Oh, who is she kidding, he looks more than good, and her stomach is in knots from just looking at his picture.

'I thought I was on the naughty list,' he replies, 'but that may be the best gift ever'

Emma blushes, and bites down on her lip not to grin like a fool. She also forces herself not to save the picture, even if she knows fully well a copy of it is already on her phone somewhere. Instead, she switches to her conversation with Ruby and sends a simple 'oh no he's hot'.

The following day, Ruby is still sending her 'ahahahahahahah' every twenty minutes or so.

…

"I need a favour."

Emma looks up from her notebook. They've taken the habit of skyping together, which mostly is them doing random, mundane things while talking to each other. It's as close to hanging out as can be, considering the situation, but Emma got used to it pretty quickly. Mostly, she rewrites her lectures notes so they're all neat and readable, and she listens to Killian rambling about this or that thing. Sometimes, he plays the guitar. Sometimes, Ruby judges her from across the room. It's a nice habit.

"Helping you hide the body is going to be a bit complicated," she deadpans.

He smirks a little – he doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a close thing. "I need your address."

Emma raises an eyebrow at that. It's not that giving him her address would be that far a stretch – he already has her phone number, they're skyping, and he knows where she lives slash studies. Killian won't suddenly appear in the middle of the night if he knows that her room in on that floor of this building. And even if he does, Emma doesn't put it past Ruby to kill him with her bare hands.

It's just that it's coming out of nowhere, and Emma being Emma, she can't help but be suspicious about it.

"Why?" she asks, no quite able to hide her feelings.

Killian definitely rolls his eyes this time. "Come on, what about a leap of faith?"

Which is how, a few weeks later, Ruby drops an envelope on Emma's desk. Emma isn't used to receiving mail, so she never really bothers checking their mailbox, but Ruby is regularly sent products from brands that want her to advertise their stuff on social networks – shitload of followers and all that – so she's the one to check the mailbox every couple of days or so. Emma ignores her raised, unimpressed eyebrow as she grabs the letter.

She opens it quickly. The paper is heavy and – oh god, is that calligraphy? Her eyes widen a little bit more with each word she reads, and she presses a hand to her mouth and nose not to let out a graceless snort. Ruby reads above her shoulder, and can only breathe out a simple, yet straight-to-the-point, "What the fuck?"

Emma laughs, because she can't help it, the sound a little hysterical and nervous. "It's a marriage proposal. In handwritten form."

Of course, Ruby doesn't get it – but then again, nobody would, it wasn't even a private joke of theirs until now – but it doesn't stop her from facing Emma, hands on her hips and judgmental pout on her lips. And, okay, all right, Emma deserves it at this point, because this thing is ridiculously cheesy and her heart is beating faster, and she's pretty certain she's blushing at this point.

"You still hellbent on saying he's not your boyfriend?"

"He's not. It's just a joke."

It's the truth, but it doesn't sound like one.

…

She sent him a simple 'got your letter, still waiting for the three-month courtship' and maybe it's the most open she's ever been about her feelings for him.

…

During the summer, Emma goes back home. Storybrooke is as uneventful as can be, and she misses Ruby so much that the girls have Skype sessions to watch crappy shows together even if they no longer share a room. It's a little weird, not to mention a novelty, for Emma to miss someone so much – she was some kind of basket case in high school, and so didn't really have friends.

She decides to find a job – and no, dad, she doesn't want to answer the phone at the station – and good old Ingrid hires her to help at the ice cream parlour. It's not exactly the most thrilling job, but it's Storybrooke she's talking about. None of the jobs in town are the most thrilling jobs. So she wears a sky blue apron and learns to make a scoop, and her cheeks hurt a little from smiling at the customers from eleven to six, four days a week.

Ingrid lets her eat all the ice cream she wants as long as she doesn't get sick in the stomach, and she makes a little above minimum wage, so it isn't all that bad. It keeps her busy.

Ingrid leaves her on Saturdays to work at the beach and makes more money, so Emma is alone at the parlour. Which is fine, she has it covered. She's in the cold room when her phone chimes happily in her back pocket, and so she grabs the pack of butter pecan and closes the door before she checks her new messages.

Unsurprisingly, it's Whatsapp, and Killian.

'you work at any given sundae, right?'

Emma frowns at her screen. She's told him she had a job for the summer, of course, but never went into greater details than 'I sell ice cream, it's awesome'. So, needless to say the message takes her by surprise, and leaves her more than a little confused.

'yeah?' she replies, typing the letters slowly as if her confusion could be sent along with that single word.

The two little blue check marks appear a few seconds later, but Killian doesn't answer anything. Emma frowns at her screen some more before sliding her phone in her pocket. The front door's bell rings as she grabs the pack of ice cream, and so she forces herself to forget about it as she goes back to work with her most professional smile.

"Welcome to Any Given Sundae, what can – holy shit."

The ice cream doesn't slip from her hands, but it's a close thing because – holy shit because Killian is standing in front of her, all shy smile and scratching his ear and looking at her through his eyelashes and – holy shit.

She blinks at him, and gapes a little – if she blinks hard enough, perhaps he will disappear and she'll blame her sleep-depraved brain. She did stay awake until 3am last night to binge-watch Wet Hot American Summer with Ruby, so she wouldn't put it past her exhausted mind to just make things up for kicks and giggles. But she blinks, and he's still here, and he's looking at her with concern in his eyes, and he's here and –

"What the fuck?" she mumbles, more to herself than anything else.

"Surprise?" he says, with a little tilt of the head. His English accent is even deeper in real life, and the camera didn't do his blue eyes justice and her brain keeps playing he's here he's here he's here on repeat. So Emma does what she always does when her mind stops working properly.

She runs away.

Her heart is racing against her ribcage as she locks herself in the backroom. She leans against the door and closes her eyes, forces herself to inhale by the nose and exhale by the mouth – something Belle showed her after learning about it in a yoga class, or something. Of course it's not working, because all she can think is that Killian is still there, in the parlour, and he travelled all the way from freaking England to see her and it's too much, it's way too much.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, voice muffled by the door.

Yes. "No." She sighs, and screws her eyes shut once more. "You took me by surprise, is all."

He chuckles a little, and the sound brings a shiver down her spine. Which, not helping, clearly. "That was kind of the point."

She laughs, too, but it's a little self-deprecating. Technically, she knows that she's being ridiculous. They've known each other for months, he's privy to most of her secrets. Hell, she trusts more than most people – she would trust him with her life, probably. But it doesn't stop her from freaking out, because him being here makes everything oh so real; him, her feelings, their relationship. Everything is real and it slaps her with the strength of a hundred tow trucks.

She sighs, long and deep, before she stands a little straighter and turns around to face the door. Killian startles a little when she opens it, and then he's staring at her, eyes wide and blue. She stares back.

"Hey," he says, and offers her a tentative smile.

"Hi. Sorry," she replies, a grin of her own blossoming on her lips. She raises a hand to her own face, points at her cheek. "You've got a scar."

He raises a hand to her face, too, fingers wrapping around her jaw and thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. Her breath catches in her throat.

"You've got dimples. Like, two dimples each side," Killian says, and she can only grin even more at that.

And then he's pulling her into a hug, one arm around her shoulder while the other wraps around her waist. It takes her a little by surprise, but she recovers quickly enough to return the hug. She can't help but run her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, and his breath hitches against her head. She doesn't fight back the grin.

"That's so creepy stalkery," she breathes against his neck in a weak laugh.

He laughs too, even as he takes a step back. "I actually came to kill you in a back alley. My plan all along."

She slaps his chest, and he pretends to be both offended and hurt. It weirds her out – it's one thing to see him making faces at her through Skype, it's entirely different thing to see those same faces in real life. Her breath hitches in her throat a little, and she wonders if she's on the verge of another panic attack. She wouldn't put it past herself, with how overwhelmed she's still feeling, but the last thing she wants is to freak out in front of him once again. She needs time, and mostly space, to process everything.

"You crossed the ocean for me," she mumbles and, okay, maybe she's already trying to make sense of this thing she calls her life.

Killian smiles at her, that soft crooked smile of his that always does things to her belly. It doesn't help, at all. "Aye. That I did."

When Emma laughs, it sounds a little hysterical and a lot like she's losing her mind. Softness turns to concern in Killian's eyes, before he nods understandingly. She both loves and hates him for how well he knows her, at that point, because one day it will be her undoing, but right now it is her saving grace.

"I'm going to check in at the bed and breakfast. I'll see you once your shift is over?"

She nods – at least she thinks she does, things are getting a little blurry all of a sudden – and he smiles back before leaving the parlour. He looks at her above his shoulder one last time as he opens the door, and then he's gone.

Emma presses her forehead against the cold glass of the showcase and lets out a sigh.

…

She puts scoops of rocky road into two pink plastic cups, with complimentary little plastic spoons, on her way out of the parlour. Her bones are aching a little, as always at the end of her work day, but she drags herself to Storybrooke's only bed and breakfast, knowing she can't delay the inevitable any longer.

The grandma at the reception desk doesn't bat an eye as Emma climbs up the stairs leading to the rooms – everyone in town is used to the sheriff's daughter doing as she pleases and, even if Emma doesn't often use that to her advantage, it has its perks. She hears, "Second door to the right," as she reaches the last step, and smiles to herself a little. It's not exactly like Storybrooke has many visitors, even during the summer, but she didn't see herself knocking at every door until finding his.

He opens the door after her second knock, like he heard her coming or something, and grins the moment their eyes meet. Her heart does a little fluttering thing, and she's so doomed it's not even funny anymore.

"I brought ice cream," she tells him, a little too cheerfully, as she shoves one of the cups in his hands. "We can go to the docks if you want. The sunset isn't until a few hours."

He smiles wider, if it's even humanly possible, and nods, before he grabs the keys on his bedside table and comes back to her, closing the door behind him. Their walk to the beach is mostly spent in silence, only breaking it to ask how his flight was – good – and if he's suffering from jetlag yet – only a little.

They sit on a bench, facing the ocean, and Emma folds her legs beneath her as she takes a mouthful of ice cream. The cold chocolate brings a shiver down her spine, just enough to bring her back to her senses and to soothe her worried mind. This isn't weird, she thinks, they've hung out dozens of hours before, it isn't any different now that she can stretch her arm and actually touch him.

And gosh does she want to touch him.

She has never repressed her feelings, not once they were out in the open, impossible to bury, impossible to ignore. But she has never worn them on her sleeve either, never confessed them to him – it's better that way, they're friends, it's good. At least it was – now, glancing at his profile, at the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down, the wind in his hair… Now, she isn't so sure anymore. It's stupid, and unrequited, but he's here and her heart beats a fast pace against her ribcage, painful and hard to ignore. He's here, and she wants him.

"How long are you planning to stay?" she asks.

She needs to know, mostly because she needs to know how long she'll have to endure her own feelings for him, how long she'll have to fight them and hide them and pretend they are just friends. How long, until they go back to Skype and Whatsapp and Ruby's sad eyes looking at her like she's a lost cause.

Killian clears his throat, and scratches his ear. He doesn't meet her eyes, so Emma frowns, dread settling low in her stomach.

"I wanted to talk to you about this, actually." He closes his eyes, as if bracing himself, before turning around to face her. "I've been hiding something from you, for a while now. It's not –" he adds quickly, when he sees her opening her mouth, "It's not terrible, really. I just –"

His stuttering, far from the smug persona she came to associate with him, would be adorable, if she wasn't fearing the words he's about to say next. She hears hiding and she understand lying and her minds just starts screaming at her, for being stupid and naïve and believing a guy could be different, this time around.

"Killian…" she starts.

He doesn't let her finish. "I'm studying at Boston University this year," he blurts out, fast, as if unable to keep the words to himself any longer. Emma gapes at him. "I'd already handed in my file before we met, I swear, it's not – not as creepy as it sounds. It was either Boston or Los Angeles and…"

"You're going to be here for a year."

He smiles, crooked and tentative. "Aye."

"An entire year. In my university."

He nods, and raises both eyebrows mockingly, smug little shit that he is. Emma blinks at him, twice, as her brain tries to catch up on the information he all but threw at her face. It feels a little like a throbber above her head – loading, loading, loading – before she kisses him. Loaded.

She kisses him, because she can't help herself, because he's going to be here for a year and she's going to be able to see him every day for a year, and it's too much, and she's kissing him. Killian gasps against her mouth, before he groans and deepens the kiss, hand on her jaw to tilt her head at the right angle, fingers in her hair and mouth hot against her.

He chases her lips when they break away, breathless and panting, so Emma giggles before she pecks him on the lips once more. She feels giddy with happiness, all of a sudden, the feelings bubbling out of her with little laughs and smiles as Killian strokes her cheek, presses his forehead against hers.

"How long?" she asks, ignores the hoarse edge of her voice.

Killian chuckles. "Long enough for it to be embarrassing."

"That makes two of us," she replies.

She has no idea how she'll cope once the year is over, once he goes back to his own country. They've only kissed once but her world is upside down already, and perhaps it's too much too soon, perhaps it's crazy, but she doesn't want to let him go. Never wants to let him go, so she grabs the lapels of his jacket, and pulls him into another kiss.

Killian all too happily obliges.

…

Emma doesn't really plan to broadcast her relationship to the world – she's far from the kind of person who makes personal posts after personal posts on her blog, after all. But, of course, it's without taking Ruby and her bazillion followers into account. Ruby squeaks a little (a lot) the first time she meets Killian, and it's only later that day, when she's back in her dorm, that Emma notices the Instagram notification.

She curses Ruby, but the picture is beautiful – Killian's arm around her shoulders and his nose in her hair, everything made more romantic with a black and white filter. It comes along with a cheesy caption, because it's Ruby she's talking about – 'look who we run into at BU what a funny little happenstance' – and it already has an insane number of likes and comments. Emma refuses to read them.

It only gets worse when she logs into Tumblr because of course Ruby would post the picture on Tumblr too and of course she would tag them both just to make sure everybody knows who they are. Sometimes, Emma really hates her best friend.

She grabs her phone and calls Killian, and he picks up in record time, cackling. Emma really hates her boyfriend too. "You saw," he states immediately.

"Jesus fuck," she breathes, and he chuckles even louder. "I gained, like, forty new followers, what the fuck?"

"You need to check the tags on that picture," he replies. "But first you need to read the ask I'm about to post… Posted."

She reloads the page – it's an anon message he was sent, straight to the point. 'Are you guys aware you look like the real life version of Charleia?' Which, Emma hadn't thought about it before, but now it's all she will ever think about. Great. They'll probably need to cosplay that, or something. And to stop posting pictures of themselves, if they don't want to end being use as someone's fancast in edits.

Still she bursts into laughter when she sees Killian's reply to that message, a simple '#lifegoals' that has her shaking her head at her screen.

"You're such a nerd."

"Yeah," he replies, voice all soft and loving. "But so are you."

…

(He sends a request to study abroad yet another year.)

(He never leaves.)