A/N: First: THIS IS A REPOST OF AN OLD FIC. (I'm in the process of putting all my stories back up on FFN.) If you've read it before, that's why. XD Second, I'm pretty sure I wrote this based on a prompt, but I no longer remember what it was.

UNEXPECTED BUT NOT UNWELCOME

Killian hadn't been gone that long; he was sure of it. Only a month—three weeks and five days to be precise. Long enough to have sifted through the clutter his estranged father left behind. Long enough to wish that Liam was still alive to help him reconcile the ghosts of his childhood.

But definitely not long enough to have lost the flat he'd continued paying for during his brief absence.

With a frown, he backed quietly out of his bedroom and retraced his steps from the front door through the rest of his home. Everything seemed to be in order. That was his leather sofa and big screen television. Those were his souvenir mugs hanging beneath the kitchen cabinets—the very ones his mate, David, teased him for being a sentimental fool over. No, nothing was amiss.

Except for human-shaped lump curled beneath his duvet. And the decidedly feminine attire strewn about his room, including—but not limited to—a very lovely matching pair of brassiere and knickers.

He raised a brow as he considered his options. He could rouse the interloper, demand to know how and why she was in his place, sleeping in his bed like a modern-day Goldilocks. There was, of course, the risk that his mystery guest might react poorly to such a rude awakening. He wasn't particularly keen on being attacked in the name of self-defense, not especially when he was already shattered from the combination of a long flight and jetlag. (And a set of emotional baggage he had no intention of unpacking. Ever.)

He could let law enforcement deal with this fiasco, but it would be a pity to turn what might have been a simple misunderstanding into a felony. There would be witness statements and interviews and the question of whether or not he wanted to press charges (he probably wouldn't)—more headache than it was worth.

Which, unfortunately, left waiting for her to wake on her own. He hoped she wasn't one of those nocturnal creatures who slept through the day. He really would like his bed back. His body, stiff from travel, demanded it.

He collected the foreign clothing—blouse, trousers, and a red jacket that seemed oddly familiar—from his favorite armchair (acquired during one of his antiquing trips with Belle) and folded each item with care. He considered leaving the lacy underthings where they were on the floor, but his compulsory need for cleanliness and order ultimately trumped the unspoken taboo of laying hands on a strange woman's undergarments. Those, too, joined the pile on top of his bureau, though he touched them as little as possible. A part of tall boots completed the ensemble (why did he feel as if he ought to know those as well?), and tablet in hand, he settled into the overstuffed chair.

An hour later his vision began to blur as he fielded dozens of emails crowding his inbox. Work never ceased. No rest for the wicked, as David would say in an oh-so-clever gibe against Killian's chosen profession. Practicing maritime law was hardly on par with being an ambulance chaser, but apparently to a man who ran animal shelters and was engaged to a grammar school teacher, all lawyers were created equal. Equally despicable, that was. At least for the sake of a bad joke or three.

Killian was pulled from his drowsy musings by the soft rustle of linens. His heart picked up in tempo as he watched the figure on his bed stretch out of the down comforter like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. First hands, then slender arms and then—

Emma Swan?

Well, wasn't this a bloody fascinating turn of events.

Before she revealed more of herself to the audience she wasn't aware she had, he cleared his throat. (Killian Jones was nothing if not a gentleman, despite his supposed reputation as a lady's man.) She made a rather endearing squeak as she drew the blankets up to her chin and shot a startled glance in his direction.

"Killian!" she exclaimed.

"Good morning to you as well," he said, offering her a winning smile. She was breathtaking even in her disheveled state, and he had to tramp down the habitual swell of infatuation she always inspired in him. "Tell me, love, is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"

Her pale cheeks took on a fetching pink hue as her eyes rounded. "I'm not—!" She closed her mouth abruptly and then opened it again. "My apartment flooded and you weren't supposed to be home for another week. David gave me a key and—" She ran a hand over her face. "He didn't call you, did he?"

"Must have slipped his mind." Killian rose from the chair, scratching behind his ear. Because it had finally sunk in that Emma bloody Swan, the object of his secret desire for the past year, was in his bed, likely without a stitch of clothing on. "Perhaps this blunder might be better discussed over a cup of coffee. I'll leave you to, ah, get dressed."

He closed the door behind him, rested his forehead against the wood paneling to steady himself before making his way to the kitchen. Get a grip, mate. What happened the night before his sudden trip to the UK didn't necessarily mean anything—to her.

"I've been told that I'm an exceptionally good kisser, I'll have you know." He pointed at her before knocking back his shot. He wasn't sure how they'd gotten on this topic in the first place—something about the appropriate public display of affection at the end of one's nuptials—but he wasn't about to let her keep spouting her persistent doubt in his skills.

She raised a brow, gave him that smirk he both adored and despised. "Oh, yeah?"

He nodded. "Not a single complaint."

Her gaze darted to his mouth. "Prove it."

He blinked at her, carefully keeping the easy grin on his face. She didn't mean it. She couldn't. This was all part of their usual flirty banter. An empty challenge. Oh, but he'd gladly take her up on it anyway—if it wouldn't ruin their cherished friendship. "You couldn't handle it, Swan."

"Maybe you're the one who couldn't handle it."

He excused himself to the bathroom.

"I'm really sorry about this mix-up," Emma said, leaning against the breakfast counter, her flaxen locks thrown up in a hasty ponytail. She hadn't donned the clothes he'd left on his dresser, though. The tank top was hers, certainly, but the baggy pajama bottoms with the drawstring cinched around her trim waist—those were most definitely his.

Good god, this woman.

She followed his gaze to the flannel covering her legs. "And I'm sorry about this, too. I'll wash them and return them to you later. If you give me a little bit, I'll get my things and be out of your hair."

"Nonsense." He retrieved a pair of mugs and set them down next to the coffee maker. One was from the Red Sox game where she'd nearly gotten thrown out of the stadium for attempting to jump onto the field to yell at an umpire. The other was a novelty gift she'd given him last Christmas. World's Okayest Lawyer, it read in bold, black letters. It was his favorite.

"I'm not the kind of man to kick another when he—or she—is down," he said as he fixed their usual morning brew. Hazelnut creamer in his; sugar and milk in hers. "My place is yours for however long you need it."

She took the mug he offered her, cupped it in her hands. "Thank you, Killian," she said, "but I couldn't put you out."

"Put me out, Swan? Hardly." He gave her his best devil-may-care smile. "I never miss an opportunity to have a beautiful woman skulking about my flat." Particularly the beautiful woman he was quite possibly in love with.

She huffed a laugh. "I bet," she murmured over the rim of her cup. "So, you're really okay with me staying here?"

"Absolutely."

Her chin dropped in a thoughtful nod, and with a nonchalant tone, she asked, "Even after what happened that night?"

He choked on his coffee.

She ambushed him outside of the men's room, dragged him by his shirt farther down the darkened hallway. "I wasn't done with you, Jones." She was so close, practically pressed up against him.

"Planning to have your wicked way with me, then?" He was proud that his voice didn't crack, giving away how thoroughly she was tormenting him.

"Maybe." That smirk of hers turned positively diabolical. "Maybe I want to know if you're as good as you say you are."

She didn't give him a chance to argue, but instead, grabbed the labels of his jacket and yanked him down to her. The kiss she planted on his lips was hungry, aggressive. A dare. And he answered with the heat he'd bottled up over the last several months—every longing, every hope, every desire. He'd never wanted another woman as much as he wanted her.

She grunted when he pushed her up against the wall, and her hands moved from his jacket to his back, to the hair at the nape of his neck. And oh yes, she was perfection in his arms. His personal bloody siren. He'd drown in her. Every day for the rest of his life.

The hinges to one of the bathroom doors screeched, and she abruptly shoved him back as if they were children caught sneaking biscuits. She laughed, shaking her head as she wiped her mouth.

"Not bad, sailor," she said before leaving him breathless in the hall.

Bloody hell.

Killian did a masterful job of regaining his composure. Emma's question was a veritable powder keg, and his answer the spark that could blow up their friendship. Or ignite a fire that he'd gladly singe himself on.

"That depends, love." He kept his response casual as he rested his elbows on the counter across from her. "Are you planning any repeats of that particular activity? If so, I may never let you leave." He waggled his eyebrows, wearing a rakish grin, hiding how desperately he hoped she would kiss him again.

She looked down, a faint blush staining her charming features. "Well, we were a little drunk that night."

"Aye," he agreed, his heart pounding against his ribs as he waited for her to go on.

"And I think…"

He leaned forward—closer to her—just a hair. "Yes?"

"I should probably find out if you're even better when you're sober."

He cocked his head, smile straining the muscles in his cheeks. "Oh, Swan. You have no idea."

~FIN~

A/N: Thank you so much for taking a look. I love hearing from readers (even on older stories), so feel free to leave your thoughts. XD