#almost something

Daylight should make him less destabilizing. It doesn’t. You’ve seen Jack Abbot under fluorescent lights, half-covered in blood, issuing life-saving orders without raising his voice. You’ve seen him at midnight with rolled sleeves and exhaustion carved into his face. You’ve seen him in candlelight, dangerous in entirely different ways. None of it prepared you for ten o’clock on a clear morning.

You’re ready too early.

Again.

By 9:32, you’ve already changed shirts twice, tied your hair up, taken it down, and checked the weather three separate times, even though you checked it before bed. The apartment feels too small for your nerves. You finally settle on fitted black leggings, a soft cream long-sleeve top, and light trail shoes, practical enough for the plan but flattering enough to feel intentional.

Comfortable. Clean. You tell yourself that’s all this is. Then you move to the mirror. Tinted moisturizer. Mascara. Nothing more. The version of you that belongs on shift only rested. You study your reflection for a second, then gather your hair into a loose braid. Simple. Easy. 

It’s a hike.

Not a first date.

The thought does nothing to calm your nerves.

Your phone buzzes.

“Here.”

Your stomach drops so fast it feels theatrical. You grab your keys and head downstairs before you can overthink anything else. The morning air is cool and bright when you step outside. And there he is. Parked at the curb like punctuality is, in fact, a personality trait.

He’s already out of the car. Of course he is. Dark trail pants. Fitted charcoal T-shirt. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. A backpack resting against the passenger-side door while he stands beside it holding two coffees. For one suspended second, your brain offers nothing useful.

Because this might be the most unfair he has ever looked.

Relaxed. Capable. Broad shoulders outlined in sunlight instead of hospital glare. No jacket. No button-down. No attending armor.

Just Jack.

His gaze lifts the moment you appear.

It moves over you once, quick, attentive, taking in your shoes, your clothes, the braid over your shoulder. Then it stills.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks momentarily unprepared.

The morning light catches in his eyes as they settle on your face.

You’re wearing the same minimal makeup you always do. Nothing dramatic. Nothing designed to impress. And yet the way he looks at you makes it feel like you stepped out of something sacred. Like the daylight found every soft edge of you and handed it back brighter.

Something warm and almost disbelieving passes through his expression. You know that look now.

It means he’s affected.

“You’re staring,” you say softly.

The dry tone saves him. Barely.

“You look different in daylight,” he replies.

You lift a brow. “Different good?”

His mouth shifts. “Dangerously.”

Heat blooms instantly through your chest. He holds out one of the coffees. You take it automatically. Iced shaken espresso. Oatmilk. Brown sugar. Exactly right. Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup. Of course it is. 

You glance at him over the rim. “Still unsettling.”

A faint shift touches his mouth. “That I’m consistent?”

“That you notice everything.”

His gaze flicks to the coffee in your hand, then back to you.

“Not everything,” he says quietly. A beat.  “Not yet.”

The words settle low in your chest, warmer than the coffee in your hands. He reaches for the passenger door, opens it, then lifts the backpack before you can. You glance at it. “That seems serious for a walk with an incline.”

“It is serious.” He says it with such complete sincerity that you laugh.

The sound clearly pleases him more than he intended to reveal. You slide into the seat.

He closes the door, rounds the hood, and gets in beside you. The car smells like coffee, clean air, and him. A dangerous combination. He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb with the same quiet precision he does everything else. For a minute, neither of you speaks. It isn’t awkward. It feels new. Sunlight moves across his forearms on the wheel.

You glance over and say in a teasing tone, “You really do own clothes that aren’t hospital-approved.”

“I own several.” He responds, teasing you back. 

“That many, huh?” You smile. 

“I’m not reckless.”

You laugh into your coffee.

He glances at you briefly, clearly satisfied with himself. The city gives way slowly to wider roads and early autumn trees. Gold begins at the edges. Wind moving through branches. The farther you get from the hospital, the lighter everything inside you feels. 

You shift in your seat. “So,” you say, “how intense is this hike actually?”

He considers the question. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re asking medically or competitively.”

You turn toward him. “That is the most Jack answer possible.”

“It’s accurate.” He replies. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. Then he answers,  “It’s moderate.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t trust that.”

“You should.” He shrugs his shoulders. 

“I definitely shouldn’t.”

A faint smile appears and disappears. The road curves through a stretch of trees. He reaches forward to lower the music slightly, something instrumental and low you hadn’t fully noticed until now.

“You can still back out,” he says.

You blink. “Of the hike?”

“Of spending several hours alone with me.”

You stare at him. “A bit late for that.”

“Not necessarily.”

You study his profile, the calm line of his jaw, the way he keeps his eyes on the road even while saying something that clearly matters more than he’s letting on.

Then you lean back into your seat.

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m exactly where I want to be.”

His hands remain steady on the wheel. But the muscle in his jaw shifts once. And somehow that reaction feels more intimate than if he’d kissed you again.

The trailhead is quieter than the city. No sirens. No overhead pages. No fluorescent hum vibrating behind every thought. Just pine-scented air, cool sunlight through the trees, and the distant rush of water somewhere deeper in the woods. Jack parks beneath a line of tall maples just beginning to turn. Gold at the edges. Fire beginning in the leaves.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he kills the engine and reaches automatically for the backpack in the back seat. The shift in him is immediate. Not colder. More focused. The same calm precision you know from the trauma bay, only softer here. Untethered from urgency. You step out into the crisp morning and turn slowly, taking it in. Packed dirt lot. Weathered trail map. A wooden sign marked with looping routes and elevation gains. Sunlight filters through the trees in long, clean bands. It’s beautiful. And unexpectedly peaceful. You hear the car door shut behind you. When you turn, Jack is crouched beside the rear tire, retightening the laces of one shoe. They’re not the heavy hiking boots you expected. Low-profile trail shoes. Lightweight. Built for movement. 

You glance down, then at the pack in his hands. “You really came prepared.”

He looks up once. “I told you it was serious.”

You laugh softly and step closer. “That bag looks like you’re planning to survive a small disaster.”

“I am.” He rises in one smooth motion and slides the pack over his shoulders. The movement shifts his shirt against his frame in a way that is deeply unhelpful. You look away before he catches you. Probably.

“What exactly do you have in there?” you ask.

“Water. Layers. Basic supplies.” He answers.

“That was suspiciously vague.” You press. 

“It was intentionally efficient.”

You narrow your eyes. “Try again.”

A faint flicker of amusement touches his mouth. “Extra socks. Skin care supplies. Wipes. Moleskin.”

You blink.

“Moleskin?”

“For blisters.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious.

Maybe it is. To him. Your gaze drops briefly to his prosthetic. Then back to his face. He notices. Of course he does.

“These shoes are lighter than boots,” he says before you have to ask. “Less weight with every step.”

Its straightforwardness catches you off guard. No discomfort. No apology. Just information. You glance at the shoes again. At the pack. At the quiet competence of all this preparation.

“You thought of everything.”

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.

Then he reaches into the open trunk and taps a folded pair of forearm crutches secured beside the spare tire.

“Backup plan.”

You stare at them. “You brought crutches?”

“In case of catastrophic prosthesis failure.”

He says it with the same calm tone he’d use discussing weather patterns.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That is an insane sentence to hear on a date.”

“It’s a practical one.” His mouth shifts faintly. Then the humor fades just enough for something more honest to come through. He adjusts one strap of the pack.

“When I first started again, it wasn’t this intense.”

Your smile softens. “Again?”

“Hiking.” He glances toward the tree line. “It started with short walks. Flat ground. Then longer ones. Then incline.” No drama. No self-pity. Just the measured truth.

“I had to learn what my body could do differently.”

The words settle quietly between you. You look at him—really look. At the preparation. At the discipline. At the time all of this must have taken. And something in your chest shifts. Not pity. Never that. Something deeper. Admiration sharpened by tenderness.

“This wasn’t casual for you,” you say softly.

His eyes return to yours. “No.” One word. Steady.

You don’t know if he means the hike or bringing you here. Maybe both. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. Leaves whisper against one another. You step closer without thinking and reach for the front strap of his backpack, smoothing a twist in it that didn’t need fixing. Your fingers brush his chest through the fabric of his shirt. The contact is brief. But not insignificant.

“You brought me somewhere that matters to you.”

His gaze drops to your hand. Then lifts again. “Yes.”

Your pulse stumbles. You let go slowly.

“So,” you say, trying for lighter and not quite managing it, “how hard is this trail really?”

A pause. Then, “Moderate.”

You laugh under your breath. “I still don’t trust you.”

A small smile appears. “Good. Stay alert.” He offers you his hand. Simple. Unforced. Like the most natural thing in the world. You take it. And together, you step onto the trail.

The trail narrows quickly, pine needles soft underfoot and sunlight breaking through the branches in shifting bands of yellow and gold. The air smells like earth, cedar, and the faint sweetness of leaves beginning to turn. For a while, you walk in easy silence. Not empty. Comfortable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes. Somewhere overhead, birds move through the canopy. The farther you go, the quieter the world becomes. Jack sets a steady pace beside you. Not too fast. Not cautious either. Just measured. Matched to you so naturally, it takes a minute to notice he’s doing it. When you do, warmth blooms low in your chest.

“You’re pacing me,” you say.

He doesn’t look over. “I’m maintaining efficiency.”

You laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You glance at him. Sunlight catches along the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the silver threaded through his hair. He looks younger out here somehow. Less burdened. Less carved into angles. More like the man beneath all the structure.

“You know,” you say, stepping over an exposed root, “most people flirt on dates.”

“I am flirting.”

You nearly trip. He catches your elbow before you can stumble, hand warm and immediate. His grip steadies you easily. You stare at him.

“This is flirting?”

“It's effective.” The corner of his mouth shifts. 

You shake your head, smiling. “Your methods need work.”

“I’ll consider feedback.”

“You really only have one line, don’t you?” You’re smiling before you can stop yourself.

“It’s not a line.” 

He lets go of your arm slowly. Too slowly. The place his hand touched feels suddenly overaware. The trail curves upward through a rocky incline. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make you focus on your footing. Jack steps ahead first, then turns and offers you his hand without comment. No flourish. No smirk. Just certainty that you’ll take it. You do. His fingers close around yours, firm and grounding as he guides you over the uneven stretch. When you reach level ground again, neither of you lets go immediately.

Then neither of you lets go at all.

You keep walking hand in hand, as it happened accidentally. Like neither of you notices.

Like, both of you are lying. The path opens briefly beside a narrow stream cutting through stone. Water slips over the rocks in bright, clear ribbons. You slow to watch it. He slows with you. No impatience. No need to keep moving.

“You’re different here,” you say quietly.

His thumb shifts once against your hand. “How?”

You think about it. “Lighter.”

He looks ahead toward the trees. “I come here when I need things quieter.”

The honesty in that simple sentence touches something deep in you. You squeeze his hand once before you can overthink it. His gaze flicks to you. Then down to where your hands are joined. Then back up. A question and an answer all at once. You keep walking. The trail rises again, steeper now. Your breathing deepens. He notices immediately. Of course he does.

“You need a break?” The concern is practical. Not patronizing.

You arch a brow. “Do I look like I need a break?”

“You look competitive.”

“That’s because I am.”

A rare, fuller smile appears. Brief. Devastating. “Good,” he says. “Keep up.”

You let out an offended laugh and pick up your pace. He could outdistance you easily. You know it. He knows it. But he stays exactly beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. With you. When the trail narrows again near a drop lined with brush and stone, his hand leaves yours only long enough to settle at your waist and guide you past the tightest section. The touch is practical. It is also absolutely not just practical. Heat flashes through you.

You glance back at him once you’re through. “That felt suspiciously unnecessary.”

“It was preventative.”

“Sure.”

His hand lingers one second too long before falling away. You both notice. Neither of you comments. By the time the trees begin to thin, your pulse is elevated for reasons that have very little to do with the incline. Ahead, sunlight spills brighter across the path. The trees thin gradually. Light shifts first—brighter, warmer—then the air changes, carrying open space instead of canopy. 

And then the trail opens.

The overlook stretches out in front of you, wide and quiet, the valley below painted in early autumn color. Gold, rust, deep green. A river cuts through it in a slow silver line, catching the sunlight in pieces.

You stop without thinking.

“Okay,” you breathe. “You win.”

Jack comes to a stop beside you. “I wasn’t aware this was a competition.”

“It always is.”

He glances at you. “I assumed.”

You step forward, closer to the edge, taking it in. It’s beautiful in a way that makes you instinctively quieter. Not fragile. Just… expansive. You feel him step in behind you, not touching, but close enough that the awareness is immediate.

“You come here a lot?” you ask.

“Enough.”

You nod slowly. “I can see why.”

A breeze lifts the loose strands of your braid, cool against your neck. For a moment, neither of you speaks. No need. Just the sound of wind, distant water, and the quiet presence of each other.

Then—“You brought me here on purpose,” you say.

Not a question. 

His answer comes just as easily. “Yes.”

You turn to look at him. He’s already watching you. There’s no deflection now. No distance. Just intent. Something in your chest tightens.

“This isn’t just a hike,” you say softly.

“No.”

A beat.

“What is it?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s me not pretending this is casual.”

The words land deep. Solid. You feel them settle somewhere you can’t ignore.

You take a small step closer. “So what is it, then?”

His jaw shifts once. Then he answers you without pulling anything back.

“It’s me choosing you.”

Your breath catches. Not because it’s loud. Because it isn’t. Because it’s said like a fact. Like something already decided. The world feels very still all of a sudden.

“Jack…” Your voice softens without permission.

He closes the space between you. Slowly this time. No urgency. No collision. Just inevitability.

His hand lifts to your face, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw before settling there. Warm.  Steady.

“You asked what the next three days look like,” he says quietly.

Your pulse stutters. “Yes.”

“This.” The word is simple. But the meaning behind it is not. 

You don’t think anymore. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. This one is different from last night. Less desperate. More certain. He meets you immediately, one hand still at your jaw, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you closer—not urgently, but like he’s allowed to now. Like he’s not holding back in the same way. The kiss deepens slowly. Deliberately. His thumb brushes your cheek once, then stills like he’s grounding himself in the moment. You shift closer, your hands finding his chest, then sliding up to his shoulders. He exhales softly against your mouth, and the sound alone is enough to send heat through your entire body.

When he pulls back, it’s not far.

It never is. Not anymore.

His forehead rests lightly against yours.

You tilt your head, studying him. There’s something softer in him now. Not weaker. Just… open.

The walk back feels different. Same trail. Same trees. Same filtered sunlight through the branches. But everything has shifted. Your hand stays in his. No pretense now. No pretending it happened accidentally. No pretending either of you forgot to let go. The path slopes downward, easier on your lungs and somehow harder on your nerves. Because now there’s no anticipation to hide behind. Only the reality of what’s already been said. What’s already been chosen.

You glance at him as you walk.

He catches it immediately. “What?”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.” You smile. 

A faint pause, “It was an effective location.” He replies, a trace of a smile on his lips. 

You laugh out loud. “There it is.”

He looks ahead again, but not before you catch the hint of satisfaction in his expression. The sound of the stream returns as you round a bend. This time, when you step across the stones lining the edge of it, you misjudge one slightly. Your foot slips. Not enough to fall. Enough to gasp. His hand is on your waist before the sound finishes, leaving you. The other is still anchored around your hand. You steady instantly against him. Chest to chest. Breath caught. For one suspended second, neither of you moves. The world narrows to warmth, sunlight, and the firm span of his hand at your side.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now.

You nod. Too quickly. “Yes.”

His eyes search your face like he’s checking for something deeper than balance. Then his gaze drops briefly to your mouth. Dangerous. You should step back. You don’t. Neither does he.

“You’re taking your time letting me go,” you murmur.

His gaze stays on your face. “Am I?”

Heat rises instantly to your cheeks. You look away first. “Don’t look at me like that.”

A beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Like what?” He asks, feigning innocence. Smug. Absolutely smug.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says quietly, still not moving back, “you’re still standing here.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching somewhere between nerves and want. Then, slowly, he guides you back to stable ground. Only once you’re steady does he let go. The absence of his touch feels immediate. Unfair. You continue walking, but closer now. Shoulders brushing every few steps. The easy quiet between you returns. Only warmer. At one point, he reaches into the side pocket of his pack and hands you a water bottle without breaking stride.

You stare at it. “You packed hydration support, too?”

“I packed for variables.”

You laugh and take another drink.

He watches you over the rim of his own bottle. Thoughtful. Unhurried. The look settles under your skin. By the time the parking lot comes back into view through the trees, a strange disappointment rises in you.

You’re not ready for it to end.

Apparently, neither is he.

Because when you step off the trailhead and onto the packed dirt lot, he doesn’t head straight for the car.

Instead, he stops beside the hood and turns toward you. The sunlight is lower now. Softer.

Everything was edged in gold.

“What?” you ask quietly.

He studies you for a moment. Like he’s deciding how honest to be.

“I had a very good time with you today.” Its straightforwardness steals your breath.

You smile. “That sounded dangerously sincere.”

“It was.”

You step closer. “So did I.”

Something in his expression eases. Not relief exactly. Something deeper. Like satisfaction earned. You glance at the trail behind you. He reaches up, fingertips brushing a loose strand near your braid back behind your ear. The touch is featherlight. Intimate enough to quiet every thought in your head. Then his hand lingers at the side of your neck. Not possessive. Just there. Grounding. 

His eyes hold yours. “We’re not done yet,” he says quietly.

Your pulse jumps. “No?”

“No.” A pause. “If you’re hungry, I know a place nearby.”

Warmth spreads through your chest. Not because of lunch. Because of the assumption tucked inside it. More time. More of this. 

You smile slowly. “Lead the way.”

His mouth shifts. Satisfied again. Then he opens the passenger door for you like it was never a question. And this time, when you get in, it feels less like the end of a date—and more like the beginning of the rest of the day.

"You're coming with me," Ruby announced as she banged into the flat. The front door crashed against the wall before closing behind her. Wearing a red knit sweater with a Christmas tree on it that actually lit up and arms heavily laden with shopping bags, she was the bright spot - literally - of Christmas Cheer that Emma was certain she did not order. 

It wasn’t that Emma hated Christmas or anything quite so dramatic. But if given the opportunity to skip directly to New Year’s Eve after Halloween, she would happily accept. There was no escaping how dreadfully lonely her life had become since she’d driven away from Storybrooke after - Nope, not going there. 

"We are getting a live tree this year! Get your jacket, let's go." Ruby continued, not waiting for Emma to acknowledge her. 

"Those are fire hazards. Plus, where would we put it?" Emma gestured at their tiny, crowded living space. 

Ruby grunted as she deposited the bags on the nearest chair. She grabbed Emma's boots and threw them at her, "Put 'em on."

Scowling and grumbling, she clicked off the TV and shoved her feet into her boots. 

It was impossible to deny Ruby anything. They came to the city together a few years ago to get over their broken hearts and discover a life outside of their small town. They'd helped nurse each other through the heartbreaks, acted as both wing-woman and excuse for one another - depending on what the night demanded, and endured the challenges of being artists in a big city together. Ruby had landed a part on an off-broadway play and Emma was in her second season at the New York City Ballet. It took several failed auditions, many pints of ice cream, and the constant support from one another to get them this far. 

"Let's burn down the building then."

"That's the spirit!" 

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

They drove for hours, leaving the city behind for the snow-covered, rolling hills of the upstate. While singing and dancing to old favourite songs, they passed several signs advertising various Christmas tree farms. Ruby would shake her head and drive by them. After the tenth one, Emma finally asked where they were going.   “I found the perfect farm online.” 

At Emma’s sceptical look, Ruby continued, “I promise, there is something special about the one we are going to," Ruby explained. "I can just feel it, you know?" 

Emma released a resigned sigh. Ruby was impulsive and spiritual, believing her intuition was a powerful force that should not be ignored. Emma needed something a bit more concrete to guide her decisions. 

Ruby slowed at a lane that was much like any other they had passed all day, except this one sported a faded red pickup truck with rounded fenders that was wrapped in fat, colourful light bulbs. A hand-painted sign welcomed guests to the Jones' Christmas Tree Farm for sleigh rides, hot cidre, hot chocolate, and to cut and carry home their very own tree from its stand on the stained wooden slats in the bed of the truck. 

As they bounced along the uneven lane, Ruby cleared her throat. “Don’t kill me…”

“No promises.” Emma tore her attention from the endless rows of firs and spruces lined outside her window to glare at her old friend. The ice in that glare would have stopped the hearts of mere mortals. But, this was no mere mortal. This was Ruby Lucas and nothing could hinder Ruby’s excitement once it gained momentum. 

Ruby smiled brightly at Emma and pulled a duffle bag from behind Emma’s seat. “I booked a cabin for us for the weekend. We were just saying that we needed a little break and they had so many fun things and, wait until you see the farm, it is beautiful!”

Emma had planned to set up a station on her couch and binge-watch garbage telly. Not spend a weekend on a farm, much less a farm that would doubtlessly be filled with families and couples buying trees the entire time. This was definitely worse than the countless movies featuring smiling men and women in red or green sweaters in front of a highly decorated tree that were beginning to populate every channel she surfed, right? Yes, she decided, it was. Ruby had driven her directly into the ridiculous small town that featured in the background of one of those ridiculous movies and was making them stay for the entire weekend. This was not what she had in mind when they were talking about their holiday. Sun, sand, and sangrias had featured in her dreams. Not snow, cidre, and Santa. 

“They’d better have hard cidre or spiked egg nog,” Emma muttered.

“Like I would spend a sober weekend in a cabin on a farm!” Ruby shot Emma a wounded look. 

Emma snorted and shook her head. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

“Oh, hush. This will be a weekend to remember.” 

The lane opened up to reveal a stunning farmhouse with snowy Christmas trees in rows lining the hills sprawling in every direction. A red barn stood out brightly in stark contrast to the white landscape. It would have been breathtaking, Emma thought, if not for the Christmas Village that stood before the barn under twinkling fairy lights.

"Our cabin better be out of town."

"Well...it is close to the Holly Jolly Tavern, I think." 

"RUBY!"

"I know how much you hate Christmas and we are changing that this year. Your heart will grow three sizes and Tiny Tim will live after all."

"Wait...am I the Grinch or Scrooge?" 

"Yes." Ruby laughed, throwing the car in park. "I'll check us in, why don't you go find your Christmas spirit?" She mimed taking a shot before getting out of the car and walking toward the farmhouse, leaving Emma in the passenger seat of the old car, quickly growing cold, wondering why she allowed Ruby to pull her into these ridiculous situations in the first place.

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The Holly Jolly Tavern was, thankfully, more Tavern than Holly Jolly. Sure, a decorated tree stood tall in the corner near the fire crackling in a large hearth and large multi-coloured bulbs were strung along the walls. And, of course, the drink specials had cutesy holiday names and instrumental Christmas songs played softly in the background. But, the bartenders weren’t dressed as elves or in tacky holiday sweaters and the tables and chairs were your standard sturdy wooden pairings found in drink establishments everywhere.

Emma sat at the long bar and scanned the wall of spirits trying to determine what best fit this situation. 

“What can I get you, love?” The low voice was charmingly accented, and it sent chills down her back. She turned toward the bartender and met brilliant blue eyes that stilled her heart. He wore a crooked smile that made her think very dirty thoughts about his lips and the amber scruff framing the sharp line of his jaw. 

“Whatever your favourite drink is,” Emma answered with a flirty smile. She thanked whatever gods were watching that her voice sounded steady, her mouth was suddenly so dry that she'd expected it to crack. 

He nodded at her request and started pulling together ingredients for her drink. She watched him at his task, mesmerised by his movements and the way he focused so completely on his task. She wondered what it would be like to have that focus directed solely on her and her pleasure. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought and turned away in an attempt to hide it, but his eyes danced with mischievous humour as he handed over her drink, telling her that she was caught. Luckily, he was kind enough not to comment. 

She studied the bright red drink, cranberries and mint floated in the glass, and a thin lime garnished the rim of the tall glass. It looked refreshing and exciting. She wondered if this was truly his favourite drink or a cocktail he had mixed for her using that special power great bartenders had - that uncanny ability to know exactly what a patron needed based on a single glance. 

“A Cranberry Mojito,” he told her, leaning on the bar before her. Her eyes lingered on his well-defined arms and the unfair way they were stretching his deep blue knit sweater. “What brings you here, um?” 

“Emma,” she answered for him, “And, oh, I don’t know. I guess that I have always dreamed of living in one of those ridiculous towns from those cheesy Christmas romances.”

“Pleasure, Emma. Killian,” he said in that musical voice. “I take it this trip wasn’t your idea, then?”

“Nope. My roommate surprised me as we were pulling in - Ohhh! This is good.”

He smiled in triumph at her approval. “The trick is making the simple syrup from scratch with fresh cranberries.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Emma said before taking another sip of the deliciously sweet and tart drink. “Is this truly your favourite drink?”

“Tonight, it is.” 

“Your tastes change so often?” She teased, her eyebrow lifting to emphasise her innuendo. 

“I’m not so fickle as that, love. I am partial to rum, but not so dull as to only take it one way.” Killian replied, meeting her gaze. The heat in the depths of his sapphire eyes made her stomach tighten in response. This man was too good to be anything but trouble. 

Mmm, but it would be some good trouble. 

“That looks fantastic! Can I get one, too?” Ruby’s voice shattered the tension building between them. 

“Coming right up, love,” Killian answered immediately. His eyes lingered on Emma’s a moment longer before he turned to mix Ruby’s drink.

“It’s a Cranberry Mojito,” Emma explained, turning to look at Ruby. “Here, try some while you wait.”

Ruby’s eyes were wide and she was biting her lips together tightly to suppress what Emma knew to be a wolfish smile. Emma shook her head subtly, pleading with Ruby to not say a word. Ruby nodded excitedly at her in approval of whatever she had read into the exchange she interrupted earlier. Emma frantically shook her head - whatever you are thinking, stop thinking it! 

When Killian returned, setting Ruby’s drink on the bar before her, Ruby pounced. “So, what is your name?”

“Killian,” he answered with amusement laced in the melody of his voice.

“And what does your girlfriend think of you making eyes with your patrons, Killian?” 

Emma sputtered and coughed as she tried not to choke on the sip she’d taken before Ruby’s obvious question. Ruby turned to Emma, earnest concern etched on her face, while her eyes danced with humour, “Are you okay, Emma? Need some water?” 

Narrowing her eyes at Ruby, Emma shook her head. Her breath was still taken by the liquid burning in her lungs. A few strangled coughs later, Emma ground out that she was just fine. Killian slid a glass of water to her anyway, the sweet gesture sinking Emma further into… well, whatever was happening between them.

“Good,” said Ruby briskly and she turned to Killian expectantly. 

“I’m not a man to make eyes with someone while involved with another,” his accent clipping the words. 

He hadn’t liked that accusation one bit. The realisation warmed Emma as much as the rum spreading in her blood. He wouldn’t cheat on her and leave her too embarrassed, too ashamed, to face the town she had lived in her entire life. He may be trouble, but he was honourable trouble and that she could handle.

“What kind of a man are you then, Killian?” Ruby asked. She sipped from her cocktail and pinned him with a look that dared him to rise to the bait. 

“Don’t do that, Rubes,” Emma snapped. Her temper was rising - she felt the need to protect Killian from Ruby’s intrusive questions. Killian sent her a grateful look before excusing himself to serve a man flagging him down on the other end of the bar.

“Ooh, you like this one,” Ruby whispered far too loudly as she waggled her eyebrows ridiculously. Emma could not help but laugh and the strange frustration that had so quickly risen in her dispersed.

“No. I just thought that was unfair of you,” Emma said simply.

“Mmhmmm.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at the disbelief in Ruby’s tone. “Fine. Think whatever you want.” 

“I do and I will.” 

“So, what is there to do in a Christmas Village?” Emma asked in a very smooth and effortless transition from the previous topic. 

Ruby perked up and started rattling off various activities that she had booked or seen on her walk over to the pub. Emma listened half-heartedly - her attention straying to the barkeep continuously. She caught him looking her way once and he sent her a devastating smile before returning to his work. 

He served them several more rounds as the night grew older, but he was unable to linger longer than getting their order or setting down their drinks as the Holly Jolly Tavern stayed busy once the sun went down. 

When they left, staggering into the night, Emma felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t seemed to notice her exit. 

Would it have been too much to ask for him to come out running to see her home safe like some Victorian gentleman? She snorted at that very drunk, very ridiculous thought and followed Ruby to the cabin she would call home for the next few days.

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The morning light flooding through the window woke Emma with little mercy for the pulsing ache behind her eyelids. Emma sat up and ran her tongue along her lips in a futile attempt to moisturise her extremely dry mouth. Groaning, she shoved out of the tangle of sheets and hopped with all the grace of a new-born giraffe attempting to stand for the first time. She managed to stay on her feet, just barely…and with the humbling addition of windmilling her arms. 

“Our Prima Ballerina, ladies and gentlemen.” Ruby’s voice was hardly more than a whisper and rough as stone - evidence that she was not fairing much better than Emma despite her teasing - as it rose from other bed in the room. Emma rolled her eyes and let out another groan when the movement was met with an angry wave of nausea. 

“What was in those mojitos?” Emma complained.

“I don’t think the ingredients were the issue so much as the quantity that we consumed.”

Emma muttered something incoherent and made her way to the toilet, lacking all the grace expected from a professional ballerina. She pressed a hand to her aching temple. She needed a cold shower and a greasy burger, then she could function.

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

“Snowshoeing? Ruby, what about me says would enjoy traipsing in the snow wearing tennis rackets strapped to her feet?” 

“Snowshoes have advanced so far from the tennis racket days of your imagination. It is just like hiking - you’ll love it.”

“I don’t like hiking,” Emma grumbled as they approached the red barn to meet with their guide - because apparently one needed a guide to snowshoe. They had never required a guide on the hikes Ruby had dragged her on. Emma was going to point out this little discrepancy when Killian stepped out from the barn with walking sticks and brightly coloured, boat-like contraptions in his hands. 

“Morning.” He greeted them with a smile that, again, did silly things to Emma’s heart and brain. "I'll be your guide today." He bent to put his shoes into the complicated series of straps of one of the contraptions and continued talking. Emma, however, heard none of it. The sight before her fully absorbed her attention. Surely, the way those tight, dark jeans were hugging his legs would have had that effect on anyone. 

"Down, girl," Ruby whispered.

“I just want to make sure I understand how to get strapped in," Emma lied most convincingly. 

"Mmhm, you get strapped in girl," Ruby teased, her eyebrows waggling suggestively.

Not that convincing apparently, Emma thought as she rolled her eyes. Her focus shifted to getting her boots in the snowshoes. She straightened, feeling a bit strange on her new appendages. She took a few tentative steps to get better acquainted with the sensation of floating on the snow for a moment before her weight caused the powder to compress under her foot. 

After Ruby had joined Emma with a few, less cautious test steps of her own, Killian nodded toward the rolling fields behind the barn, “Good, good. Are we all ready to embark on our stroll?”

Ruby’s enthusiastic confirmation drowned out Emma’s grumbled reply as Killian turned to lead the way around the barn and toward the snow-covered hills beyond.

The peaceful quiet which often accompanies snowy landscapes filled the spaces between them as they walked the perimeter where the fields met untouched woods. Even Ruby was oddly tranquil, as if afraid to disturb the calm scene and break whatever spell the snow had cast upon them and the world around them. The air was refreshing, crisp and pure and was doing far more for curing Emma’s hangover than any burger like the one she’d dreamt up earlier had ever done. 

“Ah, there it is,” the softness of the words in his gentle accent melted away the last of Emma’s headache. She fought back a smile; he likely won smiles easily from all the ladies he pursued. Emma was determined to be a bit more of a challenge, someone a bit more memorable than the other beautiful weekend women who undoubtedly awarded him with many smiles and, likely, other things… 

“There what is?” Emma asked with a bit more bite than she intended - the thought of other things had annoyed her more than she expected. She was flustered by her annoyance and feeling a wee bit crazy about the whole Killian situation, so she scanned the landscape - the side opposite of where he was standing, of course - and tried not to anticipate his answer.

“The moment the hangover relinquishes its hold and gives your day back to you.” Killian’s voice rolled over her. But, she suppressed her answering shiver and shot Killian a look that she hoped was annoyed and unimpressed. 

But, did he have to be so, well, whatever this was?

Killian’s raised eyebrow told her she had succeeded in giving him some sort of unexpected look, but the humour in his eyes told her he was on to her.  “That adorable little dent in your cheek gives you away, love.” 

Emma smiled despite herself at the absurd boyish grin he was wearing while looking at her cheeks. He was proud of himself for pulling this smile from her. And, it was silly and ridiculous, but it made her feel special. That was nonsense- wasn't it? This man, who she hadn’t known for more than a few drunken hours, could somehow make her feel seen. She could not recall feeling seen by anyone… other than Ruby, perhaps. It was disconcerting and perhaps even a bit lovely, which was a mixture Emma had no idea what to do with so she shoved it away. "I am sure that I have no idea what you are talking about," she said in the most deadpan voice she could muster around the smile she could not suppress as easily as she had done those with those complicated emotions.

"Oh? There are two of them!" Killian's eyes danced, playfully, as he scanned her face, his own was the very picture of comical shock. Her smile, which apparently had a mind of its own now, spread further. Killian's gazed caught on her cheeks, "your dimples are adorable... It'll be my mission to bring them out every time I see you this weekend." 

A silly little flutter in Emma stomach responded to the promise in his words; she was excited to see the ways he attempted to make her smile. 

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The snow started falling lazily, at first. 

Quiet little flakes gently settling on the dark head of hair Emma was absolutely not staring at during the rest of their snowshoeing adventure. He was the guide, so obviously she was looking in his direction. And so, she just happened to notice how the first small flakes that rested softly in the thick hair she was not imagining combing her fingers through. The flakes melted so quickly, they hardly seemed threatening. 

Killian's face turned sombre, "Sorry, loves. We will have to turn back now." 

"It is just a few flurries," Ruby protested. 

"All the worst blizzards began with a few flurries, lass." And, welcoming no further argument, Killian led them back to the barn. Ruby huffed and mumbled a few unflattering words before she joined Emma in following behind him. 

By the time they returned, the peaceful flakes had been replaced by biting wind and angry stings of ice that made it difficult to see even a few steps before them. Killian pulled open the barn door and they rushed in, eager to get a break from the winter storm that had grown up around them. 

"A few flurries?" Emma said in the quiet of the barn. Ruby let out a sound between a groan and a laugh as she threw herself into a thread-bare couch that accompanied a battered and worn coffee table and equally pitiful love seat. 

She handed back her borrowed snow shoes to Killian, who indicated for her to make herself at home before disappearing to put away their equipment presumably.

"Only the two of us could go for a quiet getaway for a few days and end up in the middle of a snow storm."

"I know. Remember that time we tried to go on a harbour party cruise?"

"The first hurricane in a decade!" 

"The only good luck we've ever had was finding each other."

"Oh, I don't know...," Ruby's voice dropped quieter, "looks like you might stumbled upon some of that Irish luck."

"Wow, that is a bit of a strained segue,"  Emma deflected very smoothly. 

"That man looks at you like he wants to have you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner - you have to wonder how that translates into the bedroom." Ruby was never one to drop a topic easily. 

Emma hummed in agreement, but was luckily saved from responding by the sudden appearance of the topic of conversation himself. 

“Cocoa?” Killian asked, holding a tray of steaming mugs with a smile that somehow managed to be both charming and completely disarming.

Emma took one, her fingers brushing his arm as she did. “Thanks,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. She focused on the warmth of the mug seeping through her hands as Killian walked over to offer Ruby one of the remaining mugs.

Despite having sat up to sip at the warm cocoa, Ruby managed to stretch out so the only available seat was on the warn loveseat. Completely innocently, Emma was sure. Ruby raised her mug with a wicked smile - “To snowstorms and Irish charm.”

Killian chuckled, settling next to Emma. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The barn creaked softly as the wind howled outside, its old wooden beams groaning like a ship at sea. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cocoa and cinnamon, and a small space heater thawed their frozen limbs as the cocoa warmed them from within. Emma sipped her cocoa, letting the silence stretch comfortably between them. It was the kind of quiet that invited conversation and companionship.

“So,” Killian said, leaning forward slightly, a teasing glint in his eye, “what brings you two out here? Besides mojitos and questionable life choices.”

Emma laughed, the sound surprising her. “Ruby wanted a Christmas tree.”

Ruby, still curled up on the couch, chimed in without opening her eyes. “The tree’s just a cover. We needed a break—from the city, from burnout, from life.”

Killian nodded, his gaze steady on Emma. “I get that. Cities can be loud. Out here, the quiet has a way of helping you hear yourself again.”

Emma tilted her head, intrigued. “Is that why you’ve settled here?”

He smiled, slow and a little sad. “Something like that.”

There was a pause, not awkward, but charged. Emma sipped her cocoa, her eyes drifting to his, fascinated by how well she could read them and how much of her own hurts she saw in them. “Are you always this philosophical with your guests?”

“Only the ones who look like they might run if I ask too many questions,” he said, his voice low and warm.

“What makes you think I’m the running type?”

Killian leaned in just a little more, his voice dropping. “Just a hunch. But I’m hoping I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” she said quietly. Killian’s expression softened, and for a moment, it felt like the barn, the storm, the world outside—all of it faded into the background.

Then Ruby stirred dramatically. “If you two are going to keep flirting like that, I’m going to need a blanket and a horror novel.”

Emma groaned and rolled her eyes, but Killian grinned, clearly unfazed. “I’ll see what I can do about the blanket.”

He stood and disappeared into a back room, leaving Emma with a heart that was beating far too fast for someone who’d sworn off romantic entanglements for life.

Ruby leaned over, her voice low and smug. “You like him.”

Emma didn’t deny it. “I don’t know him.”

Ruby smirked. “Exactly. That’s the fun part.”

Killian returned with a thick wool blanket and tossed it to Ruby, who caught it with a triumphant grin. Then he turned to Emma, his eyes twinkling. “There’s a fire pit outside. If the storm lets up, we could light it. Roast marshmallows. Tell stories.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re assuming the storm’s going to let up.”

Killian’s grin widened. “I’m an optimist.”

She sipped her cocoa, her gaze lingering on him over the rim of her mug. “Or just looking for an excuse to keep me around.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low and warm. “Maybe a bit of both.”

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The storm had settled into a steady rhythm —less wild, more a lullaby hummed by the wind. The fire pit idea had been abandoned. Instead, Killian had found a few old lanterns and strung them along the rafters, their soft light casting long shadows that danced across the wooden beams.

Emma sat cross-legged on the floor, her cocoa long gone, replaced by a glass of something warm and spiced that Killian had pulled from a hidden stash with a wink and a “don’t tell anyone about my secret stash.” Ruby had fallen asleep under a blanket, her soft snores adding a cosy soundtrack to the storm.

Killian sat beside Emma, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. They’d been talking for hours—about travel, music, the worst performances they’d ever given (Emma’s Nutcracker recital at ten was still a sore spot), and the best meals they’d ever eaten. The kind of conversation that meandered without needing a destination.

A pause settled between them. Not awkward. Just full of promise.

“You know,” Killian said, voice low, “I didn’t expect this. Any of it. Especially not you.”

Emma turned to him, one brow raised. “Not me how?”

He smiled, softer now. “Someone who makes me forget to be cautious.”

“I’m not exactly what you would call a low-risk investment."

Killian’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then we take it slow? One snowstorm at a time.”

Something shifted in the air. Emma felt it in her chest, in the way her breath caught. She looked down at their hands, almost touching. As if reading her thoughts, he turned his hand over. She laced their fingers together, and somehow, it felt like they’d always fit.

It was a small gesture. But it felt like trust.

Emma glanced down at their joined hands, then back up at him. “You know, this is dangerously close to a moment.”

Killian tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Dangerously close? I thought we were firmly in the 'healthy distance’ category.”

She smirked. “You’re holding my hand. There’s lantern lighting. Background storm ambiance. This is textbook moment territory.”

He leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling. “Should I be worried you’ve memorized the textbook?”

“I skimmed the chapter,” she said, shrugging. “Mostly for research purposes.”

“Of course. Purely academic.”

“Obviously." 

Slowly Killian reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a touch that was unexpectedly reverent. Emma held her breath and leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When she opened them, he was closer. Their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Their lips almost touched—almost—and then Emma pulled back, just enough to shatter the moment. Her voice was barely a whisper. “One snowstorm at a time, remember?”

“Aye. One at a time.”

Outside, the storm continued to quiet, as if the world was giving them space to figure out what came next.

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

Emma woke up warm.

Not just physically warm—though that was notable, given the drafty barn, her position on the floor, and her general inability to stay under a blanket for more than ten minutes. But the kind of warmth that followed a night where she didn’t have to brace. No clenched jaw. No half-waking panic. No mental inventory of exits.

She lay there for a moment, staring at the pale winter light creeping through the slats in the wall, waiting for the fear to surface.

It didn’t come.

She felt a lightness in her chest as she pushed off the floor - ooommff, probably should not have slept on wooden boards before the long ride back to the city. Tomorrow’s morning warmups would be a kind of self-inflicted torture.

The barn had transformed from a haven from the unexpected storm to a storage barn stuffed with seasonal decorations and furnished with things long retired from being acceptable in a home. It was easier to believe in this version of the barn.

She folded the blanket she’d mostly kicked off throughout the night and ran a hand through her hair. It felt closer to a forest creature parents warned children away from than artfully slept in, but there were limited choices available to her. She threw it into a plait and hoped it would remain tame.

She wondered where Ruby and Killian had gotten to. She followed the sound of low voices into the room Killian had disappeared into the night before. The smell of economical coffee greeted her moments before she stepped into a small utilitarian kitchen. Ruby and Killian were leaning against the countertop in conversation.

Killian looked up and smiled when she stepped into the doorway as if he’d sensed her in the hall. It was comfortable. Familiar. The heat in his eyes from the night before was replaced by friendly recognition. He didn’t cross to her or bring the intimacy from the night before into the room with them.

The touch of tension in her shoulders released. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he replied in unison with Ruby.

He handed her a mug of coffee. Their fingers brushed—brief, accidental, polite. He didn’t linger. Didn’t make a thing of it in front of Ruby. Emma approved. Absolutely. This was good behaviour.

“I just want it on record,” Ruby announced as if addressing a full auditorium of people, “that if either of you denies there was actual magic in the air last night, you are a liar and a scandral. Emma - if that is not a sign from the…”

“I need to check the village and other guests survived the impact of last night’s storm with as little injury as possible. I’ll be at the bar so you can hand back the keys to your cabin and make you a warm drink for the drive back?” Killian cut in smoothly.

Emma shot him a relieved smile as he exited the small space. A man who didn’t turn an almost moment into a morning declaration. Refreshing.

“Soo…?” Ruby pressed, eyebrows wriggling absurdly. She should follow Killian’s example and not push Emma to talk about something that didn’t happen.

“Nope,” Emma responded, popping the “p” as she left to pack her things and shower the barn floor off her skin.

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The shower was exactly what she needed. The water was just shy of burning, with enough pressure to ease some of the lingering morning stiffness. She rolled her head to one side and let the jet work at the knot there before switching sides.

She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes, staying under the spray until the heat faded from scalding to merely warm. Wrapping a plush towel around her chest, she stretched out on the bed and let herself drip-dry in the heat of the room. These cabins were oddly luxurious for a Christmas movie set come to life; she had to give Ruby that.

She dressed for comfort for the long ride home, tucked her things back into the duffle Ruby had sneakily packed for her, and left her room to meet Ruby in the shared living space.

“So, are you—” Ruby began.

“Ready to go back home and get back into training for the upcoming season?” Emma supplied. “Yes.”

Ruby grinned. “Coward.”

“Survivor,” Emma corrected, heading for the door.

The walk back to the tavern was quiet, snow crunching underfoot in that satisfyingly dramatic way it always managed. The storm had left the world looking fresh and crisp, like a duvet pressed flat in a period piece about old families and the people who served them.

Killian was at the bar when they stepped inside, sleeves rolled up, already moving with the easy familiarity of someone back in their own space. He glanced up when the bell over the door chimed and smiled.

It was the same smile as earlier. Warm. Kind. And…lacking.

“Keys?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Ruby handed them over. Emma hadn’t wanted to risk a brush of fingers igniting a declaration that hadn’t come that morning.

“Latte for the road?” he offered.

“Yes, please,” Ruby said immediately.

Emma hesitated half a second longer than necessary. “Sure.”

He poured without comment, sliding the cups across the bar. No teasing. No loaded looks. No suggestion that last night had been anything other than what it was.

Emma wrapped her hands around the cup and felt that familiar easing in her chest again. Good. This is good.

Ruby excused herself to the restroom before the long drive ahead.

Emma watched her go, suspicion briefly gnawing at her stomach, but she might as well take advantage of the moment. “I’m glad the storm didn’t cause any damage,” she said.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” Killian replied easily. “We’ve endured worse.”

She nodded. Of course, he had. This place felt built for people passing through bad weather.

“Well,” she said, lifting her cup slightly. “Thanks. For everything.”

He met her gaze, steady and unreadable, and smiled again. “I’m glad you came.”

She waited—for the plea, or the careful talk that would tighten the bonds around her.

It didn’t come.

Ruby returned, and they left with warm cups in hand, back to the car and the life they’d stepped away from for the weekend.

I’m glad you came.

No come back. No next time. No when can I see you again. No carefully placed opening she had to close herself.

I’m glad you came.

The drive away felt lighter than she expected, their voices rising over the music crackling through the old speakers. The smallest fir tree sat wedged securely in the seat behind them.

When the city came into view, Emma stared at the familiar skyscrapers and wet streets of the place she’d begun to call home. It felt like someone had turned down the saturation of the weekend; grey crept back in at the edges.

Later, in the quiet of her room, a quiet string of thoughts interrupted her routine.

He hadn’t asked for her number. He hadn’t suggested staying in touch.

He’d been open the night before. The entire weekend, really—forward and available in a way that had felt effortless. Emma frowned, just slightly. The relief from the morning suddenly felt off.

Then the realisation followed, slow and precise, settling heavy in her chest.

He had wanted more. He’d simply refused to demand it from her.

He’d said one snowstorm at a time, like it was patience instead of permission.

Emma exhaled and lowered herself to the floor. The sounds of the city filled the room—predictable, constant, safe. Home.

He’d given her exactly what she’d wanted. No complications. No promises. No mess to clean up later.

She’d done this before. Refused to drag weekend warmth into weekday reality.

Only this time, the relief felt…hollow.

But, she hadn’t lost anything. He hadn’t demanded or taken anything from her. 

She had just…declined to crack the door open.