Something’s not right. He has to be hearing things, isn’t he? The house to the left of his is vacant, and the one to the right is the home of his neighbor and her son, the latter of whom should be resting as much as he can before the beginning of his school year. 

What reason would he have to be playing the recorder this early in the— bloody hell, he thinks to himself. Yesterday was the first school day for the year. He should have remembered considering the extensive adjustments he's had to make to his schedule from lessons over the summer. 

Killian doesn't know all that much about Henry Swan and his mother. They'd moved into the house next door last fall and the lad had introduced himself not long after. He knows that Henry is about nine or ten years old, is a student at Storybrooke Elementary School, and is a Star Wars fan, judging by the number of printed t-shirts he's seen him wearing when they come across each other arriving to and leaving their respective houses.

He knows just as much, if not even less, about Emma Swan. Only that she works as a sheriff's deputy for her older brother, and favors beanies and leather jackets during the fall and winter months. Killian assumes that she’s single considering she and Henry are the only two occupants of the house, and he’s never seen any visitors there aside from her family.

Which is a relief, because he's also infatuated with her. 

Perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch considering the few interactions they’ve shared. Killian is aware that he doesn’t exactly know her well enough for any type of infatuation to really exist. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s managed to make him feel like an awkward schoolboy who can’t maintain some sense of dignity around a girl. 

Their most recent interaction had taken place the Monday prior; he was getting ready for his morning run when Emma returned from what he assumed was the night shift at the sheriff’s station. She’d given him a brief smile and waved as she unlocked her front door. He was so surprised that he tripped and almost fell over his shoelace that he’d forgotten to tie thanks to the unexpected gesture.

(It was hard to tell whether she noticed. He’s hoping the answer is no.)

All of this to say, he likes the Swans. But he’s not sure just how long he’ll be able to tolerate what has to be Henry and his recorder, especially this early in the bloody morning.

Of all the songs in the world, what would bring him to choose “Hot Cross Buns” anyway?

 Killian gets his answer a few weeks later. Every afternoon since the end of the school year save one or two (plus a few choice mornings), he’s been treated to the sound of Henry attempting to play a number of different songs, each one a tad more annoying than the last. There’s been “Yankee Doodle,” “Skip to My Lou,” and, oddly enough, “Jingle Bells.”

Something has to be done before Henry tries to learn “Baby Shark.”

He knows he should act his age and learn to embrace his young neighbor’s new hobby. (Or buy a good pair of earplugs.) After all, Henry’s a child, and Killian is glad he’s chosen to dedicate part of his free time to learning music.

But he really needs to choose a different instrument.

It’s what leads him to knock on the Swan’s front door on a Saturday morning a month into the school year. Emma and Henry are both home judging by the yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in the driveway and the squeaky recorder notes coming from an open window on the second floor.

Emma answers the door. Her blonde hair is tied into a messy knot on the top of her head, and she’s sipping coffee from a bright red mug and wearing running shorts and a faded t-shirt that he’s willing to bet are her pajamas. 

He’s never felt more attracted to her. But that’s not the reason he came by.

“Oh, hi, Killian,” she greets him, eyebrows shooting to her hairline. Her reaction makes him consider if he should have given some kind of notice before coming over. 

“Good morning, Swan. I’m sorry to bother you this early, but I heard the lad playing and assumed you were both up.”

“Yeah. He’s been at it for a while.” Emma bites her lower lip and glances back and forth from him to the staircase he can just make out behind her. “I’m really sorry if he’s been annoying you with the music recently. I’ve suggested he only play later in the afternoon, especially since I've been trying to have the windows open more often so we don't have to keep running the air conditioning, but he always makes some comment about liking to start his day off with music, and I hate to discourage him when he’s finally found a hobby he’s enjoying.” 

Hearing these words causes Killian to feel guilty for being irritated with Henry’s playing, but it also makes the reason he came by seem even more appropriate. “Think nothing of it. I’m quite happy to hear the lad has taken an interest in music. But if you don’t mind my input, lass, I think he could do well with a more versatile instrument that allows him to explore his capabilities even further.” It’s the nicest way he can think of to discourage her son from ever touching a recorder again.

Emma is quiet for a moment, brow furrowing as she contemplates his suggestion. “I don’t think I understand— oh!” A look of realization crosses her face. “That’s right. You’re a musician, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and he’s great!” The face of Henry Swan pops up behind his mother; he’s already almost as tall as she is. “Hi, Mr. Jones,” he says. Killian smiles at him before he turns back to Emma. “Remember, Mom? He played with some other parents at the last school fundraiser. You were there.”

Killian remembers the night in question vividly. He and a handful of other parents who played music had been asked to perform a selection of songs at Storybrooke Elementary’s annual spring event. (Emma had worn a tight red dress and heels. He was playing the piano and had come close to butchering the opening of their first song when he’d noticed her.)

She remembers the event, too, if the blush on her cheeks is anything to go by. “Yeah, kid, I remember. I just...haven’t had enough caffeine yet this morning.” She takes a long sip from the mug she’s holding as if to prove a point. 

“Aye. Well.” Killian pauses, the shift in conversation having made him briefly forget the purpose for his visit. “I was just telling your mother, Henry, that I’m quite glad that you’re interested in playing music. I didn’t know how you felt about possibly trying other instruments as well? Guitar, piano, saxophone, triangle…” he trails off. 

He knows the bare minimum about saxophones and doesn’t think Henry would actually want to play the triangle. But he’ll offer to give him harmonica lessons so long as he never touches a recorder again.

Henry considers his suggestion. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Miss Greene just gave us the recorders to take home so we could practice.” (Killian knows of the Miss Greene he is referring to, and resists the urge to message Tink and suggest she not guide her fourth graders in that direction ever again.) “I guess it would be cool to play something else though.” He smiles up at Killian. “Do you think if I tried to play the piano that I could be as good as you someday?”

Killian’s heart swells with pride at the boy’s admiration. Truth be told, he’s been complimented for his talent on numerous occasions by all kinds of people from different walks of life. But something about hearing his abilities praised from a ten year old with excitement in his eyes means more to him than any recognition has in quite some time. 

“Perhaps,” he tells Henry. “If you utilize as much practice and dedication as you seem to be doing for that recorder, I’m sure you’ll be a seasoned pianist in no time.”

Killian is so thrilled by the smile that spreads across the lad’s face that he almost misses the wince that crosses his mother’s. 

Almost. 

“Henry…” she starts, her eyes turned down to the ground, and Killian’s eyes are drawn to her hands wringing in front of her. 

“What, mom? Mr. Jones wants to teach me how to play the piano, please let me learn how to play the piano!” 

The shadow of a smile crosses over her face, but it doesn’t stay. “It’s not—” she pulls her bottom lip up between her teeth, gently sucking on it for a moment before releasing it and finally raising her eyes to meet Killian’s. “We don’t have a piano, and, well… I don’t think we can afford to get one for him to practice on.” 

Henry’s expression, his shoulders, his excitement, physically fall. “But mom, don’t—” 

Killian doesn’t even let the boy pose his argument, because he already has the solution — hopefully a solution that works for all three of them. “That’s really not a problem, love,” he says, his smile growing when her bright green eyes start to sparkle with the hope he is giving her son. “As it happens, I just bought a new piano for the studio, so I have one that I’m hoping to get rid of. If you want it, it’s yours.” 

It’s not quite the truth: he has his baby grand in his living room, the one that he practices on himself; and he has the two uprights in his studio, one much newer than the other, and as much as he has wanted to replace the older one with an updated model, he hasn’t gotten around to it. Getting rid of one of them wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, and it would certainly clear up some space in the basement, though it would keep some of his students from practicing while he’s in another lesson.

But with the smile that grows across Henry’s face, and Emma’s to match it, the little white lie seems like the worst of his problems. Because, gods above, he has it bad for this woman. 

Moving the old upright piano from his basement to the Swan’s living room the following Saturday proves much more difficult than lying to them about it. It’s an adventure that requires his brother, Emma’s brother, and Emma — and not, he doesn't fall to notice, the man who he assumes to be Henry’s father, who shows up with the boy right as they’re struggling to get through the front door. 

Killian hates him before he even opens his mouth to speak, seemingly the only one to notice his run-down dark green pick-up truck parked by the curb while he stands in Emma’s entryway, trying to keep the piano from tipping over. The only one to notice him, sitting in the driver’s seat and making no motion to get out, even as Henry jumps down from the passenger seat and begins collecting his soccer gear from the back seat. 

“This thing really doesn’t look like it would be this hard to move,” Emma’s brother — David — grunts, trying his hardest to help ease the piano up over Emma’s front step. 

“Oh, come on, Nolan,” they all hear from behind them, everyone else finally noticing. “You having a little trouble with that?” 

“You know, Cassidy,” David calls out, and Killian notices a vein in his forehead popping out as they try to lift it from the bottom and up the single step. “You could always get your ass over here and be helpful.” 

Emma laughs from the other side of the piano. “Yeah, right.” 

The guy in the truck laughs louder, turning his head in a way that makes Killian sure that he’s staring at Emma. His words make him even more sure: “I prefer the view from where I am, actually.” 

“Asshole,” David says, either a bit louder than he meant or exactly as loud as he meant; Killian has a feeling it’s the second. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Henry asks, dropping his soccer stuff on the porch behind Emma. At least the lad has manners, Killian tells himself, finally guiding the piano into the entryway. He gets them from his mother. 

“Just stay out of the way, bud,” David tells him between gritted teeth, the three of them pushing the piano the rest of the way through the door. 

“Are you the lucky lad who gets to play this piano?” Liam asks once they’ve all made it into the entryway, Killian tossing one last glare towards Henry’s father pulling away from the curb as he closes the front door. When he turns to Henry, he’s beaming. 

“Yep! Killian offered to teach me so he could stop hearing me practice the recorder every morning!” 

The bluntness of Henry’s statement pulls a laugh from all of them.

 Henry takes to the piano like a fish to water, which doesn't surprise Killian in the least. The lad is bright, Killian has learned that just from talking with him during their time as neighbors, but when he is able to play most of his scales and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" by their second lesson, he knows he has stumbled upon true talent. 

And spending time with his mother certainly doesn't hurt, either. 

(The way her laughter carries through the open windows when Henry plays through a song brightens up his days in ways he didn't think was possible anymore, as well, but that's a secret he plans to keep to himself for a while.) 

But by the end of September, four o'clock on Tuesday comes by slowly, especially since his and Emma's schedules have apparently shifted so they're never coming or going at the same time, but when she answers his knock on her door, he immediately feels a calm wash over him. Sure, he feels his heart in his throat, and when she smiles at him and takes a step back to let him in the house, he can swear that he has never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. 

Shit, he's in deep. 

"Hello, love," he says, returning her smile as he steps through the doorway. 

"Hey, Killian," she says back, leaning back against the door to push it shut. "I, uh, thought I already said something to you, but Henry's not here right now." 

"Oh." He tries not to let his upset show on his face. This time that he spends with Henry Swan and his mother has become the highlight of his week, but since Henry isn't here, he assumes that means he should go home. 

But neither of them move. 

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it does every time he's found himself in this gorgeous woman's presence, and he counts the moments that pass through his heartbeats: one, two, three, four. 

"Where is the lad, if you don't mind me asking?" 

She shrugs, still physically blocking him from leaving. "He's with his dad." 

"On a Tuesday night?"

She looks down at the floor, holding out her hands out into her line of vision. "We’re going away next weekend with David and Mary Margaret, so it’s to make up for the time he’s missing. But believe me, he would much rather be here with you." 

“I’ve only ever heard him say good things about his father.” 

“Do you really think that he would tell a stranger about the bad things?” she snaps, and he reels back immediately, regretting ever bringing it up in the first place. Biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he tries to push memories of doing the same thing from his mind, tries not to think of all the times he wanted to tell someone other than his brother of the way he was being treated — and he, of course, remembers the embarrassment that came whenever someone tried to bring it up. 

Killian thinks back to the only time he’s met Henry’s father, after helping move the piano into their living room, and he begs once again that this man is nothing like Brennan Jones. 

“Of course,” he says finally, his voice soft with regret and the memory of his own father’s drunken escapades, and he swallows the memories down like bile. 

A beat passes between them, long enough to make Killian sure that he should simply excuse himself and go home, but it’s the last thing he wants to do. 

“Do you want to come in for lunch?” she blurts, her eyes quickly flitting away from his when he tries to find them. 

“Pardon?” He’s not thrown off by the question, really, as much as he is the sentiment. 

“I just — I feel bad that I forgot to tell you that Henry’s with Neal, and now you don’t have anything to do for the next hour, and I was already reheating some of Marg's soup and making sandwiches, so I can — you know what, just… forget it, forget that I asked—” 

“I would love to.”

The look on her face when she finally brings her eyes to meet him makes him sure that his acceptance is the last thing she expects. 

Her kitchen is much more welcoming than his, bright and colorful with the fitting smell of chicken soup wafting from it. "Grilled cheese alright?" she asks, moving past him towards the fridge after gesturing for him to take a seat at the table. 

"Is it ever not?" 

The twinkling laugh she lets out actually seems to brighten the kitchen even further, which he would not have thought possible. 

"I knew I liked you for a reason." 

If the words affect her nearly as much as they do him, she hides it well, moving daintily through the kitchen to gather the rest of the supplies for the sandwiches. He is thankful for the moment of silence that passes between them, noticing for the first time the soft music coming from a small speaker on top of the fridge — he half-recognizes the song, he thinks from Harry Potter? — as he regains his composure, settles the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

"What made you start playing music?" 

And just like that, the pounding comes back. It's an innocent question, one that he gets asked a lot, and one he usually brushes over with a mention of his mother and her affinity for the piano. But, in the welcoming warmth of Emma Swan’s kitchen, he finds himself wanting to tell her everything, wanting to tell the whole story for the first time in a very long time, all the broken bottles and broken promises and broken wrists, the happy songs and the sad songs and one too many damn funeral marches, the drunken spat with the drunken man that almost made him lose his hand, and the life of sobriety that he swore himself into, exchanging his hatred for one parent with his love for another. 

And then he hears the words coming from his mouth, a poisonous story uninvited into this space, into this wonderful woman's life, but it becomes the edited and abridged version as quickly as he can save it: "My father wasn't the nicest man, though he treated my mum the worst of all of us, and in order to find some semblance of peace in the world, she taught herself how to play the piano. And she taught me, too. Tried to teach Liam, but he was never very good at it. So it became a stress relief for me, and I just kept finding new instruments and learning how to play those to keep myself from spiraling, and when it came time for me to figure out my place in the world, music was the obvious answer." 

She hums from her place at the stove, slowly stirring the small pot of soup with a wooden spoon. The movement of her nodding head is small, almost enough that Killian wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching her so intently. Somehow, he can tell that she wants to say something, maybe has a story like his own that she’s trying to piece together into a semblance of something normal, and he doesn’t push her. 

“I get that,” she says finally, still not turning her attention away from the stove. He doesn’t mind; he’s not sure that he’s ready for that level of intimacy, for looking at each other while sharing their backstories — quite the jump from the casual neighborly hello’s and short conversations they have shared by this point. “That’s why I run, even though sometimes it makes me want to die. It was the only time I had alone when I was in—younger, and it’s still the only time I can do something and not be drowning in my own thoughts the whole time.” 

He wonders about her slip of the tongue, the eloquent way she caught herself —  and the way she straightened her back slightly as she corrected herself. 

But the last thing he wants is for her to question anything that he said, so he’s certainly not going to say anything, only watch her as she reaches into a cabinet to pull out two bowls, pouring some soup in each of them. 

“That’s how I am with the piano. When I sit down in front of it, it’s like my whole brain shuts down and there’s nothing except the music. My mum told me she was the same way when I got a bit older, and it explained why I would wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and hear her downstairs on the old upright the church donated to us. And Liam says the same thing about being behind the wheel of anything.” 

When she finally turns towards him, a bowl of soup in each hand and a smile on her face, he knows that he has finally found someone to understand. 

And he could not be more ecstatic that it is Emma Swan.

-- Part Two will post as soon as I finish it! --

He laughed, scratching behind his ear, and Emma grinned at the nervous tell. She’d won this round of their usual flirtatious, slightly scandalous banter, and she inwardly exulted. She was well aware that most of the teachers and half the students at Storybrooke High were wondering when the Freshman English teacher and the Junior English teacher were finally going to get together. She hated to disappoint them, but it was never going to happen. Killian had started out as her co-worker, then had wormed his way into the friend zone, and the next logical step would be a relationship. Emma didn’t do relationships. One night stands, yes. Casual dates, yes. Neither of those were in the cards for her and Killian since they were permanent fixtures in each other’s lives, hence the friend zone.

“So, are you chaperoning the dance?” Emma asked casually.

“I would love to, but it’s a Sadie Hawkins dance, and no lass has asked me.”

Emma glanced up to see Killian giving her his patented adorable pout. Nobody did puppy dog eyes like Killian Jones. Emma rolled her eyes. Nobody did eye rolls like Emma Swan.

“We’re talking about chaperoning.”

“A man still likes to be wooed, Swan.”

Emma barked out a laugh at his ridiculous antics. She saved what was on her screen, entered the grade into her online gradebook, and slapped her hand on the coffee table.

“Hit me!” she said.

A Hershey Kiss went sailing through the air, hitting Emma on the cheek and bouncing onto the floor.

“Apologies, Swan.”

Emma scowled as she threw the candy back at his head. “You did that on purpose!”

He laughed as he unwrapped another chocolate, and this time, he aimed for her open mouth.

“That’s 14 down, 76 more to go,” Emma sighed. “How about you?”

“Ten.”

“You could go faster if you did it all online. That’s kind of the point of the kids emailing the links to their papers? You know, teaching in the 21st century?”

“I prefer the old fashioned way, love,” he argued splaying both hands over his perfect stacks before him, “I need to print them out, to feel them in my hands. I can also grade them anywhere, whether or not there’s wi-fi. And finally, I have a system.”

Emma shook her head as she chuckled. He’d given her a long, rather boring overview of his “system” before, one that he swore kept him from being too harsh on either the best writers or the weakest. He tried to be fair and to bring out the best in each student, so really, how could she fault him?

She could, however, tease him.

“Well, old man, I guess someone has to keep the red pen factories in business.”

“There are factories that only make red pens?”

“Someone makes them,” she mumbled as she forced herself to focus on a poorly written introduction.

“I’m fairly certain the adult coloring book trend will protect the red pen market.”

“I never got that fad.”

“It’s supposed to be relaxing, Swan.”

“What’s relaxing about coloring the same damn flower with a million petals for half an hour?”

Killian laughed, the sound of it free and easy. Their conversations were always this way. Mostly ridiculous, brutally honest, and always fun.

“You know,” Emma told him, leaning back against the couch as she worked the kinks out of her neck, “studies have proven that students get stressed when they see the color red on their work. Why don’t you use another color?”

“Like what?”

“Anything, apparently, remember the adult coloring books? Use . . . I don’t know, purple or something.”

“Then they’d just get stressed when they saw purple.”

Killian scratched a C- across the stop of the paper he was grading with a flourish, then slapped his hand down on it. “Hit me!”

Emma tossed him another Hershey Kiss, and then the two of them fell into silent concentration. Killian absentmindedly rubbed the bottom of her feet with one hand as he ran the end of his red pen along the lines in front of him. He started to chuckle after a few moments and lifted the paper for Emma to see.

“Do you know what this is?”

Emma smiled as she leaned closer to the paper. “A list?”

“Aye. A list of every short story F. Scott Fitzgerald ever wrote. With the year each was published and in what literary magazine it appeared.”

Both Emma’s eyebrows rose. “And what point font is that?”

“18 in verdana.”

Emma laughed. “Do they think we’re idiots?”

Killian shrugged as he scribbled a note in the margin. Emma spun her laptop around for him to see.

“A list of every agricultural export from Costa Rica. 22 point font, comic sans”

Killian quirked a brow. “Looks like Nicholas Zimmer takes the prize for best padding of a term paper.”

Half an hour later, the floor was littered with an obscene amount of Hershey Kiss wrappers and the tiny paper tails that Emma knew she would keep finding in her carpet for at least a month. Her vision was swimming as she tried to focus on her laptop screen and Killian was stretching the fingers of his right hand with a grimace on his face. Emma stretched both arms above her head and her spine cracked.

“25 down. You?”

Killian rubbed at his forehead wearily. “22.”

“I told you it would go faster on your computer.”

“Technically, I went faster. You completed eleven in the last half hour, while I completed twelve.”

Emma waved off his argument. “Short term gain, Jones.”

“Oh really?” he replied, leaning over the coffee table towards her. “What about a little wager, Swan?”

“I’m listening.”

“If I finish grading my term papers before you, I get to pick out what you wear for the Sadie Hawkins dance. If you finish first, you get to pick out my outfit.”

Emma narrowed her eyes as she crossed her arms. “No way I’m letting you pick out my outfit.”

“Scared?” he teased with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Of course! You’re a man! I don’t want to get fired.”

He splayed a hand over his heart. “Swan! Do you not trust me?”

“No.”

He chuckled, setting her feet on the floor so he could come around the coffee table and settle in next to her. “I just have a need to see you as a stereotypical schoolmarm. You know, tight bun, glasses, a tweed skirt.”

Emma snorted. “Let me guess, tweed mini skirt with my shirt half unbuttoned.”

“Nope,” he argued, popping his p, “I mean, full blown schoolmarm. Maybe even a cardigan and a string of pearls.”

“Okay then,” she told him, giving his tight jeans and blue button up a once over. As usual, the top few buttons were undone on his shirt to let his chest hair breath. “And if I win this little bet, I want to see you go full blown nerd. Khakis, a sweater, bow tie, the whole nine yards.”

Killian gave her a smug grin. “You’re on.”

They shook on it, and then Emma’s head fell to his shoulder. “I guess this means we should get back to work.”

“I don’t know about you, but I need a break.” Killian picked up her Roku remote. “The Musketeers?”

Emma pouted. “You know too many of my weaknesses.”

He waved the remote in her face. “Just a few episodes, Swan, you know you want to.”

She scowled at him as she snatched the remote. “One episode, then it’s back to work.”

He flashed her a toothy smile as he rose and pulled her onto the couch with him. She curled up next to him, grabbing a blanket from the arm of the sofa. One episode turned into three, which turned into both of them drifting off. The next thing Emma new, sunlight was filtering through her curtains, and Killian’s chest was rising and falling beneath her cheek.

So much for getting back to work.

********************************************************************

Emma stifled a yawn as she walked up and down the rows in her first block class as her freshmen clicked away on their laptops to identify the dependent clauses in the list of sentences on their screens. She had a cup of coffee on her desk, but she was pretty sure it was cold by now. Her neck hurt too because Killian’s shoulder apparently didn’t make a very good pillow.

She paused just as she walked past Violet’s desk. The normally quiet and studious girl was laughing behind her hand, and was that the ding of an incoming message Emma had just heard from her computer? Emma spun back around, and Violet’s eyes grew large and round. The girl slammed her laptop closed, her face turning red and Emma almost felt sorry for her. She couldn’t have looked more guilty if she’d tried.

“I . . . finished early,” Violet stammered.

Emma held her hand out, “Let me see.”

Violet slumped as she turned the device towards her teacher. Emma opened the computer, and Violet’s grammar work was there on the screen. Yet down in the corner was the icon for the Discord app. Emma pulled it up and saw that Violet had been chatting with Grace three rows over. But one of her best students chatting in class in an app that wasn’t even supposed to be downloaded onto a school computer wasn’t what shocked Emma. What shocked her was the content of the conversation.

whiterabbit: saw somethin this morning

camelotgirl: what

whiterabbit: know how ms swan lives across the street

camelotgirl: yeah

whiterabbit: i saw mr jones leaving this am they hooked up!!!!

camelotgirl: no way mayb he was just givin her a ride

whiterabbit: no his car was at her place all night

camelotgirl: she does seem tired lol

whiterabbit: you know he wore her out 😜

camelotgirl: O.M.G

Emma knew her face was ten times redder than Violet’s. Which was saying a lot because Violet was currently the color of a tomato. Emma took a deep, slow breath, then released it and told herself not to panic.

“Violet, I would like to see you and Grace after class. In the meantime, you are to concentrate on the assignment and that is all.” Emma arched a brow at Grace, who also slumped in her seat. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Ms. Swan,” the girls murmured in reply.

Emma pushed Violet’s computer back to her, and forced herself to lengthen her spin and keep her voice calm. She finished the lesson, feeling relief surge through her when the bell rang. Grace and Violet, with heads down dejectedly, shuffled reluctantly to Emma’s desk.

“How did you girls get that app on your computers?” Emma asked. “You know social media of any kind isn’t allowed on school devices.”

She tapped her fingertips on the desk as she regarded the girls. Actually, the laptops were set up with all kinds of blocks and security settings, so whoever got around it was smart. Grace and Violet were good students, but they weren’t the computer hacker types.

“Do we have to tell you?” Violet asked, her lower lip trembling. “We don’t want to get him in trouble!”

Emma forced herself not to smirk. Violet had been dating Henry Mills for a few months now, and she had a strong suspicion he was the him. He was a good kid as well, but also entirely too smart. Not to mention his mother was the principal, which meant he had free rein of the school after hours. She’d also noticed him spending a large amount of time with Graham Humbert, the school IT guy. Emma had assumed it was because his mother had briefly (and notoriously) dated him, but it looked like Henry had other reasons for seeking the man out.

“No, you don’t have to tell me,” Emma said, leaving out the fact that she would be having a private conversation with his mother later. Violet visibly deflated. “But, you will be deleting that app immediately.”

She had both girls pull up Discord, and when their chat once again filled the screen, Grace turned to Emma.

“I only told Violet, and I promise I won’t tell anyone else. Your secret is safe with us.”

Emma let out an irritated breath before smoothing her features into what Killian called her “teacher face.”

“I appreciate that, Grace, but this illustrates why you can’t jump to conclusions. Gossip can do a lot of damage. Mr. Jones and I were grading papers together, that’s all.”

“Teachers pull all nighters?” Violet asked as her brows rose.

Emma chuckled. “Yes, sometimes. Term papers take a really long time to grade, so this is a very stressful time of year. That’s why I’m tired all the time.”

She gave Grace a pointed look then, and the poor girl turned a bright shade of red. “We’re sorry, Ms. Swan.”

“Apology accepted. Now, erase this app because if I see it again, I’ll have to write you up and send you to Mr. Humbert to get your hard drive wiped.”

She was fairly certain the threat of a hard drive wipe was more motivation for the girls than demerits.

**********************************************************************

Emma jumped when a to-go bag from Granny’s was plopped onto her desk. She rubbed her eyes wearily and blinked to clear the sleep from them. How had she fallen asleep so fast? It felt like the bell just rang to dismiss her kids to go to lunch. She looked up to see Killian standing there with a pleased grin on his face.

“Grilled cheese,” he told her.

“With fries?”

“Onion rings.”

“Good,” she said as she grabbed the bag, “I was just testing you.”

Emma bit her lower lip as she watched Killian pull up a chair and set his own Granny’s bag on her desk. School gossip had never bothered her before, but after the chat she’d read between Violet and Grace, she was tempted to ask him to eat lunch somewhere else. But how could she when he’d bought her favorite meal? Besides, it wasn’t the first time he had spoiled her this way. She’d completely taken advantage of his coveted third block planning period, yet he’d never complained.

“So how’s it going?” he asked, gesturing to her computer screen.

“It’s not,” she sighed. “I told you The Musketeers was a mistake. I’ve barely been able to keep my eyes open all day.”

He chuckled before taking a bite of Granny’s lasagna. She studied him as she dipped an onion ring in ketchup. If he was equally exhausted, he showed no evidence of it. His eyes were as bright blue as they ever were, his black dress slacks, collared shirt, and leather vest hugging his frame in a tasteful yet fashionable way. His hair was tousled, but artfully so, and she knew full well he’d spent time in front of the mirror to get it to look that way.

“What?” he asked after swallowing a bite of salad. “Do I have sauce on my shirt?”

She shook her head and smiled. “You just don’t look as tired as I do, that’s all, and it’s completely unfair.”

He shrugged and waggled his eyebrows. “What can I say? I’m devilishly handsome.”

Normally she would roll her eyes and throw him a witty retort, but today she was more aware of his flirting than usual. She glanced over his shoulder at the door that led to the hallway.

“Something is bothering you, Swan,” he told her seriously, “and it isn’t your fatigue.” He leaned closer. “You know you look lovely as always, right?”

Emma shifted nervously in her chair. “You probably shouldn’t say things like that at work.”

Killian’s eyes widened, but he quickly covered it with his usual charming smile. “Then I’ll just save it for tonight. I was thinking you could come to my place, and I could cook for you because God knows you need to be eating more than Pop Tarts and grilled cheese.”

Emma kept her eyes glued to her sandwich. “I don’t know. I was thinking I might just grade on my own tonight.”

Killian was silent for such a long time, that she finally lifted her gaze to his. There were times she got the uncanny feeling he could read her mind. Her heartbeat picked up, worried he would ask for an explanation, but instead he quirked his lips into a half smile.

“I won’t force feed you broccoli, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I just need to focus, that’s all,” Emma muttered before cramming another onion ring in her mouth.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “then how about you come over tomorrow night?”

Emma suppressed a groan. He was really going to make this difficult, wasn’t he? “I actually think we need to stop . . . you know, spending so much time together.”

Killian narrowed his eyes. “Where is this coming from?”

She let out a long, slow breath before telling him about the Discord chat she had stumbled upon. When she finished, his expression was unreadable. He just sat there, lounging back on that stupid plastic orange school chair as if she was an open book.

Oh, who was she kidding? He could always see right through her.

“Okay, Swan,” he finally said with a long, slow nod.

He rose from the desk and stepped right into her personal space, balancing both hands on the arms of the leather desk chair she had saved up money to buy herself. It was an extremely fancy chair that spun and rocked. Emma currently had it leaning back as far as it would go, and still Killian leaned forward, his nose almost brushing hers. His eyes, a darker blue than they had been when he first walked in, searched her face. His gaze flickered to her lips, and Emma wondered if he would kiss her. When he spoke instead, she was surprised at how disappointed she was.

“But the bet is still on,” he told her, voice low.

“The bet?” she winced when it came out high-pitched. Damn, she wanted to kiss him right now. What? No, he was her best friend! It wasn’t like that. It couldn’t be like that.

“The Sadie Hawkins dance?”

“That is a sexist and antiquated tradition.”

“Be that as it may,” he quipped with arched brows, “Storybrooke High is having one, and if I finish my term papers first, you owe me a schoolmarm outfit and a dance.”

“The bet was we had to wear whatever the other one chose. We never said anything about a dance.”

Killian leaned ever closer, turning his head to whisper in her ear. “I’m changing the terms. I want a dance.”

Emma swallowed, his close proximity sending a chill down her spine. “I am disinclined to acquiesce to your proposal,” she shot back, quoting one of his favorite movies.

Killian released the chair and stepped back, a crooked grin on his face. “We shall see about that. Good day, Swan.”

She sagged in her chair, her heart racing. It was as if she had thrown down a challenge, and Killian decided to rise to the occasion. No Emma, she admonished herself with a quick shake of her head, poor choice of words! She wet her lips, trying to calm herself down, but there was no denying it.

She had a thing for Killian Jones.

Which meant she had just lost her best friend. She turned to her desk with a groan and dropped her head to the hard surface.

***********************************************************************

Emma smiled when she saw the little bag of Hershey Kisses in her teacher box. She pulled them out and read the accompanying note:

75 down and only 15 more to go! I sense a schoolmarm outfit in someone’s future! Love, Killian

Her smile widened to a full blown grin as she dropped the gift into her messenger bag and pulled out her cell phone.

Thanks for the chocolate, Jones, but I see a sweater and a bow tie. 78 down. *mic drop*

Emma chuckled under her breath as she sent the text. She tossed her phone back into her bag and fished around for her keys as she headed down the humanities wing. She was surprised to see Violet and Grace waiting for her outside her door.

“What are you girls doing here so early?”

The teens glanced at each other nervously.

“We, um, wanted to talk to you,” Grace explained.

“Ok,” Emma replied as she unlocked the door. A tiny part of her worried that their private Discord chat had somehow become public, but she quickly pushed it away. After all, she had avoided Killian for a week now; their only interactions texts and the frequent chocolates left in her teacher box.

Emma entered the classroom, flipped on the lights then dropped her bag beneath her desk. She plopped into her chair and spun to face her students.

“I’m listening, ladies.”

“Well . . . “ Violet began hesitantly, “you see, we’ve been thinking, and . . . um . . . I mean, we noticed -”

“We think you should ask Mr. Jones to the Sadie Hawkins dance,” Grace blurted out.

Emma’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry . . . what?”

“It’s all our fault,” Grace hurried on, “that you won’t hang out with Mr. Jones anymore. I mean, everyone knows you’re together all the time - “

“- until now,” Violet put in.

“Exactly!” Grace nodded. “And Mr. Jones just hasn’t been the same. He’s really sad.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Girls, I seriously doubt Mr. Jones is pining over me or anything. We’re just friends. And I haven’t stopped hanging out with him, we’re both just busy.”

She pulled her laptop out of her messenger back and opened it up on her desk, expecting that to be it, but the girls lingered. She glanced up at them with raised brows.

“You’re wrong, Ms. Swan,” Violet said softly, “he really is sad.”

“How do you know this? You’re freshmen, he teaches juniors.”

“Henry said so.”

Emma frowned at Violet. “Your boyfriend told you his teacher is sad?”

“Well, yeah. Henry wants to be a writer, and he’s always hanging around after school because of his mom, so he’s gotten to know Mr. Jones really well.”

Emma bit her lip as she regarded the girl. She was well aware of the bond between Killian and Henry Mills. The boy had even let Killian read a few of his short stories.

“And everyone’s noticed the yearning looks and doey eyes,” Grace added with a smirk.

Emma scoffed. “I don’t yearn.”

“But he does,” both girls said at the same time.

********************************************************************

Killian Jones was well aware of his tendency to brood. He used to argue when his brother Liam would accuse him of it, but now? Now there was no sense denying it. He was brooding, melancholy, angst-ridden, and a thousand other synonyms for dramatic and pathetic. He was a grown man acting like a teenager in a Disney Channel movie.

He threw his red pen down on his desk in frustration, realizing that his mind was a thousand miles away from Emily Dickinson and her dash-filled poetry. He was so close to finishing his term papers - just five to go - and he’d never wanted to win a bet so badly in his life. He’d missed Emma terribly even though it had only been a week. If he won the bet, maybe he could at least get one dance.

How many synonyms were there for pathetic?

There was a knock at his classroom door, and he wearily called out for the person to come in. He was thinking of leaving anyway. It was past five, and he obviously wasn’t getting anything else done today.

Henry Mills appeared tentatively in the doorway, and Killian grinned.

“Good afternoon, my boy, or should I say good evening? It’s late for you to still be around.”

Henry came closer to his desk with a shrug, and it was only then that Killian realized he was carrying a large shirt box.

“I went home, actually, but Violet and Ms. Swan asked me to bring this to you. Mom said you were still here, so . . . “

The boy trailed off as he set the box on Killian’s desk. Killian narrowed his eyes as he stood and regarded the box.

“Ms. Swan in league with your girlfriend? What’s all this about?”

“Beats me,” Henry said, “I’m just the messenger.”

Killian lifted the lid on the box, and inside was a pair of khaki pants and a gray cardigan sweater with huge brown buttons. Resting on top was a red bowtie and a note. Killian picked it up and opened it to find Emma’s messy handwriting.

90 term papers graded, Jones. I win. So will you go with me to the Sadie Hawkins?

**************************************************************

“It’s totally unfair, you know,” Emma told Killian as she entered the gym on his arm.

“What’s unfair?”

“That you still look hot dressed like a nerd.”

“I told you,” Killian quipped with a waggle of his eyebrows, “I’m devilishly handsome.”

Emma laughed and smacked him in the chest.

“I have to say, Swan,” he said giving her an appreciative gaze, “you cut quite the figure in that dress.”

She was dressed in a much softer, feminine way than was normal for her. Her dress was pink with an A-line skirt that hit her knees. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail that she had curled with a curling iron. To be honest, she had never had a date to a school dance before. So maybe this former foster girl was indulging in a childhood fantasy; at least she knew Killian could understand that.

“Why thank you,” she told him, a blush staining her cheeks. “You’re not disappointed about missing out on your schoolmarm fantasy?”

Killian grinned brightly as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Oh, I have multiple fantasies, Swan.”

She was completely incapable of a come back when he looked at her that way. She bit her lower lip, her gaze drifting to his mouth.

“Oh for the love of God, just kiss already!”

The two of them jumped apart, faces flaming to see their boss Regina Mills standing there, her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She had traded in her everyday sensible pantsuit for a sensible dress skirt instead. The two of them held their breath, worried they were about to get a lecture on school romances, but Regina just rolled her eyes at them.

“Just keep it PG, ok? Now get to the punch bowl already!”

Grace and Violet may have kept the topic of their Discord chat a secret, but they didn’t do the same about Emma asking Killian to the dance. All night, kids were coming up to tell them how cute they were together. Emma felt her face had turned as red as the punch.

Halfway through the evening, the DJ called them out by name to come out on the dance floor. The hoots and cheers of the students as Killian led her out to the middle of the gym floor was deafening. He rested one hand at her waist and clasped his other one with hers as Christina Perri’s “The Words” began to play. Emma breathed a sigh of relief when students drifted onto the floor as well.

“You don’t like being the center of attention, do you?” Killian teased.

“Not exactly,” Emma laughed.

“Well, unfortunately, you need to get used to it.”

Emma tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because there’s no one here as beautiful as you.”

As cheesy as the line was, for the second time that night, he had left her speechless. Emma’s only response was to release Killian’s hand so she could wrap her arms around his neck and pull him closer. He grinned in response, wrapping his arms about her waist. The song was winding down, and several of the students noticed how they had drawn closer together. The hoots and cheers from earlier filled the gym. Killian arched a brow at her, and Emma’s eyes widened. What was he up to? She let out a small yelp when he suddenly dipped her, winking down at her. The cheers of the students grew even louder, and now many of them were chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Emma almost panicked when Killian pulled her closer when he lifted her back up. Yet the kiss he gave her was only a brief brush of lips against her cheek, and she sighed in relief. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him - God, did she want to! - she just didn’t want their first kiss to have an audience, especially an audience they had to see every single day.

So when the song ended, Emma tugged Killian through the crowd, away from the punch bowl. The dance committee had borrowed sets from the drama club’s last production of Oklahoma! for the night’s western theme. She yanked Killian behind a giant mural of a Conestoga wagon and beneath the bleachers.

“Making out under the bleachers, Ms. Swan?’ Killian admonished with an exaggerated frown. “I’ll have you know I’m a gentlem-”

Emma cut him off, yanking him forward by the front of his sweater, and crashed her lips into his. He was clearly surprised at first, but he caught up quickly. Kissing him was just as good as she had always imagined, his lips soft yet firm, and one of his hands tangled in her ponytail. Emma tilted her head, deepening the kiss, and she swore his tongue tasted like Hershey’s chocolate.

They could have stayed there behind those bleachers, kissing until their lips were swollen, but they both knew they would be missed. And getting caught making out would definitely not be PG. So she and Killian made their way back to the punch bowl, their fingers threaded together, sharing ridiculously sappy smiles.

The rest of the night was like one of those teen rom-coms Emma used to hate. Killian draped his sweater over her shoulders as they walked from the gym to his car, and her foot might have popped like Mia Thermopolis when he kissed her goodnight at her door. Despite kissing under the bleachers, he hadn’t been kidding. He was a perfect gentleman. And Emma literally swooned against the door after telling him goodbye. She waited for the fear to grip her. Fear that she’d let him in too fast. Fear that he wouldn’t stick around. Fear that their friendship would be ruined. But the fear didn’t come.

**************************************************

“Hit me.”

Killian Jones grinned, unwrapped a Hershey Kiss and tossed it into Emma’s open mouth. She ate it with an exaggerated moan, then licked her lips suggestively. He leaned across the coffee table and captured her lips in a deep kiss, tasting the chocolate on her tongue.

By the end of the night, there was an obscene amount of foil wrappers littering the living room floor, and Killian knew they would be finding those tiny paper tails in the carpet for the next month.

So did the bodies of the boys in her first period class, he’s sure. Wait a minute . . .

“Your second period class, Emma?” he asks in alarm, rising from his desk.

She’s still leaning seductively against the door frame, one arm draped over her head, the other propped on her hip. It should look ridiculous, but it just . . . doesn’t.

“What about it?” she asks flippantly.

Killian stops a few feet away, thinking that’s probably the safest distance. “Um, you’re supposed to be teaching American Lit right now?”

Emma pushes off from the door frame, pulling the door shut behind her and leaning against it. Her chest heaves in a very distracting way in her tight dress.

“It was incredibly dull, so I told the children to read quietly.”

Killian arches a brow. “Incredibly dull?”

“Yes,” Emma pouts, coming closer.

Her legs go on for days in that dress and in those heels. He looks out the window quickly and thinks of England. He swallows, trying to remain calm as her hands reach out to rest upon his chest. Incredibly dull? He has never heard Emma talk that way.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Killian bites his lip as he turns his gaze on her. “Sure, love.”

Her hands slide up his chest and wrap around his neck.

“I’ve had a little crush on you for a long time.”

The breath rushes out of his lungs. He’s longed to hear her say that for so long, probably since that stupid faculty meeting back in July when he’d been a complete wanker trying to get her attention. Despite the euphoria he feels at her words, alarm bells are going off in his brain. He glances over Emma’s shoulder at the door, which is mostly glass. Anyone walking by could see them.

“Emma,” he says gently, removing her hands and taking a step back, “this is neither the time nor place.”

Suddenly, her expression shifts, and her eyes widen in sudden rage. “What are you? Some kind of Puritan? What man turns down a perfectly good proposition?”

She whips around so fast, he gets a mouthful of her hair.

“Emma,” he says, stopping her with a gentle hand to her elbow, “this isn’t you. What’s going on?”

She grins slowly as she turns back around. Before he can register what’s happening, she’s shoved him backwards against his desk, sending papers flying. He catches himself, bracing both hands on the edge of it. Emma presses her entire body flush against him, grinning at his length that she can easily feel through his dress slacks.

“See?” she purrs, running her hands up and down his chest before grasping his tie in her fist. “You want me.”

He’s tempted for one excruciating moment to give in, to grab her in his arms and kiss the living hell out of her. But then he looks into her eyes, and once again, something just isn’t right. He pushes her away roughly and moves to put his desk between them.

“Not like this, Emma,” he tells her, praying she won’t notice the tremor in his voice.

She scowls at him, yet another foreign expression playing over her features. “Well, Mr. Jones, I suppose we’ll save this cat and mouse for another day.”

She saunters out, her arms crossed over her chest, her long painted nails tapping at her biceps. She glances at him once before walking out the door.

Once she’s gone, Killian falls shakily into his desk chair. He’s practically sweating and moves to loosen his tie. He glances at the clock and groans before picking up his red pen.

Nothing like sophomore essays to douse his arousal.

*****************************************************************

If anyone at his old high school had suggested that Killian Jones would one day be a high school history teacher, everyone would have assumed it was a joke and burst out laughing. Bad boy, smart ass Killian Jones who liked to argue with the teachers, got into almost daily fights, and got caught drinking rum behind the bleachers, a future high school teacher? His teenage self had been well known by the principal, and not for good reasons. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the woman’s office, much to her irritation.

So getting called into the principal’s office was something he grew used to, and those old demons probably account for the sass he doles out to Regina on a regular basis now. He admits whenever she asks to see him, he can’t seem to stop the proverbial chip from resting on his shoulder.

Yet never in all his life, as a student or a teacher, has he been physically yanked into the principal’s office. Until now.

The embarrassing yelp he emits when Robin yanks him by the arm and drags him into the office is half due to his friend’s upper body strength (he isn’t the school’s archery coach for nothing) and half due to his almost constant state of distraction since Emma became . . . someone else.

“Bloody hell, Robin, what are you? Your wife’s personal henchman now?”

He turns to find a small group gathered around Regina’s conference table: Mary Margaret, David, and Jasmine. The principal herself stands in front of the framed painting of Misthaven Hills Plantation circa 1885, the focal piece of art in her largely austere office. Her eyes are focused, her perfectly manicured nails tapping at her forearms where they’re crossed at her chest.

“This is an emergency meeting, Mr. Jones,” she tells him cooly, “to discuss what’s happening in your department.”

“My department?” Killian asks incredulously, pointing at his own chest. Mary Margaret is the department chair, if they want to get technical.

Regina rolls her eyes. “The humanities department, Jones, now sit.”

She uncrosses her arms to point at the last empty chair, and Killian obeys. He almost asks what Robin is doing there when he teaches PE, but Regina doesn’t seem to be in the best mood. She sits, adjusts the jacket of her sensible pantsuit, and folds her arms upon the polished surface of the conference table.

“We all know why we’re here,” she says archly.

“Because Emma has started dressing like Substitute Barbie?” Jasmine ventures.

Killian swallows back a defense for Emma. Jasmine isn’t off base in her assessment, unfortunately.

“Let’s not bring my sister into this,” Regina snaps.

“Well she did wear a skintight dress with a plunging neckline last time she subbed for me,” Mary Margaret says, “with no bra.”

Regina rubs her head wearily, then shoots a glare at her husband. “Don’t you start!”

Robin lifts his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say a word!”

David covers his mouth, clearly stifling a laugh. Another department member, but oh well, it’s a small town, and Killian knows David is probably more worried about Emma than he is. For some reason, he and Mary Margaret have practically adopted her old roommate.

“The point,” Regina sighs, “is that Emma is being unprofessional, not only in her wardrobe choices, but also in almost every area of her job for the past two weeks.”

Killian thinks back to when she showed up in his classroom when she was supposed to be teaching. As a matter of fact, Emma has been practically stalking him since that night in the cafeteria. The most embarrassing was when she sauntered right into his class in the middle of his lecture on the Salem witch trials and perched on the edge of his desk in a tiny black leather number he assumed was supposed to be a dress.

“Killian, you have to talk to her,” Mary Margaret puts in.

He swallows nervously, scratching behind his ear. “I, um, don’t think I’m the best person for that.”

“What do you mean?” Jasmine exclaims. “You’re the one she’s spending all her time with.”

“When she’s supposed to be teaching,” Regina adds.

“You’re her boss!” Killian argues.

The only way he’s survived the past two weeks is by avoiding Emma at all costs or at least ensuring they’re not alone. So he doesn’t do something stupid like shove her against his whiteboard and have his way with her. He rubs at his neck - is it hot in here?

“I’ve called her into my office twice,” Regina tells him with a shake of her head. “The first time she blew me off. This morning . . . I can’t explain it. For some reason, I ended the meeting apologizing to her.”

“She’s not herself,” Killian tries to explain. His colleagues might think he’s crazy, but his gut tells him that this woman is not his Emma, which is precisely why he’s fighting his libido at every turn.

“I agree with Killian,” David speaks up, “something’s wrong.”

Killian points at his friend, “See? I knew it wasn’t just me. She hasn’t been the same since the cheerleaders had their overnight in the cafeteria.”

Regina narrows her eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

Killian presses his eyes closed for a moment. Please don’t let them think I’ve lost my mind. “When I say Emma isn’t herself, I don’t mean that figuratively . . . . I’m talking about the curse of Cora Mills.”

Regina snorts out an incredulous laugh. Jasmine lifts her eyes heavenward, and Robin shakes his head.

“You can’t be serious,” David mutters.

“You said yourself something is wrong!”

“I thought maybe . . . “ he squirms in his seat, “that the two of you finally, I mean . . . “

“Oh God, are you serious right now?”

“There has been sexual tension,” Jasmine points out.

“This is Emma we’re talking about!” Killian yanks at his hair with both hands. “The most I’ve gotten out of her all this time is witty banter and subtle flirting. She’s not the type to go zero to sixty, especially with me, her co-worker and friend!”

Everyone starts to talk at once, until Mary Margaret’s voice rises above the others. “Killian has a point.” Everyone falls silent to gape at the brunette. “I’ve known Emma longer than any of you. She may lay it on thick at a bar for a one night stand, but not when it’s someone she actually may . . . care for.”

She looks at Killian apologetically, and he gets it. Talking about his feelings for Emma is weird in this setting, even if he’s been walking around with his heart on his sleeve since July. No one wants their love life discussed in a department meeting. Yet he’ll gladly endure a bit of embarrassment if they can figure out how to help Emma.

“But a ghost, sweetheart?” David asks.

“There was something in that kitchen, I’m telling you,” Mary Margaret insists.

“This is the most ridiculous meeting I have ever led!” Regina exclaims in frustration, rising to her feet. She leans forward, resting one hand on the desk, and pointing the other at Mary Margaret. “Department chair, get your English teacher to stop dressing like a hooker. I’m getting complaints from parents. And all three of you better get a handle on the homecoming issue of the paper since Ms. Swan isn’t doing shit with it.”

Jasmine’s and Mary Margaret’s voices rise in irritation about Emma carrying her weight with the paper. Jasmine is particularly peeved since she got stuck with the back to school issue and the football season kickoff issue. As for Killian, his blood is boiling, and he jumps from his seat.

“Are you all kidding me? That’s all you people care about? The school paper and Emma’s wardrobe?”

“What do you want us to do, Kil? An exorcism?” Robin asks, and when Killians sees the little smirk on his face, he has to clench his fist to keep from punching his friend in the jaw.

“Ya’ll bloody wankers!” he shouts, stomping out the door and slamming it behind him.

Robin looks around at his wife and stunned coworkers. “Did he really just put those three words together?”

Killian’s chest is heaving when he walks out into the hallway, and he wasn’t imagining things, Regina’s office was stuffy. He takes big breaths of the cooler air, pacing in agitation. He kicks a bottom locker, swearing.

“I can help.”

Killian jumps at the sound of Henry Mills’ voice. He spins to see the freshman sitting in a plastic chair beside his mother’s office door.

“Apologies, lad,” Killian says, unclenching his fists and relaxing his shoulders, “I didn’t see you there.”

Henry shrugs. “Mom cusses at home, so she’s kind of a hypocrite about that language rule.”

Killian chuckles and comes to lean against the wall next to the boy. “I take it you heard some of that meeting just now?”

“Try all of it,” Henry says, leaning over to yank a folder out of his bookbag, “and you’re not crazy. Ms. Swan is one of my favorite teachers - besides you, of course - and she isn’t the same person lately. She doesn’t care about us kids at all anymore, and she’s never like that.”

“So what’s your theory?”

“Just like you said, the ghost of Cora Mills.” Henry opens the folder on his lap. “Know that project you gave us on American ghost stories and urban legends?”

“Yeah?” It was an assignment Killian had given his freshmen every year since he started teaching. He was always trying to find ways to get kids excited about history, and this particular project was always a hit. Henry Mills, however, wasn’t the average student, and he wasn’t surprised to hear the passion in the boy’s voice.

“Well, I’m doing mine on the ghost story right here at this school. Cora Mills - no relation by the way -

Killian chuckles as he takes a seat next to the boy, and Henry smiles.

“Well, anyway,” Henry continues, “Cora’s ghost supposedly seeks revenge on men -”

“- by possessing a woman and then . . . “ Killian trails off, his face warming at having this conversation with a student.

Henry just rolls his eyes. “Seducing the guy and killing him? Don’t patronize me. I’m fourteen, not ten.”

“Touche,” Killian grins, “but, why aren’t there boys dropping dead every other day around here?”

Henry sorts through his papers. “Because there’s a pattern to the deaths.” He shoves some papers in Killian’s hands. “See?”

Killian’s eyes widen as he skims over the old newspaper clippings from the Misthaven Mirror. Henry leans over to point at the dates.

“See? The first case of a man dying in the company of a woman with no memory of what happened occurred in 1899. The next one in 1909 -”

“Then 1919, 1929, they’ve happened every ten years!”

Henry nods. “Cora Mills murdered the LaTours in October of 1889. Every ten years since, she’s possessed the body of a woman and murdered the man she loves. Pretty creepy, huh?”

Killian narrows his arms as he regards Henry. “You seem to be getting a little too into this.” The boy grins. “What can I say? This town is so boring! This ghost story is at least interesting!”

Killian frowns. “But how do we help Emma - I mean, Ms. Swan?”

“You mean how do we help you? Cora Mills won’t leave Ms. Swan’s body until she’s killed you.”

******************************************************************

The clouds above Misthaven Hills High are dark and threatening rain. There’s a strong wind, yet the air is still heavy with humidity. The weather only adds to the ominous feeling pressing on Killian’s chest. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dress slacks as he crosses the lower classmen parking lot. Belle is a few feet away, chatting with Henry beneath the enormous branches of the ancient live oak tree that shelters the old plantation cemetery. The wind keeps sending her auburn curls swirling around her face, but her face is serene as she smiles at Henry. Belle’s calm amidst any storm is one of the reasons he had become friends with her so quickly when he first arrived at the school two years ago. David is like a brother, Mary Margaret like a doting mother, and Belle? She’s like the sister he never had, someone who allows him to be himself while simultaneously never hesitating to call him out on his bullshit.

She’s also the only adult on campus who didn’t bat an eye at he and Henry’s ghost possession theory. She had jumped at the chance to help them, and whatever she has in that heavy messenger bag slung over her shoulder will hopefully save Emma.

And him, by extension. Killed by the woman he loves may be at least a dramatic way to go, but he prefers surviving, thank you very much.

“Killian!” Belle exclaims, greeting him with a smile and a friendly hug when he reaches the graveyard.

“Now can we see what’s in the bag?” Henry asks, shuffling his feet in excitement.

Belle kneels on the ground and begins removing the items. He immediately recognizes the large, ornate crucifix and the dozen votive candles. Killian frowns as he picks up a small, white plastic bottle.

“Is that . . . Jesus on this label?”

“Yes,” Belle says a bit defensively as she snatches it away from him, “you order Holy Water on the internet, and that’s what you get okay?”

“Don’t we need a priest?”

“This is a tiny town in the middle of Georgia, Killian. The nearest priest is seventy miles away. Why do you think I had to order Holy Water on Amazon?”

“Wow,” Henry says without a trace of sarcasm, “you really can buy anything on Amazon.”

Killian’s brow creases with worry. “We can do this without a priest, though? I mean, will it work?”

Belle shrugs as she stands up, brushing leaves from the tights beneath her houndstooth skirt. “I hope so. It’s the best we can do. Some protestants believe any Christian can dispel demons.” She crosses her arms as she regards Killian with a tilted head. “How’s your soul, Mr. Jones?”

“Uh,” he chuckles warily as he scratches behind his ear, “my mother and brother after her tried to raise me in the faith, God rest their souls, but I’m afraid . . .” he rocks back on his heels. “If you need me to prepare my soul, it may take a while.”

Belle laughs easily and reaches to squeeze his hands in hers. “I’m teasing. Exorcising a ghost from a friend isn’t exactly an exact science. I’m guessing, anyway.”

“And Ms. French and I will be here to help,” Henry speaks up.

“Ms. French will be here to help,” Killian corrects, “you’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Aw, man, why?”

“First of all, I just don’t know what may happen, lad,” Killian explains, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “and secondly, you have a dance to take that sweet lass Violet to.”

“I’m going to the game first to watch her cheer, actually,” Henry replies, a blush reddening his face.

“See? You don’t want to disappoint her.”

“If you don’t see us at the dance,” Belle adds, “then and only then can you come look for us.”

Henry nods, then reluctantly heads for the stadium where students are already starting to gather. Once he’s out of earshot, Belle turns to Killian with a serious expression.

“Are you sure you can lure Emma here?”

Killian nods grimly, though he knows there are multiple landmines to avoid along the way. Four of the five murders since the school was built revolved around the homecoming game and dance, so they had come up with the theory that Cora Mills preferred to lure her victims to the grounds of Misthaven Hills Plantation. They were pretty sure she would jump at the chance to attend the dance with Killian, and once on school grounds, all Killian had to do was find a romantic excuse to come down to the old live oak and the graves littered around it.

He just had to remember that Emma wasn’t Emma right now - she was Cora Mills. He had to resist temptation until he could get her to the base of the tree.

God prepare his soul, indeed.

******************************************************************

Killian’s knuckles are practically white on the steering wheel. The looming thunderstorm still hasn’t been unleashed, and the humidity has just kept climbing. It’s only 75 degrees, but it feels like its 90. He loosens his tie, thankful he at least tossed his jacket in the backseat.

Of course, the woman in the passenger seat is affecting his core temperature even more than the humidity. She keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, her tiny silver dress inching up every time. Soon he swears he’ll know the color of her underwear.

If she’s wearing any. He wouldn’t put that past her.

She’d tried to kiss him when he picked her up, grabbing his tie with one hand and the lapel of his suit coat with the other. Extricating himself from her embrace had been a herculean effort. And not just emotionally; ghostly possession evidently comes with increased strength. He almost panicked, thinking she was going to physically haul him inside, but the way he pulled away so violently had irked her into releasing him. She had been more annoyed than anything as she grabbed her purse. Maybe a man had to be willing before the murder took place?

He bit the inside of his cheek as he took the next turn. Strength, Jones! We’re almost there!

“You seem so tense, darling,” Emma coos, sliding across the bench seat of his 1970 Chevelle.

Here hair is done up, but not in the tousled, casual way of the Emma he knows. This hairstyle is sleek, her hair gathered into a bun of perfectly coifed curls. It isn’t his favorite look on her, except . . . her neck. It’s on perfect display, begging to be kissed. Especially with the dangling faux pearl earrings teasing him with every turn of her head.

She rests one hand on the back of his neck and begins to run her fingers through his hair. She sets her other hand on his thigh and begins to rub circles there, her fingers inching their way subtly closer and closer to his crotch. He swallows hard as he attempts to shift away from her.

“Do you not like me?” she pouts, rubbing her nose against his stubbled jaw.

“Of course I like you,” he answers hoarsely with a nervous laugh, “I asked you to the dance, didn’t I?”

“Then why do I make you so nervous?” she asks, whispering in his ear.

The way her lips brush the tip of his ear makes a shudder run through him involuntarily, and he can feel Emma’s lips curl into a smile. His reactions to her body and her advances clearly haven’t gone unnoticed. This isn’t Emma! He reminds himself. It’s Cora!

He almost weeps with relief when the stadium parking lot comes into view. “We’re here!” he announces, a bit louder than necessary. God, all he needs is a crack to his voice, and he’d sound like a bloody teenager. He parks and practically scrambles out of the car, Emma crawling after him over the bench seat. When he turns to offer his hand to help her out, she’s still on all fours, her breasts almost spilling out of the top of her strapless dress. Her lips curl suggestively at the look in his eyes. He swallows. Again. God, getting her to the damn tree is going to be the biggest challenge of his life.

Wait . . .

Deciding to change his tactic, he gives the woman before him (NOT Emma, this isn’t Emma!) a cocky grin.

“Actually, my dear, I’ve been teasing you,” he swipes his tongue along his bottom lip as he regards her.

“Oh,” she purrs as she takes his hand and steps out of his car, “and how so?”

He grabs her around the waist, and pulls her flush to him, eliciting a growl from deep in Emma’s throat. Against her neck, he breaths out the next words.

“I have a private place for us,” he turns his head to gaze deeply into her eyes, “to get to know one another better.”

“Really?” she asks, and he exults at how breathless she now is.

His eyes glance down at her lips, then up to her eyes again. “Before the dance.”

A smile slowly spreads across her face, and for the first time since that night in the cafeteria, it seems like one his Emma would offer. Genuine, yet slightly hesitant, with a touch of awe. His arm around her tightens against his volition as he takes in her light jade eyes, that shade he has seen in his dreams so many times. His eyes flicker again to her lips, pink and so perfect. Cora luckily hasn’t messed with them; covering them with nothing more than shimmery gloss.

Cora!

Killian shakes his head and takes a step back. He covers it with a flirtatious smile and his touch as the tips of his fingers slide down her arm and grasps her hand. He won’t let their first kiss be tainted like this, especially when he knows Emma won’t remember it tomorrow.

Because hopefully I’ll still be alive tomorrow.

He takes her across the stadium parking lot, along the covered walkway that connects it to the science building, then down the hill and across the lower classmen parking lot. His eyes scan the cemetery and the base of the oak tree. There’s no sign of Belle, but a blanket is spread beneath the tree, and the votive candles have been lit.

He turns to Emma with a smile he hopes is seductive as he leads her to the blanket. It must work, because she bites her bottom lip and presses herself against his side, snaking her arm around his waist. He clenches his jaw as his body reacts to her nearness, and he prays fervently that Belle doesn’t waste too much time intervening. He forces himself not to pull away as Emma rises up on her toes and slides her arms around his neck. Maybe just one kiss, not a deep one -

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I command you to leave this woman!”

Belle’s sudden appearance and shouted command snaps Killian to his senses, and he stumbles backwards, narrowly avoiding the candles. Belle is flinging Holy Water into Emma’s face, and she’s stumbling away from her, squeezing her eyes shut. Killian takes the crucifix from Belle’s other hand, and they both advance on Emma. She flings her head back and screams. At the same moment, a loud clap of thunder rumbles across the sky followed by a jagged streak of lightning. Killian isn’t sure if it’s the storm or the exorcism.

Emma doubles over, clutching her stomach, and he and Belle wait breathlessly. Yet when she stands up again, she’s laughing hysterically. He glances nervously at Belle.

“You thought that would work?”

The voice has never in the last two weeks been so clearly different from Emma’s. Her eyes as she stalks towards him are no longer that light shade of green, but pitch black. The wind whips around her, yanking at her hair. The thunder rolls, the lightning strikes, and the skies choose that moment to open up. Rain pours down, drenching them all. Emma is close enough now to touch him, and Belle lunges between them, shouting again and flinging the Holy Water. Yet what good can it do in this downpour? Emma flings her arm outward, and though she doesn’t even touch Belle, the other woman goes flying through the air, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Belle!” Killian screams, racing towards her, but his legs won’t cooperate. He feels a force he can’t fight turning him back towards Emma.

But it isn’t Emma. Her hair is completely free of the hairspray and pins, blowing wildly around her. The blonde is streaked through with darkness, and a blue tinted light emanates around her. She curls her lips as she bends her finger coyly.

“Come here, loverboy,” she spits out in that same voice that isn’t hers.

His feet lift off the ground, and Cora is pulling him towards her. He lifts the crucifix, shouting for Cora to leave Emma’s body, but it does no good. She laughs that bone chilling laugh again, and he shudders at the sound even as the cold rain soaks through his suit. When he is close enough, she roughly grasps his face in her hands.

“Such a pretty face,” she says as she studies him.

“Emma,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

She blinks, and for a split second, her eyes are green again. A tiny flicker of hope swells in him even as the black fills her eyes once more.

“Emma, fight it!” he begs.

“Emma isn’t here!” she screams, flinging him down to the ground.

He tries to scramble away from her, but she’s once again holding him in place. The lightning splits the sky again, illuminating the tree behind her, the Spanish moss almost like a living creature in the violent wind of the storm.

“Emma,” he tries again, “this isn’t you.”

Her face relaxes for a heartbeat, but then she shakes her head. “Well, at least now we’re getting somewhere,” she snarls as she stalks closer, almost straddling him now, “it’s Cora Mills, used and abused by the opposite sex. My revenge can never be sated, boy!”

Killian takes a deep, steadying breath, and when he gazes into the face of the woman before him, he softens his expression. When he speaks, he tries to infuse his words with the depth of his feelings.

“Emma, I love you.”

She shakes her head as a furrow of confusion creases her brow. He smiles softly at the tiny bit of Emma he can see shining through.

“Yes, I love you,” he continues, his voice rising above the pounding of the rain, “and that’s why I know this isn’t you. The woman I love is the one who rolls her eyes at me every time I use an innuendo.”

Emma stumbles backwards at his words. The storm increases in its rage, yet the unearthly blue light around Emma begins to fade, her hair slowly turning gold again. Killian rises to his knees as he continues to speak.

“The woman I love is the one who kicked me in the shin when I tried to hit on her at a faculty meeting. She’s the one who stayed up all night binge-watching Sherlock with me, drinking rum. The one who wears sweats in my apartment with messy hair and a tub of rocky road on her lap. The one who sticks her socked feet in my face when she thinks I’m hogging the couch. That’s MY Emma. Not this.”

Emma doubles over again as a scream tears through her. “NOOOOO! SHUT. UP!”

Killian rises to his feet, stepping forward to cup Emma’s face in his hands. “I am in love with Emma Swan. The one with sarcasm and bad eating habits and walls around her heart. And I want her back. I want my Emma back.”

She presses her eyes shut, and when she opens them, the black is seeping away. “Killian,” she whispers through her tears, and it’s her voice saying his name.

He grins and bends to kiss her, thinking she’s done it; she’s won. But before their lips can meet, Emma shoves him to the ground. She screams again, throwing her head back and shaking all over.

“I . . . won’t . . . let . . . you hurt him!!!”

As the words leave her mouth, Killian’s eyes widen to see a dark haired, ethereal figure literally ripping itself away from Emma’s body. Both women - ghostly and corporeal - seem to wrestle against one another until suddenly a bolt of lightning strikes the top of the live oak tree. Killian shields his eyes, certain the tree will burst into flames, but it doesn’t. The Spanish moss is no longer merely being whipped by the winds, it’s writhing and twisting like snakes. The tendrils of moss reach out, wrapping themselves around the form of Cora Mills. With one final other-worldy scream, the ghost is ripped completely from Emma’s body and yanked into the branches of the tree. The oak seems to envelop Cora in a supernatural embrace until the ghost is absorbed into the very branches from which the murderess’s body was hanged over a century ago.

The cemetery goes eerily quiet then; even the storm subdues into more muted tones. Killian rushes to Emma’s crumpled form and gathers her into his arms. Her eyes blink open, and she lifts a trembling hand to cup his face.

“Emma,” he breathes, “are you okay?”

“I . . . I think so.”

He runs his hands through her hair, trailing his fingertips over her cheekbones. He wants to memorize every inch of her face after so many days gazing into a countenance that wasn’t fully hers.

“What do you remember?”

“Not much really,” she says, her brow furrowing, “except . . . “

The light spilling from the parking lot and the open doors of the gym are enough to illuminate the blush upon her face.

“Except what?” he asks, unable to keep a roguish smile from his face.

“Did you . . . say that you love me?”

His smile breaks into something more ridiculously happy as his thumb rubs circles over her cheeks. “I did.”

“Okay,” she says with a pensive nod, then she surprises him by lunging forward and pressing her mouth to his.

He melts into the kiss, gathering her against his chest and tilting his head to taste her more fully. She digs her fingers into his hair, letting out a little mewling sound that sets his heart pounding. He begins to pull away, not wanting to rush this, but Emma will have none of it, pulling his head back down to hers and swiping her tongue across his lower lip. He devours her then, giving in finally to the pull he’s felt towards her for so long. When they finally part, gasping for breath, Emma presses her forehead to his and his eyes slide closed.

“I love you too, just for the record,” she breathes against his cheek.

“And I, just for the record, am perfectly fine, thanks for asking.” Another voice above them interrupts.

“Belle!” Killian exclaims, rushing to his feet to embrace his friend. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Of course you are,” she quips, but she smiles up at him fondly.

“Thank you, Belle,” Emma adds as she scrambles to her feet, “and I’m sorry about -” she cuts off as she looks down at herself. “What the hell am I wearing?”

Killian and Belle both chuckle.

“You’ve um . . . been making some pretty bold fashion choices the last couple of weeks,” Belle explains.

Emma’s jaw drops as she covers her face with both hands. “No,” she groans, “in front of the kids?”

“I’m afraid so, love.”

“I’m practically naked!” She scowls at him when he can’t help laughing. “This isn’t funny, Killian!”

He pulls her into his arms and presses a kiss to her temple. “Everyone knew you weren’t yourself. Although I would check your credit card statements. Cora may have had a bit of a shopping spree at your expense.”

Emma lets out a huff of breath against his collarbone as she turns her head into his rain-drenched shirt front. “Great. How am I exposed to explain that to Visa? It wasn’t my fault, I was possessed?”

“Identity theft?” Killian jokes.

Emma pulls back to look at him with humor in her eyes, her hands fisted around his ruined suit coat. It’s the look he’s used to; the one that is so patently Emma that his heart swells in his chest to see it again. He can’t help himself, he surges forward to claim another kiss.

As it grows more heated, they both hear Belle clear her throat.

“Okay, you too, keep it PG. We still have a dance we signed up to chaperone.”

“Henry!” Killian exclaims. “He’ll be worried if we don’t show up soon!”

Emma steps out of his embrace to look at herself. The rain has abated, but it’s still coming down steadily, plastering Emma’s blonde hair to her face and chest. Her dress, which was never appropriate for a chaperone, is smeared with Georgia red clay. More mud is streaked across her legs, and at some point, she lost both of her high heel shoes. He looks down at himself and over at Belle. They don’t look much better.

Emma catches his eye and smiles slowly. “You did say the Emma you love wears sweats and has messy hair.”

“Sounds perfect,” he tells her, punctuating the words with a soft kiss.

***************************************************************

The kids of Misthaven Hills High weren’t sure why two of their teachers and the librarian showed up to the homecoming dance wearing MHHS sweats swiped from Mr. Locksley’s office (though Henry Mills could guess). That wasn’t what caused the buzz of gossip that lasted all weekend and into Monday, however. No, the gossip was caused by the way Mr. Jones dipped Ms. Swan at the end of a slow song and kissed her (with tongue, many kids claimed).

The students of Misthaven Hills High also continued to tell the tale of the ghost of Cora Mills, especially every October. For without fail, every October since homecoming of 2019, rain or shine, the Spanish moss on the old live oak dripped with fat drops of water. Some said they were tears. Something, the kids said, made the ghost of Cora Mills begin to weep. Another lost love, some claimed, a heart too strong for her to steal because it already belonged to Emma Swan.

Decades later, when Emma Swan had been Emma Jones for many long years and she and her husband had moved away, kids claimed that in October every year, a name could be heard on the breeze around the old live oak. In a wailing, anguished voice, it cried “ Kiiiliaaaan . . .Joooones . . .” as tears dripped from the Spanish moss.

He rubs at the scruff on his jaw in feigned deep thought. She finds herself staring a bit too intently at the cut of his handsome face and quickly glances away. Killian hadn’t exactly endeared himself to her at their first meeting back in late July. She was rushing to her first faculty meeting at Misthaven Hills High, and running across the parking lot in the 99 degree humidity hadn’t exactly put her in the best mood. Killian’s over the top flirting when she slid into the only available seat in the packed library had earned him a swift kick to the shin. If it hadn’t been for Mary Margaret and David, she would have assumed the history teacher was a total asshole.

Yet it turned out that Killian was David’s best friend, and David was the husband of her college roommate and best friend Mary Margaret. Killian was also friends with Belle, the librarian; Ariel, the biology teacher and swim coach; Robin, the PE teacher; and even Robin’s wife, Regina, who was also the school principal. The students also adored him, and not just the girls who swooned over his looks. She couldn’t go anywhere in this school and find anyone who disliked the man. So she begrudgingly had to admit she’d been wrong about him.

Now, two and a half months later, she honestly counts him as one of her best friends. They understand one another in a way that’s almost uncanny. Best of all, Killian’s flirting never pushes past the teasing type that makes her smile. While Mary Margaret and David fret about Emma’s walls, Killian respects them, even understands why Emma feels she needs them. And for that, she appreciates and welcomes his friendship.

“You know, this just may be the perfect subject for the next grant request. I need to get with Belle on that.”

“A ghost story can get us a grant?”

“Of course!” he tells her with a wide grin. “History fanatics love a good ghost story. Especially one that took place on a southern plantation.”

Emma frowns and cocks her head at the tiny plot. “This town couldn’t have bought land someplace else?”

Killian chuckles and nudges her in the ribs. “What is it, Swan, do you believe in ghost stories?”

“No,” she scoffs with a wave of her hand, “I just think it’s creepy that they had to build the school around tombstones.”

“So,” Killian says, voice dropping low as he saunters close to her, “you don’t believe that the ghost of Cora Mills wanders these hallways, angry at being hung on this very tree simply for taking vengeance that was rightfully hers?”

A shudder runs through Emma as a breeze rustles the tree again, as if it can hear Killian’s words. His breath against her ear doesn’t help either.

“While she continues to make breakfast foods?” she says to cover up her reaction.

She hopes the arch of her brow conveys her incredulity. Her students had claimed that sometimes you could hear bacon sizzling and the cracking of eggs. That sometimes you could even smell it. The ghost of Cora Mills eternally cooking that final breakfast she had set before Tara and Jonathan Lautour before stabbing them to death with a butcher knife.

“The story makes no sense,” Emma snaps, propping her hands on her hips. “Why make them breakfast when she planned on killing them?”

Killian leans closer, waggling his eyebrows. In an ominous voice he says, “So they wouldn’t see it coming.”

Emma shoves him in the chest and his laughter sings on the autumn breeze.

“You’re as full of it as the kids are, Jones.”

His laughter rings behind her as she marches back to the main school building to get her things before heading home for the afternoon. The cold dread that skitters down her spine is just her mind playing tricks on her.

*************************************************************

“You want me to do what?!”

Mary Margaret sighs and gives her a withering look as if she’s her petulant two-year-old. “I think I spoke clearly, Emma.”

Killian snorts, earning him a dig in the ribs from Emma. Jasmine stares intently into her salad as if avoiding eye contact with Mary Margaret will save her from being roped into the deal along with Emma. The four of them make up the entire humanities department: Emma English, Killian history, Mary Margaret art, and Jasmine drama and music. They’re also co-sponsors of both the school paper and the yearbook. It’s the downside to teaching in a town as small as Misthaven. Yet the upside is the bond they share with students whom they teach for four years straight.

“I’ve just assigned research papers to my juniors,” Emma argues, “and I got stuck with the homecoming issue of the paper, remember?”

“It’s just one night,” Mary Margaret says, throwing in a pout for good measure.

“Why the hell do the cheerleaders spend the night in the cafeteria?”

“Language!” her colleagues chorus.

Emma rolls her eyes. “As if Regina even watches her language. I heard her call Will Scarlett a little piece of shit just yesterday.”

“That’s because his parents call him that,” Killian quipped.

“Anyways,” Emma says with a wave of her hand, “I’m not spending the night at the school, especially not on the cafeteria floor.”

“We bring air mattresses,” Mary Margaret explained, “and it’s a tradition. This time of year, the girls are so busy with football and homecoming that they don’t get enough practice in for competition season -”

“Which starts in two weeks,” Jasmine puts in.

“Exactly,” Mary Margaret continues, “so we do an overnight practice.”

“And you don’t sleep in the gym because . . .” Emma grumbles.

“There’s no air conditioning.”

“Aye,” Killian put in, “you may be new to the South, Swan, but surely you already know that air conditioning is a necessity, not a luxury.”

“Thank you for your expert opinion, Brit.”

“Emma, I beg of you,” Mary Margaret says, “I need a certain number of chaperones, and my assistant coach is pregnant.”

“So?”

“Nine months pregnant. She can’t sleep on an air mattress!” She clutches Emma’s arm. “She’s going to stay for the entire practice. All I need you to do is be an adult presence.”

“A warm body,” Killian clarifies.

“Exactly. Until David and Killian get there with breakfast at 6 am.”

“See, Swan, just until - wait, what am I doing?”

Emma laughs at Killian’s confused expression. Jasmine almost chokes on a cherry tomato.

“You and David are bringing us Chick-fil-A at 6 am. The order has already been placed.”

“Wait!” Emma raises a hand to stop Mary Margaret’s words. “Why didn’t you say that sooner? You would have had me at chicken biscuit. Unless there won’t be hashbrowns.”

She turns and grasps Killian’s arm.

“Will there be hashbrowns?”

He chuckles and pats her hand. “Emma, I swear you would sell your soul for greasy food.”

“Answer my question, Jones.”

“Yes, love, there will be hashbrowns.”

****************************************************************

Emma seriously cannot believe she agreed to this. Killian was right: she’s way too addicted to fast food. Otherwise she wouldn’t be blowing up twenty-three air mattresses in a high school cafeteria. At least she’s in the air conditioning and not in the sweltering gym like Mary Margaret and her assistant coach.

The final air mattress plumps up, and Emma cuts off the air pump. As the whirring stops, the cafeteria feels eerily quiet. A shiver runs down her spine, but Emma shakes it off. She wraps the cord around the pump and puts it back into the box Mary Margaret was very insistent it had to be stored in. Emma turns to put it in the plastic storage tub, chuckling again at the sparkly label: “MHHS Cheer Squad Glamping Supplies.” As she snaps the lid in place, she sees a figure out of the corner of her eye.

“Finally,” she huffs as she turns, “Violet, you were supposed to . . . “

Emma trails off as she sees nothing but the empty doorway leading out into the hall. Hmm, maybe she ducked into the bathroom, Emma thinks as she crosses the large room. Her boots echo off the tile floors, and that damn shiver runs through her again. It’s all because of Killian and Henry and all of their stupid ghost stories.

And the graveyard between the football field and the science labs? Her traitorous mind adds. Which, by the way, also isn’t that far from the cafeteria?

“Seriously, Emma, get a grip,” she mumbles out loud to herself and then proceeds to be one of those ridiculous people who roll their eyes at themselves.

“Violet?” she calls, poking her head into the girls restroom. The light is flipped off, and Emma realizes that the freshman would never use the bathroom in the pitch dark. She turns and nearly collides with a short, slim figure with dark hair. “Sh - Violet!”

“Sorry Ms. Swan,” the girl apologizes, “you were calling me?”

Emma shakes her head. “Yeah, I was, sorry.”

“Coach Ms said I’m supposed to help lay out all the sleeping bags and goody bags and stuff.”

“Goody bags?”

“Yeah, it’s a tradition.”

Emma rolls her eyes. Again. “Of course it is.”

She sighs and leads the girl over to where all of the cheerleaders had deposited their things. There are glittery signs on the wall with each girl’s name. Naturally.

Neither Emma nor Violet notice the shadow that melts into the dark recesses of the kitchen.

***************************************************************

“And now Cora Mills, rejected by her lover Jonathan LaTour, plunges her knife into his heart: Again! And Again! And Again!”

With one hand holding a flashlight beneath her chin, Ruby, a senior on the cheerleading squad, lifts her other hand to make stabbing motions. The other girls in the circle jolt slightly at the violent hand gestures. Relishing her audience’s reactions, Ruby grins wickedly as she continues the macabre tale.

“Tara LaTour screams, but before she can even rise from the dining room table, Cora descends on her as well!”

The girls now audibly shudder as Ruby makes stabbing motions again. Her friend Ashley at her right makes screeching noises like in the movie Psycho. Ruby hands the flashlight off to her.

“Do we really have to listen to this story?” Emma whispers into Mary Margaret’s ear, “I mean, some of the younger ones look like they’re about to wet their pants.”

Mary Margaret laughs her off, “It’s a tradition for the seniors to tell it. Scaring the freshmen is part of the fun.”

“Great,” Emma mumbles, “another tradition.”

“Covered in blood,” Ashley picks up the tale, dropping her normally sweet voice down several octaves, “Cora Mills sits calmly at the dining table and finishes her victims’ breakfast!”

“Ewww!” the girls all chorus, followed by nervous giggling.

“That’s how the police found her. They were so horrified, they dragged her out that very morning and hung her on the oak tree. Right. Over. There!”

Ashley points dramatically towards the door that leads outside. At the same moment, a loud clattering sound comes from the kitchen and all the girls scream. Emma’s loathe to admit it, but even she jumps, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Calm down girls,” Mary Margaret admonishes gently, “it’s probably just the commercial size dishwasher.”

The next senior takes the flashlight, a tiny, nervous girl named Aurora. Emma isn’t expecting her to get into such a terrifying tale, but the normally timid girl turns out to be quite the little actress.

“Now Misthaven Hills Plantation is no more,” she intones, “instead, our high school sits on the land where the tragic murder took place. Cora Mills, still vengeful, roams these very halls.”

All of the girls are leaning forward now, hanging on every word.

“If you listen, you can still hear her making that breakfast,” Aurora pauses and cocks her head as if she hears something. The rest do the same.

“D-do ya’ll h-hear that?” stutters Tiana, a normally tough junior.

The girls scream again, and Emma has to admit, she thought she might have heard something. Probably a mouse, but she doesn’t know if that theory will lessen the screaming. Thankfully, whatever the noise was stops, and the girls nervously glance at one another and giggle. Aurora continues, sniffing the air to punctuate her words.

“Often these halls smell of bacon and eggs.”

“Or whatever slop the cafeteria is cooking up,” Emma grumbles under her breath, and Mary Margaret pokes her in the side.

“And,” Aurora continues, leaning forward to drag out the suspense, “do you know what the ghost of Cora Mills is always looking for?”

“What?” the rest of the girls all whisper.

“The body of a girl to possess, but not just any girl,” Aurora pauses dramatically again, looking each girl in the eye, “a girl who is secretly crushing on a guy. So she can seduce that guy and . . . KILL HIM!!”

The girls all gasp and rear back, and Emma hides a giggle behind her hand.

“Then Violet better what o-out!” Grace, one of the freshmen, sing-songs.

“Me?” Violet squeaks.

“Everyone knows you’ve got a huge crush on Henry Mills!”

Even by the light of the lone flashlight, Emma can see the poor girl blush as chaos breaks loose among the cheerleaders. Some giggle, others make kissing noises, while Grace shakes her friend’s shoulder.

“All right, girls, that’s enough!” Mary Margaret admonishes, and they all quickly settle down. “I don’t allow teasing or bullying of any kind, remember?”

“But Coach Ms,” Grace potests, “Violet hasn’t tried to hide that she likes Henry.”

“Except from Henry,” Ruby quips, and they all giggle again.

“What exactly,” Violet asks nervously, “does the ghost do?”

“Oh honey,” Mary Margaret tries to assure the girl, “it’s just a silly story.”

“I don’t know,” Ashley argues with a shrug, “back in 2009 there was that boy who drowned this time of year, remember? His girlfriend was passed out on the shore of the lake with no memory of how she got there!”

“And in 99,” Ruby adds, “a couple was leaving the homecoming dance, and for no reason at all, the girl drove the car right into a tree. Killed the boy instantly, and the girl didn’t even remember going to the dance at all.”

“And Henry’s last name is Mills!” Violet gasped. “Is . . . is that a sign? Is the ghost going to get me? And then Henry?”

“Okay, everyone stop!” Emma calls out, rising and flipping on the light. She sits down next to the poor fourteen-year-old and takes her hands. “Violet, this whole thing is ridiculous. This is high school. Secret crushes are the norm. If this story were true, teenage boys would be dropping like flies around here.”

That gets a giggle out of the freshmen, but the upperclassmen look a little peeved.

“But back in 89 -”

“Stop,” Emma cuts Aurora off, “I think it’s time for bed.”

The girls all grumble, but begin sliding down into their sleeping bags nevertheless. Emma takes the flashlight from the seniors so she can flip the lights off once again.

*************************************************************

Emma isn’t surprised that she fell soundly asleep on an air mattress on the hard cafeteria floor. After all, years of foster care followed by life on the streets and crashing in her Bug have made her adaptable. These are far from the worst accommodations she’s ever had. However, she’s awakened a few hours later by frantic, high-pitched voices and hands shaking her.

“Ms. Swan! Ms. Swan!”

Emma sits up groggily, squinting to see with the beam of a flashlight shining in her face.

“Shit girls, you’ll blind me!”

“Language.”

Emma turns towards the admonition. “Ms?”

“There’s something in there,” Ruby squeaks.

“In where?”

“The kitchen,” Aurora whispers. She’s the one holding the flashlight in trembling hands.

“Girls, please -”

“No, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, “someone is definitely in there.”

That fully wakes Emma up. She sits and holds up both hands, shushing the whispering girls. For two heartbeats, there is only silence. Then, the distinct sound of spoons hitting metal reverberates through the cafeteria accompanied by the definite hissing of . . . bacon.

The girls all scream, naturally, and Emma harshly tells them to be quiet. She stands, yanking the flashlight unceremoniously out of Aurora’s hands. She places a finger to her lips, and the girls fall silent again as Emma turns and creeps towards the kitchen. Her heartbeat quickens as she sees a flickering light spilling out of the industrial room and over the cheap tile. Ruby is clutching one of Emma’s arms while Ashley clutches the other. Tiana is almost plastered to Emma’s back. The rest of the cheerleaders are in a tight bunch behind her, while Mary Margaret brings up the rear with Grace and Violet clinging to her sides.

“I’m calling David,” Mary Margaret whispers, pulling out her cell phone.

Emma stops beside the empty salad bar where she has a view into part of the kitchen, and crouches down. The girls all follow suit behind her. It’s almost comical how twenty one teenage girls and two grown women are squeezing themselves between the wall and the salad bar.

Now that they are closer to the kitchen, Emma can swear she smells bacon and eggs, but she tells herself it has to be her mind playing tricks on her. What is definite though are the cooking sounds coming from the kitchen. She can hear a whisk hitting rhythmically against the sides of a bowl and the sound of something sizzling in a frying pan. Behind her, the girls’ screams are muffled behind their hands. Emma turns, shining the flashlight at their feet so the girls can see her without being blinded. At the back of the group, Mary Margaret is talking into her phone in a tight whisper.

“Yes, David, there is someone in the kitchen!” She pauses to listen to her husband. “No, we are not imagining things! Now get over here right now before I have a heart attack!”

Emma bites her lower lip to keep from laughing as Mary Margaret hangs up her phone indignantly. She then speaks softly to the girls.

“Listen, most likely this is just someone playing a prank. Everyone knows you girls do this every year.” The girls all visibly relax slightly at Emma’s logic. “Now, I’m going to go in there as quietly as I can to take them by surprise. You all stay out here.”

“Emma, I really think you need to wait for David and Killian,” Mary Margaret tells her, “they said they’re on their way.”

Emma quirks a smile at her friend. “Please. The only one who rescues me is me.”

She ignores the whimpers of the girls and Mary Margaret hissing her name in a motherly tone as she slips inside the kitchen. She shines the beam of her flashlight over the serving line to her right and the dish area to her left. Nothing.

There’s a loud clatter that startles Emma, and the girls out in the cafeteria as well, based on the high-pitched screams. Emma swings the beam of her flashlight which illuminates a stainless steel bowl spinning in the center of the kitchen floor. Around the corner, where the stoves and ovens are, a strange, blue-tinged light is pulsing.

“We know you’re in here,” Emma calls out, “and it isn’t funny!”

The sounds of cooking are louder, the smells stronger, and there is no denying it: someone is cooking bacon and eggs in the middle of the night. Emma takes one slow step after another, then rounds the corner with the heavy camping flashlight held up like a weapon. She freezes at the sight before her, a shadowy figure radiating an eerie light. The figure pauses in stirring an empty skillet, turning its head slowly to look right at Emma . . .

The flashlight hits the floor, rolling across the industrial tile and colliding with the stainless steel bowl with a loud crash.

*****************************************************************

The last thing Killian wants to do on a Friday night is go to Misthaven Hills High. David is the football coach, and it’s one of his few off nights of the season. The two of them and Robin had been enjoying a rare guys night out at the local wings place, watching the Braves in the playoffs, when David got a frantic phone call from Mary Margaret. It was an insane phone call, really, but Mary Margaret isn’t the type to scare easily, so here they are pulling up to the mostly empty parking lot of the high school.

The three of them knock on the heavy outside doors to the cafeteria, and Mary Margaret immediately opens it and yanks them inside.

“Thank God you - wait, where are your weapons?”

“Weapons - “ David starts to laugh, but Mary Margaret is clearly not in a humorous mood.

“Yes, weapons! A gun? A baseball bat?”

“A sword,” Killian teases.

“A bow and arrow,” Robin adds with a chuckle.

Both men stop laughing immediately when Mary Margaret shoves them back outside.

“I guess she’s serious,” David sighs.

Luckily, David has a shotgun hidden under the back of the truck cab, and a baseball bat in his sports bag for when he and Killian hit the batting cages at the rec. David takes the gun, Killian the bat, and Robin breaks a branch off one of the dogwood trees that dot the school landscaping. Hopefully Leroy, the school groundskeeper, won’t find out it was them who desecrated one of his trees.

Who are they kidding? He’ll blame it on the kids.

“Is this legal?” Robin whispers as they head back to the cafeteria. “Being armed on school property?”

“I think legality is a bit of a grey area nearing midnight on a Friday night,” Killian whispers back.

Mary Margaret greets them by practically falling into David’s arms and frantically gesturing to the kitchen. The cheerleaders are huddled nearby literally clinging to one another.

“Emma thought it was someone playing a prank,” Mary Margaret tells them, “so she went in there to confront them, and . . . and . . . “

“Is she okay?” Killian asks, immediately alarmed, and pushing past his friends to head for the kitchen.

His friends follow, Mary Margaret still talking in frantic tones. “I don’t know. I heard her shout something at the person, then her flashlight went out, then there was a crash.”

The four of them collide into the salad bar, causing Killian to curse and the cheerleaders to scream.

“I can’t see a damn thing!” Robin mutters

“Where’s my cell phone?” David says, patting at his jeans pockets.

Ruby scurries over with a tiny flashlight bedazzled with red gems and offers it to Killian. He turns it on so they won’t trip over anything else, though its beam is about as powerful as a lightning bug. God, he’s been in the South too long. Next thing he knows, he’ll be saying ya’ll and bless your heart.

The four of them rush into the kitchen with the seventeen-year-old cheerleading captain on their heels, but they all come to a screeching halt to find Emma standing there in the middle of the dark room.

“Emma?” Killian questions.

She turns slowly to him and blinks with a slight shake of her head. Then she looks him up and down, a slow smile filling her face. She doesn’t even acknowledge the rest of their friends behind him.

“Yes?” she asks almost tentatively.

“You’re okay?”

“Never better,” she almost purrs.

Killian deflates, grinning at her flirtatious quip. “Well, you’re depriving me of a dashing rescue, love,” he jokes.

“Emma!” Mary Margaret cries out, flying past the men to grab Emma in a hug, which the blonde awkwardly accepts. “You scared us to death! What were those sounds? Did you find anyone?”

“She’s okay!” Ruby shouts to the other cheerleaders as she runs back out to them. “And nothing weird is in here!”

“Well,” Emma says slowly, looking around her.

Killian tilts his head, something seeming a bit off about her mannerisms. She looks at him again, an arch lifting her brow, and he swallows nervously under her gaze. She walks slowly forward, resting a hand first on Killian’s bicep, then on Robin’s and David’s, appraising each man as if she were admiring sports cars at the dealership.

“Emma?” he says again, a bit worried now.

“Oh, none of you need to worry about me,” she says with a light laugh. “The girls just had overactive imagination after all those ghost stories.”

“But we heard . . . “ Mary Margaret trails off.

Emma shrugs. “The kitchen staff left out some bowls and things. I suppose there was a mouse?”

Mary Margaret sighs and laughs softly at herself. “Of course! I should have thought of that! And the smells were all in our imagination probably.”

Everyone heads out of the kitchen except for Killian, who stops Emma with a hand to her arm. He looks intently into her face, unsure what he’s searching for, but hoping to find an explanation .

“Are you sure you’re okay, Swan?”

“Oh, darling, I haven’t felt this good in years.”

Killian is so confused by the words coming out of his best friend’s mouth, that he barely registers the way Emma trails her fingers across his jaw. That is, until her fingers drift lower to the open vneck of his henley. He startles at the slightly seductive touch and grasps her fingers loosely.

“You seem a bit off, love.”

“Whatever do you mean,” Emma asks with a slow smile as she leans closer, “Killian?”

She saunters past him, her hand trailing across his shoulder as she goes, and Killian for almost a full minute is frozen in place.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, “did she fall and hit her head?”

**************************************************************

Cora Mills rather likes this body she has inhabited - this Emma Swan. She normally hates thin blondes, but this woman is at least fit. And she’s a grown woman with curves and more mature tastes. The last several she had inhabited were mere girls, and the young men she had seduced hardly a challenge. But Killian Jones . . .

She slinks down into the soft cocoon the others called a sleeping bag, a pleasant smile upon her lips as the lights go out. She had been thrilled to see this room full of possible targets on the one night every ten years when she could re-enter the world of the living. She was even more thrilled when Emma Swan walked into that kitchen, her unspoken love crying out to Cora in delicious agony. And when Cora had laid eyes on the object of Emma Swan’s affections, well - what more could a woman want?