It’s a Saturday – like any other, really – when Emma wakes alone in their bed. It’s not altogether unusual, given that Killian typically wakes with the dawn. More usual as of late though, she muses, rolling over to his side of the bed. It’s not quite that he’s withdrawing, still generous with his time and his affection. If anything, so generous with his affection that it makes her worry. Not that he’ll leave – she’s so far past that at this point, that she ever doubted him becomes the sort of memory she can hardly reconcile with herself. But simply that he’s afraid.
“Of what, though,” Emma murmurs aloud. Of course, she has a feeling. On some nights – the cold ones, especially, when she pulls Killian nearly half on top of her just to stay warm – she has the same fear. One born of the sight of his life fading away, of his soul wrapped in unfamiliar clothes and unforgiving chains, countless moments where she’d wondered if she would ever see him again. It can wear on her.