Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.
Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.
Neither one of them expected a year of of video games and feature stories to dredge up old enemies and even older feelings, but, together, they made a pretty good team.
She’d blame it on being too wired or, maybe, too disappointed, the memory of how easy it had been to play like absolute shit running on a loop every single time she closed her eyes. If Emma was being honest with herself – she absolutely was not being honest with herself – it wasn’t either one of those things.
It was everything else.
It was a disgusting amount of espresso in one coffee order and how undeniably charming it had been to turn the corner and find an eleven-year-old kid wearing her team’s incredibly lame t-shirt asleep on Killian Jones’ legs and how he’d just casually mentioned he had a brother, like he wanted to keep talking to her.
It All Starts With a Dance 