notinthebook | (no subject)

She's not nervous; that would be stupid.

Okay, so maybe she takes a little extra care with her hair and makeup and choice of clothing: no boots, this time, in favor of a plain pair of black heels, a faintly sheer red top tucked loosely into the waist of her jeans, matching her lips and nails.

"You're not going to wear a dress?" Mary Margaret's standing in the doorway, hands cupping her elbows, smiling that small, satisfied smile that seems to be on her face every time she looks at Emma recently.

Emma shakes her head. "I've only got the one, and...I don't think this is a dress kind of evening."

"But it's a date," Mary Margaret insists. Emma drops her eyes to search for mascara on the bureau top so she doesn't have to see herself blushing in the mirror.

"Well, I don't think it's a dress kind of date."

She's considering herself in the mirror when there's a knock on the door. Mary Margaret , hand to her chest, looks like she's about to explode, but when Emma gives her a warning look, all she does is say "I'll just...go get that," and scurry back downstairs, leaving Emma to spritz on perfume and take a minute to stare at herself.

She looks pretty much like usual, but he likes her usual, right?

She's not nervous.

But it still takes a her a few minutes before she manages to pull herself away from the safety of her room and head downstairs, a little more carefully than usual in these shoes.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She'd be a liar if she said thoughts aren't sort of going along the same lines. There's a lot to be said for dinner and drinks and a game or two or darts, but when she can feel his breath warm against her lips and feel his shoulders under her hands, any thoughts that don't include more of the same just sort of slip right out of her head.

How does he manage to take her breath away like he does? She feels a little shell-shocked when they break apart, her heart thudding madly in her ears.

And it feels so good when he touches her cheek, thumb light, like she's something precious. It's not a feeling she's used to, but she has to admit it's pretty damn sweet.

"Maybe I should have saved that for after dinner," she jokes, as her hands slip to settle at his hips, easy, comfortable.

Graham smiles with that fond smile of his, taking her face in his hands - exactly as though she's something precious (because she is).

He laughs lightly, shrugs.

"Maybe," he allows. "Though I can't say I'm complaining now either."

He likes that she's comfortable enough to do it any time she wants. It's a sign of trust and comfort with him.

(And she is, of course, an incredibly, incredibly attractive lady.)

"You better not be," she says, lifting her hands to his chest to grip lightly as his shirt, tugging gently before letting go again. The way he cradles her face makes her feel like her insides are melting, and the fact that the affection in that smile is for her makes her heart skip and thump.

This is simultaneously as comfortable as if they've gone out a thousand times before, and as nervewracking as her very first date, and the combination is confusion, so she tries to ignore it.

"Come on," she teases, leaning close enough that a breath further would be another kiss, hazel eyes sparkling. "Somebody's got to beat you at darts someday: I may as well give it a shot tonight."

Their breaths mingle as Graham leans in too, half-expecting an opportunity to kiss her again - before they break apart and she jokes about darts.

It makes him laugh after an almost breathless exhale.

"Oh, you can try," he says, equally as teasing. "But being the Huntsman does have its advantages."

It certainly explains why he's never missed a target before, now that he thinks about it.

Hell, she'd be happy to give him that kiss -- but they've got all night and she can't back down now that's she's issued a challenge, though she slips her hand into his again, laces her fingers into his comfortably.

They seem to fit just right.

"When you're hunting stuff, maybe," she says, pretending to be unimpressed. "As far as I know, there are no actual deer at Granny's."

Graham chuckles, feeling the warmth of Emma's hand in his and relishing in it, in the utter simplicity and perfection of this moment, hoping that this is only the start of many moments like this to come.

"No," he agrees, "I haven't seen any deer at Granny's. Unless you count the one on Granny's dartboard. Because I've hunted that one a hundred times."

They cross the street to Granny's Diner, which is lit with life and is - as expected - relatively populated with the usual clientele and then some.

This is it.

Here they are, Graham and Emma.

He doesn't let go of her hand as he reaches for the door.

This is it, for sure, and she can't stop herself from glancing over at him, her fingers ready to relax out of his as soon as he lets go, because even after what he said earlier, a part of her still thinks he's going to let go.

He doesn't.

Instead, he pulls the door open with the exact same ease of manner and cheerful look on his face as he'd had the morning after their night together, when he'd walked back in the room, knowing she'd been planning on bolting, knowing she knew that he knew.

It's like he really, honestly, isn't planning on backing out, and he's still got her hand when they walk through the door and into the busy little restaurant.

Emma can feel the eyes on them, the weight of curiosity, the questions thickening the air, and her fingers tighten and loosen instinctively, unsure of whether she should hold on or tug free.

She wants the comfort of his hand in hers, though, so she keeps it there, for now. "Booth's open," she says, nodding towards it with a fair attempt at easiness.