Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

EMMA SWAN’S POINT OF VIEW:

Life isn’t counted in days or years. Not really. It breathes in fragments… in the soft golden light between sunrise and breakfast, in the quiet press of her hand against mine when the world forgets to keep spinning. It lives in the warm hush of children’s laughter echoing through the hallway long past bedtime, their little bodies curled together beneath a blanket fort they swore we wouldn't notice, whispering about dreams and monsters and daring not to be caught. It's in the way her voice lowers when she calls my name in the dark… like a secret, like a spell. I feel her even when she isn’t touching me…the memory of her fingers brushing my wrist, the weight of a promise whispered against the curve of my neck, breath warm and trembling with sincerity, as if she thinks  saying it aloud will jinx us, will curse our future, but she is brave and she does say it.

“I want this,” she said once, not just to me, but to the future itself. “All of it. I never thought I could be this happy.”

And we did it. We built it…slowly, painfully, gloriously… from the ashes of every broken story we survived. Babies with wide eyes and untamable giggles. Birthdays lit by too many candles. Holidays that smelled like cinnamon and safety. The first steps, the scraped knees, the magic spells gone sideways. Curses unraveled, monsters defeated, shadows faced down hand in hand. Ocean trips where the kids ran barefoot through the tide, hair tangled with salt and sun, seafoam clinging to their ankles like the very shore was trying to hold them still. She always said the sea calmed her … that it was magic, that it healed something ancient and bruised inside her. I think it healed me too.

All of it…it’s stitched into the fabric of who we are now. A mosaic of chaos and beauty. I tried once to gather every perfect second, to trap them in my memory like fireflies in a jar. But moments don’t hold still, and maybe they aren’t meant to. Maybe they’re meant to pass through us and leave something softer in their wake. I look at her now, at this woman who once believed she didn’t deserve love, who thought she would always be a villain in someone else’s story. But she isn't. Not anymore. She's the beating heart of mine, of our children’s.  I remember asking her what she wanted, once, when the world was quiet …not after a victory, but in a stillness, like the eye of the storm. Her voice was soft, but steady. “True love,” she said. “Peace within myself in this world. A big family. Happiness, if it’s allowed…all the things I’m not allowed, because Villain’s don’t get happy endings Miss Swan.” It took her forever to just call me Emma, and not Miss Swan or Sheriff Swan.

She didn’t look at me when she said it, as if afraid the asking alone might shatter the chance of having it. As if the world might snatch it away for daring to want too much. But I reached for her hand … then, and every day since … and I promised her. A happy ending. And maybe this is it. Maybe we got it. Maybe we’re still writing it, breath by breath, moment by moment. And maybe it’s messy and loud and full of mistakes and late-night tears and joy so big it makes your ribs ache… but we’re here. We’re together. We are happy. And for two women who once carried the weight of the world and the wounds of their past like armor... that’s nothing short of a miracle.

There are mornings when I wake before the sun, before the children wake for the day, before the world has remembered how to be loud … and she’s there beside me, all soft sighs and tangled limbs, her body curved against mine like we were shaped to fit this way. Her hand might be buried in the sheets, or curled possessively around my hip, or draped across my chest, fingers splayed like she’s afraid I might disappear if she doesn’t hold on tight enough. And in those moments … in that quiet, sacred heartbeat between dreaming and waking … it feels like forever isn’t just a fantasy. It feels like it’s real. Like it lives here, with us, in this bed. In the warmth of her skin against mine. In the hush of her breath where it ghosts along my collarbone.

I breathe her in like she’s oxygen. That scent of hers… vanilla and sandalwood, the faded musk of worn leather, and something else, something rich and unknowable, like ancient magic or midnight secrets. I could get drunk on it. Some mornings I think I have. And when she stirs and murmurs my name, when her hand tightens its hold and she nestles closer without opening her eyes… that’s when I know we did it. We made it. We survived every curse, every heartbreak, every goddamn impossible thing this world threw at us. And now we have this. Her arms around me feel like armor, soft but unbreakable. Her heartbeat against my spine steadies mine. In that space between sleep and morning, I believe we’re safe. I believe she’s happy.

But then there are other mornings. Mornings when the silence in the room doesn’t feel like peace. When it isn’t empty… not exactly …but full. Thick with things we don’t say. Heavy with questions I’m afraid to ask. She’ll lie there just as close, just as still, but her fingers don’t move. Her lips don’t brush my shoulder. Her eyes stay open, trained on something past the window, past the sky. Somewhere I can’t follow. And I wonder if that’s where she goes, in those long, quiet moments. Back to the darker places, the ones that scarred her. Or maybe forward, to the life she thinks she still doesn't deserve, even now, after all we’ve built. Maybe she still believes some part of her is borrowed time. Maybe she’s still waiting for the world to take it all away.

Some days, I catch a smile that lights her whole face, and I think, Yes, she’s happy. We’re good. She’s here with me, completely. But other days … most days, if I’m honest … I find myself wanting to believe she is. Needing to. Because the alternative breaks something inside me I don’t know how to fix.

I want to be enough. Not just for her to love …because I know she does love me, our children, our life…but for her to stay. To stop running, even in her mind. To wake up beside me not with a sigh of relief, but with that soft little smile she saves for when she truly, truly feels safe. And until then… I hold her tighter. I keep breathing her in. I whisper, you’re home, even when I don’t say it out loud. Because maybe one day she’ll believe it. Maybe one day, that far-off place in her eyes will disappear. And all that will be left is us.

I try to think back to when this started.  Henry grew up. He left with that journal in his bag slung over his shoulder and a heart too full of stories to stay put. He graduated, stepped into the world like it was made just for him, and Regina and I stood side by side, proud. She squeezed my hand so tight that day. It felt like we were holding onto more than just each other as he went through the portal. We were married not long after. She was crowned The Good Queen. Her subjects cheered, magic danced in the sky, and I kissed her under a cascade of flower petals and spells. But even then, I felt it…that subtle shift in the air, like something sacred was being traded. Something small and personal exchanged for something... immense.

She never wanted the crown. Not really. She told me so on one of those nights when the world had gone quiet, when her voice barely rose above the rustle of blankets and breath. She was curled into me, her cheek warm against my shoulder, her fingers tracing idle circles over the hollow of my collarbone like she could write truths there that words couldn’t carry. And she whispered it like a confession:

“I never wanted the throne. Never wanted Leopold. Never wanted a kingdom.” A pause. A breath. “I just wanted to be free. I just wanted someone to love me. I didn’t want it then, and I don’t want this now.”

And now? Now she’s a queen in every sense of the word. She’s not just the mayor of Storybrooke. She’s The Good Queen. The pulse at the center of the United Realms …a world she stitched together with trembling hands and raw hope. She cast the spell that rejoined everything that had ever been torn apart. She wove magic and memory, time and space, and gave people back their homes, their families, their futures. She didn’t rebuild a kingdom…she reinvented one. Not with power, but with mercy. With grace.

She reunited the Realms. But sometimes I wonder… if in freeing everyone else, she chained herself to something she never asked for. Because no matter how beautifully she wears that crown … no matter how many lives she’s healed, how many laws she’s rewritten with kindness at their core … I know it was never the dream. Her dream was soft. It was domestic. It smelled like pancakes on a Sunday morning and sounded like little feet running down a hallway. Her dream was being wrapped in arms that didn’t need her to be anything but herself. Not a queen. Not a savior. Not a symbol. Just a woman, wildly and wholly loved.

She tells me she’s fine. She smiles in that effortless, practiced way when people call her “Your Majesty.” She moves through the palace halls …yes, we live in a palace now, part time, when on diplomatic trips… with poise that looks like it came easy, but I know better. And when she’s home, when she’s barefoot and in sweatpants and leaning over the couch to tickle the kids, I see something softer, something truer. She’s beautiful in those moments… incandescent. She kisses me like I’m still the miracle that showed up at her door. Like I’m still the home she ran to when the world turned cold.

And yet… There are nights when it all feels too still. Too perfect. She’ll fall asleep with her back pressed to mine, or with her face tucked beneath my chin, her breath slow and steady. And that’s when it creeps in …this ache, this whisper at the edge of the quiet. Something’s off. Her sleep is peaceful, but not unguarded. Her smiles are real, but sometimes they feel like they’re made of glass. Shiny. Whole. But fragile. Breakable. As if somewhere behind her eyes, she’s holding together a thousand shattered pieces no one else sees.

And maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just scared. Because I made her a promise. I swore I’d give her a happy ending … not the fairytale kind, but the real kind. One with sticky kitchen counters and babies who don’t sleep through the night and arguments about laundry and making up on the couch before the credits roll. I promised her peace. Rest. Freedom. But this world we built, as breathtaking as it is… Sometimes I wonder if we created a kingdom instead of a sanctuary.

Because she’s always giving. Always holding everything up. She would never say it, but I see it … the way her shoulders carry too much, the way her smile dims when she thinks no one’s watching. And I ask myself over and over: Did I give her a happy ending? Or just another kind of prison? Because she is good. Gods, she’s good. A better mother than I ever imagined being. A better ruler than the stories ever deserved. She leads with heart, with conviction, with a kind of love that reshapes everything it touches. But did I give her space to just be? To let go? To rest? I don’t know how to fix it without breaking what we’ve made. And I don’t know if I’m brave enough to ask her if she’s still dreaming of freedom… even now. But I will. Because I love her. And love… real love …it asks, even when it’s afraid of the answer. Even when it knows the crown still leaves marks.

“Mommy?”

It’s a whisper at first, soft and thready like mist curling through the cracks of a dream… muffled by sleep, shaped by that sweet, fragile place between dreaming and waking. I feel the tug before I fully hear her. Little fingers, warm and gentle, curl around the hem of my shirt. A tiny anchor. Then the soft bounce of the mattress shifts beneath me, the faint scent of apples and shampoo reaching my nose just before I feel the weight of her climb. Determined to lay between me and her Momma. My sweet Isabella. Her hair is knotted, a halo of soft chaos catching what little light spills in through the sliver between the curtains. She smells like sleep and childhood… her favorite blanket, worn cotton pajamas, the safety of home.

“Good morning, Bella.”

“I couldn’t find you,” she says, voice wobbling slightly as she nestles close. “I went downstairs. No Mommy. No breakfast. No cartoons.” I groan softly, rolling to my side with effort that feels monumental, one arm cradling the heavy swell of my belly, the other groping blindly for the nightstand clock. The numbers flare red against the dark… 5:03 a.m. A betrayal. A personal attack.

“No, little Love,” I murmur, brushing her curls back from her forehead with my knuckles, “It’s still early. Too early. The sun’s not even fully up yet.” She pouts … that perfect Regina-like expression of disappointment …and snuggles closer anyway, curling into the space between Regina’s back and the baby bump that I’ve become. My back protests the shift. My hips ache. Everything feels just a little too stretched, a little too tight. And as if on cue, the baby inside me stirs, pressing an elbow or a knee or possibly an entire foot up against my ribs like he’s trying to crawl out early.

“Good morning to you too, little one,” I mumble, placing my hand over the place he kicked.

He moves again… strong, insistent. Bigger than the girls ever were at this stage. The doctor told me not to worry boys often measure bigger, take up more space. But I swear some days it feels like he’s trying to rearrange my organs just for fun. I rub my belly gently, trying to coax him back into stillness. I used to love this part…the movements, the tiny proof of life beneath my skin. And I still do, I really do. This baby is so wanted. So loved. From the moment we even spoke the idea aloud, he was ours. Ours in that quiet, certain way that roots into your bones.

But I won’t lie … I’m tired. Thirty weeks, and my body is a foreign country, that it wasn’t with the girls.  Everything’s swollen. I can’t get comfortable. My ankles vanish sometime after lunch every day, and sleep is a joke the universe stopped telling kindly. I miss bending over. I miss walking without waddling. I miss peeing once an hour instead of every twenty minutes. But still…God, I’m happy. Exhausted, aching, breathless… and so full of love I feel like I might split apart from the weight of it. I glance down at Isabella, her little hand now resting on my stomach, eyes wide when the baby shifts beneath her palm.

“He’s awake,” she whispers. I nod, smiling sleepily.

“He hears you. He probably wants cartoons too. He always has dance parties when you’re watching Bluey, or Sesame Street. He’s listening.” She giggles…that soft, high sound that melts something deep inside me… and leans her cheek gently against my belly like she’s listening.

“Hi, baby. It’s Bella, your sister, I love you… Good Morning!”

My chest tightens in the best way. This. This right here… this moment in the too-early stillness, in the ache of my back and the heat of my daughter curled up against me, whispering to the brother she hasn’t even met… this is what I live for.

Regina stirs beside us, shifting under the covers, her hand reaching automatically toward me, toward us, even in sleep. As if some part of her knows exactly where we are. As if she can feel the love humming in the room like a living thing.

And I let myself lean back into her warmth. My body may be stretched thin. My bones may ache. My lungs may have exactly two square inches left to breathe. But my heart?
My heart is overflowing. Ten more weeks. Then we meet him. And even with the discomfort, the fatigue, the restless ache… I wouldn’t trade this for anything.
Not a thing.

“Mommy,” Isabella murmurs, half-buried against me, her voice still thick with sleep but laced with purpose. “Will you put on cartoons for me? You keep hiding the remote.” I groan softly, rolling onto my back, hand instinctively cradling the underside of my belly as I do… like this belly and I need to coordinate all movement together now. I blink up at the ceiling, hoping my body might suddenly feel less like a creaky ship at sea. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

“You keep breaking the buttons off,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “Not until the sun is properly up, and you’ve had breakfast.”

“That wasn’t me!” she protests, full of righteous indignation now, as if we’re on the courtroom steps and not a tangle of limbs in bed before dawn. “That was Julia. She bites them. She’s worse than that puppy we babysat that time. Remember him? The one who ate Momma’s favorite slippers and her expensive purse?” I glance at her, arching a brow, amused despite myself.

“Hmm,” I say, voice low and skeptical. “That why I found the broken remote and the buttons in your room when cleaning yesterday?” She gasps, scandalized.

“I was framed! I will not answer any more questions without my lawyer present.” And that does it. A snort escapes before I can stop it, followed quickly by a real, full laugh. It startles the baby, who responds by thumping my ribs in protest.

“You, my little friend,” I say, reaching out to tickle her sides, “have been watching way too many crime shows and true crime documentaries with your Momma again, haven’t you?”

“Noooo!” she shrieks, dissolving into delighted giggles, squirming under my hand, her legs kicking the blanket askew. “Mommaaaa! Help! Mommy’s being unfair! Julia framed me!” Regina stirs beside us with a groggy sigh, her voice still hoarse with sleep, and it hits me again just how little rest either of us got last night.

We’d both been up at 2 a.m., restless and wired, unable to sleep. I was hot, achy, the baby doing Olympic gymnastics in my uterus, we had a power outage, which also means, the air conditioner was out and Regina, sweet woman that she is, had silently gotten out of bed, gone to make cool tea… and somehow convinced me to go with her to the nursery. Next thing we knew, we were assembling the crib by lamplight like sleep-deprived elves. We didn’t talk much. Just passed each other screws and smiled softly whenever our fingers brushed. Now she’s blinking slowly at us, trying to focus. Her hair is tousled in a way that makes me ache with love and exhaustion all at once. Still half-asleep, she reaches out and gently pulls Isabella into her arms, cradling her instinctively against her chest. A protective curl, always.

“What’s this about being framed?” she murmurs, voice low and warm like honey still melting. “Are you making criminal accusations before sunrise again, little defense attorney?”

“Julia broke the remote!” Isabella insists, arms flung wide in dramatic protest. “I was framed! Innocent until proven guilty!”

“Mmm,” Regina hums, pressing a kiss to Isabella’s forehead without opening her eyes. “Well, if Julia’s going to be eating electronics, she’ll need to write us an apology letter… and pay restitution out of her glitter allowance.” She says it in a serious tone that we all know is teasing. At least after the first time, Regina had put a spell on all the remotes in the home, so that the battery pack at least will not shock her or poison her, cause her any harm whatsoever, as the compartment is magic sealed and the entire remote water proofed.  That gets another giggle from Isabella, muffled now by Regina’s sweater. I smile, the kind that aches a little. My whole body is heavy, tired in a way that sleep alone won’t fix. The kind of tired that’s part physical, part hormonal, part soul-deep from loving this hard.

The baby shifts again, and I press my hand gently to the spot where his elbow juts out. Even through the discomfort, through the swollen ankles and backaches and insomnia… this is everything. This messy, loud, ridiculous morning before morning has even truly begun. Regina is half-asleep, our daughter is passionately defending herself from imaginary charges, and I’m lying here with my belly stretched to the stars and a baby boy doing his best impression of a ninja. And all I can think is…We made this life. And I wouldn’t change a single second of it.

The sound reaches me first…soft, broken. The kind of cry that slips out between breaths, not loud enough to startle, but unmistakable to a mother’s ears. Julia. I’m up before Regina even stirs. The ache in my lower back protests the movement, and the weight of my belly makes rising more of a maneuver than an act… but I manage, shifting with practiced care. I don’t want to disrupt them if I don’t have to. They’ve almost fallen back asleep.  Isabella is curled into Regina, her small voice still murmuring something sleepy and sweet. One hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other loosely tangled around Regina in a hug. They look like a painting, backlit in faint early morning gray. Safe. Still. I pause for just a second to drink it in. Regina stirs again, already halfway to sitting. I see the instinct in her eyes … the one that reaches for the child before she’s even fully conscious. But I reach out and gently press my hand to her shoulder, grounding her.

“I’ve got her,” I murmur softly. “You stay. Isabella looks so comfy. She was just telling you about saving the world.” Regina blinks, then smiles through the haze of sleep.

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhmm,” I hum, already turning toward the hallway. I hear Isabella’s sleepy voice behind me, words slurred with drowsy determination.

“I want to be just like Alexandra Kabot when I grow up, Momma.”

I bite back a grin. Of course. A fictional defense attorney from a crime show she’s absolutely too young to be watching …the same one she sneaks peeks at when Regina forgets the parental controls and fast forwards through the show until she needs the blonde woman on the screen. “She saves women and children. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

My heart swells…equal parts pride and exasperation. That girl. All fire and heart, already fighting for something bigger than herself.  The floor is cold beneath my feet as I pad down the hallway, my hand instinctively bracing the underside of my belly. The baby stirs again, sensing the shift in my body. I murmur something under my breath… a soothing sound with no real words … just a mother’s rhythm, meant to comfort both of us. I reach Julia’s door and crack it open before flicking on the light. Warm, dim, just enough.

“Good morning, Julia,” I whisper.

She’s sitting upright now, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her fists, curls a sleep-tangled halo around her head. Her lips tremble… not quite crying anymore, but close. She looks confused, like she doesn’t know why she’s awake or how she got here. I know that feeling. She holds her arms up to me without a word, and I sit carefully on the edge of her bed, drawing her into my embrace. Her small body curls naturally against mine, head resting just above the rise of my stomach, the bump between us like a shared secret as she tells her little brother good morning without so many words. She lays her hand flat across it, instinctively seeking the familiar curve of her little brother.

“Did you have a good sleep?” I ask softly, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. She shakes her head no, her cheek pressed to my chest now. “Me either, baby,” I whisper, pressing a kiss into her hair. She sniffs, shifting closer. Her fingers curl slightly, grazing the stretched fabric of my shirt.

“Where’s Isabella?” she mumbles into my collarbone. She must have gone next door to Isabella’s room first. I do so often find her in there in the mornings, cuddled up with Isabella, fast asleep in her bed instead of her own.

“In the room with Momma,” I tell her. “She couldn’t sleep either, but I think she’s dozing now. Do you want to come lie down with us for a little while? It’s still really early.”

She nods slowly, too tired to argue, too comforted to speak. I lift her gently, rising with a grunt I try to keep quiet …thirty weeks along, and even the smallest tasks take choreography. She clings to me like she used to when she was tiny, legs wrapped around my waist, head tucked beneath my chin. We walk slowly back down the hall, the house still hushed, wrapped in that strange quiet before the world truly wakes. I’m exhausted.  But right now, in this small, perfect moment… arms full of our daughter, heart full of love… all I can feel is gratitude. This is our chaos. Our rhythm. Our beautiful, messy morning.

I ease her down onto the bed with a tenderness I didn’t know I had in me before having these kids…soft, practiced, instinctive. Julia settles instantly, like her body remembers this space, this closeness. She tucks herself against her sister without hesitation, pressing her face into Isabella’s back, one arm thrown across her like she’s always belonged there. And maybe she has. Isabella doesn’t stir, already half-lost to sleep again, curled in Regina’s arms like a secret. They look so peaceful. So safe. Regina’s cheek rests against their daughter’s temple, and her breathing has deepened…finally.

I lower myself back into bed with a grunt and a prayer. It takes effort. Every muscle is tired, my hips throb like old wood, and the weight of this baby…this beautiful, bouncing, somersaulting boy…is like a boulder pressed against my spine. But he’s quiet now. Still. Settled. Maybe he’s listening to their breathing the way I am, lulled by the soft hush of bodies close together in the stillness It’s quiet. So quiet, in fact, that for one fleeting, reckless moment, I actually believe I might fall back asleep. Just a little. Just enough. I close my eyes, sink into the warmth of cotton sheets and vanilla-scented skin, into the delicious peace of my family tangled around me. And then…

“Let’s go to the playground today, Juju,” Isabella whispers, voice bright and conspiratorial, the kind of whisper that vibrates with barely-contained energy. She nudges her sister, completely abandoning the concept of stillness.

“Nooo…” Julia groans, her voice thick and dramatic. “I wanna go swimming!” Regina groans into her pillow, not even lifting her head. Something between a sigh and a protest slips out of her…completely incoherent and very obviously not awake.

“S’time for sleep,” she mumbles, the words muffled by flannel and fatigue. But even half-asleep, her arm snakes out, pure muscle memory, and she pulls Julia down into the crook of her body again.

Julia squeals as Regina kisses her cheek…soft, sloppy, affection-drunk kisses that tumble from a place of exhausted joy. The kind that make you feel claimed and adored, even if your hair’s a mess and you haven’t had coffee. Julia giggles, high and delighted, like the sun’s already rising in her chest, bursting through the clouds of sleep. I close my eyes for a breath, just long enough to hold the moment still. The room smells like warm skin and crushed cotton and vanilla and the faintest traces of baby shampoo. The kind of morning scent you wish you could bottle. Somehow this moment feels impossibly light. Isabella, no longer content to lie still, starts bouncing slightly…knees and elbows and flying curls a dangerous symphony of motion. I feel her foot graze too close to my belly, and my hands fly out without thinking.

“Careful,” I murmur, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist and guiding her down into the hollow beside me where she still fits…miraculously, sweetly…like she was made to go there. My palm rests on her back, grounding us both.

“Watch your brother, baby,” I add gently. She stills instantly, her hand coming to rest on my stomach with that reverent touch children save for things they don’t quite understand but already love deeply. She’s quiet for a second…just a heartbeat…and it’s like the whole room holds its breath with her.

“He’s still sleeping again,” she whispers solemnly, her voice small and disappointed, like she was hoping he’d kick just for her. I smile, brushing my fingers through her hair.

“He’ll wake up soon. Maybe he’s listening.” Her eyes light up at that idea, but before I can blink, her solemn expression vanishes, replaced with the wild spark I know all too well.

“Baby brother votes for the Playground!” she announces, as if it’s already been decided, her voice ricocheting off the walls like a shot of sunlight.

“No! Bella he votes for Swimming!” Julia counters, wriggling free from Regina’s arms and shoving Isabella with the precise kind of bratty affection only a little sister can wield. Not enough to hurt, just enough to annoy.

Isabella gasps…offended in the dramatic, theatrical way Regina’s clearly passed down to her…and grabs the nearest pillow. She whacks Julia squarely in the head, sending a puff of curls flying askew. Julia squeals. And then chaos. It rolls across the bed like a tidal wave…giggling bodies, tangled limbs, rogue feet and flailing arms in fuzzy pajamas. Regina’s trying to shield her face with one hand, still half-asleep but smiling despite herself. I’m trying to keep my belly protected from rogue elbows and flying pillows while simultaneously laughing and trying to referee. But beneath it all…beneath the noise, the ache in my hips, the breathlessness in my chest…there’s only this: Love. Messy, noisy, unstoppable love, and happiness.  This is what we built. This is what we’re still building. A life made of mornings like this, of giggles that turn into shouts, of sleepy kisses and chaotic joy and the low thrum of something sacred humming beneath it all. Our forever. In cotton sheets and children laughing and baby kicks. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

“Hey… hey… hey.”

Regina’s voice cuts gently through the whirlwind, soft and husky with sleep… not sharp, not scolding, but anchoring. Like the slow rise of dawn through a storm. It threads through the girls’ laughter and the rustle of sheets and flailing limbs, a lullaby made of velvet and cracked honey. She pushes herself up with a slow, reluctant grace, rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand, blinking at the chaos through sleep-heavy lashes. The sheet slips from one shoulder, baring smooth skin and the delicate slope of her collarbone, and her hair … that dark, wild tumble … falls messily around her face. It’s a crown of midnight and motherhood, and she doesn’t even know how beautiful she is like this. She leans back on one arm, posture lazy, eyes still mostly closed but present, watching her daughters with a kind of sleepy adoration that makes something in my chest twist.

“Let’s do both,” she murmurs, barely louder than the flutter of breath between us. “The playground’s right next to the pool.” And that’s all it takes. Victory explodes like fireworks in the girls’ eyes. Isabella squeals like she’s just been crowned queen of the universe, flinging herself into the air as if the day has already begun, and Julia is bouncing beside her, curls bouncing in perfect rhythm, shouting “Swimming and playground!” like a battle cry.

They’re not going anywhere yet. It’s barely six. None of us have brushed teeth or changed clothes or made coffee. But we don’t stop them. We don’t hush them or remind them it’s too early. Because this right here …the way their joy swells the room, the way the bed becomes a field of dreams and possibility … this is the magic. This is the thing we used to believe we’d never get. Regina reaches across the bed, past the heap of flannel pajamas and stuffed animals and siblings mid-wrestle, and her fingers find mine. She doesn’t need to say anything. Her touch says it all. It says we’re doing this. We’re here. We built this with our hands and our heartbreak and our hope. And God, I still remember the days I thought she’d never look at me like this. I remember the fear, the wondering if we’d survive ourselves, let alone make something whole out of the broken pieces we carried. But now her hand is in mine. And our daughters are tangled between us, laughing with the kind of abandon you only get when you know you're safe. I feel the baby shift inside me, a soft roll like he’s listening too, like even from the womb he knows his sisters' joy, his mothers’ love. My hand moves automatically to my belly, and Regina’s follows a moment later, resting beside mine. I promised her a happy ending. And some part of me thought that meant after the hard parts were over. After the danger, after the curses, after the old wounds stopped aching. But maybe I was wrong. Because maybe this…this morning chaos, the kids playing and giggles and whispered dreams about playgrounds and swimming pools…maybe this is what a happy ending really looks like. Not the end at all. But the most breathtaking kind of beginning. Over and over. Again and again. Every single day we wake up like this. Together.

The girls are off the bed in a flurry of motion, giggling as they yank every spare pillow within reach onto the floor … the ones from the armchair, the decorative ones Regina swore were “for display only,” even the small throw cushion shaped like a heart. It’s chaos in miniature. They arrange the pillows with serious concentration, a fortress of fluff and intention, then scramble back up onto the mattress, breathless and wild-eyed. And then they launch. Laughter bursts like champagne as they tumble into the heap below. Julia shrieks with joy. Isabella immediately declares it “the softest landing ever,” and both of them scramble up for another round. Regina watches them for a heartbeat, a faint smile tugging at her lips … that soft, private kind of smile she doesn’t give the world, just us … before she turns back to me. With the girls off the bed, she scoots closer, the mattress dipping slightly with her movement. Her hand finds mine, warm and familiar. She leans in and presses a kiss to my lips … soft, lingering, a question wrapped in affection.

“What’s wrong?” she asks gently. I blink, surprised.

“Nothing,” I murmur. “Just thinking, I guess.” Her brows draw together ever so slightly. She studies me now … really studies me … and I can see the shift in her, the moment she leaves the haze of sleep behind and slips into that quiet hyper-awareness she uses like armor.

“Of what?” she asks, voice low. “You look like you don’t feel well.” I shake my head, trying for something casual.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off. Just narrows her eyes in that way that makes it crystal clear she doesn’t buy a word of it. The “Regina Look.” Equal parts challenge and concern. I’ve seen it stop hardened criminals in their tracks and make grown men confess crimes they hadn’t committed.

“Emma,” she says, her voice soft but edged in steel. “You know that doesn’t work on me.”

“I’m just… tired, I guess,” I offer, which is the truth, technically. Just not all of it. She watches me for another long moment, then sighs, brushing a thumb over the back of my hand. “Thank God the power’s back on,” I add, trying to redirect, my voice lighter than I feel. “I don’t think I could’ve done another night of sleeping with the windows open and my body already overheating cooking this little one.” I say, with a little smile, redirecting her hands to him. He’s awake again.  Her lips twitch, she smiles down as he moves, but she doesn’t let the subject go.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m glad too. But that’s not what’s bothering you.”

Her eyes are gentle now. Not pressing. Just open. Waiting. And God, she knows me too well. But still I don’t say anything. I don’t even know what to say. The ache in my body, the tight pull of my skin, the pressure of growing life inside me while juggling sleepless nights and the knowledge that even on good days, this world is heavy. It all blends into something I can’t quite name, because I’m not unhappy. I’m not ungrateful. I just… don’t feel right, and there’s not really a name for it besides tired. I look away, eyes drifting to the girls as they climb onto the bed again, cheeks flushed, joy radiating off of them like sunlight.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, quieter this time.

Regina doesn’t argue. She just shifts closer, looping her arm gently around my back, her touch both soothing and solid. She kisses the side of my head, her lips lingering at my temple. She doesn’t push. And that makes it worse … or better. I’m not sure which. She knows I’ll come to her when I’m ready. That I always do. But for now, she holds me close, and we watch our daughters tumble into the pillows again, their laughter echoing off the walls like the sweetest kind of music. And in the silence between us, I feel it … her love. Her patience. Her knowing. Even when I say nothing… She still sees everything.

“Did you get enough sleep that you’d be okay taking them?” I ask, my voice low, gentle ….careful not to break the spell of laughter and sunlight that’s bloomed in the room. The girls are still chasing each other around the edge of the bed, leaping into their carefully constructed pillow fort like it’s some enchanted kingdom. Their joy fills the space … big and bright, spilling into every corner like morning light. I don’t want to dim that. Not with how rare and golden these moments are. Regina glances up from where she’s sitting next to me, legs curled under her, fingers absently smoothing the rumpled blankets. She shrugs one elegant shoulder, and even that is graceful … effortless, natural. Her eyes flick over me quickly, cataloguing every breath, every shift in posture. Always reading me. Always watching. Then she nods.

“I can manage.” But then … a beat. A subtle pause.

“You’re not coming?” Her voice is smooth on the surface, casual even … but I know better. I know her. The concern is hidden in the way she lifts her chin just slightly, in the way her eyes soften but sharpen all at once. Her gaze doesn’t waver. I shift, easing myself into a more comfortable position on the bed with a quiet exhale, one hand coming instinctively to rest on the curve of my belly. It’s automatic now … a grounding gesture. This baby is such a constant presence I sometimes forget where I end and he begins.

“I think I’ll stay back today,” I say. And immediately I see it … the way Regina’s head tilts. That subtle crease between her brows appears, not out of annoyance, but because she’s concerned. Always concerned, especially lately. She’s seen the way I move slower. The way I wince when I don’t think anyone’s looking. She’s seen me catch my breath mid-step like I’m afraid my own body might rebel against me, how I am more unbalanced with this pregnancy, have gained more weight than with the last two, three really if you count Henry, but of course she wasn’t there for my pregnancy with Henry.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks, and it’s not just a question … it’s a gentle demand. The kind of quiet insistence only she can pull off, velvet-wrapped steel. Not frantic. Not dramatic. Just real. Just Regina. I smile at her, but it feels like the smile barely reaches my eyes. I’m trying. God, I’m trying. Because the last thing I want is to ruin this day … to disrupt the rhythm of it with something as selfish as my own discomfort.

“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing it off with a wave of my hand. “Just a little tired. Sore. Not a big deal.”

My voice trails off near the end, softer than I intend … like the words are falling after a thought I haven’t finished. And maybe that’s exactly what’s happening. Because the truth is, I’m not okay. Not really. But I don’t want to say that out loud. Not now. Not when the girls are glowing with excitement about playgrounds and swimming and popsicles. Not when Regina finally got a few hours of sleep. Not when the sun is streaming through the curtains like a promise I can’t quite name. I think maybe if I just rest … if I lie down and close my eyes and breathe for a while… I’ll feel better. I want to believe that. I need to. Because the heaviness in my chest, the quiet pressure building behind my ribs … it’s more than physical, and I don’t have the words for it yet. So I smile again. Softer. Tired. Hollow at the edges. Regina watches me for a long moment, her eyes flicking between my hand on my belly and the too-careful way I’m sitting, the way I’m trying to pretend this is just a normal kind of tired. But she doesn’t call me on it. Not yet. Instead, she leans over, brushing a kiss against my temple, lips warm and lingering.

“Alright,” she says quietly, like she’s letting it go … for now. But I know her too. She doesn’t let go of anything that easily. She’ll tuck the worry away, press it between pages for later, for when the girls are asleep and the house is quiet and there’s no one else to pretend for. And when that moment comes … I’ll probably tell her. I want to tell her. But for now… I just close my eyes and listen to the laughter, the sound of our daughters playing like the world is made of sunlight and pillows, and hope that maybe … maybe … if I sleep, it’ll pass. And if not… At least she’s watching. At least she always is.

She seems to decide … for now … that I’m “fine enough,” at least to keep pretending. Her palm reaches for me before I even finish the thought. It’s instinct by now, a daily ritual, sacred and grounding. Her hand finds mine resting over my belly, and then slowly, reverently, slides beside it. The warmth of her skin sinks into me, steady and grounding. Her fingers splay gently, not possessive, just present. A quiet claim … this child, this moment, this love. And as if in response to her touch … like he knows her already … the baby shifts beneath her palm. A soft thump. A slow roll. Something between a greeting and a stretch. Her whole face changes again, like it does when she’s focusing only on him. It starts in her eyes first … always her eyes … lighting from somewhere deep inside. And then it spreads, that soft, unguarded smile I never saw in the early days, the one that belongs only to her children. It blooms across her lips and lifts her cheeks, softens the sharpness of her features until she looks so young, so open it almost hurts to see.

“Good morning, baby,” she whispers, her voice velvet-soft and full of wonder, like he’s already here in her arms instead of tucked beneath my skin. And maybe he is. Maybe some part of him hears her. He always seems to settle under her voice. Just like the girls did.

She’s done this every single day since the test turned pink. Just like she did with the other two. Good morning. Goodnight. Every day. Without fail. Even when she’s running on two hours of sleep. Even when we’ve argued. Even when I’ve closed off and shut down and forgotten how to ask for help …. she never forgets. She anchors us. We don’t name our babies before they’re born. It’s become a quiet agreement between us … unspoken but mutual. It feels right to wait until we meet them, until we know who they are. But that’s never stopped her from speaking to them, loving them, marking time with their heartbeats. The baby moves again under her hand … a strong, confident kick against my ribs … and I smile faintly, my knuckles brushing the sore spot with the kind of tired affection I don’t have words for.

“He’s okay too,” I murmur. “He’s active. Probably planning to be an acrobat or something.”

The sound that leaves me is somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh … soft, thin around the edges. More breath than laughter. But it’s genuine. Regina doesn’t laugh. Her eyes are still on me, narrowed slightly now … not in judgment, but in that quiet way she gets when she’s turning things over in her mind, lining up worries like dominos and following them to their conclusion.

“But you don’t want to go on the outing?” she says slowly, her voice low, measured. She shifts slightly, raising her other hand and sliding it up to my forehead. Her palm is cool and steady, brushing away wisps of hair before settling there. She’s checking for fever, for answers I won’t give her with words. Her touch lingers. “You’re not feverish,” she mutters, mostly to herself. Then more pointedly: “Are you feeling sick?” I close my eyes and lean into her hand before she can pull it away. It feels good. Solid. Like something I didn’t realize I needed until it was there.

“No… honey. I’m not sick,” I say softly. My voice gentles for her, even though I can feel how close I am to unraveling. “Just tired. A little achy. You know?” I gesture vaguely toward my belly, my hand brushing over the taut curve of it. “He’s bigger than our other babies were. The doctor said it, right? That boys tend to be? And things now, toward the end… it’s just going to feel different.” That should be enough. But the wrinkle between her brows deepens. Sharp. Focused. Regina doesn’t do vague. Not when it comes to me.

“Achy?” she echoes, her voice lifting slightly …  not casual now. There’s a slight edge to it, almost alarm, tucked into her next breath. “Good achy or bad achy? Because if this is anything like last month…”

“It’s not,” I interrupt, pressing my hand gently to her forearm, grounding her this time. “It’s not like before.”

And I mean it. It’s not sharp. Not stabbing or rhythmic. Not the kind of pain that makes your breath catch in fear. It’s just heavy. It’s the weight of growing a human inside you while trying to parent two others and pretending you’re still made of steel. It’s the ache of too many sleepless nights and pushing through it all because this matters more than anything else. Just… worn.

Regina watches me, her jaw working slightly like she’s deciding whether or not to believe me. Her eyes flicker to the girls … who are now building a new fortress out of cushions, taller than the last, at some point they managed to go to the playroom and brought in the couch cushions too, and then back to me. She doesn’t press again. Not right now. But I know her. She’ll file it away. She’ll ask again. Later. When the girls aren’t watching. When it’s just us and the quiet and she doesn’t have to pretend she’s not scared too. And honestly? That’s all I need right now. Just her hand on my belly. Her voice steady beside mine. And the promise…unspoken but always there … that she’s watching. That she’ll catch me if I fall.Top of FormBottom of Form Still, she doesn’t look convinced. Her lips press together, just slightly. Her eyes don’t leave mine, even as the sound of the girls shrieking with laughter rises behind her like a storm made of sugar and glitter.

“Maybe I should stay home,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb across my cheekbone… featherlight, like she’s trying to soothe something she can’t quite name. “I don’t like the way you’re talking. I can take the girls out another day.” Her voice is soft, but there’s steel under it. That familiar undercurrent … I’ll burn the world down if I have to … thrums just beneath the surface. That’s who she is. That’s who she’s become. Fierce, maternal, endlessly protective. Especially now.

“When?” I ask her, and my voice is sharper than I mean for it to be… not cruel, just tired. Desperate, maybe. I don’t move, but something in me leans forward, something unspoken and brimming. “When, Regina?” I repeat, softer now. “By the time he’s born, summer’s going to be over. School will start. Homework and routines, extracurricular activities and earlier bedtimes will eat up their days. This window?” I gesture faintly toward the girls, who are now trying to balance on one leg on top of the bedspread like tiny circus performers. “This magic little pocket of chaos we’re living in right now? It doesn’t last forever.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t interrupt. I shift just slightly, easing deeper into the pillows I had managed to spare from the pillow fort landing pad as my hand finds the underside of my belly… anchoring myself there, in the weight of it. His weight. My breath catches slightly with the pressure, but I let it out slow.

“I’m okay,” I tell her again, gentler now. “Really. This is just pregnancy. This is what the last stretch feels like. I’m tired. I’m uncomfortable. I didn’t sleep more than three hours. But I’m not falling apart.” I look at her then …really look at her … and I see all of it: the edge of guilt in her eyes, the way her worry tightens her shoulders, the way she keeps glancing at me like she’s afraid to blink and miss something. Like I might dissolve if she lets herself enjoy a single second too far from me. “You don’t have to hold the whole world up all the time,” I say softly. “You’ve already given us so much. But right now? You get to go breathe. You get to laugh and splash and let the girls climb all over you and beg for ice cream before lunch.” I squeeze her hand again, my thumb brushing hers.

 “They only get so much time with us like this… with just us…before everything changes again. Before we’re starting over with night feeds and diapers and sleep schedules.” She closes her eyes for half a second, and when she opens them, I see the war still raging behind them. The part of her that wants to stay. The part of her that’s afraid to leave. But I see the other part too…the part that’s aching to give them a perfect day. And I want that for her. For them.

“I’m okay,” I whisper again. “Go make memories. I’ll be right here.” And for a long moment, neither of us speak… we just breathe together, hand in hand, while the sounds of childhood ring around us like music. She nods slowly, and something in her softens … not her vigilance, never that, but her fear. Just enough.

“What if it’s the beginning of preterm labor again?” She asks. Her eyes are searching me, cataloguing every breath. “We’ve only had two calm weeks since you were released from the hosptial, Emma.” I had woken up in early preterm labor at 27 weeks, resulting in a week long hospital stay.

“I know,” I say, barely above a whisper. My hand finds hers where it rests on my cheek and I curl my fingers around it, grounding her. “I know, but everything turned out okay. He’s okay, and I’m okay too.” Her hand is so warm. Steady. I hold it tighter. “This isn’t that,” I continue, gently but firmly. “It’s just… being pregnant. Tired and sore and huge,” I say, trying to inject a little humor, even if my smile doesn’t fully reach my eyes. “I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s all. I swear. I’m okay. I just need some time with no noise. No bouncing. No high-pitched arguing about why we don’t want to put on sunscreen today and who gets the pink floatie, or the purple one.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes flick over her shoulder to the girls…and I follow her gaze instinctively. Isabella and Julia have transformed our bedroom into what can only be described as a death-defying trampoline park of doom. They’ve gathered every pillow, blanket, and cushion from the room that we’re not laying on and arranged them into what looks like a chaotic, princess-themed crash pad. The bed has become their launchpad. Isabella’s doing spinning leaps midair like a tiny warrior-fairy with delusions of grandeur. Julia trips dramatically, crashes with a squeal, then gets up and does it again … because apparently near death is hilarious when you’re three. They’re loud. Reckless. Joyful. They’re also perfectly fine.

“They’re happy,” I say aloud, still watching them. “They’re safe.” My voice is soft but sure. A truth I’m holding onto. I look back at Regina. She hasn’t moved. That worry is still coiled behind her eyes, tight and quiet, but I know her heart … and right now, it’s balanced on the wire between fear and love.

“I want you to take them,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “Let them make memories. Give them the summer they’ll talk about forever. I want them to have the best summer ever…and I want you to be a part of it.”

Her expression shifts slowly, like sunlight stretching across a lake. That quiet softening. The one that means I’ve said the thing she needed but didn’t want to ask for. That I see her, not just as a mother or a wife or a protector, but as someone who deserves joy, too. She lifts our joined hands to her lips, presses a kiss to my knuckles. Her thumb rubs slow, steady circles along my skin. She still hasn’t completely let go of the worry. I don’t think she ever really does. But something in her loosens… like she’s willing to trust me this time, even if it still doesn’t sit quite right.

“I’ll take them,” she says finally. Her voice is quiet but resolute. “But I’m calling every hour.”

“Well…” I smirk, leaning back into the pillows with a sigh that feels three days overdue, “don’t expect me to answer. The minute y’all leave, I’m going back to sleep, a nice relaxing bath, chamomile and lavender tea, one of my tablets the doctor prescribed me, you’ll be lucky if I remember my name by noon.” She raises an eyebrow at me, playful but very serious.

“If I call and you don’t answer, I’m turning this family outing around and bringing a midwife with me.” I grin at her, too tired to laugh but too in love not to respond.

“You’d do it, too,” I murmur, eyes slipping closed, “because you’re insane. This isn’t a complication, Regina. I’m okay.”

“I’m thorough,” she replies primly, even as she leans in to kiss my forehead. Her lips linger there, like a promise. “And I love you.” I smile, sleep pulling at the edges of me now like tidewater.

“I love you more,” I mumble, my fingers still tangled with hers. Outside this room, the world is wild and bright and loud. But in this breath, in this bed, with her hand in mine and the quiet hum of our daughters’ laughter in the distance, it all feels far away. Just for now. Just long enough to rest. Regina leans down, brushing a kiss against my forehead, then another to my belly.

“Alright, baby. Be good to your Mommy.” And just like that, she’s off wrangling the girls into shoes and hair ties, her voice a melodic blend of patience and command, and I let myself sink into the silence she leaves behind…my hand still resting over the soft curve of life inside me, my heart full with all of it.

When they leave, the silence settles over the house like snowfall … soft, slow, complete. I move carefully, like my bones are made of glass, like too much motion might shatter something I haven’t named yet. The magnesium bath helps. Warm water, lavender oil rising with the steam, wrapping around my shoulders, my spine, my skull. I sink deeper, letting the heat carry some of the weight I’ve been shouldering for weeks now. The ache across my ribs fades just a little. The tension behind my eyes softens. I don’t feel like I have to hold myself together just to stay upright. Afterward, I slip into clean pajamas…soft cotton, a little worn from too many washes but familiar in the best way. The waistband stretches easily over the curve of my belly, and I exhale as I ease down onto the bed, towel still wrapped around my hair, fingers trembling just a bit as I reach for the small bottle on the nightstand. The pill the doctor gave me. It’s not a sedative, not really. It’s just meant to help when the anxiety spikes too high, when my thoughts get loud and start crashing into each other like waves in a storm. She said it’s safe. Said it won’t knock me out. Said it might just… help me find quiet.

I take it. I meant to get up before they got home. Really, I did. I told myself I’d rest a bit. Just a nap. Then I’d rise like some reasonable version of myself, shower again, pull on clothes with actual buttons. Start the day. Be awake. Be useful. And for a minute, it seemed possible. I woke up some time later, I even managed to sit up…just briefly. Blinked at the golden afternoon light stretching in long fingers across the wooden floorboards. Dust motes floated in the beams, slow and aimless. The house was still humming with the ghost of earlier sounds…giggles echoing down the hallway, the slap of little feet against tile. But then the quiet wrapped around me like a freshly dried blanket, warm and full of breath and softness. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask you to move or speak or be anything but still. And before I even realized it, my head sank back into the pillow.

I didn’t fight it. Didn’t even think to. My body just… gave up. And I slept. Not the restless, half-alert dozing I’ve gotten used to. No, this was something else. Deep. Heavy. Dreamless. The kind of sleep you don’t realize you’re starving for until it takes you under. The kind that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that feels like your body saying, Enough. You’ve done enough. Rest. The next thing I know, the door creaks open. Cooler air rushes in. It smells like sunscreen and chlorine, the sharp tang of coconut lotion and something sweet … citrusy, almost candy-bright… that has to be one of the girls’ hair sprays still clinging to her skin. And then I hear her voice.

“You’re still asleep?”

Regina. Her tone slices gently through the haze …  not sharp, not angry, but thick with concern. Not quite worry, not quite judgment. But close. It’s that edge she gets when she’s fighting the urge to hover and let me have space at the same time. I blink slowly, dragging myself up from the deep. My muscles feel slow. Heavy. My skin clings faintly to the sheets. She stands at the foot of the bed, framed in golden afternoon light that halos around her like something out of a painting. Her hair is wet, pushed back, curling slightly at her temples. She’s barefoot, tanned from the sun, and wearing one of my tank tops…probably stolen without a second thought…and a pair of pale linen pants that cling just slightly from the heat. She’s radiant. Effortless. And frowning.

“What time is it?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to chase the fog from my brain. My voice is scratchy, thick with sleep.

“Three,” she answers gently. “Three in the afternoon.” She moves toward me, her footsteps soundless. I catch a glimpse of a towel tossed over her shoulder, a plastic hair clip hooked around one finger like she forgot to put it down.

“We came back early,” she continues, quieter now, “It got too hot for the girls. Julia started getting flushed, and Isabella wouldn’t stop asking for her ‘watermelon slushie in the pink cup with the bendy straw, the very specific one that I make here, with real watermelon, not the fake one from the pool.’” She gives a small shake of her head, but her lips tug up faintly at the memory. And I can see it. Julia’s cheeks pink from the sun, curls sticking to her forehead. Isabella stubbornly demanding her very specific slushie while wrapped in a beach towel like royalty. I smile faintly, still blinking sleep from my lashes. The fog’s clearing, slowly. Regina steps closer, brushing a hand along my calf under the blanket. Her touch is soft, but her eyes stay on mine…searching, measuring, trying to read the parts I won’t say aloud.

“You slept hard,” she murmurs again, voice dipping into that intimate register she uses only for me. Like it’s a secret meant for the space between our skin. I nod, stretching slightly beneath the sheets. My body protests, stiff in the way that tells me I’ve been still for a long time.

“Guess I needed it,” I mumble, voice still fogged and gravelly. Then, blinking slowly toward the nightstand, I notice the soft, amber glow of a screen. An iPad, propped up against a stack of books. Its camera is pointed… directly at the bed. How had I not noticed that before?

“You didn’t call,” I say, eyes narrowing slightly, realization slowly blooming. “You promised hourly check-ins.”

“I didn’t need to,” Regina replies smoothly, her tone deceptively casual. She gestures toward the device. “I saw you were still breathing.” I squint at it again at my image in the screen.

“Is that…?”

“I FaceTime myself,” she admits, not even pretending to be sheepish. “Before I left. Magic helped with the stabilization.” She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, like this is perfectly normal behavior for a concerned spouse. “We forgot the sunscreen, and pool toys. We had to circle back after you were already asleep. Figured if you were sleeping that deeply, you wouldn’t even notice.” I blink at her, incredulous.

“You baby monitored me?” There’s a pause. I genuinely can’t tell if I should laugh or be a little offended. Maybe both.

“I…” she starts, then stops. Her voice softens as she sits on the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing lightly over my shin.

“You were acting so… off this morning,” she says, her gaze fixed on mine now, serious and open. “I just wanted to be sure. That you were okay while I wasn’t here.” I shake my head a little, pressing a hand over my face, though not quite hiding my smile.

“That is such a creepy response,” I say through my fingers. “I’m grown, you know. Fully grown. I own property. I do my taxes. I have children.”  Regina just lifts an eyebrow, and her lips tug upward in that quietly smug way she has when she knows she’s won.

“You’re also pregnant, overtired, and incapable of asking for help unless you’re physically collapsing,” she says calmly, brushing my hair back from my forehead. “And when the person I love is acting strange and refusing to let anyone care for them? I monitor. Sue me. I could have just used the mirror like my mother always did, but this seemed more, effective, modern.” I huff, half annoyed and half melting. She takes the iPad, ends the call, and closes the cover.

“I don’t refuse help.”

“You weaponize independence like it’s a full-time job,” she counters, not unkindly. “You were pale this morning. Unsteady. You said you were fine, but you weren’t. And I didn’t want to make you mad by hovering, so…” She gestures again to the iPad. I stare at her. She stares back. And then I laugh, because what else can I do?

“You’re unbelievable.” She smiles now, genuine and wide, like it’s a relief to hear my laugh.

“Maybe,” she says, brushing her thumb along my jaw, “but you’re breathing, and that’s what matters.” There’s a pause, just long enough for her to let that sink in. I rub at my face, groaning softly.

“God, I’m sorry,” I murmur, rubbing at my eyes like that’ll make the fog lift faster. My voice is low, hoarse, scraped a little raw by too much sleep. “I didn’t think I’d crash like that.” Regina doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed with that deliberate grace she always has…like the world slows down around her. Her presence shifts the energy in the room. Calmer. Heavier. Safer. She reaches out, brushing a few damp strands of hair off my forehead with fingers that are cool and smell faintly of sunscreen and coconut tanning oil. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent, as if she’s afraid I might break under the weight of even this much affection.

“Don’t apologize,” she murmurs, and there’s something in her voice I can’t quite name. Tenderness, yes. But also a kind of quiet urgency. “You were exhausted.”

I try to smile…really try…but it doesn’t stick. Because I see it in her eyes. She’s scanning me. Assessing. Not just looking at me, but through me. Measuring the flush…or lack thereof…in my cheeks. Noting the way my lips are dry. The way my voice drags. She’s not fooled by the shrug I give or the joke I want to make but don’t. Regina never looks at me without seeing everything. And that’s what makes it harder to pretend. I know she’s calculating. Counting the hours I’ve been asleep. Comparing the way I spoke this morning…insisting I was fine…to the way I’m still half-sunk into the mattress now. She’s tracking the line between “tired” and something’s wrong with the precision of a spell or a medical chart. She exhales softly, like the weight of the day finally lets her breathe.

“The girls are bathed,” she says gently, “fed, and currently halfway through their slushies and a movie marathon in the playroom.” I close my eyes briefly, the image already forming…Isabella curled in a fuzzy blanket with her bare feet propped up, Julia chattering at the screen and likely dropping popcorn into the couch cushions one kernel at a time. That makes me smile, a real one this time. “They’re good,” Regina continues, her thumb brushing along the soft curve of my cheek, grounding me. “I’ve got everything under control.” Her voice softens even more, but there’s steel beneath it now. The kind she saves for when she’s worried and trying not to make me shut down. “But, Emma…” Her hand stills against my face. “Are you really okay?” There it is. The real question. The Regina question…gentle, yes, but aimed with sniper precision. The kind you can’t lie your way out of without cracking somewhere inside. She tilts her head slightly, watching me with those eyes that miss nothing.

“Did you eat? Did you drink anything today?” I blink. Of course she noticed. Of course she counted. I don’t answer at first. Instead, I rest my hand against the side of her thigh, grounding myself in her warmth. She’s still damp from the pool, the fabric of her pants slightly cool against my skin. That touch…simple, steady…helps keep me from floating away again. I don’t think I realized how far I’d drifted.

“I… slept today,” I say finally, like that’s some kind of answer. Her lips press together. Not disapproving. Just quiet. And worried.

“Emma,” she says softly, her hand sliding down to cup my jaw, thumb brushing just below my ear. “That’s not enough.” And I know she’s right. But I don’t know how to explain the way today swallowed me whole. How it wasn’t sadness, exactly. Not fear either. Just a kind of weariness so thick I couldn’t climb out of it. I press my forehead to her arm, just below the bend of her elbow, and whisper,

“I’m trying.” And the truth is…I am. But sometimes trying looks like barely making it to the bed. Sometimes trying is saying I’m okay because the truth is too complicated and tangled and blurry to name. And she doesn’t push. She just holds me.

“Are you happy?” I ask her. The words fall into the room almost without my permission…quiet but heavy, like I’m afraid of the answer, like I’m afraid she’ll really give it to me. Regina looks up from where her fingers are tracing lazy circles against the swell of my stomach, the motion halting as her gaze shifts to my face.

“Of course I’m happy,” she says without missing a beat. But then her eyes narrow slightly, that Regina glint catching fire behind her calm tone. “And you’re deflecting.”

I shift, uncomfortable now, and roll carefully onto my side, the mattress groaning a little beneath me as I adjust. The baby stirs slightly in protest, and I cradle one arm beneath the curve of him instinctively. I don’t know what kind of answer I was looking for. I don’t even know why I asked. She’d tell me she was happy either way…because that’s what she thinks I need. What she thinks I want to hear. Even if it's not the whole truth. She never lies. Not exactly. But she’s gotten very good at sidestepping her own pain to protect mine. Regina sits back slightly, watching me with that unreadable expression she gets when she knows something deeper is moving beneath the surface and she's trying to coax it out without setting it off.

“Where is that coming from?” she asks, her voice softer now, velvet wrapping around steel. I keep my eyes on the window. The light has shifted…gold deepening toward amber, the long shadows of late afternoon creeping in across the floor.

“Hmmm?” I murmur faintly, like I didn’t quite hear her. Or maybe like I don’t want to. She doesn’t fall for it.

“Emma,” she says, and just my name carries so much. A warning. A plea. A lifeline. She shifts forward, sitting upright now, legs crossed beneath her as she looks down at me. Regal even in linen and bare feet. Her posture perfect, her concern unmistakable.

“Why,” she begins, voice still calm but sharp-edged with precision, “are you suddenly questioning my happiness… when clearly, you’re the one drowning?” I flinch slightly. She never says things to be cruel…only to be honest. And it’s never the bite in her tone that stings. It’s the accuracy.

“I don’t know,” I confess, voice barely above a whisper. The words slip out, frayed at the edges, rough like a stone I’ve been holding in my chest too long. “Just… sometimes I think back. To all those years ago.” Regina doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t fill the space. She waits. That’s one of her greatest strengths…she’s patient when it counts. I draw in a breath, slow and unsteady. “When I promised you a happy ending,” I continue. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and I just… I don’t know.” The sentence trails off, dissolving before I can shape it into something solid. Whatever I meant to say gets tangled in the haze.

“You don’t know if I’m happy…” she finishes quietly, her voice more statement than question, like she’s catching a thread and tugging it gently. “Or if you are?” I don’t answer. Because that wasn’t exactly it…but it wasn’t not it either. Her eyes search mine, all sharpness and warmth, always watching, always knowing.

“Never mind,” I say too quickly, ducking my gaze. “I’m just tired. You know how my brain gets when I’m running on fumes…spinning out, digging through stuff that’s probably nothing. It’s fine.” She lets out a long breath through her nose. I don’t even have to look to know she’s giving me that look…the one that says you’re lying, and I love you too much to let you get away with it.

“No way,” she says, her voice firm now, a low, steady roll of thunder under her calm. “You don’t get to side-step this, Emma.” I glance back at her, and her gaze is unyielding…but not unkind. “If you’re unhappy, if either of us are,” she goes on, “we promised each other we’d say something. We swore we wouldn’t let things fester and rot in the dark. You insisted on it. You were the one who put it in our wedding vows, remember?” Her voice softens at the end, but the conviction never wavers.

“I’m not unhappy,” I say, and the words are true…but they come out smaller than I meant them to. Her face shifts, some of the tension easing, but the intensity in her eyes lingers.

“Neither am I,” she says softly. I nod.

“Okay. But…” I bite my lip. “Would you tell me if you were?”

“In a heartbeat.” There’s a beat of silence between us. A beat where my fingers flex instinctively against the bedding, searching for something to ground me. Regina speaks again, gently this time. “What’s really going on, Emma?” Her voice is careful, deliberate. Not pushing…but guiding. “This isn’t like you,” she says, eyes scanning mine again. “I know the last few weeks have been… hard. Scary. But I don’t know if you’re upset with me, or the pregnancy, or…” She trails off, but her meaning is sharp and clear. “You know,” she says quietly, “I meant what I said. We can stop. Any time. You’re not locked into this. This was never something I wanted you to feel obligated to do for me. Or for the girls. Or even for him. If you want to be done, once he’s born, we can be.” Her hand moves instinctively to rest on the curve of my stomach again. Protective. Fierce. Reverent. The way she touches him…like he’s already real, already hers, already cherished beyond comprehension…it makes something ache inside me in the most profound way. She’s always like this. With the girls. With me. With anyone who finds their way into the orbit of her love. She glows in this role…the protector, the nurturer, the quiet warrior. She becomes more in it. Radiant. Alive. She’s never more herself than when she’s being theirs.

“I’m not upset with you,” I whisper, my fingers curling around her wrist, holding her to me. “And I want this baby, I love our life, our children, more than anything.”  My voice catches there. Stalls. Like there’s more I should say but I can’t find the language for it. “I just…” I trail off again.

I want to say I feel like I’m failing. I want to say I don’t feel like myself lately, and I don’t know why. I want to say I’m scared, and I don’t know how to say it without sounding ungrateful. But none of it fits in my mouth. So instead, I look up at her, and let the unsaid things hang in the space between us…half-formed, aching, waiting. And Regina, in the way only she can, leans in and kisses my forehead. Soft. Steady. Infinite.

“You don’t have to explain,” she murmurs into my skin. “Just let me stay with you in it.”

“You have to go check on the girls,” I murmur, voice quiet, as if that’ll somehow make this moment less heavy. Regina doesn’t move. She doesn’t even glance toward the hallway.

“They’re just down the hall,” she says gently, like she’s answering a question I didn’t really ask. “They’ll come get us if they need something.” Her eyes stay fixed on me, dark and soft and unwavering.

“Baby…” she says, voice dropping even softer, a brush of silk against raw skin. “You look miserable.”

“I’m not,” I reply instantly, reflexively…like if I say it fast enough, it’ll become true. She doesn’t argue. Not right away. She just studies me in that way she does…still and surgical. Her brows lift slightly as if to say, really? And then she speaks.

“Not as a general rule, of course,” she concedes, and her tone shifts into something gentler. Still honest. Still piercing. But softened now, wrapped in velvet. “But these past couple of weeks?” She exhales slowly, her fingers gesturing delicately in the air, like she's brushing dust off truth. “Emma…” She gestures toward me then…slow, deliberate, heartbreaking in its simplicity. “You barely smile unless it’s something to do with the kids. You mask for them. You light up when Julia clings to your bump or Isabella asks you to braid her hair, but the moment they’re not looking, the light goes out again.” My chest tightens, but I don’t interrupt her.

“You move like you’re in pain even when you won’t say it out loud. You’re exhausted, moody, and emotionally evasive…and that’s not judgment, darling…” she adds, her voice softer than before, “that’s observation.” I shift uncomfortably beneath the weight of her words. They’re not accusations…they’re reflections. And that somehow makes them harder to sit with.

“We could use the spell,” I blurt, too quickly. “The one I used on Zelena. To speed up the pregnancy progression.” Her reaction is subtle. Just the faintest lift of one brow. A heartbeat of silence before she responds.

“You could,” she says, evenly, shrugging like the idea doesn’t shake her, even if it does. “But you won’t.” I turn my face toward the window, avoiding her gaze.

“How do you know that?” There’s a smile in her voice, but it’s quiet and bittersweet.

“Because I know you, Emma. And you didn’t with the other two.”

“That was different,” I say, almost defensively. “I didn’t have to with them. They were the size he is now…at birth. I still have ten more weeks of this.” My voice breaks a little at the end, the weight of those weeks looming like mountains ahead of me. Regina reaches out, placing her hand gently over my own where it rests on the curve of my belly. She doesn't press, doesn't tighten her grip…just holds.

“You were adamant,” she says quietly, “that we would never use magic on our children for anything other than healing. That they would have normal childhoods. Normal experiences. That we wouldn’t take shortcuts with them just because we could.” Her voice isn’t laced with guilt. There’s no accusation. Just memory…truth, spoken with care.

“I know,” I whisper, my eyes burning now, but not from tears exactly. From everything. From the pressure, the fear, the love, the exhaustion. From the way I want to fast-forward and freeze time all at once.

“I just…” I pause, swallowing the rest.

I want him here. I do. I want to breathe again. I want my body to feel like mine again. I want to lie on my back without aching. I want to pick up our daughters without wincing. I want to fall asleep without worrying I’ll wake up in labor again. But I don’t want to change the way he comes into the world, I’m not that desperate, not yet.

“I just…” The words scrape out of me before I even know what they’re going to be. My hand is resting on the swell of my belly, the weight of it somehow heavier tonight, like it’s tethering me to a version of myself I don’t fully recognize anymore. Regina’s watching me…quiet, steady, open…but she doesn’t say anything. She knows I need to say it, whatever it is, without interruption.

“I feel like…” My voice trembles, and I hate it, but I push through. “I feel like I’m failing.” That part comes easier than I expected. Probably because I’ve been carrying it around, packed tight behind my ribs for weeks. “Failing you. The girls. This baby. Myself.” I exhale, slow and shallow. “I feel like we’re losing something… maybe it’s us, or maybe it’s me. I don’t know.” Regina doesn’t flinch. But her fingers curl more tightly around mine, grounding me.

“I love you,” I whisper fiercely, eyes closing against the burn. “God, I love you. I love our girls. I love this baby. None of this is about not loving you. It’s the opposite.” I try to breathe, but it catches again in my throat. “I just don’t feel… right. I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel like the woman who wore leather jackets and fought monsters, slayed dragons, and kept people at arm’s length because it was easier than getting hurt. That…it felt more real than this…I love this, everything we have, but it feels like it’s not real, like it’s an illusion.”

“Emma,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, every word carefully chosen like always. “This isn’t an illusion. What we have…what we’ve built together…it’s real. Tangible. It’s not a fairytale stitched together from desperate hope. It’s us. And you’re not failing.” She cups my jaw with one hand, steadying me like she’s grounding the tremble under my skin. “You’re struggling. There’s a difference,” she says gently. “You’re allowed to struggle, to be exhausted, to feel everything at once and not know what to do with it.” I swallow thickly.

“I couldn’t even go to the playground today. Or the pool. With the girls.” Something flickers in her eyes…understanding and heartbreak threaded together. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t correct me right away. Just takes a breath and lets it out slowly.

“Is that what this is about? You’re feeling guilty?” she asks, her tone dipping into something warm and edged with knowing. “Emma… baby… you weren’t feeling well.” Her thumb brushes along my cheekbone.

“It’s okay to rest if you need it. You’re thirty weeks pregnant, you haven’t slept well in weeks, and your body is doing the miraculous and the impossible all at once. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. How many times have I sent you out with the kids when I have one of my migraines and need sleep or when I just need to get caught up on work I’ve brought home?” I shake my head, throat tight.

“That’s not the same thing.” Her brows arch slightly. Not in condescension…never with me…but with that regal patience she’s perfected. The kind that says I see right through you, and I’m going to call you on it with love.

“Why?” she asks simply, evenly.

I don’t have a good answer. I know it. She knows it. The question sits between us, and suddenly I’m remembering it all…not just today. Not just the aching pressure in my back or the nausea that’s hovered behind every meal. But everything. All of it. Every time Regina’s had one of her headaches, pale and exhausted, and I’ve wrangled the girls and insisted she go rest in a dark room with a cup of tea and a charmed compress. Every time I’ve told her you don’t have to be everything, every second. And before that…even before us…there was Henry. There was that moment, years ago, when we weren’t anything romantic yet. Just two women tethered together by love for a boy and a complicated history. And we had looked at each other across that chasm of pain and stubborn pride and chosen something softer. Something better. We had chosen him. Chosen a new path forward. A third way. Not her way. Not mine. Ours.

“When we agreed to raise Henry together... That was the beginning of this. The give and take. The balance. You and me, parenting in shifts, protecting each other’s peace when we could.” Regina nods slowly, her thumb still tracing small, calming circles against the back of my hand.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Because that’s what partners do. What parents do. It doesn’t stop because we’re married or because we’ve built this entire life together. We still share it.” She leans in closer now, her forehead resting gently against mine. Her voice is a hush, but it rings clear and sure in the quiet of the room. “You don’t have to prove your worth through exhaustion, Emma. You don’t have to run yourself into the ground to be a good mother. You’re already a good mother. A brilliant one. And I need you to believe that.” She pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. Her expression is fierce now…not angry, but fiercely loving. Fiercely protective. “You have given so much of yourself to this family. To me. And when you need to lean on us, when you need to rest, that isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s love in action.” I can’t speak. The emotion’s caught in my throat. And she sees it, of course she does. She presses a kiss to the center of my forehead.

“You didn’t go to the outing today, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “That doesn’t make you less. It just means today, I showed up for the girls. And tomorrow? If I can’t, you will or maybe you’ll feel better and we both will.  That’s us. That’s the promise we made a long time ago, long before we ever fell in love.” She pulls the blanket a little higher around me, tucks me in like I’m something sacred. “We’ve been protecting each other since before we even liked each other. I’m not going to stop now.” And somehow, even though nothing has changed…not the ache in my back or the tightness in my chest…I can breathe again. Because she’s still here. Still choosing me. Still holding us together. Even when I feel like I’m falling apart. I shake my head, a small laugh escaping sharp, joyless.

“No.” I say. “I’m pathetic. I cry at dog food commercials.. I get winded, walking up the stairs or really even just walking in general. I forget what day it is. I haven’t worn real clothes in at least four months…I look in the mirror and I see a stranger. Not because I’m pregnant…but because… I don’t know who I am when I’m not surviving anymore.” Regina opens her mouth to speak, but I keep going. It’s all spilling now, like a dam cracked wide open. “I think I’m disappearing,” I admit. “I think I’ve been disappearing for a while, and I didn’t notice it until the silence got loud. And now that I have noticed, I don’t know how to stop it.” My voice breaks again, thinner this time. “I feel like we’re vanishing from who we were. From who we used to be together. And maybe that’s normal…maybe that’s life, evolving, growing…but what if it’s not? What if we’re both pretending this is everything we ever wanted, and deep down, what if we both want more? And we just don’t know it yet?”

“Emma,” she says, her voice warm and deliberate, threaded through with quiet conviction. She reaches for my hand, wraps her fingers around mine like it’s instinct, like her touch can stitch me back together. “You are not pathetic. You’re not disappearing. You are right here, with me. You are everything, even when you don’t feel like it.” I want to believe her. I really do.

“If we decide we want to do something different someday,” she continues, eyes on mine, “we will. Nothing is stopping us. This life we’ve built…it doesn’t have to be this exact way forever in the same shape. We can grow, shift. But this? What we have now? I love it. Every messy, noisy, sacred moment of it.” I exhale shakily, chewing on the corner of my lip.

“I haven’t had an adventure… or fought a battle in months.” A smile tugs gently at the edge of her lips, sad and soft and proud all at once.

“Oh, you’re fighting a battle,” she murmurs. “It’s just a different kind. One with swollen ankles and too many pillows and a baby using your ribs like monkey bars.” I huff a little laugh, but it’s not enough to unclench the restlessness inside me. I shift, adjusting the blanket like that’ll fix the tension crawling up my spine.

“I have to get out of this house,” I mutter. “I’m driving myself crazy. I’m so bored. Beyond Sunday dinner with my parents and Henry… I need to do something. Something that’s not folding tiny onesies or assembling another piece of nursery furniture, or chasing children.” Regina hums, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“I didn’t expect to hear you complaining about boredom in this house,” she says, dry amusement curling around her words. “We have two wild children, one on the way, you have a deeply stubborn wife, and a kitchen and laundry that somehow never stays clean no matter how much magic I use.” I look at her sharply, brow raised.

“That’s exactly my point. It’s chaos, but it’s the same chaos, every day. I’m not doing anything new.” She opens her mouth to reply, but I barrel forward.

“We haven’t even had sex since the doctor put me on pelvic rest,” I murmur, the words low and bitter against the quiet. “You touch me like I’m going to break. You kiss me like I’m porcelain. I hate it.” My voice wavers before I can stop it, sharp and exposed, the sound of something I’ve been biting back for too long. “You never treated me like that when I was pregnant with the girls. Doesn’t any of this bother you?” Regina doesn’t flinch. She blinks once…slow, steady…and then her head tilts slightly, the way it always does when she’s trying to decide whether to respond with fire or silk.

“Apparently not as much as it’s bothering you…” she says softly, and then her hand moves…to my thigh, grounding, warm, and gently firm. She’s close enough now that I can smell the faint trace of her sunscreen and whatever shampoo she used for the kids bathtime earlier, they must have splashed her.

“It’s an adjustment, Emma,” she says, still in that calm, velvet voice. “For all of us.” She lifts her hand again, resting it delicately on my knee this time, fingers brushing back and forth in slow, thoughtful circles. “With the girls, you never went into preterm labor. You didn’t spend a week in the hospital with monitors strapped to your belly and nurses whispering about NICU percentages, and chances of survival. This time is different.” I glance away. It’s not enough. It makes sense…of course it makes sense…but it doesn’t make it feel better. And that’s the part I don’t know how to say.

“Certain accommodations need to be made,” she continues, and now her voice is just slightly more pointed, a glint of that queenly precision slipping in. “Until you’re cleared. Or until he’s born. That’s it. You’ve already made it two more weeks. There are only ten left.”

“Ten weeks is forever,” I mutter, half under my breath. She lifts a brow, but doesn’t argue. Just waits. I fold my arms over my chest, squirming deeper into the pillows.

“If you were ever able to carry a child,” I grumble, “I’d be sure to extend you the same grace…” Her gaze sharpens, just for a second. “…when your hormones are raging through your veins, and your entire body is screaming for one thing but your mind knows you can’t have it.” Regina draws back slightly, not in offense…but in that careful, calculating way she always does when she’s choosing her next move. When she wants to keep the peace, but refuses to let the truth go unanswered.

“Well,” she says, voice quieter now, but no less deliberate, “seeing as I can’t get pregnant, I doubt your very noble threat will be necessary.” I open my mouth to say something else…to apologize, maybe, or deflect…but she speaks first.

“But yes,” she adds, even softer. “I’ve thought about it, a lot actually I just… didn’t know what to say.” My breath catches. My heart stumbles over itself.

“You’ve… thought about it?” I repeat. It’s not something we’ve discussed much if at all. She always just said she was unable to carry children, and I accepted it, so many women cannot carry children. It didn’t make me think of her any differently. “About reversing the infertility cure? The potion you took?” She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.

“Of course I have,” she says simply. “Though I am realistic enough to know the impossible when I see it. Wanting something and being able to have it are two very different things.” Something inside me breaks open at that…something quiet and raw and deeply unspoken. I don’t even know what I’m crying for. Her? Me? This baby? Our children? All of it?

“Regina…” I whisper, her name like a confession, like a lifeline. She reaches for me before I can fall apart…her hands finding my face just as I bury it in my palms. I hate how small I feel right now, how whiny and overdramatic and tired, but I can’t stop it. I can’t hold it together any longer.

“I know,” she murmurs, curling around me the way only she can…fierce and soft and unrelenting. “I know, baby.” And the tears come fast, hot, silent. I let them. Because in this house, with her… I’m allowed to.

“I know it sounds crazy,” I whisper. “It sounds like a ramble. Like I’m spiraling about nothing. Especially when I keep saying I’m not unhappy…because I’m not. I swear I’m not.” I lower my hands and blink at her, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “But being happy and being okay aren’t always the same thing. And I just… I don’t know. I feel like I’m driving myself crazy. Like I’m stuck in my own head and I can’t climb out.” Regina is quiet for a moment, and then she shifts, kneeling onto the mattress beside me. Her palm finds my cheek, her fingers curling under my jaw, anchoring me.

“I don’t think that sounds crazy,” she says softly, seriously. “I think that sounds true. And brave. And honest. And very, very human.” She leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead…slow and grounding…and then rests her own against it, breathing with me.

“You’re allowed to be restless,” she whispers. “You’re allowed to miss things. To want more. Even when you love what you have. You’re allowed to be complicated, Emma.” I close my eyes and let the tears fall silently, one by one. Her hands never leave me.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“Don’t be,” she says instantly. “You’re showing me your heart. How could I ever want you to apologize for that?” And I don’t know if anything’s fixed. But the knot in my chest loosens, just a little. Enough that I can breathe again with her forehead against mine. With her hands still holding me like I’m not too much. Like I never could be.

I don’t even know when I started drifting again…just that I had. Somewhere between the quiet of the house and the weight of her arms wrapped around me like I was something precious, something breakable but held steady anyway. Her heartbeat thudded softly beneath my cheek, and her breath moved in rhythm with mine, anchoring me deeper into that soft, quiet in-between. I floated there… suspended in warmth, in the remnants of sleep and peace, for what could have been minutes or hours. But then I feel her. The gentle brush of lips over mine…barely a kiss at all, more like a question, a beckoning, a reminder that she’s here. That I’m still wanted. Still hers. Another kiss follows, lingering longer this time. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just there. Just real. I stir beneath the softness of it, murmuring a low sound that catches in the back of my throat, something between contentment and reluctance to let go of sleep. My eyes flutter open. The light in the room has shifted…golden, dimmer, late-day light…and the air smells like baked apples and coconut shampoo.

And her. Regina. She’s leaning over me, her hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends from the shower, framing her face in soft waves. The straps of her sleek black pajama top cling to her shoulders, and she’s pulled on a pair of matching sorts, that hang low on her hips. Her skin glows…sun-kissed, warm, and dewy from the heat of the day. A single drop of water trails lazily from the hollow of her collarbone, down to where it disappears into the gentle rise of her chest. My hand slides instinctively along her waist, feeling the coolness of her damp skin beneath my palm. I love the way she smells when she’s just out of the shower…like orange blossom and the faintest trace of vanilla and salt. I blink up at her, smile forming slow and sleepy across my lips.

“Hey,” I whisper, voice scratchy and low with sleep.

“Hey,” she says back, brushing a strand of hair away from my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “I didn’t want to wake you, but… dinner’s ready. And I know you haven’t eaten much today.” Her eyes soften as they study me. “Let’s get you taken care of, alright?”

“Mmmph,” I grumble, eyes closing again as I stretch languidly, body heavy and unwilling to cooperate. Her brow lifts, but her mouth curves into a smile.

“The kids are waiting,” she adds, temptingly. “They’re desperate to tell you about their day. Isabella made a friend. Julia convinced a lifeguard she was five so she could use the big slide.” She chuckles. “We have many stories to share.” That earns a sleepy grin from me.

“She’s three,” I mutter.

“Try telling her that. She got the fake birthday right and everything…” I sigh and nod, though my body makes no move to rise. I could sleep another ten hours if she’d let me. Another twenty. The weight in my limbs is still there, that familiar fatigue that comes with late pregnancy and too many days pretending I’m fine when I’m not. Still, I force my eyes open again, reach for the edge of the comforter.

“Okay,” I mumble. “I’m getting up.”

“You’re not moving,” she observes.

“Yes I am…” I reply flatly as I slowly…so slowly…roll onto my side and brace myself against the mattress. I know better than to sit up fast. I learned the hard way. A few weeks ago, just before the preterm labor scare, I thought I could just power through it, hopped out of bed too quickly trying to chase Julia into the kitchen… and the room tilted, and I nearly went down like a sack of bricks. Regina had caught me, barely, panicked so fiercely I was convinced she was going to end up hospitalized for a cardiac event. Her hands had trembled when she dialed the midwife. She didn’t stop hovering for days after. Now, she watches me rise like I’m attempting a moon landing.

“You good?” she asks quietly, a hand slipping under my elbow just in case.

“Yeah,” I nod, eyes closed for a moment as I steady myself. “Just need a second.” Her hand doesn’t leave me. It never does, not when I need it most.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, and she always does. Even when I’m not sure I’ve got myself. And so I breathe. I rise. I follow the scent of dinner and the sound of our daughters’ laughter down the hall, her presence a steady warmth beside me.

The downstairs is bathed in warm, golden light, that kind of glow that settles into wood floors and soft corners as the sun dips low behind the trees casting shadows through the windows. Dinner’s already plated, steam curling gently off grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, and fresh rolls that Regina somehow had time to make from scratch. A bowl of sliced watermelon sits at the center of the table, half-devoured already…clearly the girls’ doing. Isabella is mid-sentence before we even reach our chairs.

“…and then I jumped off the top step and twirled like this,” she demonstrates dramatically, arms spinning, nearly clocking her juice glass. “And the lifeguard didn’t even say anything!” Julia gasps in tandem.

“She did too! She said no spinning!”

“That was the other girl!” Isabella fires back, indignant. “The fake lifeguard. She had the pink swimsuit with the bow! We don’t like her Juju, she’s bossy.”

“Bossy just like you?” Julia asks, without missing a beat.

“Hey!”

“I like her!” Julia says with a smile. “Her name is Elizabeth. She taught me how to do handstands under water. She’s in my class at school last year. She sat at my table.”

I smile as I ease into my seat, shifting slowly. They’re still going, electric with energy, little limbs bouncing, watermelon juice smeared on cheeks, curls wild and drying into sunlit chaos. The kind of messy joy that makes all the exhaustion worth it. Regina moves with quiet precision, setting another roll on Julia’s plate, brushing a hand across Isabella’s head, gently redirecting their flailing forks. I watch her for a second too long…her grace, her command, the way she listens so completely even as she multitasks. I don't know how she does it. Dinner unfolds like any of our best nights…casual, familiar, the kind of rhythm you can only build with time and trust. I take a bite of chicken, chew slowly, then sip from my water. My stomach doesn’t protest. That’s a good sign. I hadn’t eaten much all day, I suddenly feel ravenous.

“Mommy, you’re eating!” Julia announces, like she’s proud of me. “That means your tummy’s not sick anymore!” I chuckle, nodding.

“Nope. Not sick. I guess baby brother is finally hungry.” I glance at Regina, who’s watching me now, one brow lifted…not judgmental, just… tracking. Noticing. Cataloguing. The weight of her gaze is warm but heavy. I look away and reach for the Gatorade,  I had grabbed from the fridge, pretending like I don’t see it.

The headache’s been creeping in all day though it was less noticeable when laying down in the bedroom…just behind my eyes, coiling at the base of my neck like a knot I can’t untangle. It’s dull, but constant, and now it’s growing sharper. I sip slowly. Hydration, they said. Fluids. Electrolytes. Magnesium. Rest. It’s probably fine. So I smile. I nod. I laugh at the girls’ reenactment of the “big slide” moment. I even lean in when Julia shows me her "super splash" pose. I press through because they’re happy. Because this is what I wanted…this loud, bright, messy slice of life. But Regina sees. She always does. She sets down her fork. Reaches for her wine glass but doesn’t sip. She watches me again…subtly, carefully…and when she speaks, it’s quiet but deliberate.

“The girls have had quite the day,” she says, eyes on them but her meaning aimed at me. “I think I’m going to put them to bed a few minutes early tonight if you have no objections. ” I glance at her then…our eyes meet. She doesn’t say you look like you’re hurting or you’re turning pale or you’re hiding behind your smile again. She doesn’t have to. She just says, “early bedtime.” And I nod, grateful. A little ashamed. Mostly grateful.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I murmur, forcing another smile as I set my fork down beside my half-eaten roll. “They’re going to need their energy for tomorrow.” Regina arches a brow at me, lips twitching ever so slightly.

“Yes,” she says softly. “Tomorrow.” Although we don’t have any set in stone plans. I just hope that I am feeling better enough to do something with them, anything. But her hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers lacing through with quiet insistence. Grounding me. I squeeze back, barely, and for a moment I almost believe I’m doing fine. Almost.

I press soft kisses into the girls’ hair…first Julia, already half-asleep with her arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed giraffe, then Isabella, who pulls me in for a second hug and whispers something about fairies watching her dreams. I linger a moment longer than usual. I always do on the hard days, like I’m trying to soak something into my skin to hold me steady. While Regina settles them into bed with the ritual precision only she can manage…books, songs, a quick negotiation over night-lights and “one more sip of water”…I slip away, back downstairs to the kitchen. She’ll fuss at me, I know it. But I need something to do. Something simple and physical. So I move slowly, carefully, rinsing dishes, loading the dishwasher, wiping down counters, stacking leftovers into the fridge like I’m lining up my thoughts beside them. I know she’ll say I should be resting, but rest isn’t always the thing that helps. Not when your thoughts are too loud. Not when your body aches and you feel like a passenger inside your own life.

When the last light’s clicked off and the hum of the dishwasher fills the quiet, I make my way back upstairs and down the hall. The nursery door is cracked just a little, warm light spilling out into the hallway. I push it open and slip inside. It smells faintly of baby detergent and cedarwood from the new dresser. The glider gives that soft creak as I lower myself into it, hand bracing against the armrest. The room is… coming along. Mostly. The crib is built. The changing table-dresser combo is half-stuffed with tiny folded clothes. One wall still needs decals. The bookshelf is only half-filled. It’s all in progress, just like me. I sit back and let my eyes scan the space, mind already rearranging the layout. If we swap the long dresser to the wall under the window and put the changing table where the glider is, it might open up the floor space more. Create better flow. It matters, somehow. It matters today. That’s when I hear her. Her footsteps are soft, but I’ve always known when she’s near. She pauses in the doorway for a moment, watching me. I don’t even have to look up to feel her gaze.

“I was thinking…” I start, voice low, testing the words in the air like they might fracture if I’m not gentle with them. “Do you want to work on the nursery again tonight?” She steps in, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable. But not cold. Never cold. Her brow lifts slightly in that elegant, practiced way she has, part curiosity… part concern. She tilts her head. I shift in the glider, leaning just a little to the side, trying not to wince at the tight pull across my back.  “We’ve only ten more weeks,” I continue. “Maybe less if he’s anything like the girls. They didn’t wait ‘til their due dates.” I smile faintly, a little forced. “We should finish while we still can.” There’s a beat of silence before she answers. The kind of pause that speaks volumes…Regina’s brain quietly flipping through every page of her internal Emma Swan manual. I can practically feel her slipping into that mode: calm, measured, hyper-attuned. Protective.

“Not tonight,” she says carefully, her voice a velvet ribbon threaded with steel. “You’re not feeling well.” It’s not a scolding. It’s not even a command. It’s just… truth, wrapped in her worry. Her fingers brush my shoulder as she comes closer, then slide down to rest on the swell of my stomach. Her palm is warm, steady. The baby shifts under her touch, like he recognizes her already. Like he always has. “Thirty weeks is too soon to push yourself,” she murmurs. “You know that.” I let out a breath and lean my head back against the cushion, the resistance of her concern already making me shrink in a little.

“I’m not trying to force him out,” I say, voice soft. A weak protest dressed up like reassurance.  “I just want to do something. Be useful.” Regina crouches slightly, her eyes leveling with mine.

“You sure?” she asks gently, thumb moving in slow circles on the curve of my belly. “You asked about the spell earlier.” I sigh.

“I mean, to be fair, it wouldn’t hurt him. It would progress things, sure…but to full term. He wouldn’t be premature. He’d be fine. You know I’d never…”

“I know,” she interrupts softly. Not a single flicker of doubt in her voice. “I know, Emma. You’d never do anything to hurt him. Or any child.” I let my gaze drop to where her hand rests, watching the rise and fall of my stomach beneath it.

“Even when I was the Dark One, I didn’t stoop that low…”

“You’re not the Dark One anymore.” she reminds me. “You’re a mother trying to find her way through a hard season.”

She doesn’t lecture. She doesn’t correct or reframe my words. Technically, though I am not proud of it, I did hurt people when I was the dark one. People I love. She just stays there…grounded, patient, with her hand wrapped around our son like a promise. Like an anchor. I close my eyes. And I let myself stay still. For once.

“Just trying to be prepared,” I murmur, softer this time. Honest. She leans in, resting her forehead against mine, her breath warm and even.

“And I love that about you,” she whispers. “But I’d rather you be rested and well than have a perfectly folded dresser of baby clothes ten weeks too early.” I chuckle, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“They are perfectly folded, by the way.”

“Of course they are,” she says, pulling back just enough to give me one of her smiles…the real ones. The ones that crinkle her eyes and soften her whole face. “You’ve been nesting since month five.”

“What can I say,” I shrug, “he’s our last baby. I want it to be right.” Her smile falters just slightly, and she draws me closer, her hand sliding up to cradle the side of my face.

“It will be right,” she promises. “Even if we don’t touch the nursery tonight. He will be loved, and he will be safe, because he has you.”

“What if I don’t want him to be our last baby,” I whisper into the stillness, the words barely formed on my tongue before they fall from my lips like a quiet confession. I don’t know if I meant to say it out loud. But I feel her arms wrap around me before I even finish the thought. One arm cradles under my breasts, the other hand coming to rest protectively over my swollen belly…over him. Over Our son. Her palm moves slowly, reverently, in a rhythm that calms every ache I didn’t even realize I was feeling. She presses her cheek against the back of my shoulder and holds me like a vow. I almost drift back to sleep like that… sitting in the glider, warmed by her body, lulled by the silence. I feel safe. Held. Loved. But something in her changes. I can feel it in the way her breath catches against my skin.

“Then he won’t be. I’ve always said that’s your choice, Emma, but I do think It’s unfair,” she says quietly. Her voice is low, velvet-soft, but there’s something inside it that stings…something raw. “It’s unfair that you have to carry all the children. Because I can’t.” I blink, wide awake now. “You’ve given us four amazing children,” she continues, her voice thick with love and something else…regret, maybe. “That’s more than I ever believed I’d have in this life.” Henry. My boy who became our boy. Isabella, so much like Regina in fire and spirit it’s startling sometimes. Julia, all light and chaos and laughter. And now our son, still curled up inside me, still waiting. I reach for her hand, lacing our fingers together over the curve of my stomach.

“I love carrying them,” I whisper, turning my face toward hers. “I would do it again. A thousand times if it meant I get to see you be their mother.” But I can feel it. The grief in her. She’s quiet for a long time. Then she speaks, her voice nearly breaking.

“When I took that potion…” Regina begins softly, her voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the nursery, “…I thought I was doing the right thing. The only thing. I never believed a day like this would come…where I’d wake up to a woman I love more than I thought I was capable of loving, with a family I never believed I could deserve.” She draws in a breath, her eyes fixed somewhere just over my shoulder, as if looking back through time. “I didn’t know a world outside of the one I was living in could even exist. I didn’t want to give my mother more power than she already had over my life. I didn’t want to risk bringing a child into a world where they’d be a pawn. I didn’t want to carry the child of a man who… was old enough to be my grandfather, who saw me as an asset, not a person. Not someone worthy of real love.” Her throat works around a hard swallow, and I feel her hand tighten ever so slightly around mine.

“I told myself I could live without it,” she confesses. “Without ever knowing what it feels like… to carry life inside me. To feel those first flutters beneath my skin. To grow a child, to stretch and ache and become someone’s first home.” Her voice cracks, just barely. “I told myself I didn’t want it. That I didn’t need it.” I slide my fingers between hers, anchoring her hand in mine. My voice is gentle, but sure, steady.

“It must be hard sometimes… watching me go through this. I don’t mean the hard parts. I mean… the experience. Knowing it’s something you want…and can’t have in that way.”

“Sometimes I ache for it,” she admits. “Not always. Not in ways that consume me. But in the quiet moments. When they come running to you and call you Mommy, because that’s what they’ve always known you as and you were their first home… When our baby kicks and I feel it from the outside, but I’ll never know what it feels like from within.” Her hand slides to my belly then, fingers splaying gently. “When they say ‘Mama,’ and I know they mean me. I know they love me. But I also know… you’re the one who bled to bring them here.” I shift closer, not letting her pull away into guilt or sadness. My hands cradle her face, my voice a fierce whisper.

“You are their mother, Regina. In every way that counts. I mean, they’re half genetically yours, but…even if that wasn’t the case, you’re the one who knows what their tears mean before they speak. You’re the one who teaches them how to be brave and kind, but to stand up for themselves. You’re the one they run to. The one they want to grow up to be.” Her lips tremble at that, and she leans into me, our foreheads resting together. Her breath shudders just a little as she exhales.

“I just…” Her voice cracks again. “I wish I could’ve given you that break. That gift. That experience. Even just once. I would’ve given anything to carry your child, our child, Emma.” I kiss her then…soft, slow, aching with everything I don’t have words for. The kind of kiss that says I see you. I love you. I would rewrite biology if I could.

“You’ve given me everything,” I whisper against her lips. “You are everything. But if it’s something you wish for… then we’ll find a way. We always do.” Her eyes widen slightly, startled.

 “Emma…” I place her hand against the curve of my belly again, where our son is pressing his heel insistently against her palm, like he’s adding his own opinion to the moment.

“I mean it,” I murmur. “We both wanted a big family. And I’m pretty sure after this guy, I’ll be out of commission for at least a few years.” She huffs a soft laugh, brushing a thumb over my stomach.

“Unless you get baby fever again.” I smirk.

“What can I say? I had baby fever, and I wanted a puppy. You refused to let me get a puppy, and now we’re having a baby.”

“It was a very manipulative trade,” she says dryly. But the way she’s smiling betrays the fact that she doesn’t regret a single thing. None of it.

“We’ve always spaced them out,” I continue. “Three to four years between each. We’re already on schedule for the next conversation.” She gives me a side-eyed look.

“You’re not actually serious.”

“If you want me to be I am…I’m just saying,” I reply lightly, shrugging. “There might be a magical solution.” Regina goes still. Blinks. The air between us shifts. Her brows lift slowly, her body language pulling inward, guarded. Her voice loses its warmth…not from anger, but from pain worn smooth and well-rehearsed.

“There isn’t,” she says. “It’s impossible.” The word lands like a stone between us. But I don’t flinch. I reach for her hand again, guiding it back to where Kalaya is nudging softly beneath my skin, steady and persistent.

“You really want to talk about what’s impossible?” I ask, my voice low. “Me getting pregnant, by you was supposed to be impossible, Regina. But it happened. Not once. Not twice. Three times.” She doesn’t respond immediately. Her mouth forms a tight line, and she looks away like she’s bracing herself.

“That’s different,” she says finally, and I can hear the hesitation in her voice…like she wants to believe me, but it hurts too much to hope.

“Is it?” I ask. “How?” Silence. I let it stretch just long enough before I continue.

“We live in a world where sleeping curses are real, where hearts can be taken out of chests and still beat. Where love literally breaks spells and resurrects entire realms. Why is this the thing we’ve decided is impossible?” She finally meets my gaze again, and something in her eyes is beginning to crack. Not her strength. Just the wall. The one she’s been holding up for so many years. I keep my voice steady. “If you want this…if you truly want to carry a child… we’ll look. We’ll ask. We’ll try. You don’t have to give up hope just because someone else told you it was impossible.” Her eyes fill slowly, but she doesn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. Her grip tightens on my hand.

“You’d do that… for me?” she whispers, like she’s testing the air to see if it can hold the weight of that hope. I smile, pressing her hand firmly against the curve of our future.

“Of course I would,” I say. “Because I already know what kind of mother you are. And because I believe in you. In us. And in the kind of magic that makes the impossible… possible.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then another. I almost think she’ll surrender to her own desires, but  I can see it…the war behind Regina’s eyes. Not a fight with me, but with herself. With the grief that still grips her in quiet moments. With the memory of choices made in darker days. With the tug-of-war between the flicker of hope I’ve offered her and the bone-deep fear that daring to believe in that hope will only break her again. It’s already draining from her, that fragile glow of possibility that had begun to spark in her gaze. She shutters it quickly, almost expertly, like someone who’s practiced for years how to smother dreams before they can take root.

“Willing acts can’t be undone, Emma,” she finally says, her voice steady but low, laced with that careful, brittle finality she only uses when she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince me. “This is a lovely idea, but it’s fantasy. Not reality. No one coerced me. No one enchanted me. I made the choice.” Her jaw tightens, and she lifts her chin…always so proud, so composed, even in grief. “I signed away that future with my own hands. I willingly gave up the possibility before I ever imagined someone like you, or this family, or this life could even be real.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “It wasn’t taken from me. I took it from myself. And some magic, Emma… some magic can’t be undone. It’s bound by intention. Bound by law.” And that’s so very Regina…pragmatic, self-punishing, elegant even in her sorrow. But I reach for her hand again, curling our fingers together, grounding her. My voice is soft, but I don’t let it waver.

“All curses can be broken,” I say, “if you have the right key. You taught me that.” She looks up at me, like she’s too afraid to hope. “You taught me that even the darkest magic has a door, and all we have to do is find the lock and turn the right key. So if this is what you want…really want…then we’ll find a way. We’ll find your key.” She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifts to the crib across the room, the gentle sway of the mobile overhead, the folded blankets we tucked just so. Then back to my face.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want that kind of love again,” she says quietly, like peeling back skin over old wounds. “I didn’t think I’d survive the kind of loss I was already carrying. So I made a choice. One I thought would spare me from pain.” Her voice thickens. “And now… now I would give anything to undo it. To carry a child. Our child. To feel what you feel. To know what it’s like to be full of life and love and hope.” Her jaw quivers, just slightly, and her composure splinters at the edges. But I don’t let her fall alone. I lean in and press a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, then finally to her lips…slow, deep, full of every ounce of devotion I have.

“You are full of life and love and hope,” I whisper against her. “Every day. Our children feel it. I feel it. That potion may have changed one part of your body, but it didn’t touch your soul.” She breathes me in, lashes wet but her eyes wide and locked on mine. “You’re already a mother in every way that matters,” I continue, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You didn’t carry Henry, but you are his mother. You didn’t carry Isabella or Julia…but they run to you first when they’re scared. They look at you like the world begins and ends in your arms.” She lets out a breath…unsteady, cracked. “And if there’s even a small chance,” I whisper, “if this is something you want, then we will try. We’ve bent time. Walked through curses. Come back from death. Don’t tell me this is the thing we can’t overcome.”

Regina’s eyes fall shut, and for a long moment, she just holds me. Wraps her arms around my shoulders and buries her face in my neck like she’s afraid that if she loosens her grip, the whole world will vanish. Maybe this is a dream she buried so deep, for so long, she forgot it was still breathing. And maybe it’s time to let it breathe again. She’s been silent for a long time, her cheek resting just below my collarbone, fingers tracing gentle circles over the stretched skin of my stomach. Then, in a voice so soft it nearly disappears into the quiet, she speaks.

“I always wanted a big family,” Regina whispers. I turn just enough to see her face…open, vulnerable, somewhere between wistful and brave. “Before I… before Leopold, before the crown and the darkness, when it was just me and Daniel…” Her voice tightens. “We used to talk about it. A house by the meadow. Near the lake. White sheets hanging to dry on the line, a dog in the yard, children racing barefoot through the grass… learning to ride horses in the orchard behind the barn. We dreamed it all.” She goes still for a moment. I wait.

“I thought that dream died with him,” she finishes quietly. “But here we are. And we have it. Not the same meadow, not exactly the same life… but the children, the noise, the love… it’s here. And I’d be selfish to ask for anything more.” I shift toward her, cupping her face in my palms, making sure she can see how sure I am.

“You are not selfish for wanting, Regina,” I say firmly. “And you’re not selfish for trusting me enough to tell me what you want.”

She closes her eyes again, and breathes me in like I’m both the ache and the cure. And maybe… just maybe… I am.

Chapter Text

EMMA SWAN-MILLS POINT OF VIEW:

The bell above Gold’s shop door jingles, a sound far too cheerful for such a gloomy place soaked with shadows and secrecy. I don’t like it. The sharp chime echoes through the stillness of his shop like laughter at a funeral, too bright, too wrong. It always smells similar, but slightly different today it’s varnished wood, leather, and something herbal. Always heavy with promises made in blood, wishes whispered in desperation. I guess that’s why we all come here isn’t it? I walk in as if I’m confident, but I can’t stop the ripple of unease that curls up in my spine. Even now, even after all these years, stepping into this place feels like stepping over a threshold of something older, darker, dangerous.

Gold’s shop always makes me think of Regina. Not because of the darkness or the threat that seemed to cling to the air inside those walls like dust. No….because of how hard she fought to be nothing like him. Because of how hard she tried to undo the damage she had caused when she was seduced by the darkness, by the magic he taught. Because it was here, in this space, that I first started to understand the sheer weight of what it meant to hold magic… and the kind of person it could turn you into, if you weren’t careful. She never wanted to teach me the way he taught her. She told me once, “Build a solid foundation first, and then build your skills from the ground up.”

I didn’t take that well we were on a time crunch. I didn’t take to her gentle direction at all. In true Emma Swan fashion, I’d scoffed, challenged her, pushed her buttons in the most irritating, defensive ways. I didn’t want calm breathing exercises and lessons in magical theory. I wanted fire. I wanted results. I wanted to be strong. And I demanded she teach me the way Rumpelstiltskin taught her. She had looked at me with a tightness around her eyes I now recognize as pain. Not anger…pain.

“Rumpelstiltskin was a bully,” she’d said flatly. “He didn’t suffer fools, and he certainly didn’t coddle his students. If he tried to teach you how to swim and you couldn’t learn, you drowned.” Regina stands with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed, the edge of her lip twitching in that way it always did when she was barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I am not like him, Emma,” she snapped, sharp as ever. “I’m not prone to killing my students…particularly the ones I’m sleeping with.” I grinned. That was more like her.

“You’re right,” I said breezily, tilting my head with mock seriousness. “It wouldn’t work anyway.” Her eyes sharpened like a blade being drawn.

“Confident, are you?” Her tone was dry, arched, every bit the regal condescension that used to terrify me back in the early days…before I ever touched magic, before we ever touched in the way we do now.

“I know you,” I said simply. She blinked. Just once. Her lips parted slightly, not enough to form a reply. I watched her trying to decide whether that statement was something to cut into—or something to quietly let settle.

“Do you now?” she asked finally, the words low and measured, like the weight of them mattered. I nodded, no teasing in my tone now.

“Even if you scare me sometimes…and you do…I know you’re not going to hurt me.” She looked away, but not far. Her eyes drifted past me, somewhere over my shoulder. And for just a flicker of a moment, the steel in her posture softened.

“I don’t want to,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You won’t,” I said, certain now. “Because I trust you.” And that…like everything between us…hung in the space for a long moment, real and raw and still tinged with the old habits of guarded hearts. But it was there. The truth of it. The fear. The defiance. The pull. And above all, the trust. Even in our worst moments, it’s what we always come back to. And still… she gave me what I asked for. Not his exact methods, but similar enough Hers. That’s what gave her the idea. The moment everything shifted.

“Let’s put that theory to the test. I think I’ve found a way to teach you.”

We were standing in her mausoleum  The next thing I knew, we weren’t anymore. We were on a narrow, wooden rope bridge stretched between two rocky cliffs. The kind you see in adventure films right before someone dies. The wind was howling through a massive gorge beneath us, the water below foaming and wild, smashing into rocks that looked like teeth. I was in the middle of the bridge. She was standing safely on solid land, arms folded.

“What the hell are you doing?!” I shouted, trying not to move too much. The boards creaked beneath my boots.

“Teaching you to swim,” she called back. “I’m collapsing the bridge. You will stop me, or die.” She began collapsing the bridge seconds later, without even giving me a chance to process what  she had said in the first place. I’ll never forget the sound it made…wood cracking, rope snapping, my own scream ripping through the air as gravity caught me by the throat. I didn’t fall far before I managed to slow myself midair with a burst of instinctive magic. Not control. Instinct. Panic. Catching myself on the broken pieces of the bridge creating a platform. But it was enough. Enough to keep me suspended, barely, flailing in midair like a ragdoll with no finesse, and then I steadied myself on the platform. I remember the horror on her face. It was the first time I saw Regina afraid of something that wasn’t physical. She gripped her chest like the world had stopped turning. For the first time in my life, I realized: she hadn’t done this to test me. Not really. She’d done it to teach me the way I asked, but the thought of losing me had nearly destroyed her. I could feel it. Her magic surged forward like a net, ready to catch me. And still, she waited. Gave me that one breath of space to choose. To trust myself. And I did. I stopped falling. I created the platform, I landed. And for the first time… I truly understood the raw, terrifying, beautiful force that lived inside me. Because of her. That was the night I trusted my power. That was the night I learned to trust her. And even now, years later, facing the man who made her, who wounded her, who shaped her scars…I know that every deal, every decision, every consequence of magic begins and ends with choice. And that trust… must be earned. Every time.

Gold…no, Rumpelstiltskin…ugh. I still mix them up. Always have. Probably always will. No matter how many years pass, no matter how many times I remind myself that they’re technically the same man wrapped in different shades of shadow and silk. He looked up from behind the counter, eyes sharp, gold-flecked and knowing, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on a cracked leather-bound tome. That same gleam in his eye…the one that always made me feel like I’d just stepped into a story I didn’t know the ending to…cut through me instantly.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked silkily, voice oozing through the room like thick honey poured over a blade. His gaze flicked from me to Regina with slow deliberation, like he was testing the weight of something between us.

“Not at all.”

“Don’t worry, dearie,” he continues with a smirk. “There will be soon. And that information is free of charge.” I blink. The casual cruelty laced with prophecy in his tone makes my spine stiffen.

“That’s a very odd thing to say…” I say quietly. “Why would you give me that information?” He grins wider, teeth glinting like chipped ivory.

“Because when Regina’s mad at you, I’m your only other friend who knows magic.” The last part he delivers in a singsong tone that makes me want to break something glass.

“Thanks, I guess?” I mutter, brow furrowing, unsure if that was supposed to be comfort or a threat.

“Mmm,” he hums tapping an old brass compass that jittered under his fingers like it was trying to point anywhere but north. “Well, if there isn’t any trouble, you could have at least started with ‘Good morning, Mrs. Swan-Mills.’ It’s such a… comforting thing, to be reminded that the two of you have mashed your surnames together like some enchanted quilt. Very modern. Very sentimental. Completely inefficient, of course…but what do I know?”

“Why would I start with good morning when you started by probing into my marriage?” My voice is sharper than I intended, more edge than restraint. “Implying something’s wrong?” He only laughs, low, amused, like he’s already read the last chapter and I’m just lagging behind and need to catch up.

“Tsk. I wouldn’t take that tone with someone you’re about to ask a favor from, dearie.” He warns. Then he turned his back on me…slow and calculated…trailing a hand across a shelf lined with cracked crystal bottles and grimoires older than time, stopping at a shattered hourglass trapped in amber light. Its sand, caught mid-fall, shimmered as if still trying to measure something unmeasurable. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asks finally, like we were old neighbors chatting across a fence. “It’s been ages. I haven’t seen the likes of you since Regina cast her little light show… what was it called? The Reunification Spell?”

“Yes,” I said. “Things have been… quieter.”

“Boring, if you ask me,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “No curses. No realm-hopping. No heart-ripping…” He tilts his head slightly. “No deals.”

“I didn’t ask,” I snap.  The shop goes still as if even the spells and enchantments have stopped to listen, waiting for my next move. He steps closer, too close, and I refuse to back down. His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, burning with something between curiosity and cruelty.

“Hmmm.” He whispers. “Baby is making you short of tempter, forget your place, but you’re glowing,” he says. It’s not a compliment. It’s not kindness. It’s not even truly observation. It’s prophecy. It hits the air between us like a spark before a wildfire.  “You’re practically humming with magic and life,” he adds, tilting his head like he was trying to see through me. “So ripe, you could… burst.” My breath catches, without thinking I lay my hand protectively over the swell of my belly.

“Yes. I’m thirty weeks.” I say quietly. His gaze drops, lingers, and then rises slowly, like the tide creeping back in after a storm.

“Ah.” He breathes. “That explains it. The magic clings to you like smoke. Creation does always have it’s own kind of sorcery, especially when the child is the product of true love.”

“I didn’t come here for your commentary on my life.”

“No,” he says with a grin. “But you came. Which means you need something.” He turns his back again like it was nothing, like my presence, my urgency, my pregnancy, my everything meant less to him than the broken trinkets whispering from the shelves. And yet the shop pulses…vibrating faintly with expectation, like it, too, knew the real reason I was here. Beneath my hand, the baby kicked. Strong. Sure. A reminder. Of life. Of risk. Of why we were here. And the price I was about to pay to protect all of it.

“It’s not me,” I say, the words a breath more than a declaration. “It’s Regina who needs help this time.” That gets his attention. It’s subtle…the way his posture shifts…but I notice. Of course I do. His spine straightens just slightly, his chin lifting as his arms slowly fold across his chest. Like a predator catching scent of something wounded.

“Then why,” he says, voice edged now like a blade dulled from use but still dangerous, “is the Good Queen not the one darkening my doorstep?” I shift under his gaze, still pressing my palm instinctively against the rise of my stomach.

“She does need help,” I admit. “She’s just… she’s not very good at asking for it.” I look down, jaw tight, then back at him. “She doesn’t know I’m here. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her.” A slow smile curls across his face, almost serpentine, oily and curling at the corners like burnt paper.

“Ah… tricky help, is it?” he drawls, and there it is again…him. That old, ancient edge beneath the surface. Rumpelstiltskin awakening beneath the mask of Mr. Gold. I nod once.

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You know how she is…cautious of your deals.” He steps closer again, voice dropping, narrowing in around me like the shadows that breathe inside this cursed place.

“So…” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “The Queen of Second Chances has a secret. And her noble savior…her blushing bride…is willing to dance with the darkness to keep it hidden.” He chuckles low, like the crackle of firewood catching flame. “How… deliciously inconvenient.”

“I don’t have all day. I have to get back before she notices I’ve gone. Can you help her or not?”

“Oh, Emma...” His laughter ghosts around me as he brushes past, cloak trailing behind him like spilled ink. “I can always help. That’s never the question.” He pauses at the edge of the back room, half-turning to meet my eyes. “The real question is… how much will it cost you?” And gods help me, I don’t even blink. Because for Regina? For our family? I’d pay whatever he asked. He leans against the frame of the doorway, waiting.

“What is it she wants?” I inhale, the words heavier than I expected.

“She wants to have a baby,” I say softly. “Not just a baby. She wants the experience. Pregnancy. Birth. To feel life growing inside her. To know what it means to carry our child.” His eyebrows lift…almost imperceptibly…and then he laughs. A rich, dark sound that fills the room like smoke. “A baby?” he repeats with amusement, then lets his gaze drift downward, slow and pointed, to the swell of my belly.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough babies by now? What is this one... number seven? Eight?”

“Four,” I snap, the word cutting sharp and fast. “And that’s a hell of a thing to mock. You don’t get to stand there and treat the size of my family like it’s some kind of punchline. You have no idea…none…what we’ve been through. What we’ve lost. What it’s taken just to have what we have now.” My hands shake, but I don’t back down. “So maybe…for once in your twisted, manipulative, way-too-long life…you could just shut the hell up and listen, instead of making everything a damn performance.” His eyes gleam like something ancient and buried. But he says nothing. Just watches me. I lower my voice, steady and sure. “She wants this. Not because she needs to prove anything. Not because she’s trying to fix her past. Because she’s ready. Because we’re ready. And for once, she’s letting herself want something just for her. Do you understand how rare that is?” The silence stretches between us, taut and breathless. He smiles again, this time slower. Thoughtful.

“A Queen longing to carry life,” he muses. “And her Savior offering up secrets to make it happen. Oh, Emma… this will cost you. It has to. Magic like that doesn't come cheap. Life doesn’t grow from ashes unless blood waters the roots.”

“I didn’t ask for it to be cheap,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. “I asked if it was possible.” His eyes sharpen.

“Everything,” he says, “is possible.” And deep inside me, our baby kicks again. And I know…I know…I made the right choice coming here.

 “What is the price?” Rumpelstiltskin stops. Not just a pause, but a stillness. One that coils in the air like a held breath. He doesn’t turn around right away. Just lifts a hand to toy with a delicate gold chain hanging from the edge of a glass case. It glints in the low light like a thread spun straight from consequence. “To lift Regina’s curse,” I add, firming my voice. He hums, softly, then turns. The amused flicker in his eyes is sharper now. Almost cruel.

“The one she cast upon herself,” he says, dragging out each syllable like it’s coated in honey and rust. He steps forward, slow and deliberate, until we’re standing nearly toe to toe. “Oh yes, dearie. Not all curses wear claws or come cloaked in darkness. Some are quiet things. Intentional. Noble, even. Sacrificial.” He tilts his head. “And the ones we bind ourselves in? Those are the most insidious of all.” I cross my arms, anchoring myself in the floor, in the weight of my body, in the life shifting and stretching inside me.

“It’s still a curse,” I say. “She used magic to make herself barren. She drank a potion she believed she deserved. That’s as much a curse as anything you’ve cast.” A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. Maybe approval. Maybe warning.

“True enough, but that’s because I made the potion…” he murmurs, voice going slippery again. “A curse is a curse, regardless of intention. Even a martyr’s spell leaves scars. But tell me, dearie…” He leans in slightly, the air between us charged. “If someone chooses their own chains, are they truly bound? Or simply afraid to be free?”

“I’m not here for riddles. I’ve broken curses before, how can I fix this for her?” He laughs, low and cold, and begins to circle me like a vulture sizing up what it already knows is wounded.

“That’s the trouble with love,” he muses. “You’ll bleed for it. Bargain your soul for it. And in the end, you’ll beg a monster for mercy to give it one more chance.”

“I thought we’ve spent the last eight years establishing that not all villains are monsters.”  He stops behind me, voice curling at my ear like smoke.

“That we have, but to fix it? Oh, that…that will cost something, Savior. Not gold. Not power. Not some little trinket tucked into the back of your wardrobe.” He moves into my line of sight again, fingers steepled, gaze sharp. “It will cost truth. It will cost sacrifice. And if I do lift her curse… if I rewrite magic she wrote in grief and guilt and bone-deep shame…” He steps closer again.

“You won’t be the same. Neither will she.”

“I don’t care,” I say quietly, steady.

“Ah,” he smiles. “But you should.” The silence stretches. “Still want the price?” he asks, voice like the edge of a blade. I nod once.

Tell me. What exactly are you offering? No Riddles.”

“No trust after all these years working together….such a shame.”

“Start talking…”

“Very well.” He clasps his hands behind his back and begins to pace, slow and methodical. “The infertility curse Regina drank into herself was designed to be permanent. She needed it to be, at the time. Having a child wasn’t a safe or recommended move.” He glances at me, his voice smug but not unkind. “She was willing to sacrifice even motherhood to protect herself and the kingdom from her mother’s manipulations. An admirable act of defiance. But permanence,” Rumple continues, “is a slippery concept. It’s all about what is permanent, and to whom. The spell is sealed to her essence, her soul. Her magic is bound up in it, coiled like a serpent around the intention she carried when she drank it. That makes it nearly impossible to break.”

“Nearly,” I echo, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, dearie.” He grins like a wolf with blood on its teeth. “But there is… a way.”

 “What is it?”

“The spell I have in mind…” he begins, voice curling like incense smoke in the air between us, “is old. Older than this town, older than the Enchanted Forest…older even than me, if you can believe that.” His steps are slow as he circles around me, like a wolf circling prey he's not quite ready to devour. “Not dark, at least not in the way you’re thinking. No blood rituals or screaming souls. But it is deep. Primordial.” He emphasizes the word like it’s sacred, like it should be whispered under your breath at the mouth of a cave. “It speaks to the oldest magic… the kind rooted in life, in creation. In connection.” He pauses just behind me, and I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into my spine. “It would draw from your soul-thread magic,” he says softly, reverently. “Residual energy left behind from carrying Regina’s children… especially the bond that sparked when this current life…” his hand gestures vaguely toward my belly… “was conceived because it is the most recent, the strongest. That thread, dearie… it’s alive right now. Burning. Thrumming. Bright as starlight just before it falls.” I exhale slowly, feeling the truth of his words ripple across my skin. He steps back in front of me, and for once, his eyes are serious.  “But if we tap into it before the birth… we risk snapping the thread. Severing it mid-pulse. The magic could lash back. The child could be harmed.” A beat. “Or lost.” The words settle in my chest like cold iron. He continues, quieter now, as if coaxing the magic itself into hearing. “But after the birth… when the connection is still raw, still aching and open and glowing from the inside out… that is our window. The spell would use the thread’s final pulse…its last breath…as a bridge. Not just to undo what was broken in Regina… but to create something new. A fertile vessel. A body no longer cursed, but blessed with possibility.” My throat is dry.

“And the price?” He looks at me then, really looks, as though reading the truth beneath my skin.

“The price,” he says, voice like velvet over razors, “is your own fire. Your soul-thread would be burned, consumed to fuel the transfer. You would never again be able to conceive naturally. Possibly not even with magic.” A glimmer of something ancient in his eyes. “This is no sleight of hand, Emma. No trick. It is sacrifice. Final. Permanent. You will not be harmed, nor will she.”

 “And she would never know?” His smile returns, curling at the corners like scorched parchment. “Not unless you told her,” he says. “Or unless, say, she began vomiting every morning and craving dirt and peaches in equal measure. But I won’t say a word. Secrets are part of the service.”

“She wants to carry my children. Our children,” I say. “Would that still be possible?” He chuckles, low and rich.

“Oh, you sweet summer creature,” he purrs, tilting his head. “The spell strips the womb, not the seed. You can plant all the gardens you like, dearie. You just won’t be the one tending them.” My brow furrows.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Pfft!” He flutters his fingers dismissively. “It’s magic. It doesn’t have to make sense. It just works.” His voice lowers again, wickedly soft. “You don’t ask a firefly how it glows. You just bask in the light and try not to burn yourself when they land on you.”

I go quiet, heart pounding in my throat as I stare at the floor. Because this…this isn’t just magic. This is love, alchemy, blood and bone and sacrifice stitched into one desperate, radiant spell. And I already know my answer. The air in the pawn shop is already thick…too thick…with the kind of tension that vibrates just under the skin. It clings to the walls like old smoke, makes every breath feel like it’s borrowed. My hand trembles slightly above the aged parchment Rumple has laid before me, quill poised midair, ink catching the light like spilled oil. The edges of the magical contract pulse faintly, written in a language I can’t read but somehow understand. I don't even need to. The terms are clear. Sacrifice. Permanence. Silence. And I’m ready to do it. For her. “For Regina,” I whisper to myself. But just as the nib of the quill touches the page…

BANG.

The door slams open with a force that shakes the frame, the bell above it screaming its alarm. I jerk, the ink splattering in a sharp arc. Rumple’s head lifts lazily, as if he’s been expecting this interruption the entire time. His eyes flick toward the doorway, calm and cruel. But mine…mine are already there on her.  She stands in the threshold like a storm given form. Backlit by the golden afternoon sun, Regina is all silhouette and fury, her shadow long and sharp against the shop’s dusty floorboards. Her shoulders are squared like armor, her jaw tight enough to crack. Her hair is pulled back in a hasty twist…half-up, half-tangled…the kind of style she only manages when she’s multitasking motherhood and anxiety. Probably did it one-handed while chasing after Isabella and Julia. Her eyes find me first. They always do. And in that second, I feel seen…completely, unmistakably known. Her gaze sweeps over me, scanning my face, the set of my shoulders, the tension in my fingers. She notices everything. The way I haven’t exhaled. The way my free hand is pressed protectively over my belly. Then her focus shifts. It slams into Rumple like a drawn blade. Her entire body tightens.

“What the hell is going on here?” Regina asks, voice low and controlled, shaped from fear and fury and something far more fragile beneath it. The door creaks and groans on it’s hinges as it closes behind her, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t blink. She strides forward with the momentum of a wave crashing upon the shore, her perfume curling around me, feeling the space like a memory I didn’t realize I was drowning in.

“You’re supposed to be resting, Emma.” She snaps. Her voice rising with ever step, controlled, but just barely. “You promised me that you’d rest. You’re supposed to be on modified bedrest. Your car isn’t outside…did you walk here?”

“It isn’t far, only a few blocks really, less than a mile.”

“You were cramping this morning!” Her voice fractures around the word, like it costs her to say it. “You barely ate. You looked like a damn ghost when I left! And now…now I find you here?” Her hand slashes through the air toward Rumple, eyes blazing. “With him? Are you trying to send me into cardiac arrest? What kind of deal are you making? I was gone for less than an hour to go to the grocery store and this is what you do? The minute you are no long under my care?”

“Regina…” I start, but she’s already there, stepping between me and the contract like she’s shielding me from fire.

“No,” she bites, spinning on me. “No half-truths. No deflections. No ‘I’m fine, Regina.’ I want the truth. What are you doing here? We made a deal that we were done making deals with him in secret that we would consult each other first. ” Before I can answer, Rumple’s voice snakes through the air like silk on steel. Cold. Calm. Smug.

“She was trying to help you,” he says, leaning back against his counter like he’s watching theater unfold. “A noble little Savior stunt. Quite touching. Sacrificing her own future for yours.” He chuckles, and I want to punch him. “She didn’t even hesitate. Isn’t that just like her?” Regina turns to him like she might actually light him on fire.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” she hisses, her voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to narrate her intentions.” But the words land, heavy and burning in her chest. She turns back to me, softer now, hurt flashing through her anger.

“Emma,” she breathes. “What did you offer him?” I open my mouth…and for a moment, I don’t know how to say it. I look down at the paper, at the ink still bleeding where my hesitation when she came in had saved me. With the way she’s looking at me, I decide that honesty is the best policy, this time.

“He can help break the infertility curse.” Her breath catches, the room goes still. I can hear the faint ticking of a clock buried somewhere in the clutter.

“At what cost?” She asks. “The waters from Lake Nostos has magical healing properties, but it has been dried up for years, since before the original curse…without that it’s meant to be impossible to break the curse.”

“Oh, Regina, dearie… have I taught you nothing? Every curse…every single one…can be broken. But there’s always a cost. Especially when true love’s involved. Mmm... sacrifice makes the magic sing…it is the key.” She looks to him momentarily and then to me again, demanding answers.

“The cost…Emma.”

“When our son is born…he would be our last baby that I carry.” I say finally. “I would no longer be able to carry children, but you would be given the chance to carry ours instead. He said it’s painless, that it would happen after the baby is born and wouldn’t affect him at all. It’s just a magical transference. If I sign this contract, when I give birth, your infertility curse will be broken.”

“For me?” She whispers, stepping closer, trembling now. “You were going to…Emma, no.” She cups my face in her hands, eyes wide, searching. “You don’t get to make that choice alone, even if it is something I’ve said I want. True, this is your body and I have always said that if you don’t want to have more children, we won’t, but this affects our family, you don’t get to hurt yourself to appease my wishes.”

“It’s not about not wanting more children.” I whisper. “I do.” I say firmly. “I did, and I would, Regina I still would if that’s what you want. I’m not hurting myself.” Tears prick her lashes. Her thumb brushes my cheek, and I feel her hand shake.

“You’re my world,” she whispers. “You don’t have to destroy part of yourself to build something for me.” But I just smile, a little broken and a little whole.

“That’s what love is,” I say…quiet, but steady. There’s a weight to the words, like steel laced through silk. “But it’s not destruction, Regina. Nothing’s being ruined, or torn apart…not really. It’s my body. Mine. And wouldn’t it be better for something beautiful to come of all this?” I glance at her, watching for the flicker I know is coming. And there it is…she flinches. Just for a second. But I see it. I always see it, no matter how well she masks it. Her voice cuts back, fast and clipped.

“Emma, you’re talking about your body and your choice…but what about my body? My choice?” Her arms are crossed, her shoulders tense like she’s bracing for impact. She’s not just upset. She’s furious. Scared. Hurt. And trying not to show any of it. I draw in a breath, hold it.

“I think that’s a stupid argument,” I tell her, blunt and honest like I always am. “Especially when we both know how badly you want to be pregnant, to carry a child of your own. No one is forcing anything on you, Regina. No one’s making you do anything. I just… it would only lift the curse, heal you, give your body the tools it needed. So that if…when…you’re ready, it can happen. Naturally. When we’re ready. Together.”

“It’s too dangerous,” she bites out, voice sharper now, cracking just a little at the edge. “You don’t know what that magic did, Emma. What it could still do.”

“Would you be saying the same thing,” I counter, stepping toward her, “if you needed a kidney? Or a piece of my liver? And I was the only match?”

 “Probably.” I stare at her, then laugh once…low, humorless, but it is true, because she’s stubborn. I would probably have to go behind her back in a lifesaving circumstance too. So much work, when she could just accept help.

“Well that’s stupid too. And you would die, Regina.” She glares, eyes glossy with frustration.

 “I’m not going to die because I can’t carry a child, Emma.”

“No,” I agree, “but it’s something you want. Something you’ve always wanted. And don’t pretend like it doesn’t hurt you…not being able to do it. Don’t act like that wish doesn’t live in you so loud it echoes. I hear it every time you look at our kids. Every time you hold them. Everytime you interact with me, with this unborn child…You’ve wanted this since long before you knew it was even possible.” Her voice comes low and broken, but no less sharp.

“So that justifies you taking the choice out of my hands?” she says, voice trembling beneath the steel. “That justifies you making a deal with him? I trusted you, Emma. No deals without discussion.” Her hands shake now. Not visibly. Just a flicker at her side, like her whole world has tilted and she doesn’t know how to right it. She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to yell, cry, or disappear entirely. And still, I don’t back down. Because it’s the truth. Because she deserves it. Because we both do.

“I didn’t do anything yet,” I say, my voice low but firm as I gesture to the unsigned paper between us. The weight of it, the symbolism…it hangs heavier than any magic I’ve ever carried. “Nothing is signed. We were just talking.”

“You were about to sign it,” she says immediately. Her tone isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to cut through the air between us like a blade.

“Yes,” I say, taking a step forward. “If I want to do this, if I choose this… you shouldn’t get to tell me I can’t.” My voice trembles…not from fear, but from the storm building inside me. “That’s not love either. That’s control.” Her eyes flash, and I see the retort forming on her lips, but I barrel forward, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You want to carry a child… your child… more than anything,” I say, softer now, stepping closer again, lowering my voice like I’m offering a secret. “You can’t pretend you don’t.” Her lips part, but I hold up a hand…just enough to stop the protest. “I saw it in your eyes the other night,” I whisper. “When we were in bed, wrapped up in each other and dreaming out loud. When we let the world be quiet for five minutes and just talked. You looked at me like you were standing on the edge of the universe…like, for once, you were allowed to want something that wasn’t survival or guilt or redemption.” I feel it again just saying the words…the way her eyes had softened, like maybe wanting more didn’t make her selfish.

“I see it every time we get a positive pregnancy test,” I go on, voice cracking now, raw. “And you die for just a fraction of a second before you let the joy in, because you wish it was you. I feel it, Regina.”

“That’s not…” she starts, voice tight, but she doesn’t deny it. “I love our children.”

“I know you do…and you are an amazing mother, but it’s also okay to want something more. Why does it matter how we get there?” I ask, nearly pleading now. “Why does it matter if the path looks different…if we still get to the same place?” I let my hand drift down to my belly, the place that has held so much life, so much pain, and so much love. “This baby is my fourth pregnancy. My heart… my life… it’s full. Even if I never carry again.” The silence that follows is deafening. No ticking clocks, no enchanted wind stirring the air. Just stillness. And then…her voice slices through it.

“And so what?” she snaps, the words striking too fast, too sharp, edged with panic. “You get to decide alone that your body doesn’t matter anymore? That you’ve had enough, so now you’ll just… set yourself on fire for me?” Her voice rises with every word, her face flushed, her eyes glinting with unshed tears. “Do you think that’s what I want, Emma? To be the reason you can’t ever have another child if you change your mind? You don’t get to martyr yourself and call it a gift. That’s not love either.” It hurts to hear her say this…not just the words, but the fear behind them. The grief. The guilt. She’s not mad because I made a choice. She’s mad because I made it alone.

“I’m not going to change my mind, Regina,” I say, steady now. There’s no hesitation in me—no echo of doubt. Just the truth. “This isn’t a whim. This isn’t a sacrifice I made in the middle of a meltdown. I meant it. I still mean it.” Regina flinches like the words physically struck her. Her arms wrap around her waist like she’s bracing for impact that hasn’t come yet. And when she speaks, her voice is quieter…almost brittle.

“That’s what I said too,” she murmurs. “Once.” The room goes still again, the words threading between us like smoke. The ache in her voice is palpable, and my breath catches. I know what she means. I know the weight she’s still carrying.

“You were young,” I say softly, carefully. “So young. And facing an impossible choice… without the life experience that I have now.” Her eyes lift to mine, and it’s like I’ve peeled back something in her chest…something old and sharp and still aching after all this time. But I keep going, because I need her to hear this. To really hear it.

“You were cornered,” I say gently. “Manipulated by your mother. You were trying to prove yourself in a world where you were never allowed to want anything. Especially not something soft… something vulnerable. You didn’t have the space to dream of this…of them. Of us. You were made to believe that nobody would ever love you. That you were unworthy of love, that love is weakness. A hole was carve inside of you, that you haven’t been able to mend, not truly.” Her bottom lip trembles just slightly. I step closer, slow and reverent, like I’m approaching a wounded animal I love too much to lose.

“But that’s not who you are,” I continue. “and I can help you, if you let me.  In just a few weeks I will be giving birth to our fourth child. I will have the power to give you something I know you want. Something that was stolen from you, even if you were manipulated into believing it was your choice.” She looks down, shaking her head like she can’t let herself believe it, can’t let herself want it without fear. And still, her hands drift…almost unknowingly…toward her abdomen, fingers trembling as they hover there. “Regina,” I whisper. “You’re not taking anything from me. You’re not. I chose this. For you. For us. Because I’m not afraid of what comes next. I’ve already had this experience that you want, and you haven’t.” Her chest is rising and falling, too fast. Her hands are shaking.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she finishes, quieter but still biting. “I would never ask this of you.” I pause, heart pounding, eyes burning…but I don’t look away.

“I know you didn’t,” I say, gently. “And that’s why it matters, because you didn’t have to.” She looks startled.

“I know you’d never ask it. Because you never think you’re allowed to want something just for you. Not without earning it. Not without paying for it in blood.” I step closer, placing a hand on her chest, just over her heart. “But you are allowed. And I want to give it to you because I love you…not because I owe you, or because I’m trying to erase something, but because this is what we do.” She’s still breathing hard, lips parted.

“This isn’t martyrdom,” I whisper. “This is partnership. This is family. If I don’t get to tell you what to do with your body, you don’t get to tell me what to do with mine. Especially not when it’s something I choose. Freely. Willingly. Joyfully even.” Her eyes shimmer, and I see the war behind them. Love and fear. Desire and guilt. Grief and hope tangled into one impossible knot. I lace our fingers together.

“I’m not broken without more children,” I say. “But you’ve spent so long believing you are. Let me show you that you’re not.” Her lips tremble. She looks like she’s going to argue again, but then the fight falls from her shoulders all at once. She lets out a shaky breath and leans her forehead against mine, closing her eyes.

“You make it really hard to stay mad at you,” she whispers, voice catching. I smile faintly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“That’s my other superpower.” Behind us, Rumple sighs dramatically.

“If you two are quite finished,” Rumple mutters, his tone dry as desert bone, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s been enjoying the show far too much. But Regina turns on him in a heartbeat. And gods…her glare. If looks could kill, his walls would crumble into ash and bone. Her fury is quiet now, concentrated, surgical. No flames. No shouting. Just that precise, deadly stare…like a queen deciding which head to cut off first.

“We’re done,” she says, her voice like the crack of a whip in the silence. “And this deal?” She leans forward slightly. “It’s off the table.” My heart stutters.

“Regina, no,” I protest, my voice a mix of disbelief and desperation. “I thought we were finally getting somewhere with this. We had options…a chance.” She turns to me, eyes softening just enough to shatter me.

“We’re getting out of here,” she says, leaving no room for argument. Before I can speak again, she grabs my hand…still trembling, still smudged with ink from the contract I almost signed—and pulls me toward the door.

“Regina, stop,” I say, voice firm now. “Let go of me.” But she doesn’t. She tightens her grip like she’s afraid that if she lets go, she might lose me in more ways than one, and then she turns on me.

“He’s hiding something,” Regina mutters under her breath, her voice low and tight with barely-restrained urgency. It coils between us like a live wire…hot, electric, unshakable. Her body is angled protectively in front of mine now, just enough to shield, just enough to challenge. “He’s always hiding something, Emma. Twisting things. Playing both sides like it’s all just another chapter in one of his cursed fairy tales.” I know that tone…sharp, steady, and trembling just beneath with a fury born of love. Of fear. Her eyes flick to me for a second, and they’re burning…not just with anger, but something else. Desperation. She wants, no, needs, me to listen to her. “We’ll find another way. If that’s what you want. If this is what you really want, we will figure it out.” She turns back toward Rumple, her voice hardening with each syllable. “But this? Him? This isn’t the way. You don’t have to carry more children, Emma. You know that. I’ve always said that. But this isn’t safe.”

I follow her gaze to where Rumpelstiltskin stands, infuriatingly composed, hands loosely folded behind his back like he’s hosting a dinner party instead of dangling our future like bait. He hasn’t said a word, but that smirk is already curving at the corner of his mouth…the one that says he’s three moves ahead and daring you to catch up.

“Magic always comes at a cost,” Regina spits, like the words are a curse she’s known by heart since she was a child. “And it’s always more than you think it’s going to be.” Right on cue, he claps. Slowly. Sarcastically.

“Oh, bravo,” Rumple drawls, stepping forward with a kind of serpentine grace. His tone is silk wrapped around razors. “Truly, I’d give the Good Queen a standing ovation…if I thought she wouldn’t incinerate me for it.” He eyes her, amused. “You’ve been a very good student, Regina. Finally remembering the lessons I carved into your spine.” Regina’s lip curls like she might actually set him ablaze. I step up beside her now, pulse thudding in my ears.

“You said it wouldn’t hurt,” I snap. “You said we’d be safe.” Regina’s nostrils flare at my words, and I see her jaw lock, her fury simmering just beneath the surface that I’d dare speak to him after making this thing that she now sees as a mess she has to clean up.

“But,” Rumple continues, smooth as oil, stepping out from behind the counter like he’s entering center stage, “your wife isn’t wrong. Not entirely.” He tilts his head, looking at us the way a collector might study a rare object. “Magic comes at a cost. It always has. That’s what makes it real. If you want miracles without sacrifice, dearies… you’re in the wrong realm.”

“I said I would sacrifice what you asked,” I say, fists clenched now. “I’d give you what you wanted, what was needed. I have no problem with that.” Regina narrows her eyes.

“Then what wasn’t in the contract?” she demands. “What didn’t you tell her?” That’s when Rumple looks at me. Really looks. And for a moment, the smirk falters. The gleam in his eye dims into something older, heavier. Not regret exactly. But weariness. Like even he knows the truth isn’t going to feel like a victory.

“As you both know…there are things I can’t write into a contract,” he says softly. No theatrics. Just the truth, and the weight of it. “Because sometimes… the magic takes more than expected. Sometimes it takes what it wants. And once it does… there’s no getting it back.” Regina doesn’t even hesitate. She steps in front of me again, her body snapping into place like a wall of fire and fury and love. Her magic pulses at her fingertips like she’s ready to set the whole world alight if it means keeping me safe. And I feel it…every beat of her rage, every tremble of her fear. It surges through me like a storm. Because this isn't just about magic. This is about what we’re willing to lose for each other.

“You think I’m going to let her risk everything on a maybe?” Regina spits, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. It slices through the thick air of the shop like a blade, all heat and terror and something deeper…something aching. Rumpelstiltskin just smiles, slow and smug. That infuriating curl of his mouth that says he’s already won, no matter the outcome.

“Oh, Regina,” he purrs, every syllable dripping with mock affection. “You risked everything once for a life that wasn’t even yours yet. You cursed an entire kingdom to get your way. Don’t judge her for doing the same… in a far less theatrical fashion.” Her hand trembles at her side, and I reach out…gently, carefully…and lace our fingers together. She doesn’t pull away. She never does, not from me. Even when she’s angry. Even when she’s afraid.

“I’m not judging her,” Regina murmurs, barely more than breath now, like the truth is breaking out through a crack in her armor. “I’m trying to protect her. I became the monster that I was under your influence. I do not approve of attempting to do the same to her.”

The silence that follows is thick with everything that hasn’t been said…the cost, the risk, the love twisted up in both. For a heartbeat, we’re suspended between two choices: one that glows with impossible promise, and another that burns with brutal honesty. And then she turns. Not with a flounce, not with fury. Just quiet finality. This time, I follow without hesitation. We leave the parchment on the counter, the ink unsmudged, untouched. The contract still pulses faintly behind us, alive with possibility…and danger. We leave Rumple’s ever-grinning face in the dark glow of his shop, but his voice follows, trailing behind like smoke that clings to the skin.

“You’ll be back,” he calls, soft and sing-song, like a lullaby with thorns. “Because love like yours? It always costs.” Regina’s fingers tighten around mine as we pass through the doorway, anchoring me. She doesn’t speak, but her posture says enough. Regal. Composed. Furious. And then… “Oh, Regina,” Rumple calls again, tone shifting into something lower, closer. Almost wistful. “You can shake your head all you like, but I feel it, you know.”

We stop. She doesn’t turn…but I do. I turn slowly, the weight of his words landing before their meaning does. He steps forward, not close enough to touch, but close enough to wound. His eyes gleam with that dangerous mix of cruelty and ancient knowing.

“I’ve always felt it. That ache under your skin. That longing you try to bury beneath reason and righteousness. You wear it like perfume. Have for decades.” Regina’s shoulders go rigid, but she says nothing. “Even back then,” he continues, circling slightly, slow and sinuous, “when you took that little vial. That spell you brewed to make sure you’d never carry life. Not because you didn’t want it…but because someone convinced you that love would ruin you. That being soft would make you weak. And you…” he sighs dramatically, “…you couldn’t risk being weak.” His voice dips, mocking and knowing and cruel all at once.  “But I knew better. I saw you.”

“Enough,” Regina says, her voice cold, steal. He doesn’t stop. Of course not, he gets too much sick pleasure out of tempting her.

“You didn’t want to be stopped from becoming a mother,” Rumpelstiltskin says, voice low…so low it almost vanishes into the crackling hush of magic that surrounds us. But it doesn’t vanish. No, it coils. It creeps. It sinks beneath the skin like ice water. His tone isn’t pitying. It’s sharp, knowing, predatory in that familiar way he has, like he’s peeling open old wounds just to see what bleeds. “You wanted someone to see through the mask. To challenge the iron walls you built around yourself. You didn’t want to be forbidden,” he continues, circling slow, deliberate, like a wolf with time to spare. “You wanted to be fought for. You wanted it to be safe…and back then it wasn’t, you weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t what you wanted.” His smile…sharp and glittering…never reaches his eyes. “But no one ever did fight for you… did they?” He pauses. Then turns his gaze to me. Really looks at me. It’s not affection. Not warmth. It’s recognition. A weight behind the eyes that says he understands exactly what kind of power I hold…and how deeply I’ve changed her. The light shifts subtly in the room. The corners stretch longer, the warmth drains from the air. It's as if his attention alone has bent the room to his will.

“Until her,” he breathes. And that’s when Regina snaps. She spins on her heel, magic already charging in her veins, and the fury that had been carefully coiled beneath her control now rips loose like a wildfire bursting through dry brush. “So full of life,” Rumple continues, looking down at my baby bump, moving his hand over it, though not touching, watching her reaction with morbid delight, “The life you’ve built together. All that love, mashing up of darkness and light…” His eyes slide toward me again with a flicker of something darker…hungrier. “So willing and capable to give you the family you’ve always dreamed of.” He takes a single step forward. Not threatening. But there’s a dark elegance to the movement, like a viper rising just enough to make you wonder when it will strike. “And yet,” he murmurs, “it still isn’t enough for you, is it?” That’s it. That’s the line that cuts deepest. Regina’s magic explodes at her fingertips in a sharp, electric burst…lightning flashing in her palms, casting gold across the darkness, The storm of her magic pulses outward, scattering dust from the rafters and rattling the shelves lined with cursed trinkets and bottled regrets. But Rumple stands unmoved. Unbothered. His smile remains…a dark slash across his face, cruel and cold and quietly certain before she gathers control again.

“We will not be back,” she snarls, voice thick with fire and hurt and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Your help is not wanted. Not now. Not ever.” He knows. He always knows. But Regina doesn’t give him the satisfaction of another word. She turns toward me, fire still in her eyes, and I reach for her hand. She takes it. But Rumple? He’s unfazed. He just tilts his head with that sickly-sweet smile.

“It isn’t your deal to make, dearie,” he says, softly now, as though he’s already carved the future into stone. “Not entirely.” He turns to me again, and his expression is… gentler. Almost kind. Which somehow makes it worse.

“If you change your mind, Emma Swan-Mills… if the desire ever outweighs the fear of what she’ll do… call upon me.” His voice slips into my skin like shadow. “The deal doesn’t expire. I’ll be listening. And you’ll know when the time is right.” My throat is tight. I curl my free hand over my belly without thinking, an instinct. I nod…just once. He doesn’t need more than that. Regina’s grip tightens again. Wordless now, she pulls me toward the exit with that quiet, furious strength I’ve leaned on more times than I can count. She doesn’t look back. But I do. Just once. Rumple is still standing there, half-shrouded in lamplight, that knowing, patient smile stitched across his face like a scar that never healed. And for one terrifying second, I don’t know if he’s smiling because we said no… …or because he already knows we’ll say yes.

“Regina… stop. Slow down, please.” She’s walking too fast towards her office, still semi pulling me along, The ache curls sharp inside me, twisting low in my belly as we walk toward Regina’s office. It’s more than tiredness … a relentless tightening that pulls at my breath and drags at my steps. I swallow it down, forcing my lips into a smile, but I can’t hide the way I falter. Regina’s voice cuts through the quiet, soft but urgent. We’re in her office before she actually slows down enough for it to matter.

“You’re hurting.” I glance up at her, eyes meeting hers. I shake my head, stubborn, unwilling to let her see me crack. But the weight is too much, and before I know it, I’m sinking down onto the couch in her office, every inch of me aching.

“No more of this, Emma,” her tone is firm, edged with worry and that no-nonsense steel I know so well. “Seriously. Please...” I bite back the protest, my voice rough but steady. “You need rest.”

“It’s just growing pains… I had them with all the children. You were just walking so fast. I'm sorry. I'm okay, Regina...I promise.” She folds her arms, eyes narrowing, and the air thickens with something fierce.

“What did you do before I got there?” I exhale, the weight settling heavier on my chest.

“Nothing.” Her voice softens, pleading now.

“Emma…” I lift my gaze, tired but resolute.

“Nothing… we were just talking.” Her brow furrows, searching, pushing.

“Are you absolutely sure?” I meet her gaze, steel beneath the fatigue.

“Yes. Regina, I didn’t make a deal with Gold. You stopped it. I’m fine, just tired. I don't even remember the last time I've worked out, and you just practically sprinted here.”

“I did not.”

“For the way I'm out of breath you might as well have.” I say, my heart is still racing. Her hands drop to her hips, frustration and fear twisting together in her expression.

“You're not fine. You're barely coping and you're trying to hide it from me.” I want to reach for her, to let her in, but the pain hums under my ribs, stubborn and raw. I close my eyes for a moment, fighting tears. I refuse to give cry, not now. Instead I focus on breathing instead. Her voice slices through the thick haze clouding my thoughts, sharp and clear and utterly uncompromising.

“Let's go home then, rest.”

“We tried that, you refused. You need to go to the hospital.” I blink, the pain twisting tighter beneath my ribs like it’s curling into itself, sharper than before, deeper. But it’s not the pain that makes me falter...it’s the tone of her voice. It’s not a suggestion. It’s pleading disguised as command. “You need to get checked out.” I try to focus, her face is a blur for a moment. There is too much light behind her, too much darkness inside of me, but I manage to look up at her. I search her eyes for something, anything that might calm the pulse of panic beating underneath my skin. My voice trembles as it slips out.

“Where are our children?” I ask her. It's not a distraction...it's instinct. The fear is reflective, coded into every inch of me now, though I know she would never leave them alone, or do anything to hurt them, they're obviously not here. They were not with her in Gold's shop.

“Don’t deflect, Emma.” Her words land hard. Not cruel. Just real. Urgent. Her eyes are blazing with something I know too well...fear laced with fury, and love wound so tight it’s on the verge of snapping. “I got a sitter, they're with Snow.” she says, and there’s an edge in her voice now. A crack she’s trying to hide.

“You called my mother on me?” I ask, mortified on a whole new level.

“Enough with the false outrage, they love your mother, I bet they're having the time of their lives right now.” She looks at me, studying me carefully. “What did you expect me to do? I couldn't find you. You weren't answering your phone. I thought...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. I hear the unspoken ending in the way her breath stutters: I thought I lost you. Heat rushes to my cheeks. Shame. Stubbornness. Guilt. The old trio. She had taken them to the grocery store with her. She had wanted me to have a little bit of silence, to rest. This morning had been chaotic. The kids didn't wake up in the best of moods, and were fighting from the moment they woke up.

“You're overreacting.” I say, quietly, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “No hospital. I'll rest I promise.” But the words ring hollow. They collapse in the space between us like a house of cards. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t let me get away with it. Not anymore.

“You've been off since the preterm labor scare, Emma, since you got out of the hospital a couple weeks ago.” Her voice is low now, almost gentle, but not quite. “You're saying and doing all the right things, you've been here for me, for the children, but Emma, you've been tired, pale. You wince every time you stand. You're not eating properly. Not properly abiding by the modified bed rest the doctor ordered, and now you're going to Gold. I can't pretend this is okay, normal pregnancy side effects anymore, Emma.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if I can shut out the truth of it too, but I can't. She's not wrong. I am in pain. My strength has been draining, slow and quiet like a leak I didn't want to acknowledge. Not the thought that something could be wrong, really wrong, again. I can't let myself shatter. Her hand finds mine again, fingers warm and steady. She's too stubborn. I feel it...her love, her desperation to pull me back from whatever edge she thinks I'm about to launch myself off of.

“Come on.” She whispers, softer now. No longer a demand, a plea. “Just a quick check up. Let me take care of you now.” And that’s it. That’s the part that breaks me. Because I’ve spent so much of my life bracing. Holding everyone else up. Carrying the weight with a smile and a clenched jaw. And with Regina...with her...I’ve never truly had to. She sees through the armor. She’s never needed me to be invincible. Just real.

“I’m not going,” I say finally, the words landing with more force than I mean. My voice is hoarse. Tired. But I plant my feet, jaw set. Regina blinks at me like I’ve slapped her.

“Emma...”

“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter in my mouth, but I chew it anyway. “I just need… rest. Some water. A snack, maybe we could take a nap, together.” Her eyes widen, not with surprise...she knew I’d say it...say something to distract her...but with something closer to heartbreak.

“A nap?” she repeats, breathless, like she can’t believe I still don’t see it. “You’re pale. You’re sweating through your shirt. You’re holding your side like something’s tearing, you still haven't fully caught your breath, and you think sleep will fix it?”

I glance away. Because I’m scared. Because if I go in, if I let them look...they might tell me something’s wrong with the baby, or that the baby is fine, but I'm in preterm labor again. That something’s happening I can’t control. And I can’t...I can’t go through that again. I feel it swelling in my chest, thick and hot, pressing against my ribs like grief waiting to bloom.

Before I can say anything else, it hits me. A wave of pain so sharp, so sudden, it rips the breath right out of my lungs. My knees buckle. I don’t fall...not all the way...but I drop to a crouch, clutching my belly with both arms as something tears through me like lightning. The sound that escapes my throat isn’t human. It’s raw. It’s fear.

“Emma!” Regina’s there in an instant, kneeling beside me, hands gripping my arms like she’s anchoring me to the earth.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got you,” she breathes, panic and command fusing in her voice. “You’re going to be okay. Just breathe.” I shake my head, eyes wide, wild.

“It’s not...it’s not supposed to hurt like this...”

“I know,” she whispers, brushing sweat-soaked hair from my face. “I know. That’s why we’re going. Now.”

“I can’t...this isn't contractions...it's something else.” The pain hasn’t passed. It should have passed. I’ve felt contractions before. I’ve had three kids. This isn’t the same. This is… wrong. Regina presses her forehead to mine for a split second, grounding herself as much as me.

“You don’t have a choice anymore,” she says, and her voice shakes...but her hands don’t. “This baby...our baby...is telling us something. And I will not lose either of you because you’re too damn stubborn to admit that you're scared.”

She wraps one arm around my waist and the other behind my shoulders, somehow lifting me with strength I didn’t know she had. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s love. Maybe they’re the same thing. My knees are weak. I’m shaking. She doesn’t hesitate. She half-carries me out the door. The sunlight is too bright when it hits me. Everything feels surreal, distant. I bury my face against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t want it to be real.” She holds me tighter.

“It is real,” she whispers back. “But you're going to be okay.”

I don’t say a word as Regina poofs us into the hospital...her magic rushing around us in a quiet shimmer of gold and violet, folding me into the soft hush of the labor and delivery ward. The shift from her office to the clinical sterility of the hospital is jarring. The sharp scent of antiseptic stings my nose. Everything here is white and too bright and real in a way I wasn’t ready for. I feel stripped bare the moment they lay eyes on me.

Nurses swarm with calm efficiency, all soft voices and practiced hands. I don’t resist when they ease me onto the bed, lift my shirt, and strap the monitors around my belly. I don't flinch when the IV slides into my arm, and they start administering medication or when the blood pressure cuff inflates with a mechanical hiss. I barely hear their reassurances over the thundering beat of the fetal heart monitor. The baby's heartbeat fills the room...fast and steady...but it doesn’t soothe me. Not really. Regina stays close through all of it. She’s talking...of course she’s talking...trying to get me to breathe through the contractions, trying to anchor me to her with the sound of her voice. She says my name softly, calls me darling and love and sometimes just Em, like if she repeats it enough I’ll come back to her.

But I can’t. Not fully. My body is here, heavy and tethered to monitors and wires. But my mind has drifted somewhere else...into the space between pain and panic, between memory and worst-case-scenario. I keep imagining the worst before anyone’s said it, imagining the quiet that sometimes comes before the cry in rooms like this. I know this place too well. I know what can happen.

And Regina...gods, Regina. Eventually she goes quiet, and still now, curled beside me on the narrow hospital bed like she’s trying to make herself smaller, more contained. One leg tucked under her, the other dangling off the side, fingers absently tracing the hem of the sheet where it’s wrinkled at the edge of my hip. She hasn’t said a word since the doctor and nurses determined I am stabilized and stepped out of the room to work on the labs they had drawn. And that silence...her silence...is worse than anything else. Because when Regina stops talking, stops pacing, stops moving...it’s not peace. It’s a storm drawing itself back, storing up fury and fear until it has no choice but to explode.

I glance at her. She’s staring at my belly like she can will it to stay calm, to stop contracting, to behave. I want to say something. I want to crack a joke...make her roll her eyes, draw the smallest smile across her face. I want to say something ridiculous about how tight the monitor belts are or how the ceiling tiles here look like they’re judging me. But I don’t. I stay quiet too. Because if I open my mouth, I’m afraid I’ll start crying, and I know if I do… she will too.

I don't know how long we sit like that in silence, but eventually the door clicks open again and the doctor comes in. The door clicks open. We both look up. The doctor enters, chart in hand, a small smile that’s meant to be calming but doesn’t reach her eyes. She keeps her tone even, gentle, as she approaches.

“Well...” She begins. “I want to keep you overnight for observation given your history. You're contracting, but they don't appear to have regulated. You're dehydrated, your iron levels are low, but your blood work looks good otherwise, no signs of infection.” I swallow. My mouth is dry, lips chapped.

“That sounds like I can go home...normal pregnancy side effects.”

“Not when you're married to the Good Queen, The Mayor. She has demanded the last time you were here that we leave no stones uncovered. I wasn't finished though...There’s some early cervical change,” she continues, glancing between us, “minor effacement, a little softening, but no significant dilation yet. We caught this early. We can stop it, with rest and medical intervention.”

Honestly, I zone out at this. I don’t breathe right away. She’s still talking...something about magnesium, fluids, continued bed rest, maybe a steroid injection just in case...but all I hear is that one line: We can stop it. Regina’s hand finds mine. Her grip is warm and firm and trembling slightly. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. I know what she’s thinking because I’m thinking it too: Not again. When the doctor leaves us with a reassuring smile and the promise of updates, we’re alone again in the room. The heartbeat monitor keeps ticking. Regina shifts beside me, finally looking at me...not my belly, not the machines...me. Her eyes are glassy now, her lashes darker than usual. She leans in and rests her forehead against mine. We don’t say it. But the weight of almost is still hanging in the air between us. And I hold her hand tighter. Because we’re still here. And so is he.

“Technically,” I begin, tilting my head to look at her, “I’m in the early stages of preterm labor.” She doesn’t look at me, but her brow arches just enough to say: And?

“So,” I continue, dragging out the words, “you should feel very sorry for me. And let me make the deal with Gold.” That gets her attention. Her head whips toward me so fast I can hear the motion of her hair.

“It would save thousands in medical bills.” I add with a weak grin, trying to pull her into my game. “Economically speaking, it's a very responsible decision, and if this baby is born tonight it's the perfect time. Gold said the deal has to be made after the child is born, for his safety.”

“Emma...” Her eyes narrow. “We have health insurance, good health insurance. We also both work full time and live in a made up fairy tale town...money isn't an issue, getting you the medical care that you need is not an issue...you know that.”

“Okay...but think about it.” I go on, almost playful, but only almost. I’m feeling too many things at once...tired, sore, scared...but mostly? I’m desperate to make her hope again. “You want another baby. One you carry. I want that for you too, it would be a beautiful thing.” She stiffens beside me, jaw clenched tight.

“And how am I supposed to carry your baby,” she asks slowly, “if you can no longer conceive?”

“I don’t know. He said it would work. Gold said that it works by magic, that it will still work, just as it did for you when I conceived.” Regina doesn’t respond right away. She just stares at me like she’s trying to see through the pieces of logic I’m stringing together, like maybe if she looks hard enough, it’ll all fall into place. “Maybe there’s more magic involved than we understand,” I offer, voice low. “Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s us. This should have been impossible, but it hasn't been.” I reach out and take her hand, press it gently against my belly where the baby stirs under the monitors.“I don’t know how it worked,” I murmur. “But it did. And if we have even a shot at figuring out how to make it happen for you… shouldn’t we try?”

“No,” Regina says, and the word is sharp...final...but laced with something that sounds like regret more than anger. “Not with Gold. Not like that.”

She shakes her head once, firmly, like she’s trying to dislodge the memory of the conversation entirely, trying to erase the idea from existence. But neither of us says what’s really sitting there, thick between us like smoke. We’re already planning our next baby. Even as we sit in a hospital room, trying to hold onto this one. Even as monitors beep steadily in the background, and the baby's heartbeat flutters strong but distant over the static. Regina’s silence stretches until it nearly hurts. I watch her eyes flick toward the IV, the monitor screen, the soft glow of the room lights...anywhere but me. And then she speaks.

“I don’t want to do this, Emma.”

Her voice doesn’t rise...it fractures. Soft and sharp all at once, like the edge of a glass breaking in a velvet glove. I shift slowly on the hospital bed, careful not to jostle the leads or disturb the pulse of the monitor, and turn toward her. She's already folding away, already rebuilding walls she only just let fall. “I was wrong to even tell you,” she says, the words rushing out like a confession, like if she speaks fast enough they won’t have time to become real. “About… wanting to carry a baby. It was foolish. It was selfish and...stupid.”

“Regina...”

“No.” She cuts me off with a sharp glance, but her eyes are shining, full of tears she won’t let fall. Her voice is stronger now, but it’s wrapped in self-loathing. “I was being selfish. I should’ve known better. I do know better. I should have known that you would do something dangerous to try and fix something that can't be fixed. I wasn't thinking...I have everything I need. Everything I ever wanted. You. Our beautiful, ridiculous, perfect little family. Henry. Isabella. Julia, and now this baby...” Her voice cracks again around his name. “He’s not even here yet, and I let myself hope for more. For something I can’t have.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it. She stares at the floor, her nails digging into the fabric of her sleeves like they’re the only things keeping her upright. She wraps her arms tighter around herself...not to comfort. To shield. To protect against the possibility of comfort. As if she doesn’t deserve it. As if wanting more means she’s ungrateful. As if the hope itself is a betrayal.

I shift again, slow and careful, ignoring the pull in my belly and the ache still lingering under my ribs.

My hand finds hers, warm and tense and coiled tight. She tries to pull away. I don’t let her. Our fingers thread together anyway, her resistance brittle but not real.

“You’re not stupid,” I whisper, and the words are soft enough to feel like truth instead of a rebuttal. “And you’re not selfish.” Her chin trembles. But she doesn’t speak.“You’re human, Regina,” I go on, thumb brushing over her knuckles, slow and steady. “You want something beautiful. Something full of love. That doesn’t make you ungrateful. That doesn’t make you broken.”She swallows hard, still not looking at me...but her hand stays in mine. She’s holding on, even if she doesn’t realize it.

“I see you,” I say. “Even when you try to disappear into the guilt, or the fear. Even when you fold up like this and think I won’t notice.” That draws a soft, broken sound from her...a breath that catches halfway out. I lean in closer. “And I love you. All of you. Even this part. Especially this part. The part that still dares to want more, even when it hurts.”

Finally, she looks up at me. Her eyes are wide and wet, rimmed red, her mouth pressed into a tight, trembling line. But there’s something else there too now...something soft and scared and raw. Hope. Still flickering. Still alive. I shift just enough to press my forehead to hers.

“You can want this,” I whisper. “We can want this. It doesn’t mean we’re not grateful. It means there’s more love in us still. Enough to give.” Her hand tightens around mine at that. And for a long moment, we just stay like that...forehead to forehead, breath to breath, still tangled in monitors and IV lines, but holding each other like lifelines. Because even in the shadow of almost losing, we still dream. Even now.

“Emma...” She starts but then trails off, like she's not sure what to say.

“What part of this do you not want? Did you change your mind about wanting a baby? Wanting a big family?” I ask her. “Because if you have, that's okay too.” My voice is soft barely more than a breath but it cuts through the silence between us. Regina doesn’t answer right away. She’s seated near the window now, arms wrapped tightly around her body like she’s trying to hold herself together from the outside in. Her profile is all tension...sharp lines drawn from exhaustion and love and fury she doesn’t quite know where to put. Then, finally, she exhales. It’s a sound like surrender.

“The part where we're discussing this while you're going through your second preterm labor scare in less than a month.” Her words land heavy, weighted with fear she won’t name. Her voice is sharp, but not angry...it’s frantic. That kind of fear that doesn’t come with screaming but with a slow, simmering ache just beneath the surface. I push myself higher in the bed, shifting until I can really see her.

“I'm fine.” I say gently. “I think they were wrong.”

“You think the doctors were wrong?” I shrug, forcing a smile I don’t quite feel.

“I’m not even in pain anymore. Maybe it was dehydration again. It’s not like last time, Regina. He’s fine. I’m fine. That’s not what we were talking about and you know it.”

“No, you're deflecting by turning the attention onto me instead of you.” My voice softens, my heart tightening with the effort it takes to stay here, in this hard, honest space.

“What part of this don’t you want?” I ask again, slower this time. “The part where we break the curse, and you finally get to carry a child? Or the part where we have to ask Gold for help?”

“You know the answer.” I nod, but I don’t let her off the hook. Not because I want to push her...but because I know she’s already punishing herself silently. And I won’t let her sit in that silence without a little light.

“So if there was another way,” I ask, voice even, steady, “if we didn’t have to involve him at all...you’d want the curse broken? You'd want to be able to become pregnant, carry a child, give birth, all of the things?” I ask her, just being sure. My decision has already been made, I didn't sign anything today, but that doesn't mean I'm not still heavily considering it.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then she closes her eyes, and her arms wrap tighter around herself...this time not in resistance, but in defense against a truth too sharp to hold unguarded. And when she opens them again, there’s no hiding. No mask. Just Regina...raw and aching and human.

“Yes.” The word leaves her in a breath, fragile and thick with tears.

“Are you sure?”

“God, yes, Emma.” Her voice cracks. “More than anything. I want to know what it's like, to feel our baby growing inside of me, their kicks. To go through the terror and wonder and miracle of it. I want to experience what you have, what you've experienced four times now. It's not because I am ungrateful for our family, I love our family, more than anything, but because...” She stops, a sob catching in her throat. “Because I never stopped wanting this.” My eyes burn. I reach out. She moves closer to me before I can say a word, crawling into the hospital bed carefully, curling against my side like she needs to feel the baby's heartbeat and mine at the same time. I wrap an arm around her, pull her in close, and let her cry into my shoulder.

“Okay...” I say, not wanting to break that fragile hope that she's found. “I'm sorry I went to Gold. I'm sorry I almost made that deal.” I whisper into her hair. “I'll find a way that doesn't cost either of us more than we've already paid. We'll find a way to break the curse, as long as it's what your heart still wants.” She nods against me. And for the first time all day, I feel her breathe. Not like she’s bracing. Not like she’s drowning. But like maybe, just maybe… she believes me.

I must’ve fallen asleep in her arms. I don’t even remember the moment I drifted off. Just the rhythm of her breathing against my neck, the warmth of her body pressed to mine in that impossibly narrow bed, and her hand, always her hand, resting gently over my belly like a promise. The rest is a blur. And then suddenly, I’m awake. The light in the room is different...harsher, more clinical. There’s movement I don’t recognize. And voices. Too many voices. I blink blearily, heart already starting to pound, and realize there’s a doctor standing at the end of the bed, flipping through something on a clipboard. A nurse moves silently to adjust the monitors, her expression composed but tight. I shift slightly, disoriented.

“What’s…?” Regina’s voice is the first thing that cuts through the fog, and it’s enough to snap me into clarity.

“You were crying out in your sleep,”she says, her voice steady but trembling around the edges. “I tried to wake you… you moved, and that’s when I saw the blood.” My entire body goes cold.

“Blood?” I echo, barely more than a whisper. I look at her sharply, then down at myself. “I’m not...” But then I feel it. The heat. The wetness. The unmistakable, terrifying sensation pooling between my thighs.

“You are,” the doctor cuts in before Regina can respond. Her voice is calm, clinical. Too calm. “We need to do an ultrasound right away to assess the cause and check your cervix for further changes. You’re stable, the baby’s heart rate looks great, and the contractions have stopped for now. Just an over abundance of precaution.” I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

“I'm not in any pain.” I say, dazed. “How is this happening, if I'm not...”

“That can happen with placental issues or other structural stress,” she replies gently. “You were having contractions earlier. Your cervix was already showing early change. It’s possible the bleeding is mechanical, caused by pressure or a positional shift in the baby. But we’ll know more in a moment.” She rattles off orders to the nurse, who quickly administers another medication through my IV before leaving us alone again. Regina hasn’t let go of my hand. She looks pale...paler than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her other hand keeps ghosting over my stomach like she’s trying to feel something, anything reassuring. She’s barely breathing.

The doctor returns with the ultrasound machine and removes the monitoring bands carefully. She lifts my gown and applies warm gel across my skin. Regina sits on the edge of the bed now, holding my hand tighter than necessary...but I let her. I need her to. The probe presses into my belly. The screen flickers to life. The soft whir of the machine hums in the background, and then...

“There’s your baby boy,” the doctor murmurs. “Right where we expected him to be. Heartbeat strong.” I exhale shakily. Regina nods beside me, watching the screen with unblinking intensity. But the doctor frowns. Moves the probe slightly. Tilts her head.

“Wait…” She adjusts the angle again, scanning lower. Slower. Then she freezes. And her voice changes. “Oh… okay. That explains it.” My stomach tightens, but not from pain. From something deeper.

“What explains it?” Regina asks, voice clipped and urgent. Her eyes are locked on the screen now. The doctor turns the screen slightly toward us. And then she says it.

“You’re having twins.” Time stops. Neither of us speaks.

“What?” I breathe, heart stalling in my chest.

“Twins,” she repeats, calmer now, more confident. “The second fetus was likely missed in previous scans due to positioning. She was tucked behind her brother...very close to your spine and partially obscured by the placenta. But she’s clearly visible now.”

“She?”Regina chokes out. The doctor nods.

“A girl. She’s slightly smaller than her brother, but not much. She's re positioned, which could be contributing to the pressure on the cervix. Her change in position likely caused the bleeding. But....” she pauses, adjusting the image, “...there’s no evidence of placental abruption. And no further cervical change. The bleeding has slowed. Both babies are moving well. Their heart rates are strong. You are, by all accounts, stable.” I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I feel Regina’s hand tighten again, grounding me. And then, slowly, I turn to her. Her face is completely unreadable for a moment...eyes wide, lips parted like she’s caught mid-thought and doesn’t know how to finish it.

“Twins?” I whisper again, because saying it out loud might make it real. Regina finally exhales, like she’s been holding her breath this entire pregnancy. She blinks once, twice...and then something cracks. She lets out a single, breathless laugh, half-tearful, half-hysterical.

“We thought we were getting one baby,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“We’re getting two.” I echo. The doctor finishes up and then wipes the gel away from my stomach, helping me back into a comfortable position before leaving again. And just like that, the fear in the room softens...not vanishes, but shifts. Regina leans in, presses a kiss to my temple, and her hand doesn’t leave my stomach...not for a second. Her palm flattens over the now very occupied space there, and I swear I feel the second baby flutter beneath it...like she’s announcing herself. Our daughter. Our surprise daughter. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I do both. And Regina joins me.

The doctor returns just before sunrise, clipboard in hand, shoes soft against the polished floor. The light outside has shifted into that muted pre-dawn gray that makes everything feel suspended—like the world is waiting to breathe again. She smiles gently.

“Everything looks good. The bleeding has stopped completely, overnight, Cervix is unchanged since last check earlier this morning. And both babies are still active, strong.” Her gaze softens when it lands on me. “You can go home. Relief swells in my chest...but it’s tangled. Tainted with something else. Exhaustion, maybe. Or that slow-sinking weight of too much happening too fast.

“Thank goodness.” I murmur, a little too quickly. But the doctor doesn’t hand me the discharge papers just yet. She steps closer, her tone shifting into something firmer, more clinical.

“Before we get you out of here, I want to be absolutely clear about your care moving forward.” I blink at her, already feeling the mental fog descend, but I force myself to listen. “You’re thirty weeks with twins. You’ve had two episodes of preterm labor in a month. From now until thirty-six weeks, you are on full bed rest, not the modified bed rest you were on after the last episode.” She pauses, holding my gaze. “Bathroom and brief standing only. No stairs. No lifting. No unnecessary movement. I mean it, Emma.” I nod again, slower this time, because this part I expected. But still...it hits hard.

“You’ll take your medication as directed. Stay hydrated. Keep your legs elevated when possible, eat small, protein-heavy meals, and watch for any bleeding, pain, or decreased fetal movement.” I try to keep up, try to file it away somewhere in my brain that isn’t already overwhelmed by the fact that I have two children inside me instead of one, and we almost lost one without even knowing she existed.

“You’ll also remain on pelvic rest until delivery.” She gives me a sympathetic look, like she knows how unpleasant that sounds. “And once you hit thirty-six weeks, we’ll reassess and see if you can resume light activity. But you have to take this seriously, Emma. No exceptions.” I nod again, because that’s all I seem capable of doing. Regina sits beside me, still and silent, her hand resting on my thigh. I can feel the tension vibrating in her through the contact, but she hasn’t said a word. The nurse returns with the papers. I’m given a pen. I sign without reading them. I just want to go home. The moment the last form is tucked into a manila folder, Regina stands. She takes my hand gently...fingers warm, steady, and grounding. I look at her, searching for something to say, some reassurance to give. But she just nods once, tightly.

And then it hits...that familiar, silken tug of Regina’s magic threading through the air, wrapping around us like a warm, invisible ribbon. I barely have time to breathe before the hospital disappears in a shimmer of gold and violet light. The sterile scent of antiseptic and the hum of machines vanish. And we land...softly, like a whisper...right in the center of our kitchen.

“Momma! Mommy!”

The shout is immediate, high-pitched and bright, and then there’s the rapid patter of tiny feet on tile. Isabella reaches us first arms flinging around my waist with the kind of force only a child full of love and energy can muster. Julia is close behind. Our little whirlwind crashes into Regina’s legs like a toddler-sized comet, clutching fistfuls of her mother’s jacket with sticky fingers and a crumpled drawing still clutched in one hand. I lower myself down to their level with a little oof, and both girls rush to sit beside me, one on each side, their small hands already reaching for mine.

“Mommy, where were you?” Isabella asks, brows knit in concern.

“Did the baby come out was he born yet?” Julia whispers, wide-eyed, one hand already reaching to pat my stomach like she expects him to wave hello. I chuckle softly and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“No, sweetheart, not yet.” I shift a little so that they're both curled close beside me. I shift a little so they’re both curled close beside me, and then I drop my voice just enough to make it feel like the beginning of a story. They perk up immediately, little ears on alert.

“Well,” I begin, smoothing a hand over my belly, “Grammy kept you last night because, your little brother tried to come early, again, and I had a very important visit to the hospital to make sure he's safe.” They both lean in. “He’s doing just fine,” I assure them with a warm smile. “But...” I lower my voice to a mock-whisper “...he’s been getting… a little sneaky.” Julia’s eyes go wide.

“Sneaky?”

“Oh yes,” I say, nodding solemnly. “He had a whole escape plan ready. He was convinced he was going to bust out early and meet you two today.” Isabella gasps.

“Without waiting for his birthday?!”

“Exactly,” I say, eyes twinkling. “But guess what?”

“What?” they say together. I tap the tip of Julia’s nose.

“His plan failed.” They burst into giggles.

“He got caught trying to wiggle out early,” I go on. “The doctors told him very clearly that he needs to stay put for a few more weeks. No shortcuts.”

“He’s grounded,” Isabella declares with a grin.

“Exactly.” I nod. “Grounded in my belly until further notice.” Julia rests her head gently against me.

“I hope he learns to listen.” I smile, my heart swelling with quiet love.

“Me too, baby. Me too.”

Behind us, Regina chuckles softly, watching from the doorway, arms folded...but there’s that look in her eyes again. That quiet, wistful softness she only gets when she sees us all like this: together, safe, full of love. And maybe just a little bit magic. As soon as the laughter fades, Isabella’s expression turns thoughtful. She glances at my belly, then up at me.

“Can we talk to him?” Julia’s face lights up instantly.

“Yes! I wanna tell him he’s not allowed to be sneaky anymore!” I smile, stretching out just enough to make room for them both on the couch.

“Of course you can.”

They scoot closer with that same reverence they have when we light birthday candles or when Regina reads them stories about enchanted forests. Like it’s something sacred. Julia presses her tiny hands against the curve of my belly and leans in close, whispering, “Hi baby… it’s your big sister. I’m Julia. You can’t come out yet, okay? Mommy said you have to wait.” She pauses, then adds, “But I do love you, we can be sneaky partners in crime, but until you're born.” My throat tightens. Isabella, ever the more serious one, puts her hand beside Julia’s and closes her eyes for a second, like she’s concentrating.

“I hope you’re warm and comfy in there,” she says. “We’re making cookies today. When you’re big enough, I'll teach you the recipe, you can bake with me and Grammy. We can't wait to meet you, but you have to wait til your birthday so you're safe and not too small.”At that moment, I feel a soft flutter one of the babies had rolled...just the tiniest nudge...and I gasp, not because I'm not used to it, but because after last night everything is painful. They don't notice. Their eyes widen.

“Did he hear us?” Isabella asks, her voice hushed in awe. I nod slowly, pressing both hands over theirs.

“I think he did. I think he liked what you said. I bet he already knows your voices.” I say, and they glow. “Maybe he missed you.”

“He kicked,” Julia beams, bouncing a little. “That means he’s happy we're here!”

“Of course he is.” I say hugging them. Regina crosses the room quietly and crouches beside us, brushing a hand gently over Julia’s back and then resting it lightly over mine.

“He already knows how lucky he is,” she says softly, her voice almost catching. “He’s coming into a family full of love.” I glance at her, catching her gaze...and for a moment, there’s no argument, no tension, no fear. Just love. Raw, pure, and infinite.

“Can we read him a book tonight?” Isabella asks suddenly, hopeful.

“I think he’d like that,” I say with a smile, blinking back tears. Julia leans in again, giggling.

“Baby brother...” she whispers. “This is your forever family. We love youuuu! I hope you love Bluey!” She turns to me then. “Mommy we need to read him ALL the Bluey books so he loves her as much as I do!” Regina presses a kiss to the top of Isabella’s head, then Julia’s. And in the soft hum of the kitchen, with the smell of cookies in the air and magic quietly settling like dust around us, I think...no, know...this is what home feels like.

The kitchen smells like home. Like warm, melty chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon, and something heartier...maybe fresh bread or Snow’s pot roast recipe that she refuses to write down. A song hums softly in the background...some lullaby station from the enchanted baby monitor still playing in the bassinet that they had set up in the living room, or maybe it's coming from the baby swing, actually it's probably that. It's turned on, and Julia's Bluey plush is buckled into the swing. Snow is at the sink, rinsing off what looks like a mixing bowl, and when she sees us, she dries her hands and comes over immediately. Regina helps me to stand, and Snow hugs me, gently, like she's afraid that I might break. Her eyes search mine with that warm, maternal concern that never seems to go away.

“How did it go?” she asks softly. “Escape plan huh?” She asks and I smile... small and warn but okay.

“I'm Fine.” It’s automatic, but it sticks in my throat. Because the girls are still clinging to us, wide-eyed and waiting, and somehow I just can’t bring myself to say the words we're having twins. Not yet. I don’t want to share it like that...blurred and rushed, in front of the sink with flour still on the counter and the girls hugging our legs. I want to do it right. I want them to feel it when they meet them. I want it to be a moment or with some kind of special moment. So for now, I lie. Not out of shame, but out of love.

“Six to ten more weeks of harsh restrictions,” I add with a light grimace. “I’m overjoyed.” Snow offers me a sympathetic smile, already catching on that I’m not saying everything. She reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair out of my face, tucks it gently behind my ear.

“She did very well,” Regina says then, smooth as velvet. I glance at her in surprise, and our eyes meet...and there it is, that silent understanding between us. She knows I’m holding back the information, and she’s not going to push or give before I'm ready. Not now. Not with little ears listening. “The medication stopped the preterm labor,” she adds, crouching slightly so Julia can crawl into her lap. “They’re hopeful she can make it to at least thirty-six weeks.”

“How many more weeks is that Mommy?” Isabella asks looking at me.

“Six.”

“That's still a long time.” She says, frowning a little.

“I know, sweetheart,” I say, stroking her hair. “But it means that baby has more time to grow and make a better escape plan for next time.” Snow, always sharp, always soft, tilts her head just slightly.

“Did they say what caused it this time?” I shrug, resting one hand lightly on the curve of my still-round belly.

“The baby shifted. He’s bigger than his sisters were, apparently. All that extra pressure stirred up some chaos.” Regina’s fingers slide gently up my back as I talk, a soft anchor. Julia, still latched onto her like a koala, lifts her head with sudden concern.

“Is the baby okay?” she asks in a tiny voice.

“Yes sweetheart.” Regina answers immediately, soothingly. “Remember Mommy said he is okay, just annoyed that his escape plan was stopped?” She asks, and Julia nods. “Mommy will just have to take it easy and rest a little longer, to help spoil his escape plan.”

“Is the baby okay?” Julia asks in the smallest voice, like she’s afraid even the question might wake him. Regina answers at once, her tone gentle and warm like a bedtime lullaby.

“Yes, sweetheart, the baby is perfectly safe. Just a bit grumpy, I think, because his great escape was foiled.” Julia’s eyes widen slightly, and she nods, remembering the story. “Ohhh… like when you trapped Melificant, the dragon and she couldn’t get out of the basement?!”

“Something like that...who told you that story?”

“Henry tells us all the stories.” Isabella says.

“Of course... silly of me to ask.” Regina says with a smile, tucking a stray curl behind Julia’s ear. “But Mommy is very clever...she and the doctors helped seal the gates. Now she just has to rest a bit longer, to make sure the baby prince stays snug in his castle until it’s truly time.” Julia leans a little closer to Emma’s belly and whispers.

“No more sneaking, baby. We’re not ready yet.” Regina chuckles softly, her hand resting over both girls.

“See? Little one? Even your big sisters are helping to guard the gates.” The kitchen feels a little more enchanted in that moment...like a tale still being written, full of magic, laughter, and love. That seems to settle them...at least for now. Isabella nods solemnly and gently pats my bump.

“Stop giving Mommy a hard time, that's for after your born.” I laugh, a real one this time, and lean down to kiss her forehead.

“Very helpful, thanks.”

Behind us, the kitchen buzzes gently with life...Snow turning off the stove, the girls’ drawings scattered across the counter, the warmth of something sweet still baking in the oven. Regina catches my eye over the top of Julia’s curls. There’s something unreadable in her expression...equal parts awe and worry and tenderness. Later, we’ll tell them. Later, we'll tell them about the twins, and how lucky they are to have two little siblings and not just one. But for now, we’re home. Together. And that’s enough.

Snow’s smile lingers a beat too long as she brushes imaginary lint from my shoulder. It’s subtle—but I see it. That worried tilt to her brow. The soft press of her lips like she’s trying to swallow all the words she wants to say and can’t because the girls are watching.

“You really shouldn’t have teleported home,” she murmurs finally, not unkindly, just gently scolding the way only she can. “The magical strain on your body...Emma, you’re still recovering. And the heat. And your blood pressure last week...”

“Mom,” I say, trying to cut her off with a look, but I’m too tired to sharpen it properly. “I’m fine.” Her hand moves to my arm, warm and grounding.

“I just… I know you think you’re fine. But you push yourself, Emma. You always have. You don’t have to prove anything, not to me, not to anyone.” Before I can respond, Regina’s voice cuts in...smooth, low, and firm. Regal, really. It’s not sharp, but there’s a certain finality to it that closes the space between us like a velvet curtain.

“She needs rest,” Regina says, stepping forward, one hand still gently resting on Julia’s back. “Proper rest. Not pacing-around-the-house-rest. Not ‘I’ll just do the laundry real quick’ rest. Actual rest.” Snow frowns a little but nods, understanding. Still, she doesn’t let go of my arm.

“Would you mind watching the girls a bit longer?” Regina asks, her tone softening just a touch. “They’ve clearly missed you. And I think they’d love some extra time with their grandmother.” Before Snow can answer, Isabella gasps in excitement, spinning toward her.

“Playground? Grammy, can we please go to the playground? Please please please!”

“Yes!” Julia squeals, grabbing one of Snow’s hands and tugging at her like a puppy on a leash. “You said last time we could go again if it wasn’t raining, and it’s not raining!” Snow laughs, finally releasing me.

“Alright, alright!” she says, lifting her hands in surrender. “I suppose I’ve just been overruled by the Court of Playground Appeals.” Regina smirks slightly at the title, but she’s already moving to scoop Julia into her arms for a quick goodbye hug.

“No chasing the big kids,” she reminds her firmly.

“Not unless they chase me first!” Julia giggles.

“And no climbing anything taller than your sister,” Regina adds, glancing pointedly at Isabella. Isabella puffs her chest out. “I’ll watch her!”

“You always do,” I say softly, bending to kiss her hair. “You’re the best big sister.” She beams. Julia waves dramatically as she’s passed to Snow, already chattering about swings and slides and maybe ice cream if they’re really good. Snow leans close as they start to head toward the door, her voice low but pointed.

“Promise me you’ll rest?”

“I’ll try.”

“No,” Regina corrects behind me, already steering me toward the couch like a shepherd corralling a very tired lamb. “She’ll rest. I’ll see to it.”

Snow lifts her eyebrows in a way that says good luck, then disappears with the girls in a blur of light laughter and squeaky shoes. As the front door clicks shut, the house grows quieter. Warmer. The kind of stillness that only follows the presence of children. Regina exhales beside me, slow and measured. Then her hand curls around mine as she guides me upstairs to the bedroom.

"Now," she murmurs, "we're going to do something truly revolutionary." I raise a brow.

"Oh?" She grins faintly.

"Nothing."

She guides me up to the en suite bathroom of our bedroom with a soft rush of air and light, the scent of home wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t know I’d been missing until now. My feet barely hit the tile before Regina moves, her fingers already reaching for the shower knobs. She doesn’t ask me what I need. She just knows.

The water starts to steam, a low hum filling the room as she adjusts the temperature, her movements precise and quiet. She grabs the soft, oversized towel from the rack and sets it beside the tub, then moves to the small shelf to pull down the lavender body wash she knows I only use when I’m feeling anxious. She still hasn’t said anything. Neither have I. She’s giving me space, I realize...not because she’s distant, but because she knows I’m not ready to speak. Because she knows I’m still processing twins, still trying to breathe through the knowledge that I bled in my sleep and almost didn’t know it. That I almost lost something I didn’t even know I had.

That the baby girl kicking inside me wasn’t supposed to be there, and yet...somehow...she is. The room fogs with steam as the shower heats, and Regina finally turns back toward me. Our eyes meet, and for a moment I think I might cry. But I don’t. She steps closer and helps me out of the oversized hospital sweats I was discharged in, her hands gentle, her touch reverent. When she gets to my stomach, she pauses...fingertips hovering just above the stretched skin.

And then, slowly, she leans down and presses her lips to it...once on each side. Once for him. Once for her. I breathe in. I exhale. And for the first time in hours, I start to feel real again. Steam curls through the air, softening the sharp lines of the room, wrapping everything in a haze of warmth and quiet. I sit on the small wooden bench tucked into the back of the shower...thank god Regina had it installed months ago, when I joked that my ankles would give up by the third trimester. I didn’t think I’d be using it like this. I can’t even keep my eyes open. Every limb feels too heavy. Not quite pain. Not quite relief. Just… weight.

Water pours in steady ribbons from the shower head above me, and I let it. Let it rinse over my shoulders, down my back, along the curve of my belly now stretched tighter than it should be for thirty weeks...because twins, apparently. Regina is kneeling beside me. She doesn’t speak. She just reaches for the bottle of shampoo and begins gently working it into my hair, her fingers threading through the tangles like she’s done it a hundred times...because she has. But tonight feels different. Her hands are slow. Tender. She massages my scalp with the pads of her fingers, not just to clean, but to soothe. Each movement speaks louder than words ever could: I’m here. I’ve got you. Let me carry this part.

And somewhere in the middle of it...right as the scent of lavender and rosemary blooms around me...I shatter. I don’t mean to. I’m not even sure when it starts. But suddenly my chest is heaving and I’m crying...not soft, elegant tears, but ugly, gasping sobs that wrack through me like something is being torn loose. The kind of crying that makes it hard to breathe. The kind you can’t stop once it’s begun. Regina stills immediately. She doesn't ask questions. She just turns off the handheld sprayer, sets it gently in the cradle on the wall...and climbs into the shower fully clothed. Her dress clings to her legs, soaked within seconds. Her hair curls in the steam, sticking to her cheeks, her neck. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t hesitate. She just kneels in front of me and wraps both arms around my shaking body.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, again and again, her mouth near my temple, her hands stroking slowly down my spine, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

I can’t even form the words to explain what’s breaking inside me. It’s not the babies...I want them. God, I want them more than anything. It’s the fear. The pressure. The exhaustion. The knowledge that I almost lost something before I even had the chance to love it out loud to know it existed. I clutch at her shirt like a lifeline, and still she holds me...soaking, silent, steady. Like her love is big enough to anchor me even when I can't hold myself up. I don’t know how long we stay like that...me curled against her chest, her body slowly drenched, her hands never leaving me. Eventually, the storm inside me begins to quiet. Not gone, not erased...but quieter. Manageable. And I feel her shift just enough to kiss my forehead.

“You’re allowed to be overwhelmed,” she murmurs into my wet hair. “You don’t have to carry it all. Not alone.” I nod, finally, into the curve of her shoulder. I’ve stopped crying, but I must’ve gone too quiet. Long enough that Regina’s gaze sharpens through the steam, her eyes finding mine beneath the cascade of water still falling from the overhead showerhead. The handheld sprayer sits quiet in its cradle now, but the stream from above keeps trickling down, soaking both of us..her outfit plastered to her body, my skin pruned and aching from too much time in heat I barely feel anymore. She brushes a strand of wet hair from my cheek, fingers gentle, and asks, soft but uncertain:

“This is good news… right?” There’s something in her voice...something hopeful, but fragile. Like she’s afraid the silence means regret. Like she’s scared that this...the babies, the risks, the fear...is somehow breaking me in ways I won’t say out loud. I look up at her and try to offer a smile. It’s small. A little shaky. But it’s real.

“Of course it is,” I say, my voice barely above the sound of water hitting tile. “Of course it’s good news, aside from the fact that they keep trying to self-evict.” She holds my gaze, searching. But I look away. “I’m sorry,” I add quietly, dragging my hand across my face. “I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is amazing. I should be...”

I stop. Because the words I want to say next don’t make sense. Not even to me. How do you explain to the person you love most that something so right still feels so heavy? That joy doesn’t always outweigh fear? That bedrest doesn’t just mean rest...it means isolation. That pelvic rest feels like distance. That I haven’t held my daughters properly in weeks. That every new restriction makes me feel a little less like me. I just want to feel normal again. To feel like I’m still in my life instead of stuck watching it move without me. I don’t say any of that. But I don’t have to. Regina sees right through me. She always does.

“That’s not the truth,” she says, calmly. Not unkind, but firm...like a hand pressing gently but insistently on a splinter. “You’re not overwhelmed because this isn’t good news. You’re overwhelmed because you feel like you’re disappearing.” That hits harder than I expect. She reaches for the shampoo again and pours a little into her palm, working it into my hair with deliberate care, her fingers massaging my scalp in slow circles...tender, grounding, reverent. “You’re used to doing everything. Fixing everything. Being the Savior. Carrying everyone. You’ve spent your whole life making sure no one else had to.” Her voice doesn’t falter as she speaks, and I can feel the conviction in her hands. “And now you’re being told to stop. To stay still. And it feels like losing control.” I swallow thickly, throat burning again...but it’s a different kind of ache. One born of recognition. She rinses the shampoo away, her fingers trailing gently down the back of my neck, then reaches for the conditioner.

“You’re not broken, Emma,” she murmurs, her voice low. “You’re not failing. You’re growing two lives. That’s more than enough.” She works the conditioner through the strands of my hair, her fingertips combing delicately through the tangles, slow and unhurried. Her touch is steady. Safe. “You are still you,” she adds, more softly now, almost like it’s just for me. “Even when you're not doing. Even when you’re still. Even when you’re scared.”

A tear slips down my cheek again, but this time I don’t apologize for it. I just close my eyes and let her take care of me. Because right now… that’s all I can do. And somehow, in this tiny tiled corner of the world, in a too-small shower with too much noise in my head… it’s enough. The water slows to a trickle, the last few droplets splattering against tile like the soft closing of a door. Regina’s hand lingers against my cheek for just a second more before she finally reaches up and turns the knob fully off. The sudden quiet is deafening. No more white noise to hide in.

I blink against the steam and realize I’m shivering, despite the warmth still clinging to the air. My limbs feel too heavy to move, like they’ve turned to something thicker than bone … sorrow, maybe. Or whatever comes after fear when you’ve been living on the edge of it for too long. Regina rises slowly, water dripping from her soaked dress. She moves with the kind of care usually reserved for something fragile. And maybe I am fragile right now. She helps me stand, her hands steady under my arms, guiding me like I’m made of glass. And maybe I feel like glass too... not sharp and dangerous, just… transparent. Empty. Like you could see right through me if you tried.

She wraps me in a towel ...warm and soft and thick enough to hide in ... and presses another gently to my hair, blotting without tugging. She says nothing. I say nothing. And somehow that silence stretches between us like fog. Thick. Lingering. Dangerous if you stay lost in it too long. She dries me with quiet efficiency, not like a nurse, not like someone performing a task ... but like someone who knows this body. Who’s loved this body. Who housed her heart in it long before either of us knew what we were building together. She helps me into the softest pajamas we own ... the ones with the buttons down the front I only wear when I’m too exhausted to care what I look like. I don’t even lift my arms for the sleeves. She guides them through.

Still, I haven’t said much Still, she hasn’t pushed. Once I’m dressed, she kneels in front of me and slips socks over my feet … her hands slowing to warm them in hers first, rubbing gently, like she knows how cold I always get after a crash. And then, wordlessly, she leads me out of the bathroom and into our bedroom. She turns down the comforter and fluffs the pillows just the way I like them ... one behind my back, one between my knees, one curved around the side of my belly for support. She helps me into bed like I’m something sacred. Like this isn’t just recovery ... it’s ritual. When I lie down, she pulls the blankets up to my chest, smoothing them flat across my stomach. Her hand lingers there, on the bump that holds our son and daughter.

“You’re safe now,” she whispers, more to the babies than to me. But I feel the weight of it anyway. I don’t respond. Not with words. Just the slow blink of exhaustion, the ache settling deeper. And that’s when Regina really looks at me. Not my body. Me. She sees the stillness in my eyes. The quiet that isn’t peace. Her own features falter ... just for a second. She brushes my hair back from my forehead and sits beside me, fully dry now, changed into her own clothes, her presence as composed as always. But something in her posture is leaning forward. Reaching.

“You’re not okay,” she says softly, like it’s not a question. Like it’s permission. An invitation to break. I blink again. One tear rolls down the side of my face into the pillow. I don’t nod. I don’t shake my head. But I don’t deny it either. Regina exhales slowly. She doesn’t fill the silence with reassurances. She just rests her hand gently on mine, where it lays stiff and unmoving atop the comforter.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” she says. “But when you’re ready… I’m here.” I close my eyes. Not because I’m tired. But because if I keep them open, I’ll lose what little composure I have left. And still, her fingers stay curled around mine. Not tugging. Not urging. Just there. Present. And for now, in the stillness that feels far too much like defeat, that’s enough to keep me from falling apart again.

The room is dim now, the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the duvet. Regina hasn’t let go of my hand. Not once. She’s quiet, curled beside me on top of the blankets, watching me like she’s waiting for something to crack open again. Or maybe bracing for it. And she’s not wrong. Because I can feel the words building in my chest...tight, urgent, reckless. I swallow hard, then say it, barely above a whisper:

“I want to take the potion.” Regina’s head lifts slightly, but she doesn’t speak. Not yet. She just blinks at me...slowly, warily...as if waiting to make sure she heard me right. “I can’t do this for another ten weeks,” I murmur, my voice trembly and hoarse from everything I haven’t said all day. “I can’t, Regina. My body’s already trying to give out. They’ve already tried to come twice and they’re not even ready. If they come now…” I trail off, shaking my head. My throat clenches around the rest. Regina’s fingers tighten ever so slightly around mine. “If they come now, they’ll be sick. Weak. Tiny.” I force myself to look at her, to make her understand. “But the potion,” I say, more insistently now, “it would speed up the pregnancy. Safely. Magically. I’ve read about it. They’d be full term, fully developed. We could meet them now. Healthy. Strong. No more bed rest. No more risks. I could hold them in my arms instead of wondering every night if tomorrow will be the day.” I pause, drawing a shaky breath.

“I could live again.” And that’s when Regina moves...just a little. Her shoulders straighten, her expression hardens, her jaw sets with that quiet, deadly calm that only ever comes out when she’s truly scared.

“Absolutely not. It's not a last resort, Emma. If it was that would be different, but right now rest will take care of it.” The finality in her voice slices through the quiet like a sword. I blink at her, stunned by the cold certainty of it.

“Regina...”

“No.” She rises slightly, resting on her elbow so she can look down at me. Her hair falls around her shoulders in damp waves, but her eyes are blazing. Not with anger. With fear. “Emma, that potion isn’t a shortcut. It’s dangerous. That kind of magic...accelerating something so delicate...it comes with risks no one can fully predict.”

“But it’s worked before...”

“In theory, Emma...Not on a human pregnancy. Not on a woman who’s already been through what you have. It worked on Zelena, sure, but I hardly think that counts...you're lucky that you didn't kill her and Robin turned out normal. ” Her voice is shaking now, just slightly. Just enough. “You’re not a science experiment. You’re not a spell to solve. You’re mine. And I’m not losing you. Or them.” I bite my lip, hating the sting in my eyes, the raw ache twisting deeper in my chest.

“But I’m losing me, Regina,” I whisper. “Every day, a little more. I lie in bed and I watch life happen around me and I pretend it’s okay, but it’s not. I miss our daughters. I miss walking normally. Cooking and adventures, and trips to the pool with the girls and movie nights and Touching you. I miss my self.” And then, quieter, like it costs something I don’t want to admit: “This doesn’t feel like living anymore. This feels like surviving.” Regina closes her eyes for a beat, and when she opens them again, there’s something different in them. Grief, maybe. Or guilt.

“I know,” she says softly. “God, Emma, I know. And I wish there was a way to make this easier. To wave a hand and make the pain disappear. But that potion isn’t the answer.” She brushes a thumb across the back of my hand.“You’ve already risked everything for this pregnancy. For our family. I’m not going to let magic decide when our children are ready to breathe air instead of amniotic fluid. I won’t. Not unless it is a last resort Emma. No.”

I look at her then. Really look. The fear in her. The fire. She’s not just being stubborn. She’s terrified. And it hits me...this isn’t about control. Or principle. This is about love. Protective, consuming, ferocious love. The kind that would fight dragons and dark curses… and even me.

“We’re so close,” she says, her voice gentling again. “Ten weeks isn’t forever. And I’ll be here. Every minute. I’ll help you feel like yourself again. Even if all we do is lie in bed and paint our nails and tell stories to the babies until they’re ready. Just don’t rush them. Don’t rush you.” I nod slowly, exhausted again in a way that sleep won’t fix. She leans forward and kisses my temple. And I finally let the idea of the potion go, for now. Not because I don’t want relief. But because I believe her when she says she’ll carry the rest with me.

Regina’s fingers trail softly along my arm even after the conversation ends, anchoring me with the rhythm of her breath beside me. She thinks we’ve found resolution. She thinks I’m at peace with the decision we just made together. But I’m not. I’m just quiet again. That same too-still silence that follows emotional exhaustion, the kind she doesn’t press too hard on when she sees it. She thinks she’s giving me space. Time. She thinks I’m drifting off to sleep. But my mind is wide awake. Not frantic. Not loud. Just... calculating.

Because as much as I love her, as much as I trust her … I know that I can’t do this. Not like this. Not for ten more weeks. Not trapped in my body, in this bed, behind the glass of my own life. I stare at the soft light on the ceiling. My throat is dry, the ache of earlier now settled low in my chest like a storm on pause. She doesn’t understand. She can’t and I hope, pray she never has to. She’s not the one carrying them ... not physically. She’s not the one whose bones creak trying to roll over, who wakes up with the kind of pain that makes your breath catch before you even open your eyes. She’s not the one losing time, missing moments, slowly shrinking into the background of her own world. And I know she loves me. Fiercely. Blindly. I know she’d fight to protect me from anything. Even myself.

Which is why… she can’t know. Not about the potion, that I don't need her help to get it. I already got it from Rumple the first time I went into preterm labor in case they weren't able to stop it. The plan was to take the potion, rapid growth, it's painful, but they would be born healthy. I want to give them a chance, and if magic can offer them a chance to be born healthy, it's what I'll do. I can't let her know before I get so desperate to take it, if I do, because she’ll stop me. Even if it breaks me, to save them, and God, I can't even be mad at her because if the roles were reversed and I thought she was putting them at risk i'd do the same thing, for any of the children, as would she. I roll slightly toward her, slow and cautious, like I’m just trying to find a more comfortable position. She brushes a strand of hair from my face, her eyes soft with the kind of love that makes my chest tighten.

“You’re okay?” she whispers.

I nod. Lie. She kisses my forehead, lets her head settle back into her pillow. Her breathing begins to even out. And I wait. Eyes open. Mind racing. Because if there’s a version of this where I can carry them safely to full term even if it is accelerated ... if I can end this without more scares, more pain, more isolation ... shouldn’t I at least do it since we know it's possible? Then there's the deal, I know Gold is still listening. He said I’d know when the time was right for the deal to help Regina. And maybe…Maybe I already do. He knew I would come back, and he wasn't wrong.

Chapter Text

EMMA SWAN-MILLS POINT OF VIEW:

2 WEEKS LATER

“Mommy,” Isabella asks, bouncing on her toes with that hopeful spark in her eyes, “can we go to the pool again today? Pleaaaase?”I glance toward the hallway, already bracing myself. “You’ll have to ask your Momma, sweetheart.” She huffs dramatically, throwing her hands in the air, looking at Julia in disbelief. Julia just shrugs and cuddles closely.

“I told you she'd say no.” Julia tells her in a sing-song sort of way.

“Maybe Momma will say yes.” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “Or maybe she can call Grammy.”

“But Momma says no to everything. She’s being sooo mean. I think… I think her Evil Queen is coming out!” I press my lips together, trying not to laugh.

“Well, if her royal highness has spoken, then I’m afraid that means the answer is definitely no. And besides,” I gesture to the cozy mess of pillows around me, “I can’t take you right now.”

“But whyyy?” Isabella whines with a little stomp of her foot. “You never do anything fun with us anymore. You’re always in bed!” Julia, quiet beside her sister, crawls up onto the edge of the mattress and presses her head gently to my belly, as if listening for a secret. My heart pulls.

“Yes,” I say softly, reaching out to tuck a lock of Isabella’s hair behind her ear, “because Mommy has to stay here and rest, to keep the baby safe.” Isabella’s expression shifts, brows scrunching.

“Why is the baby more important than us?” she blurts, her little voice filled with all the feelings she’s been too brave to say. My heart tightens, but I don’t let it sting. Instead, I pull her close, wrapping an arm around her and kissing her forehead.

“Isabella…” I say gently, a note of warning, but more love than scolding. Then I sit up just a little, my free hand resting over Julia’s where she’s still curled against me. “The baby isn’t more important than you and your sister. Never. He’s just… still growing. Still learning how to be in the world. Like a little butterfly who hasn’t come out of his cocoon yet. And until he’s ready to hatch, we have to make sure his cocoon doesn’t break.” She’s quiet for a moment, chewing her lip in that way she does when she’s thinking hard. I feel a wave of guilt that we still haven’t told the girls that there are two babies. The time just never felt, right…I wanted to do something nice and I’ve just been stuck on bedrest.

“I just wish he was already born,” she mutters. “He’s stuck and making everybody all grumpy. You, Momma… Julia...me.” I smile at her honesty, leaning my head against hers.

“Well, it looks like we’re all sharing the same mood today, huh? A little shared family misery. Isn’t that sweet?” Julia lifts her head, suddenly giggling.

“Maybe he’s casting a spell on us from inside!” Isabella breaks into a grin.

“A grumpy spell!” Julia gasps theatrically.

“Well, we’ll have to break it with laughter and kisses, won’t we?”

“What’s all this?” Regina asks as she steps into the room, one eyebrow arched in that perfectly regal way, arms crossed loosely over her chest...but the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrays her curiosity. Julia is half-lounging on the bed, head still pressed to my belly, whispering secrets to the baby like she’s trying to coax him out with promises of cookies and bedtime stories. Isabella is sprawled beside me, kicking her socked feet in the air and laughing like she’s in on some grand, ridiculous secret. I grin and look up at Regina from my cozy nest of pillows.

“Apparently,” I say, as seriously as I can manage, “our baby boy is a wizard. And according to our daughters, we’ve all been in such terrible moods lately because he’s been casting a grumpy spell on the entire house.” Regina blinks. Then, slowly, that smirk starts to grow across her face, the one that means she’s both amused and fighting very hard not to encourage further nonsense.

“A grumpy spell, is it?”

“Yes!” Isabella jumps in, animated now. “He made you say no to the pool again, and he made Mommy all sleepy and boring, and he made me mad for no reason....and Julia have meltdowns again like she did when she was 1 year old!” Julia nods solemnly, as if this has been officially confirmed by royal decree.

“That wasn't my fault. He’s casting spells through Mommy's belly.” Regina walks further into the room, eyes warm now, and kneels beside the bed to kiss Julia’s curls before brushing her fingers gently over my arm. “He’s angry cause he can’t come out.”

“Well,” she murmurs, looking up at me, “that would explain a lot.” I raise an eyebrow.

“You believe them?” I ask, with a little smile. She hums.

“I’m just saying… if he is magical, that would make a great deal of sense. Look who his mothers are.” Julia sits up straighter, wide-eyed.

“Does that mean we have magic too?” She asks and  Regina tilts her head thoughtfully.

“Well, if you do, you must promise to use it only for good. Like cleaning your room with a single snap.” Isabella groans.

“That’s not a fun spell!” Isabella protests.  Regina arches her brow again.

“It would be fun for me, and I'm certain it would be fun for Mommy.”

“Will you and Mommy teach us magic?” Isabella asks, her eyes shining with that familiar spark of curiosity...too sharp, too focused for a six-year-old, just like Regina’s when she’s on the edge of some discovery.

“When you’re older,” Regina replies gently, smoothing a hand over Isabella’s wild curls. “If you have magic like Mommy and I do, you won’t know for quite some time. It reveals itself when the time is right...not before.” Julia, curled up against my side, tilts her head and asks in a softer voice,

“Can you make us have magic?” It’s a different kind of question. Not a demand, not an expectation...just quiet hope.

“I’m sure you will own, and I won’t have to,” I say, smiling down at her and brushing her hair away from her face. “Maybe not in the same way as me or your Momma. But you’ll have your own kind of magic, I just know it.” Regina’s gaze lingers on the two of them, and her expression shifts...something wistful behind her proud smile, something that pulls at my chest. Her voice, when it comes, is softer than I expected.

“Magic runs in more than blood,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. “It runs in love. In bravery. In choosing to be kind when it’s hard. And in this family? That kind of magic… it’s already blooming in you both.” The girls go quiet, wide-eyed, as if she’s told them a secret meant only for them. Isabella finally breaks the silence with a grin.

“So… we’re probably magic. We're gonna be hero's like you and Mommy.” Isabella declares.  Julia nods sagely.

“I think my magic will also be flying.” Regina chuckles under her breath.

“Let’s start with learning to tie your shoes, little witchling.”

And somehow, the moment feels sacred...like the first page of a story they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives. I want to keep up the mood. To let them laugh and talk about magic and flying and all the impossible things their hearts can dream up. I want to be the version of myself that runs around with them in the backyard barefoot, cape tied on with kitchen twine, chasing dragons. But my body betrays me...again. Even sitting here, smiling through it, I feel the ache wrapping tighter, the exhaustion blooming in the spaces between my ribs. Regina sees it. Of course she does. Her hand brushes my shoulder, featherlight but firm.

“Alright, my little sorceresses,” she says with a fond smile, turning toward the girls. “I think it’s time for a new mission.” Isabella perks up instantly.

“What kind of mission?”

“A very important one,” Regina replies. “Your kingdom needs a new village. I heard a storm destroyed everything overnight. Your people are counting on you to rebuild. I believe there are some brave Lego architects ready for the challenge?” Julia gasps, eyes wide.

“We’ll build a whole new town! With shops and a school and a castle!”

“And a secret passage for the queen,” Isabella adds with a conspiratorial nod. “Just in case there’s an ambush.” Regina’s smile deepens.

“Of course. Every wise ruler prepares for surprises.” The girls scramble up, already whispering plans to each other in giggles and excited bursts. But before they go, Julia pauses by my side and lays her tiny hand over my belly again, just for a second.

“I’ll tell him the story of our Lego kingdom, later, when you feeling better. We have minifigures with backstories, and histories.” she whispers. “Just like our family. The queen and the savior are married, and have two little princesses. We’ll have to find a baby minifigure now. I don’t have one.”

“I’m sure we will sweetheart.”  Then she leans up, presses a kiss to my cheek, and scampers off  Isabella hugs me a little tighter.

“You have to come see it when it’s done, okay?”

“I promise,” I whisper back, brushing a kiss into her hair. They disappear down the hall, their footsteps light as fairy wings, their chatter fading into dreams and blueprints. Regina crouches in front of me, smoothing a hand over my knee, her expression softening now that the girls are gone.

“You don’t have to be everything all at once, love,” she says gently. “They see you. You’re already their hero.” And just for a moment…I let myself lean into that. Into her. Into the quiet. It is not even dinnertime yet and I am already exhausted. The weight of nothingness presses into my bones, exhaustion tugging at my limbs like tides pulling me under. I think…maybe…if I just close my eyes, I’ll fall asleep. Drift somewhere quiet. Somewhere away from the hours of pain and waiting and not knowing when enough will be enough and these children inside of me will succeed in their escape attempts. But then I feel the bed dip behind me as she shifts, the mattress giving way as she lies down beside me. Her arms slip around me from behind, strong and steady, the way they always have been. One hand settles protectively, reverently, over the swell of my belly, fingers splaying as if she can hold all three of us there…me, and the lives still waiting inside me. She doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes against the nape of my neck, warm and slow. It’s comfort and confrontation, all in one breath.

“I’m okay Regina, just tired.” I say softly, I can hear the worry in her tone.

“Emma…” She says after a few moments, God, her voice is so soft, so gentle, but still there is steel underneath it. A subtle insistence that cuts through the quiet. The way she says my name doesn’t ask for attention. It demands it.

“Yeah?” I murmur, not looking up. I let my hand drift across the tight stretch of my belly, resting against hers, fingers tracing the curve like it might offer answers if I just follow the right path. Like there’s a map somewhere on my skin, written in tension and stretch marks and the relentless ache of love and misery of what the last couple weeks have become.

“You’re masking,” she says. Not accusing, just… knowing. Like she’s reading it from the air around me, not even needing to see my face. I sigh, the breath catching in my throat like I wasn’t ready to let it go.

“Would you rather the kids see me drowning in my own self-pity?” I ask, my voice too light to be sincere, too casual to be anything but a deflection. There’s a pause. Not silence…because silence would be emptiness. This is heavy. Full. The kind of quiet that says she sees right through me. That she always has. She doesn’t answer, because she doesn’t have to. I already know what her silence means. I already know she's not buying it. She never does. And still… she stays. Her hand resting over our babies. Her body curved around mine like a shield. Like a promise. Regina shifts slightly behind me, her lips brushing the shell of my ear, and when she speaks, her voice is softer than before…warm, not sharp, like she’s trying to wrap me in gentleness instead of pressing in with worry.

“I’d rather they see how strong you are,” she whispers. “That even when it’s hard, even when you’re exhausted and hurting, you still show up for them. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep pretending, especially with me.” My eyes sting at the edges. I swallow the lump in my throat, pressing my cheek deeper into the pillow, as if hiding from the tenderness in her voice could make it sting less.

“I’m trying,” I whisper. “I don’t want to fall apart. I know if I do, I might not get back up again…not until this is over.” She’s quiet for a moment, just breathing with me. Then she shifts closer, her arm curling more securely around me. Her palm strokes gently over my stomach, soothing.

“I know you are.” She says quietly. “You just need to know you’re not alone in this. I know bedrest has been miserable for you. I know it hurts…I see you. Every moment. You might want to hide from the kids to spare them, but you don’t have to hide it from me.” Something in me cracks, but not in a painful way. It’s like letting go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I nod, even if she can’t see it, and press my hand over hers, anchoring myself to the only thing that feels solid right now.

“I know,” I murmur.

“You’re doing all the right things with the girls,” she says, and I can hear her drawing closer, each word a careful step across the minefield of my emotions. “You’re talking, smiling, playing with them, even while you’re stuck here. But the minute they leave the room, you fall back into the silence. That scares me.” Her words aren’t cruel. They aren’t even sharp. But they cut anyway. Not because they’re meant to hurt, but because they’re true.

“I’m fine,” I say flatly. “Conserving my energy. Just trying to be compliant so our little escape artists don’t succeed until they’re ready.” The bed dips with her weight as she sits beside me. Not too close. Not touching. Not yet. But the air changes with her presence, always has. The magic between us hums low and aching.

“You’re shutting me out.” I close my eyes. My chest tightens, but I can’t tell if it’s from guilt or just the weight of this pregnancy bearing down on everything.

“What is it you want me to do, Regina?” I finally ask, turning my head just enough to look at her  She’s watching me with those eyes…dark, endless, impossibly tender and infuriatingly sharp. The kind of look that sees right through my armor. The kind of look I used to run from. The kind that saved me.

“I don’t know…” She admits.

“No Regina… you do know…” I say, getting aggravated now. “What is it you want me to do? I am being compliant, at your request. I’m thirty-two weeks pregnant,” I say, the words thick and slow. “With twins. I’m on bedrest. I’m tired, Regina. I’m sore. My back hurts. My hips feel like they’re made of shattered glass. I’m bored out of my mind. I can’t walk more than ten feet without getting dizzy, I'm not even allowed to walk anywhere on my own, and I swear to God if one more person tells me to ‘just rest’ I’m going to lose my damn mind. I swear if you don’t ban my parents and Henry from this bedroom…” The emotion cracks something open in me. I don’t mean to break, but I do. My voice wavers. My eyes sting.

“Emma… you’re being too hard on yourself…” Regina doesn’t say more at first, just shifts behind me on the bed, her palm smoothing down the length of my arm in that way that always makes my shoulders drop half an inch, whether I want them to or not. Her touch is soothing. Steady. But there’s something else in it tonight…a tension buried just beneath the surface. Like even she’s tired of playing calm.

“I can’t even touch you…” I mutter, my voice low, rough. “Not the way I want to. Not the way I know you want me to.” Regina stills slightly behind me. “Because I want more,” I continue, “and I know you do too. And I’m tired of being stopped. Because any spike in oxytocin could send me back into preterm labor.” I sound bitter. I am bitter. “And I don’t know how much longer I can do this. How much longer I can live in this body and not feel anything but pressure and exhaustion and pain and frustration.”

“I don’t care about not being able to have sex, Emma,” she says gently, immediately. “I care about what keeps you safe. What keeps them safe.” I turn to look at her then, my eyes bright with unshed frustration.

“And how long do you think we’ll last if I have to endure another eight weeks of this?” I ask, voice sharper now. “That’ll be twelve weeks total. On bedrest. On pelvic rest. No intimacy. No relief. I feel like a shadow of myself.”

“Emma…” she says again, soft, steady.

“No, Regina, I’m serious.” My voice cracks, and I hate it, but I don’t stop. “We’re barely touching. You barely even kiss me anymore… I feel disconnected from everything but this damn bed. From my body. From you. From our children because I’m stuck here…And I’m trying…but I’m losing my grip.” She doesn’t argue. She takes a long breath, her hand resting again on the swell of my belly, grounding us both. And then, finally, she says, dryly:

“Well… considering I’m not a narcissistic asshole, and the statistical likelihood of a woman leaving her wife because she’s pregnant…with complications and a medically-mandated sex ban…is very low…” She lifts an eyebrow, her tone as Regina as ever, that bite of sarcasm just sharp enough to slice through my storm. “And considering you’re my true love, and I’d rather die than hurt you in that way, I think we’re statistically destined to last forever.” I huff out something halfway between a laugh and a sob, burying my face into her shoulder as the tears come…not from sadness, but from the sheer relief of being heard, understood, held.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to be,” she says, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. “You just have to keep letting me love you. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re touch-starved and miserable and mad at the world.” I let her arms wrap tighter around me. Let the exhaustion bleed out, just for a second.

“Forever, huh?” I murmur.

“Statistically speaking,” she says with a smile I can hear in her voice, “our odds are excellent.” Regina pulls back just enough to look at me, and there’s something in her eyes…hurt, yes, but also fierce determination. Like she’s preparing to fight for me, even if I’ve already started to give up the battle myself.

“Do you really think I would leave you over something like this?” she asks, her voice low but firm, every word pressed with the weight of her love. “Emma, I love you. I love our children. This…” she gestures gently to the shape of me, the swollen curve of our twins growing inside me, the fatigue etched into my features “…this is love. It’s not something I’m going to walk away from just because things are hard.” I swallow around the tightness in my throat. My hands rest over the sides of my belly like I’m trying to shield the unborn children from the truth of my own unraveling.

“I don’t know…” I whisper. And I don’t. Not because I truly think she will leave, but because my fear is louder than logic, my exhaustion stronger than reason. Regina blinks once, slow. Not in disbelief…but in pain. That kind of heartbreak that sneaks into your bones when someone you love doubts your devotion.

“Seriously?” she asks, voice cracking around the edges. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I don’t know.” The words scrape out of me like gravel. “It’s not like I planned it. It’s not like I’ve been sitting here wanting to spiral. It’s just... I lie here all day, alone with my thoughts, and every hour feels like a week, and the pressure builds, and I feel so far away from you and from myself and I start wondering if maybe…” I cut myself off, biting my lip until I taste copper. Regina leans in again, brushing her fingers along my jaw, her voice barely a whisper now.

“You start wondering if you're still enough,” she finishes for me. Tears sting my eyes. I nod, barely.

“You are, Emma.” She kisses the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then rests her forehead against mine. “You are so much more than enough. And I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.” I close my eyes, and for a moment, the fear quiets. Because she says it with such certainty that I almost believe her. Almost. But the warmth in her voice, the solid thrum of her pulse against mine…those things, I do believe.

“You’re my home,” I whisper.

“And you’re mine,” she breathes. “No matter how many weeks this takes. No matter how miserable you are. No matter how sore or scared or stubborn you get…you’re mine and I love you. Always.”

“I’m scared,” I whisper. The words barely slip past my lips, quieter than the sound of the rain tapping against the windows. “And I feel like I’m failing already.” The confession burns on its way out…like it’s scraped raw from some hidden corner I’ve tried to ignore for too long. I wait for the silence to stretch between us, to echo the hollow ache I’ve been carrying. But that’s when I feel her hand. Cool against my overheated skin. Gentle, but grounding. Her fingers slip into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world…like they were made to fit there. Maybe they were. She doesn’t rush to speak. And I’m grateful for it. Regina’s silences have never been empty…they’re full of presence. Of patience. Of love. She knows how to sit in stillness without making it a void. Her thumb moves across my knuckles, slow and steady, a rhythm more soothing than any spell she could cast.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she says at last. Her voice is low, unwavering, velvet-wrapped steel. “I just want you. All of you. Even the parts that don’t know how to ask for help.” I swallow hard, trying to breathe around the knot lodged in my throat. I look down at our hands…hers elegant and sure, mine trembling and tired…and something tightens in my chest. I can feel her watching me, but she doesn’t press. Doesn’t push. “I miss you,” she murmurs, and it guts me more than anything else has tonight. I blink fast, willing the tears not to fall.

“I’m right here,” I say, but even I can hear how thin the words sound. Like I’m speaking through fog. Through glass. Through all the walls I’ve built without even meaning to. Regina’s hand slips free from mine only to move gentle…first to my temple, the touch feather-light.

“You’re hurting here,” she says, fingertips ghosting across my brow. Then her palm shifts, slides down to rest over my chest, just above the thudding ache in my heart. “And here.”

I nod. That’s all I can do. My voice is gone. My strength is splintered. But she leans in, brushing her lips against my forehead in a kiss that undoes me completely. It’s not passionate…not in the typical way. There’s no fire, no spark. Only warmth. Devotion. Worship. Her kiss says a hundred things she doesn’t need to put into words. I’m here. I see you. You’re not failing You’re not alone. And I believe her. Maybe not with my mind…it’s still too full of fear and guilt and the weight of trying to keep everything from crumbling…but with my body, with my heart. I believe her with the part of me that aches and still, somehow, reaches for her anyway. She holds me close as I close my eyes. I don’t fall asleep, but I rest…just for a moment…in the safety of her arms, in the hush of the storm, in the quiet rhythm of two hearts still choosing each other.

“What do you want?” Regina asks. Her voice is quieter now…low and steady, stripped bare of its usual sharp edges. There’s no judgment in it. No demand. Just soft concern, the kind that sounds like rain tapping at the window…barely there, but impossible to ignore. It’s the voice she uses when she’s most afraid. When she’s reaching across the space between us, trying to touch something she can’t quite fix. That helplessness unsettles her more than anything else in the world. I don’t answer right away. My fingers twist into the edge of the blanket, knuckles going pale with the pressure. There are a thousand things I could say…things I want. Things I need. But none of them come out the way I mean. They get tangled up in the frustration, the pain, the days on end where I’ve just had to sit still and wait. Wait for my body to betray me again. Wait for the ache to ease. Wait to feel like myself. But only one thing slips through.

“Enchant me,” I whisper. There’s a pause. Then:

“What?” Her voice cracks like a whip…surprise, not anger. Sharp and sudden. Like I’d asked her to bend time or command the stars. I meet her gaze. My heart’s thudding now, heavy in my chest. It rattles my ribs like it wants out. Like it’s trying to run even when my body can’t.

“I’m serious,” I say, my voice low but insistent. “You could… I don’t know. Cast something over me. Over the babies. A protection spell. Lock them in. Anchor them.” I swallow hard. “That way I could get up again. Leave this bed. Take the girls outside, maybe to the park. Sit in the sun for once, float in the pool instead of watching life pass me by.  Just a piece of normal, Regina. Just something. And the babies would stay safe. Until it’s time.” I hear myself. Hear how I sound…like a kid asking for magic beans. A fairy tale solution. And maybe I am. Maybe I’m desperate enough to want to believe in that kind of ease again. Regina doesn’t say anything. Too long passes. Too much silence. I sit up straighter.

“Regina?” I ask, gently. Almost pleading. When she speaks, her voice is different now. Rougher. Thick with something that isn’t quite fear...but it’s close.

“No,” she says. And it lands in the space between us like a stone dropped into still water. “Absolutely not.” She stands. Paces two steps away from the bed like she’s trying to burn the emotion off her skin. She doesn’t look at me right away.

“Why not?” I ask. “You’ve done protection spells before.”

“Not like this,” she replies, spinning back to face me. Her expression is tight, drawn, but not cold. Just full of tension she hasn’t figured out how to release. “Emma… you’re not a necklace I can encase in velvet. You’re not a book I can seal shut. You’re alive. You’re carrying life…two lives…and your magic right now is already a whirlwind. It’s unstable. It reacts to your moods, your pain, your grief. And if I try to wrap that in more magic…my magic…I could make things worse. You know why I would use magic on you when you’re pregnant if it’s not an absolute emergency…”

“You won’t make things worse…” My voice cracks on the insistence. “You healed me. When I had Julia, remember? When she was born in the car on the way to the hospital, and after she came out,  my body wouldn’t stop bleeding….you saved me.” She nods slowly, her voice quieter now.

“Yes. After Julia was born.” She comes closer, kneels beside the bed. One hand reaches up to rest gently on my thigh. “But the twins aren’t born yet, Emma. They’re still growing. Still forming. And every ounce of your energy is going to them right now. If I cast a spell…any spell…on your body, I’m interfering with that process. I could rupture something. I could trigger labor without meaning to. I could…” Her voice trembles. She shakes her head. “I could lose you. We could lose them.” I blink hard, my vision blurring. My breath catches. She reaches for my hand then, weaving her fingers through mine.

“I would never risk hurting you,” she says, and I feel it in my bones…the truth of it, the way it costs her to admit she can’t solve this with magic, with certainty, with force of will. “Not for anything.” I close my eyes, press my forehead to hers. Because I know she means it. But god… I’m so tired of being careful. Of being still. And yet, she’s here. Holding me steady. Even when I don’t want to be.

“I’m just tired, Regina,” I say, and my voice barely makes it past my throat. “Of feeling like a prisoner inside my own body.” The words aren’t loud, but they land hard. Like the truth finally clawed its way out after days of pacing behind my teeth. Regina doesn’t flinch. Her expression doesn’t twist or crumple or recoil. Instead, her eyes soften…those rich, storm-dark eyes…but her mouth holds its line, steady as stone. She’s always been like that. The eye of the hurricane. Calm on the surface even when she’s breaking inside.

“I know,” she murmurs. She kneels again, quiet and graceful, her knees brushing the floor beside the bed like she’s praying without prayer. Her hand rises, smooth and gentle, to sweep a piece of hair from my forehead. Fingers linger at my temple, slow and grounding, the way she touches something precious…like she’s afraid she’ll wake me if she’s too rough.

“But I won’t risk using magic to force your body into something unnatural,” she says gently. “All magic comes at a price, Emma, you know this. It’s not worth risking you or the babies.” I swallow the lump rising in my throat, turn my face slightly away because I don’t want her to see the way my eyes are burning. But of course she does. She touches my cheek, fingers like warm silk, coaxing me to look back at her. And when I do, I see it…the tremble hiding beneath her strength. The exhaustion laced through the softness. The fear she’s trying not to name.  “We’ve come too far to gamble now,” she whispers.

And I know she’s right. I do. But that doesn’t make the cage feel any wider. Doesn’t make the ache any less constant. Doesn’t make me feel any less like a ghost in my own life. Her eyes search mine…deep and dark and raw…and I swear I see the words we’ve both been avoiding hanging there in the spaces between us. Guilt. Helplessness. Love. So much love it hurts. She sits back a little, still kneeling beside me like I’m something sacred, her hand never leaving my cheek. That touch keeps me tethered. That presence keeps me breathing.

“What can you do that’s safe, then?” I whisper. My voice is smaller now, worn thin by the edges of disappointment and the weight of wanting something I can’t have. “Not because I’m demanding it. I just… I need something. Anything.” Regina draws in a breath…slow, thoughtful. I watch her chest rise, see her lashes flutter as she looks down, searching inside herself for an answer she can give. A gift she can offer without fear it will destroy us all.

“I can soothe,” she says at last, and the words come with a soft gravity. “I can enchant the bed. It won’t heal everything, but it’ll lift the pressure. Take the strain off your hips. Your spine. I can ease the tightness in your ribs so it’s not such a battle every time you try to lie down. The bed will do that. I wouldn’t enchant you directly.” I close my eyes for a moment. That…just that…already sounds like a miracle. But she keeps going. “I can place a ward over the room. Not a spell to bind you or shield you…but to calm. To help you sleep. To quiet your dreams so your magic doesn’t flare every time you toss or turn. Nothing invasive. Just… peace.” My throat tightens again. It isn’t what I asked for. It’s not the freedom I ache for. But it’s a thread. A sliver of something gentle. “And…” she pauses, her voice dipping into something reverent now. Her hand moves slowly, carefully, from my cheek down to my belly. Her palm rests over the taut curve, fingers splaying wide in a kind of silent devotion. “I can speak to them. Just a whisper. A reassurance. I can tell them they’re safe. That they’re loved. That it’s not time yet.” That does it. A tear slips free, carving a warm path down my cheek. I hadn’t even realized it was there until her thumb catches it, sweeping it away with heartbreaking tenderness.

“You can talk to them with magic?” I ask quietly, blinking up at her. She nods, the barest smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“Every magical mother can, in her own way. But they listen most to you, Emma. I’ll just… help your voice carry a little clearer.” I want to believe that’s enough. I want it to be enough. But the breath I let out is shaky, hollow. My hands curl over the comforter like maybe I can hold myself together with sheer will.

“Regina…” My voice is almost a sob now. “…I can’t do this anymore.” She exhales, slow and deep. Her hand never leaves me.

“I know,” she says. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t fix it. She doesn’t magic it all away. She just stays. And that…maybe more than anything else…is what I need most of.

She leans in and presses a kiss to my temple…slow, warm, unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask anything from me, just offers presence. The kind that lingers like a blessing. Her fingers curl protectively over the swell of my belly, her palm spreading across it like she’s shielding our children from every storm, visible or otherwise. There’s a reverence in the gesture, quiet and full of promise. And then the magic stirs. Not like it sometimes does, wild and sharp-edged, like a live wire humming under our skin. This is different. Gentler. Deeper. Like the soft rustle of leaves in summer wind. A lullaby without melody. It rises between us in a hush, wrapping the air around me like something sacred. It doesn’t burn or tingle…it cradles. Soothes. She murmurs the enchantments under her breath, one after the next, her words flowing like water over stone. I don’t need to know the spells to feel them working. The bed shifts beneath me…just slightly, imperceptibly, like a ripple moving through still water. The tightness in my hips releases, just a fraction, but enough to make me gasp. My spine feels lighter, like I’ve been lifted from the grip of gravity, if only a little. The mattress molds to me in a new way, cupping the shape of my body, supporting where I’d been sagging and straining. My lungs expand just a bit more freely.

“Oh,” I breathe, surprise loosening my shoulders. “Okay… that’s… that’s actually helping.”

She hums, a soft sound of acknowledgment, but doesn’t speak. Her attention is on me, on them. Her free hand drifts upward, palm hovering just over my chest, not touching but close enough that I feel the hum of her power reach into the ache there. It pulses gently…a heartbeat outside my own…and for the first time all day, I’m not fighting my body. Regina moves slowly, with care, casting a final charm over the room. The air quiets, like the walls themselves have leaned in to hush the world. Even the thunder outside feels farther away now, muted. My eyes close without meaning to, the exhaustion finally given permission to surface without fear of drowning me. I shift again, cautiously, and for once I don’t wince at the movement.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice drifting like breath across her shoulder. “God… thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she murmurs. “This is what love does.” She brushes another kiss across my hairline, and I exhale like I’ve been holding that breath for weeks. I’m still tired. Still aching. Still so very pregnant. But I’m not alone. I’m not trapped. Not right now. And sometimes… that’s enough. Regina's eyes widen, the question hitting her like a gust of wind she hadn’t braced for. Her hand stills where it rests on my leg, and I can see the flicker of emotion…confusion, worry, something close to fear…cross her features.

“Can you put me to sleep?” I ask again, quieter this time. “Just… just for a little while. An enchanted sleep. Not forever. Not like forever, not anything lasting or dangerous…. Just until it’s safe.” Her brows furrow as she blinks, the flicker hardening into something more protective.

“You want me to put you under a sleeping curse?” she asks, voice low but edged, as if saying the words out loud makes them more real. More dangerous.

“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head, breath catching on the desperation in my throat. “No…not a curse. Just something gentle. Something that’ll let me drift off and not feel so… stuck. So heavy. Something to make the next few weeks pass like a blink. I just…” I pause, pressing my hand against the taut swell of my belly, rubbing slow, grounding circles over the lives that ripple beneath my skin. “I just want to close my eyes and not feel all of this for a little while. The discomfort. The fear. The pressure. I want to feel what I felt a moment ago when your spell softened everything. But longer. Deeper. In an unconscious sort of way. I know your powers Regina…you can put people to sleep.”

“For short periods of time… hours, not weeks, not months Emma…”

“You could if you just put me to sleep and didn’t wake me back up…” She studies me for a long time. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me like she’s trying to look inside my bones, my heart. Like she’s searching for the pieces of me she can’t quite reach anymore. The silence between us stretches, brittle and thin as spun sugar. Then she breathes in…sharply. Her mouth sets into a line.

“No,” she says finally, voice firm but not unkind. Just sure. Immovable. “Absolutely not.” I don’t fight her yet. I just wait. Because I know she’s not done. I know that tone…it’s the beginning of a full explanation, and it always comes when she needs me to understand something completely. When she’s scared, and the only thing standing between us and disaster is the truth spoken out loud.

“A sleeping curse,” she says slowly, carefully, like she’s walking a verbal tightrope, “isn’t rest. It’s not peace. It’s a binding, Emma. A spell that seizes your consciousness and locks it away. Your mind might sleep, but your magic won’t…it never does. You fought through one, remember? You know how powerful it is. That kind of magical dissonance inside your body… while you’re carrying them?” Her hand lifts to gesture toward my stomach, trembling slightly. “It could pull everything apart. You could stop breathing. Your magic could rebel in defense and trigger labor. Or worse…it could shield the babies so tightly that they can’t survive outside of you when they do come.” I look away, blinking back the weight behind my eyes.

“I didn’t mean a curse like that, I just meant…”

“They’re the same thing, Emma,” she cuts in gently but firmly. “The mechanism is the same. No matter how soft the intent, the spell is the same framework. It’s not like falling asleep. It’s like vanishing. And if you vanish, I might not be able to get you back.” Her voice breaks a little at the end. I turn back to her, reaching for her hand instinctively, but she’s already taken mine. Holding it tightly. Her grip isn’t angry or scared. It’s just full of her. Of everything she’s too afraid to say without breaking.

“You’re not asking for sleep,” she whispers. “You’re asking to disappear from this part. From the waiting. From the weight, and I already said I will not use magic on you unless it’s absolutely extenuating circumstances because we don’t know how it will react with your magic, with the babies.” I nod, helplessly.

“Just something else then…just for a little while.” She leans forward, presses her forehead against mine, our hands sandwiched between the pressure of our bodies and everything we both wish we could fix.

“No,” she whispers again. “I’m sorry, my love. But no. I’d rather sit in this darkness that’s surrounding you with you for eight more weeks than lose you to silence I can’t reach.” The tears fall freely now. Not sobs. Just tears. Heavy, quiet. And somehow, I know that even though she won’t give me what I asked for…she just gave me something more, but it doesn’t help. Regina doesn’t move at first…not even a blink. But her eyes narrow, ever so slightly, like she’s trying to decide whether to scold me or cradle me.

 “Can I do it myself, then?” I whisper, my throat thick with the taste of defeat, of aching hope curdling into disappointment. There’s a moment…just long enough to give me false hope…and then Regina’s lips twitch. Not with kindness. Not with sympathy. No, it’s that sharp, wicked edge that’s all hers. Equal parts sarcasm and protectiveness. Her voice is dry as bone when she replies,

“With your magic? And its delightful unpredictability lately? Absolutely not.” Her smirk curls further, like she’s already imagining the disaster. “You might manage to put yourself to sleep. Or…more likely…you’d botch it completely and take the rest of the house down with you. Or worse, send yourself into a realm where I can’t even reach you. I’d be impressed if you can manage a basic shield spell right now, Emma, let alone something that tucks you neatly into a magical sleep.” I shoot her a look that would’ve set something on fire if I had the energy.

“Regina, that’s not helping.”

“It wasn’t meant to,” she says smoothly, the smirk flattening into something quieter. “Sometimes the truth isn’t a lullaby.” There’s no cruelty in it…but no sugar, either. Just her…the woman who loves me too much to lie when the stakes are this high. It hurts. But deep down, I know she’s right. I always do. Still, it doesn’t quiet the ache inside. The way I feel my body betraying me every day, my spirit caught between waiting and surrender. The bed feels like quicksand. My own skin, a weight I can’t shake. I shift beneath the sheets, restless, itchy with exhaustion that no sleep could fix.

“Then make me go into labor, instead.” I whisper. Regina stills. “I could take the potion,” I press, my voice trembling. “Bring them to full term. I know it will work, I’ve seen it work safely, and they’d be born. We could be done with this. I could hold them. Breathe. Move. Aren’t you tired of watching me like this? You’ve been taking care of me day and night for weeks.” Her jaw tenses. She doesn’t raise her voice, but I see the shift in her shoulders…the poise, the control she’s gripping like a blade.

“When are you going to stop bringing up that potion?”

“When I’m no longer stuck in this bed,” I snap, the words sharper than I intend. “When I don’t feel like some fragile doll on a broken music box, spinning around and around in the same tiny space.” My voice cracks. I bite it down. “When I can breathe without thinking everything’s going to fall apart again.” She closes her eyes for just a second, breathing in slowly like she’s pulling calm out of the air itself. When she opens them again, she looks at me…really looks…and something shifts. Not pity. Not frustration. Just love. Clear and unflinching. That aching, ferocious love of hers that can both rebuild and destroy a kingdom. She reaches out, her hands curling gently over the edge of the blanket.

“I’m not tired of taking care of you,” she says, quiet but certain. Her voice has that steel-lined softness that always cuts straight through me. “You are not a burden, Emma. You’re my wife. You are carrying our children. And when someone you love is hurting, you don’t count the hours, or the exhaustion, or the pieces of yourself you have to give away. You just do it. Because you love them.” I blink, fast, the tears coming too quickly to hide. She brushes her fingertips along my cheek, grounding me, tethering me to her. Like she always does.

“You’d do the same for me,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking between mine.

“I would,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Of course I would.”

“Then stop trying to convince me that this is too much. It isn’t. You’re not too much.” She drops her gaze for a moment, her hand trailing down to rest over my stomach. And I see it…the glint of fear, the unspoken prayers tucked behind her lashes. “What’s growing inside you… it’s magic I’ll never be able to create. You are doing something I can’t, Emma. And I will not risk rushing it. I will not risk you. Not because it’s hard. Not because you hate asking for help. Not even because you’re breaking.” Her voice drops to a whisper.

“I would rather hold your hand through every second of this hell than take one step without you in it.” I close my eyes, the tears finally slipping free.

“I just… I feel useless.”

“You’re not useless,” she says, sliding her hand into mine. “You’re creating life. That’s the most powerful thing any of us can do.” And somehow, hearing it from her… makes it just a little bit easier to breathe again. She’s standing so close now, I can feel the warmth of her body just barely brushing mine…a living, breathing temptation. Her eyes search my face, slow and steady, like she’s looking for something buried just beneath the surface.

“What is it you really want?” she asks softly. There’s no edge to it. Just quiet understanding…and a bit of a challenge. “Why are you so persistent about forcing them out before they’re ready?” I shrug, my voice dry and a little bitter.

“Aside from not continuing to live stuck in this bed in pure, aching, sanity-shredding misery?”

Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but doesn’t quite let herself.

She doesn’t step back. I don’t either. Instead, I lift my hand, fingers curling gently into the front of her shirt, tugging her forward just enough that I can press my mouth to hers. Soft at first…testing the waters. But I feel the sharp inhale she takes, the slight tremble in her restraint, and I know she misses me. Misses this.

She kisses me back, deeper now, her hands bracing against either side of the bed to keep herself steady. It’s messy and a little desperate, the kind of kiss born from weeks of tension and unspoken longing. Her body molds to mine for a brief, glorious moment and my hand slides into her hair, anchoring us together like I could stop time if I just held tight enough. But then she pulls back. Not fast. Not cruel. Just enough to leave me breathless and aching in the silence that follows.

“Regina,” I whisper, trying not to sound too much like I’m begging. Her eyes are dark, pupils wide, her breath just as ragged as mine. She touches my cheek, her thumb dragging slowly over my skin as if to soothe the ache she just left behind.

“We can’t, Emma. Not right now.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “You know why.” I flop back against the pillows with a frustrated groan.

“We could be done with this too,” I mutter like a grumpy child, glaring at the ceiling as if it’s personally to blame for my state of forced celibacy. Regina just smirks softly and leans down to brush her lips over my temple.

“And then we’d be right back in the hospital. That’s not exactly the kind of reunion I want.” I huff, folding my arms across my chest. But even through the annoyance, the longing, and the tension thrumming under my skin, I know she’s right. Still. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“We wouldn’t be in the NICU,” I snap, sharper than I mean to but too exhausted to filter myself. “If I go into labor again, I’m taking the potion, it brings them to term. They’d be born healthy.”

I know how it sounds…impulsive, selfish, borderline reckless…but I can’t help it. I’m tired. I’m so tired. Of this bed. Of the ache in my back. Of the guilt when the girls ask why I can’t play. Of the never-ending worry that something might still go wrong no matter how careful we are. She’s standing at the edge of the bed looking like a goddess draped in worry, and I want to scream at the unfairness of it all.

“God, I hate you,” I mutter. It’s a lie, and we both know it, but it comes out in the kind of way that only someone utterly in love could say it. “Why even have magic if you can’t use it to your advantage?” Her eyes narrow…not angry, just… measured. Her jaw works like she’s biting down on a dozen different responses, trying to find the one that won’t burn everything to the ground. She crosses her arms, lifting one eyebrow with deliberate precision.

“I’ll assume you’re talking to your hormones,” she says coolly, “because if you’re actually directing that at me, we’re going to have a very different conversation.” I roll my eyes, but the tears prickling at the corners betray me.

“I’m serious, Regina. I know you have a thousand magical workarounds. You could make this easier. You could. You could do something to help me, help them. You just… won’t.” Her face softens then, just a bit, and she walks around the bed to sit beside me. She doesn’t touch me yet…just sits with her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on mine.

“I won’t,” she agrees quietly. “Because I’ve already lost too much. And you’ve had two preterm labor scares in just over a month. Magic isn’t a fix-all. You know that better than anyone. It’s a loaded weapon, and when it backfires, it doesn’t ask for forgiveness…it just takes.” I turn my face away, jaw clenched. “You can hate me for being cautious,” she says, a little softer now. “You can hate me for loving you too much to gamble with your life or theirs. But you don’t get to accuse me of not trying.” I look back at her. She’s not smug. She’s not gloating. She just looks… tired too. And scared. And full of love.

“I don’t hate you,” I whisper. “I just hate this.”  She finally reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine.

“I know. Me too.”

“I don’t want to do this again,” I whisper, the words tumbling out like floodwaters breaching a dam. They slip past my lips before I can swallow them down, before I can soften the blow. My voice cracks…splintering beneath the weight of everything I’ve been holding inside: the pain, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion that no one sees when I smile for the girls or laugh through clenched teeth. “To risk this again… to feel like this again…” I trail off, my hand drifting down to my belly. The babies shift under my palm, a slow stretch from within, reminding me they’re still here, still growing. Still demanding everything from me. “I know I said something different before,” I admit, my throat raw. “That I wanted a big family. That I could do this again. But now… with everything we’ve been through…no guarantees, no certainties that I won’t end up on bedrest again…I can’t. I want this to be my last pregnancy. You might not be able to fix this, Regina, but I can stop it from happening again. I can end it here.”

Regina doesn’t answer right away. She just holds my gaze, steady as stone, but warm like the hearth fire on the coldest night. That impossible balance only she seems to master…unshakable and soft all at once. The silence that follows feels like standing in the eye of a storm…everything holding its breath. I brace myself for the fallout. For grief, or hurt, or anger. For the part of her that still dreams of another daughter with my laugh or another boy with her eyes. For the yearning I’ve seen in her quietest moments, when she’s watching the girls sleep or running her palm over picture frames like she’s memorizing what already is, and mourning what might not be. But she doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me. Her eyes find mine, and there’s nothing sharp in them. No flicker of disappointment. Just something open, deep, and endlessly steady.

“Emma,” she says finally, her voice low and sure and wrapped in velvet, “it’s okay.” She shifts closer, her palm rising to brush the hair from my face, her fingers lingering at my cheek with that kind of reverence that makes me feel like maybe I’m not a burden at all. Maybe I never was. I lean into her touch before I can stop myself, needing it more than I’d ever admit. “You don’t have to,” she murmurs, and it isn’t just reassurance…it’s a promise. A vow. “Love, I’ve always told you… we’re done when you say we’re done.” The words hit me like a warm wave. They don’t fix it…not entirely…but they make it feel like maybe I can breathe again. Like maybe I’m allowed to be both grateful and grieving. Allowed to love these babies with all my heart and still never want to do this again.

“You’re not mad?” I ask, my voice small, too small. Like a kid asking if they’ve disappointed the only person who’s ever made them feel whole. Regina’s thumb brushes gently over my skin. Her eyes shine…not with tears, but something richer. Deeper.

“Of course not,” she says, and there’s no hesitation. “Emma, I love you. I love our children. I love the life we’re building. But none of it…none of it…matters more than your well-being. More than your peace. If this is where we stop, then it’s where we stop.” She smiles faintly, wry and loving. “Besides… five children, four living at home is hardly a small family.” That makes me huff a half-laugh, half-sob. The release of it coils through my chest, loosening something tight and aching.

“I just needed to say it out loud,” I whisper.

“I know,” she replies. “And I’m proud of you for saying it.” She leans in, kissing my forehead like she’s sealing the moment into something sacred. Her other hand never leaves my belly. And when the babies shift again…like they can feel the peace we’re building between the cracks…I swear her touch steadies them too.

“Do you still want the infertility curse broken?” I ask softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. The question rolls off my tongue before I can second guess myself.

It hangs between us, suspended like fragile glass in the air, and for a moment, I swear I see the flicker of something in her eyes…confusion first, then hesitation. Like she’s searching a part of herself she can’t quite access. Regina looks at me carefully, her brows drawing together just slightly, her mouth parting, but no answer comes right away. She’s usually quick, always knows her mind, always sharp with her words, whether they cut or comfort. But now… she’s pausing. Like she doesn’t understand why I’d ask…or worse, like she doesn’t remember what we said. What she said.

“Emma…” Her tone is slow, deliberate. “You know I would… of course I would. I always did. But it’s impossible. There’s no way to…” she shakes her head gently, offering me a sad little smile “…besides, didn’t you just say we’re done?”

The way she says it… makes something prickle at the back of my neck. Not the words themselves. But the weight of them. The quiet, certain way she acts like the discussion at Gold’s shop and then again in when I was in the hospital never even happened. I blink, studying her face. She’s being honest. I can feel that. But it doesn’t track. Because I know we talked about this. In Gold’s shop, when she whispered that she would give anything to try again, if it were possible. Again, in the hospital when I asked her point blank what she’d want, if there weren’t any barriers. She isn’t lying. She just doesn’t remember. The realization lands soft and cold in my chest, like a drop of rain down my spine. But I don’t say anything…not yet. Not about that. Instead, I exhale slowly, fingers tracing absent circles over the swell of my belly as I choose my words carefully.

“I said I’m done carrying children,” I clarify gently. “That’s very different than not wanting them, if they were to come in another way.” Regina’s gaze softens, but there’s still caution in her eyes, a subtle narrowing that tells me she’s unsure where I’m going with this. Her hand drifts instinctively toward mine, linking our fingers without needing to think about it. Her voice is tender when she responds.

“I want whatever life brings us,” she says. “I want what you want. If there’s ever a way, a safe way, for us to grow our family again, then yes… I’d still want that. But not if it costs you. Not if it costs us. What we have now, what we’ve fought for…you…is worth more than any ‘what if’.”

I nod slowly, trying to hide the swirl of thoughts pressing against the inside of my skull. I want to believe that’s the whole truth. But the memory of Gold’s smug expression when we left his shop… the too-perfect timing of Regina’s dismissal of the subject… the gentle void in her mind where those desires used to flicker…Something isn’t right. But I don’t tell her. Not yet. I’m not sure how yet. So I just squeeze her hand and whisper.

“I know,” I murmur, eyes unfocused, tracing the fine seam of light along the ceiling where the storm outside fails to reach. “I just… needed to hear it again. From you.” My voice catches on the last word, and I hate that it sounds so raw, so exposed. But I don’t pull it back. I let the silence settle for a beat before I add, quieter still, “I guess I’m a little sad.” Regina shifts beside me. I feel the bed dip subtly, her warmth pulling closer, not crowding but there. Always there.

“I didn’t know this would be my last,” I whisper. “If I had... I think I would’ve celebrated it more. Or at least appreciated it instead of just surviving it.” My throat tightens. “I didn’t know I was saying goodbye to this part of my life while it was still happening.” For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Just lets the weight of my words hang in the air, neither brushing them away nor trying to soothe them too soon. Then she leans in…closer than before…her lips brushing against the curve of my shoulder. Her palm, steady and warm, glides over the top of my belly where one of the twins presses insistently beneath the skin.

“Oh, Emma,” she says, voice velvet-soft, not breaking the quiet but becoming part of it. “You don’t owe this pregnancy joy. You owe it your strength…and you’ve given it that, more than anyone should have to.” I turn my head, just enough to meet her eyes. There’s no judgment in them. Only depth. Love. That unflinching steadiness she’s always had when I can’t find my own footing.

“I would’ve made it easier for you if I could have,” she continues. “I would’ve given you magic that let you float through the whole thing, glowing and effortless. I would’ve built you a kingdom of comfort if it meant you could’ve felt more joy than fear.” She draws in a quiet breath, her thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. “I couldn’t because it would have hurt you but it still mattered. Every moment, even the hard ones, even the ones spent curled up on this bed wishing it away. That’s how you love, Emma. Fiercely. You endure. And that matters more than any party or picture-perfect moment ever could.” Her words land deeper than I expect, cracking something soft open inside me. I blink hard, but the tears come anyway…gentle, grateful. I nod, just once.

“I think I’m grieving it,” I admit. “The way it wasn’t. The way I thought it might be.” Regina leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, lingering.

“Then grieve it,” she whispers. “And when you’re ready, we’ll celebrate what we do have. Because you still have time, my love. These babies are still growing inside you. You’re still writing the end of this chapter. And it doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.” I breathe in, slow and deep, her words like a balm wrapping around all the jagged pieces inside me. She’s right. I still have time. Top of FormBottom of Form And I nod again, even though the ache in my chest doesn’t quite ease. Because something isn’t together. But I’ll hold that hurt quietly…for now. And wait until I’m ready to face whatever truth Gold’s taken from her.

“I know… and I will…” I murmur, and my fingers find hers, squeezing them weakly. “I just… I feel like I’m breaking all the time lately. Like this pregnancy’s asking more of me than I have to give, and I’m failing everyone…failing you, failing the kids…”

“Emma, no.” Her tone shifts, firm but still tender. “You’re carrying two lives inside of you. You’re protecting them with everything you’ve got. That isn’t failure…that’s strength. That’s love.” I blink back the tears stinging at the edges of my vision, but one escapes anyway, trailing hotly down my cheek. She catches it with her thumb, as always, gentle and reverent like even my tears are something sacred.

“Then why does it feel like I’m losing myself?” I whisper. Her forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet that follows.

“Because sometimes love stretches us,” she says softly, “and it hurts before it heals. But you’re still you, Emma. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it again.”

Her words settle over me like a blanket, warm and anchoring, smoothing the frayed edges of my nerves until the ache in my chest dulls to something almost bearable. I sigh, long and shaky, and lean in closer…my head finding that familiar place at the crook of her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone where I’ve found comfort a hundred times before. Regina doesn’t say anything else. She just wraps her arms around me, slow and deliberate, like she’s stitching me back together with touch alone. Her hand settles protectively over my belly, fingers splayed like she’s guarding both me and the babies inside me with her very skin. The magic she wove through the mattress still hums faintly beneath me…soothing, gentle, barely perceptible, like being rocked by the earth itself. And her other hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together, grounding me in a way nothing else can. My breaths start to slow, syncing with hers. In. Out. In. Out. Her heartbeat thumps softly beneath my cheek, steady and strong. And I let my eyes fall shut.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “Rest, my love.” It’s not a command. It’s a promise. And somehow, in the middle of everything…this aching, swollen body, this fear I haven’t fully, the thunder murmuring outside…I let go. I drift. Wrapped in her arms, I fall asleep.

When I wake, it’s with a tight, uncomfortable pull low in my belly…a dull, twisting ache that spreads like storm clouds gathering across the horizon of my ribs. Not sharp, not like labor, but unmistakable. The kind of slow-burning discomfort that comes from being still for too long in a body not made to rest. I blink against the dim light of the room, thick with late-summer dusk. The enchanted wards Regina laid earlier cast a warm, golden haze across the walls, the air humming faintly like magic woven through candlelight. I turn my head slowly toward the nightstand. The clock reads 7:30.

Regina isn’t beside me. My heart stutters. But then I breathe in…jasmine and honey. And I know. She’s not gone. Just there, somewhere nearby. Probably putting the girls to bed. Probably smoothing down Isabella’s hair and fetching Julia her seventh glass of water and telling them stories about enchanted forests and swan princesses. Probably pretending not to be utterly exhausted herself. The ache in my abdomen sharpens. I wince. Shift. Everything feels stretched and heavy, my body working too hard to be still.

The door creaks open. She steps in like a shadow, silent and soft, her robe cinched tight around her frame like armor made of velvet and candlelight. Her hair is loose, curling slightly from the moisture of their evening bath routine, and her eyes…those endlessly knowing eyes…go to me instantly. She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. She sees everything.

She crosses the room in three measured steps and sets a mug of tea down on the nightstand. Chamomile, probably. Or lavender. Some blend meant to coax me back to sleep, to coax my body to relax. The rim is gilded, a tiny flourish I once teased her about. Now it just feels like love disguised as ritual. She sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me. Watching me too closely. Not like a hawk…like a gardener watching over something they’ve tended with too much care to ever look away.

“They miss you,” she says, her voice soft as linen. “The girls. Henry. Me.” I stare at the ceiling. The ache in my belly isn’t the only one now. I nod, just once.

“I know.”

“You missed dinner tonight.” her voice isn’t chastising…just aching in that quiet Regina way.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, blinking at the ceiling like maybe the plaster will forgive me. “I don’t feel well.” The truth tastes like iron. “Tired.” Her hand finds mine under the covers, her thumb brushing along my knuckles. She doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t push. Just waits.

“You don’t have to be okay,” she says after a long pause, her voice gentler than a lullaby. “But talk to me. Please.” I close my eyes. My hand tightens on hers for a moment, then let’s go again.

 “We were just talking... all afternoon.”

“I know,” she says, barely a love a whisper now. “But that was the kind of talking that still leaves all the heavy parts unsaid.” I sigh. Deep. Bone-deep. I don’t know how much heavier it couldn’t get, but I don’t want to go there. It already feels too heavy between us.

“What more is there to say?” I ask, voice hoarse with too many thoughts and not enough clarity. “That I’m scared? That I’m stuck in this body and I don’t know where I went? That I miss them too, and I miss me, and I don’t know when I’ll feel like either of those things again?” Regina shifts, curling beside me now, one hand still on mine, the other resting across my belly. Her head leans into mine. Her warmth seeps into every inch of me like magic.

“You don’t have to say it all at once,” she murmurs. “Not tonight. Not even tomorrow. But I’m still here. Listening. Always.”

And something in me…some piece I’d braced too tightly…finally begins to unclench. I let my hand rest over hers, holding her in place. Because I don’t have the answers. But I don’t need them. Not yet. I have her.

“I know you are,” I murmur, my voice barely a rasp. “I just… I feel broken.” The words crack like ice on a frozen lake, and I hate how brittle they sound. How honest. “I’m so tired, Regina,” I whisper. “I just want to sleep. Forever. Or at least… until they’re born.” My hand curls instinctively over the swell of my belly, the weight of our children pushing against my lungs, against my will. “Please,” I breathe. “Please help me sleep…”

The moment the words leave my mouth, shame comes crashing in after them, hot and immediate. I want to claw them back, to pretend I never said them. Because they sound weak, because I know she’s already told me no and there is nothing she is willing to do. Like I’m fragile and falling apart and not the strong woman I’m supposed to be…the Savior, the sheriff, the protector of this ridiculous town. The mother. But right now, I’m none of those things. I’m just tired.

Regina inhales sharply like I’ve pierced her with something invisible. Her lips part…like maybe she’ll argue, or scold, or try to wrap this in logic and reason the way she does when everything feels too heavy to hold. But she doesn’t. She just looks at me. And I see it there, behind her careful eyes…the hurt, the fear, the fierce love battling with helplessness. Still, she doesn’t speak. Instead, she leans in, close enough that I can smell the faint rosewater in her hair and the ghost of the girls’ bubble bath still clinging to her skin. She reaches out and runs her hand slowly down my arm, like she’s calming a wild creature, or touching a glass sculpture she’s terrified might shatter. The contact nearly undoes me.

“You’re not broken,” she whispers, her voice more spell than sound. “You’re tired. There’s a difference. And you don’t have to be anything more than exactly what you are right now.” A tear slips down my cheek, uninvited, unwanted. I feel the heat rise in my throat, but I don’t try to stop it this time. “Drink your tea,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’ll help. At least for tonight.”

Her voice wraps around the words like a promise. Like protection. I reach for the mug with hands that feel too heavy and lips that tremble just enough to make the first sip burn. But it’s warm. Steady. Earthy, like lavender and honey and something older, something enchanted. Her hand doesn’t leave mine.

I say nothing more. Because I don’t believe her. And I think maybe she can tell. She lies down beside me, fully clothed, wrapping an arm around my belly and pressing her forehead to my shoulder. I don’t move. Not because I don’t want her there. But because I feel numb. And that’s what scares me most.

It’s gotten worse. I don’t know when it started, or how it crept in so completely, but I can feel myself slipping farther from the surface with every passing day. I sleep too much. Or not at all. Crying gives me no release, but everything inside feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. My body aches in strange, deep ways that have nothing to do with the twins anymore. And I think Regina knows. She doesn’t say it out loud. But I catch her watching me when she thinks I’m asleep. The way her hands hover just a second too long before they touch me, like she’s afraid I might vanish if she blinks. Sometimes, I think I already have. Maybe I’m already asleep, dead, and this is my purgatory.

The world is thick, blurred at the edges like fogged glass. My limbs are heavy…anchored by the tea she gave me, the one she swore would help me sleep. And it did. Sort of. But now, something stirs me awake. Voices. Low at first. Then louder. Familiar. Sharp. Regina. Gold. I don’t open my eyes right away…my body refuses to cooperate…but their words start to slice through the drowsy warmth like a knife through silk.

“She’s not well,” Regina says, and her voice is taut, clipped at the ends like she’s holding herself together with threadbare string. “She’s tired, in pain and desperate. She’s unraveling.” There’s silence…Then Rumpelstiltskin’s maddeningly calm reply. “I can’t use my magic on her, her magic is too unstable, it could reject mine, hurt her, hurt the babies.”

“You were right not to use your magic, but you waited until now to call me?” he asks. “You should’ve summoned me the moment she started asking about enchanted sleep.” My heart lurches. Called him? I shift slightly, eyes still closed, the weight of sleep and magic pressing down on me like a damp quilt. My limbs won’t obey, but my mind is burning now…awake and aware.

“I didn’t know it had gotten this bad,” Regina murmurs.

“But you suspected,” Gold says.

I force my eyes open. The light in the room is soft…lamplight and storm light mixing on the walls like watercolor shadows. The clock reads 9:30. I can hear rain against the windows, the low rumble of thunder in the distance. And there he is. Standing at the foot of our bed like something summoned…like something invited. Rumpelstiltskin. He turns his head toward me, that ever-present smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes… they settle on me with something quieter than mischief. Something almost like pity. Regina notices me stirring and moves toward the bed. But she’s too slow.

“You made me promise no deals with Gold without talking to each other first.” I raps, my voice hoarse from sleep, my throat dry and it feels…raw. “You called him?”

“I thought you were supposed to protect me,” I rasp, my voice barely more than a scrape of breath. It feels like my throat’s made of sandpaper, dry and raw from sleep and everything else I haven’t said. Regina freezes like I struck her. Her robe is cinched tight around her waist, like it’s the only thing keeping her from unraveling entirely. Her arms fold across her chest…armor, not comfort…and she just stands there, staring at me. Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, helpless. “You called him?” I ask, harsher this time. It cuts, I know it does. But it has to. Because I’m the one who’s vulnerable. I’m the one half-drugged and stranded in bed like a patient in a storybook tower. And she let the villain in. Her shoulders round. She steps forward just slightly, tentative now, like I might recoil.

“I… I didn’t know what else to do. Emma…” Her voice catches. “I’m sorry. I was selfish not to see it sooner…how much you’re struggling. You’ve been falling apart right in front of me, and I just kept asking you to hold on. He can help. He can ease this.” My eyes sting as I force myself upright, ignoring the deep, low ache that claws at my belly in warning. My abdomen tightens beneath the pressure, the muscles screaming, but I don’t care. I need to be upright. I need to face her.

“You said no magic,” I snap, anger threading through my exhaustion like barbed wire. “You said it was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. And now…now you bring him into our bedroom while I’m asleep?”

“I was wrong, Emma.” Her voice is quiet. Barely there. “My magic wouldn’t have been safe. But he…” she glances toward Gold, who stands there watching us like a man observing a play he already knows the ending to. “He’s more powerful than I am. More experienced. He can do what I couldn’t, he knows different ways, safer ways.”

“And you didn’t think I deserved to be awake for that decision?” I spit, fury bubbling in my throat like bile. “You let him near me…let him touch me…while I was unconscious. You…”

“He didn’t touch you…” Regina says quickly. “Only scanned so we know exactly what we’re dealing with.” She looks at me, hurt, blinks, mouth trembling slightly then she steadies herself. “I thought you’d still be asleep. I just needed to know…needed answers. I never meant for you to wake like this…to be afraid. I’m sorry.” Gold steps forward then, his presence an irritating swirl of calm and arrogance. He moves like he’s gliding, hands folded behind his back.

“You should trust her still,” he says smoothly, like this is just another deal being negotiated. “She didn’t bring me here to harm you, dearie.” I stare at him, ice-cold.

“I’m not your dearie why do you call everybody that?” A faint smirk touches his mouth, but he doesn’t argue or answer the question. “I didn’t ask either of you for this,” I hiss. “I wanted out of this bed, not to be turned into a pawn in your sick little chess game. I don’t want whatever deal you’re trying to make Regina.”

“You’ve been asking to be rescued without saying the words,” he replies, voice infuriatingly calm. “And Regina? She finally listened.” I turn back to Regina. Her eyes are wide and glassy now, shimmering with guilt.

“This wasn’t rescue,” I whisper, my throat thickening. “This was betrayal. She got angry at me for going to you without consulting her first. She made me make a pact, that we’d always talk to each other first.”

“Emma…” She takes another step, slow and careful, like I’m something fragile she’s afraid of shattering completely. “I did it because I love you. Because I couldn’t bear to watch you suffer another night.” I let that hang between us, a dagger unsheathed in the quiet. I believe her. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to wake up with him hovering over me.  I lean back against the pillows, feeling the pain settle lower in my abdomen, like a storm rolling through the horizon of my body. The tension is still there. The contractions, maybe. Or maybe just everything else I’ve carried for weeks now. She stands there, torn open in front of me, as if waiting for permission to come closer. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t know if I can give it. But Gold interrupts, raising one palm toward me.

“She did what she thought was best, dearie. And for the record, you are in preterm labor, again. But it’s slow. Weak. Still early. Not unlike the first two times.” He turns to Regina with a meaningful glance. “But this time… she’s worn down. You’re right to be concerned.”

“I am concerned,” Regina says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed now. “I’m terrified, Emma. I don’t want anything to happen to you, or to our children. I need you to let me help.”

“No. Because your version of help means making decisions for me,” I whisper. “Because you used my exhaustion as a loophole. And because you brought him into our home, into our bedroom, like I’m just… some problem to solve. After yelling at me for doing the exact same fucking thing and going to him without talking to him first.” Her face crumples then, just slightly.

“You’re not a problem. You’re my wife. I just… I didn’t know what else to do. You’re slipping through my fingers. Emma… I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to betray you. I just… I couldn’t watch you fall any further without doing something.”

“I know,” I whisper but knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. And trusting her doesn’t feel so easy tonight.

“You have to take the potion,” Gold says, his voice carrying that signature eerie calm that sets every nerve in me on edge. He’s standing at the foot of my bed like a dark shadow that doesn’t belong in this room, in this moment. “As soon as your waters break.” I blink at him, startled, defensive.

“I’m not in preterm labor,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice is too firm, too steady, and I know it. I can feel the heaviness low in my pelvis, the aching drag of pressure that’s been building, unspoken, for hours. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t give Regina one more reason not to believe me when I say I’m fine.

“Emma…” Regina’s voice is soft, a gentle wind against the storm gathering behind my ribs.

“I said I’m fine,” I snap. “I’m just tired.” But instead of believing me, instead of standing with me, her eyes flick to him. To Gold. That betrayal is small, but it slices just the same. Gold’s expression doesn’t change, not really, but there’s a glint in his eyes that says he knows better. He always does.

“If she takes the potion too early,” he begins, turning to Regina now, voice silk over steel, “especially while her body is in this fragile, weakened state… well.” His smile curves slowly, unpleasantly. “Let’s just say there are consequences to forcing what isn’t ready. Unraveling threads before the tapestry is complete, that sort of thing.” Regina flinches slightly, but holds his gaze.

“She hasn’t said she’s in labor,” she says carefully. “Her waters haven’t broken…she’s just been…well….like this…” She says gesturing towards me.

“You won’t, not yet,” he cuts in smoothly. “Because it hasn’t snapped into place yet. But it will.” His eyes drift back to me, almost pitying. “It always does, eventually. And when it does, you won’t have time to debate the moral implications of the potion. You’ll need it ready. She’ll need to take it.” His voice softens, but there’s still that sharp hook beneath the gentleness. “You have to let her, Regina.”

I feel like I can’t breathe. The room is too quiet, too crowded with all the things I don’t want to admit. The pressure in my belly has been rhythmic for over an hour now, maybe two, but they’ve been mild. Manageable. Maybe I have been lying to myself. Or maybe I’m just tired of being told my truth doesn’t matter. Gold clasps his hands behind his back and glances toward the window, as though the storm outside is more interesting than the tension simmering between me and my wife.

“I’m certain they’ll be born tonight,” he adds almost conversationally. “They’re on their way. It’s destined. The potion will ensure their bodies are finished developing, that their lungs are strong, that they arrive without the chaos of incomplete timing. But time is a curious thing,” he hums. “It bends. An hour or two may seem like nothing, but once the body commits, once the labor begins in earnest…” He turns back toward us. “Time becomes everything, this is her fourth pregnancy, labor and delivery… it could go very quickly, or slower because she’s having twins…either way…have her take the potion. They’ll be ready. ” Regina exhales slowly, her brows drawn, her hands curled into the hem of her robe. Her shoulders square as if bracing for a fight she doesn’t want to have…but will. For me. Against me.

“I don’t want to be reckless,” she says, finally. Her voice is calm, but I hear the tremble beneath it. “I want her safe. I want them safe. That’s all I’ve wanted this entire time.”

“Then let her be ready,” Gold says simply. My hand drifts to my belly. The babies shift under my palm…alive, aware, moving with more certainty than before. They know. They feel it coming. I look at Regina, silently begging her to see me, not just the medical risk. Not just the caution and the fear. Me.

“Please,” I say. “Just… be with me. Trust me. Be on my side. Not his.”

She doesn’t answer right away. But her hand finds mine. And it’s warm. Steady. Still shaking. And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough. Then he vanishes. No smoke. No Shimmer. No dramatic flare of magic, just gone. Like he was never truly here at all. The room doesn’t breathe with relief. It doesn’t move. It holds on to the echo of his presence like the air itself has been bruised and hasn’t yet figured out how to heal. The silence that follows isn’t comforting. It’s dense, heavy enough to choke on.

Regina stands with her back to me, still as stone, but I can see the tremble in her spine, the way she’s wringing her hands. She’s not angry, not in that fiery, venom-laced way she used to be, this is different. This is grief. She blames herself for not intervening sooner. I want to say something. I want to reach for her, to apologize maybe, or confess, or scream, but the words are trapped somewhere beneath the weight of my own shame, that I’m having such a difficult time with this, when in the past, we were okay, the pregnancies, the births though Julia’s certainly was dramatic. So I say nothing. I watch her shoulders rise and fall in one shallow breath, then another, and then she turns, and gods, her eyes… No fury. No disgust. Just that quiet, unbearable devastation. The kind that doesn’t come from betrayal…it comes from understanding. From finally seeing just how long someone’s been suffering in silence. And knowing you missed it. Knowing you didn’t reach them in time.

She crosses the room without a sound, her bare feet barely brushing the floorboards. She doesn’t say a word as she sinks onto the edge of the bed beside me. Doesn’t demand answers or comfort or truth. She just takes my hand. Gentle…steady. Her fingers thread through mine like she’d never left, like I hadn’t shut her out. Something in me, something small, bruised, buried breaks. Not wide enough to heal. Not wide enough for light or forgiveness or love to come rushing in like rain. But enough to want to be healed. Enough to wish.

The silence lingers, but it’s not hostile anymore, not exactly. Just tired. Like both of us are too worn down to fight. The blankets around me felt like armor I’d wrapped too tightly. Regina didn’t try to undo them. She didn’t try to fix me. She just stays, present, solid, mine.  Eventually, she leans in, her forehead brushing lightly against the side of my head. Her breath was warm, her presence a tether I hadn’t realized I needed.  The room remains still. The world outside, the storm, the chaos…it could wait. But the ache in my chest… that stayed. It pressed against my lungs with every shallow breath. And I could feel her watching me again. Not expecting anything. Not judging. Just watching. I don’t turn toward her. I couldn’t. I just lay there, swallowed by covers I hadn’t bothered to straighten since yesterday, pretending the weight pressing down on me was just exhaustion. It’s not just exhaustion, and we both know it. Yet, as it seems, she wants me to be the first to say, and I won’t, not yet.

“Do you have the potion?” Regina asks. Her voice is low, but not neutral…never neutral. There's something taut beneath the surface, like a violin string pulled too tight. One wrong move and it’ll snap.

“No.” I say flatly. The word falls like a stone in the space between us, heavy and cold. There’s a pause. A long one. The kind that stretches and stretches until it feels like it’s pulling the breath out of both of us. I stare at the wall, at nothing, pretending not to hear the way her inhale trembles at the edges.

“He’s lying to you,” I add, because that’s easier than the truth. Safer. Colder. Something I can control. Her breath catches. I don’t have to look at her to know it. I feel it, the way her shoulders pull inward just slightly, the way silence swells between us, thicker now.

“You’re lying to me,” she says. Not an accusation, not yet. Just a truth she’s trying to swallow. Her voice cracks around the edges of it, and it guts me more than if she had screamed. There’s something infinitely worse about Regina when she’s not yelling…when she’s disappointed. When her voice goes quiet and all the fire burns under her skin instead of out in the open. “Where is it?” she asks, barely above a whisper. A question made of glass. It’s not really a question at all. It’s a demand dressed in the clothes of a plea. Of love. I close my eyes.

“It’s Somewhere safe,” I say finally. “I don’t have it. It’s not here.”  I finally turn my head. I shouldn’t have. She’s standing there, wrapped in that robe that she’s cinched tighter than necessary. Her arms are crossed like a shield across her chest, but it’s her eyes that nearly do me in…wide, wounded, afraid in a way Regina almost never lets herself be.

“Somewhere safe that you can get to at a moment’s notice?” she asks. And now she knows. She’s piecing it together. Not because I said anything, but because she knows me better than anyone. Her voice lowers even further, steady but trembling. “Don’t make me use magic, Emma.” It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s a line in the sand that she doesn’t want to cross. And I don’t flinch. I should. But I don’t. Something in me is just too tired. Too frayed.

“You can use all the magic you want,” I murmur, curling deeper into the blanket, like I can disappear into it. Like I can hide. “You still aren’t getting it.” The words come out flat. Empty. Like I’ve hollowed myself out just to say them. And she just stands there, staring at me, as if she’s trying to see through my skin and into the place where I’ve buried everything I’m too afraid to say. And I know I’ve hurt her. Again. But right now, it feels like survival. And I don’t know how to stop.

“Emma…” she says softly, and the sound of my name in her voice is almost enough to undo me. “You know I would never hurt you. I would never hurt our children.” I swallow hard. My throat aches…whether from sleep or from the words I’ve been holding back for hours, I can’t tell.

“I do know that,” I whisper, turning my face toward her. She’s so close I can see the tiny lines near her eyes, the faint crease between her brows that deepens when she’s worried. “I know you love me. I know your love for them is fierce. But I also know how careful you are. How scared you are of anything that might touch me magically while I’m pregnant.” She flinches, barely, but I catch it. Her fingers twitch on the edge of the blanket. I press forward, my voice steadying despite the storm that’s still howling beyond our windows…and inside me.

“You’re right to be cautious. I get it. This pregnancy… it’s been on the edge for too long now. We both know that. But on the off chance that Gold is right…on the off chance these babies are coming tonight…I can’t risk you second-guessing yourself. I can’t have you hesitate and take the potion away from me when I need it. I can’t…” My voice catches. I look away, blinking hard. “I can’t have gone through all of this and then end up with them hospitalized. I can’t, Regina. I won’t. And with this storm…” I trail off, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “The roads are washed out. The phones are spotty. The electricity has been flickering all evening…If something goes wrong, we’re alone.” Regina doesn’t argue. But she doesn’t agree, either. Her silence is a weight pressing into the space between us.

“If they’re coming,” I say, quieter now, “and you can’t or won’t heal me because they’re still inside… if you won’t poof me to the hospital because it’s too dangerous in the storm… then I need to be prepared. I need that potion to work. I need to believe it will do what he says it will.” Her eyes are wide, shimmering, but she doesn’t interrupt. She listens. Absorbs it all. “I’m not trying to shut you out,” I add, softer still. “But I can’t afford to feel helpless anymore. Not tonight. Not with them. I know this potion will work. It worked with Zelena. It will work again.”

“Zelena isn’t the savior and her magic was bound.” Regina reminds me, her voice trembling.  Regina’s lips part again like she might say something more, but no words come. Instead, she reaches for me…slow, cautious…and rests her hand over mine. Her palm is warm, grounding, and trembling just slightly.

“I just want to do what’s right,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it over the wind outside. I nod. “I have seen how bad things can get when magic goes wrong. I just want to protect you, protect them.”

“So do I. And maybe we don’t agree on what that is. But please… trust me on this. Let me hold on to the one thing I can still control.” Her thumb strokes the side of my hand. She still doesn’t say yes. But she doesn’t say no, either. That does it. I hear the shift in the air…the low hum of power as she lifts her hand. Her magic rises like a wave behind her, gold and violet and beautiful and terrifying.

She tries to summon it from me, from the universe. I feel the twinge of pressure, her magic skimming across my body like fingers through fog, searching, reaching. She sweeps the room next, muttering under her breath, and I watch…half-lidded, detached…as her hands move, sharp and fast. Not using magic on me specifically, just looking for the potion.  Nothing happens. No potion. No flicker of crimson in her palm. Nothing at all.

“What did you do?” she asks, voice lower now. Tense. Accusing. Desperate. I glance over at her, raising a brow. My face blank. My voice soft and cruel in the way that numbness always is.

“Nothing.” I shrug. “Wouldn’t this be further proof I don’t have it? I told you, it’s not here, it’s safe until which point I need it.”Her hands tremble.

“It’s further proof that you did something.”

I say nothing. Because she's right. But I won’t admit it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because telling her would mean explaining why. That I was going to take it weeks ago. That I wanted to. That I still do, that I’m praying Gold is right and these babies are coming tonight so that everything can be done, and over with. So I just close my eyes again. Let the silence wrap around us like fog. And pretend I’m asleep. Because that’s easier than looking into her face… And seeing exactly how much I’ve broken her. Her voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and annoyed.

“You’re not sleeping. Stop that.” I don’t open my eyes. Don’t move. Just lie still, curled on my side, facing the window even though the blinds are drawn now, blocking out the storm. When had she done that? My voice comes out flat, brittle.

“I’m thirty-two weeks pregnant. On bed rest. It has just been prophesied that I am going to be giving birth to the twins tonight…What exactly would you prefer I do, Regina? Take up ballroom dancing?” I hear her huff, the rustle of her arms crossing tightly over her chest.

“I’d prefer you not avoid me.” I finally blink. Turn my head just enough to catch her in the corner of my vision. She’s standing near the door, tension humming off her in waves. Her eyes are dark with that fierce mix of anger and fear she gets when she’s starting to lose control … of a situation, of her emotions, of me. I push the blanket down, slowly. Not dramatically. Just enough to speak a little more clearly.

“I thought you didn’t want them born early?” That hits. She straightens slightly, her mouth parting like I’ve slapped her with the words. Not because they’re mean. But because they’re true.

“I don’t, I didn’t.” she says carefully. But I’m already turning my head back to the window, sinking deeper into the mattress.

“Then maybe you should stop yelling at me.” There’s a beat of silence. Then two. Long enough to make the air feel heavier. “The doctor said my stress needs to stay low,” I add softly, not cruel, just tired. “You’re not lowering it. You’re raising it.” Another silence. But this one isn’t empty. This one cracks. I can feel her unraveling behind me … not loudly, not the way Regina usually does, with fireworks and shouting and glittering, righteous fire. This is something slower. Sadder. Her shoes tap lightly across the floor. Then nothing. Then her voice, lower. Rough around the edges.

“Well according to Gold they’re coming tonight regardless…I’m not trying to fight with you, Emma. I’m trying to get you to see me. To let me in. You’re here, but you’re not… here anymore. And I don’t know how to reach you when you’re like this.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Because she’s right. But I don’t know how to say why. That I’m scared. That I feel like a shell. That if I say too much, it’ll all come pouring out and I won’t be able to stop it. So instead, I do what I’ve gotten so good at lately. I go still. I stay quiet. I pretend I didn’t hear her. And that, somehow, is what finally breaks her. The silence stretches too long. Regina’s standing behind me…I can feel her presence like a storm on the horizon, all crackling tension and waiting thunder. I know she’s trying. I know she’s been trying. But her voice, her footsteps, her nearness…it all presses against my ribs like a weight I can’t carry right now. Not on top of everything else. Not when I already feel like I’m drowning in my own skin. I stare blankly at the darkened window, at the faint reflection of the room behind me—our bed, the cradle in the corner, her silhouette. Blurred. Familiar. And suddenly too much.

"Just go..." I whisper. The words leave my lips like smoke, thin and aching. A breath. A long aching pause.  I close my eyes, but I can still feel her watching me. Not moving. Not breathing. "Please," I add, softer this time. Fragile. Almost childlike. "I just... I need you to go." I don’t mean it to hurt. I just need air. Space. Silence. Something that doesn’t feel like guilt and expectation and love too big for me to hold in this broken state. Still, I hear it…the way her breath hitches. The way her weight shifts on the floor like she’s been struck. I know I’ve hurt her. I always know. But right now I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know how to fix me.

“He says you’re in labor,” she snaps, her voice trembling…not with weakness, but with the sheer force of what she’s holding back. “That you’re going to deliver tonight.” I look up from the bed slowly, doing everything I can to keep my expression neutral, calm, bored even. “I’m not leaving you.”

“He says a lot of things. Do I look like I’m in labor to you?” I ask her.  Regina doesn’t take the bait. She crosses her arms, takes two steps closer, and narrows her gaze at me like I’m a locked spell she’s one flick of her wrist from unraveling.

“That means you have the potion, or have access to it as he said.” she says, low and sharp. “You’re too calm, Emma.” I shrug, noncommittal.

“Maybe I’m just getting better at dealing with the chaos. Isn’t that what we always do? Adapt?”  She scoffs…disbelieving, furious, scared.

“Don’t you dare pull that on me. You’re sitting here like nothing is wrong, and yet he shows up talking about preterm delivery like it’s scheduled on your damn calendar.”

“I’m not due yet,” I say simply, hoping my voice sounds more tired than cagey.

“Exactly,” she fires back. “Which is exactly why it’s preterm, and like he said, it’s very early. And you do look fine. Too fine. If you really thought you were going into labor tonight…if you honestly believed that…you’d be begging me to take you to the hospital. You’d be panicking. Crying. Pacing. Something.”

“I don’t need to panic,” I tell her, keeping my tone even. “That’s kind of the whole point of staying calm, Regina. Panic doesn’t help anything. As he said, I will take the potion, the babies will be born full term, healthy.” Her nostrils flare, and she moves even closer until she’s towering over me, demanding honesty with nothing more than her presence. Her eyes are glassy now…not just angry, but terrified. She’s shaking, just barely.

“They’re too early, Emma,” she says, her voice dipping into something raw. “You know they’re too early.”

“Which is why the potion exists.”  She’s right. Of course she’s right. But the silence says everything she already knows…and none of what she needs to hear. She studies me, chest rising and falling with shallow, measured breaths, waiting for me to give her a crack of truth. A confession. A lifeline. Something. I can’t. So I just look at her. Quiet. Still. And dying a little inside.

“I told you I’m done. That if I go into preterm labor again. I’m done.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to…barely more than a breath. There’s no heat behind the words, no defiance, just truth worn thin from being carried too long. I don’t meet her eyes. I don’t need to. I can already feel the weight of her stare on me…hot, unrelenting, searching for an explanation I’m not ready to give. Regina stands frozen a few feet away, her expression unreadable. But I see the flicker. That twitch in her jaw. The storm gathering behind her eyes.

“What did you do?” she asks, low and dangerous, like she’s bracing for a betrayal.

“Nothing,” I answer, maybe a little too quickly. I swallow. My fingers twist the edge of the blanket in my lap. “But I am done. I’m not doing this again.” There’s a silence between us so dense it hums. “I’ve been in preterm labor twice, Regina, If Gold is right this will be the third time they’ve tried to be born early.” I go on, my voice flat now, because if I let it shake I might shatter. “Each of the previous times I’ve ended up back in that hospital, hooked up to monitors, breathing through contractions I’m not supposed to be having yet while you sit next to me trying not to fall apart.” Her lips part like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. She just watches me, breathing hard, hands clenched at her sides. “I’m not going back,” I whisper. “I can’t do it again. I won’t.” The words hang between us like something sacred and broken. And for a long, fragile moment, neither of us moves. I move uncomfortably, a low, twisting pain already blooming across my lower abdomen like something alive and angry. At first, I stay perfectly still, pretending it’s nothing, pretending it will pass. But the second wave is worse. Deeper. And the babies—God, they’re moving so much, more than usual. Like they’re… fighting to get out. I push the blanket aside and slowly swing my legs over the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the floor one at a time, like each movement is its own mountain. My hands tremble as I brace myself on the mattress. Everything feels heavier lately…my body, my thoughts, even the air. It’s like I’m moving through molasses, every breath laced with pressure and fatigue.

“Where are you going?” Regina’s voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and immediate. She’s already rising to her feet before I can even answer, her eyes fixed on me like she senses something’s off.

“Bathroom,” I mutter, my voice a dry rasp. “I just need to pee.”

“Not without help,” she says firmly, no hesitation. Her robe sways around her as she steps closer. She doesn’t wait for me to protest…just moves, all instinct and worry. I sigh, defeated.

“Fine. Then help. But I really have to go.” She slips an arm around my waist, strong and sure. I lean into her more than I mean to. My legs feel unreliable, my balance worse than I remembered. Her hand tightens just slightly on my side, grounding me. Step by step, we shuffle together, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. The house is dark and quiet, the storm outside still hissing against the windows. Everything feels hushed. Like the world is holding its breath. We reach the bathroom. I reach out for the door frame.

And then it happens. The warmth hits first…sudden, shocking. A rush of fluid pours down my legs, hot and unstoppable, soaking my pajama pants, splashing to the floor. It’s so fast. So much. I freeze. Regina gasps softly behind me, and her grip tightens instinctively. I look down. There’s no question. A puddle forms at my feet.

“Oh God,” I whisper, voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. “No, no, no….”

My water just broke. For a heartbeat, the world goes still. No panic. Not yet. Just a terrifying calm. The kind that comes right before the crash.

And then it hits me…hard. The contraction rips through me like fire splitting down my spine and wrapping around my hips. I let out a strangled cry, moving forward, my hand slamming into the sink to catch myself as my knees threaten to give out. My other hand flies to my mouth, but it’s too late. The sound is out—half-sob, half-scream. Raw. Gutting.

“Emma!” Regina’s voice is tight, panicked, her arms wrapping around me before I can fall. “Emma, breathe…breathe…” I can’t. I can’t breathe. Everything in me is clenching, twisting. My belly contracts so hard it feels like my skin is being stretched over a wire. The babies shift inside me…I can feel it…the movement that’s not supposed to be this intense yet. I can’t tell if it’s pain or panic or both.

“I… it’s too soon,” I gasp, breath catching on a sob as I clutch the edge of the sink. My voice trembles, thin and strained. “Regina, it’s only thirty-two weeks… I didn’t think he meant it, I didn’t think he was serious. You have to believe me. I didn’t know this was happening tonight…”

“Shhh,” Regina murmurs, her arms already around me, steady and sure, guiding me down onto the closed lid of the toilet before my legs give out completely. “I believe you, Emma. I do.” I lean into her, panting, trembling. Her hand cups the back of my head.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper again, barely holding back tears. “I swear.”

“I know,” she says gently, brushing damp hair from my face with a trembling hand. “You never would’ve risked them. I know that.” She crouches in front of me now, voice lower, softer. “And as much as I hate giving that man any credit… when it comes to these things? Gold’s rarely wrong.” I blink at her, eyes wide. The room tilts slightly from pain and panic of being unprepared. Regina catches my gaze, firm but not unkind. “ Her hands are on my shoulders, steadying me, anchoring me. “I have you,” she says again, quieter now. Her own fear is bleeding through the cracks in her voice, but her body stays strong. “You’re okay…shhh…just breathe…” But I feel it. That drop in my gut. That slipping sensation. Like we’ve just crossed a line, and there’s no going back. Bottom of Form

I press my back against the cool tile wall, trying to breathe through the pulsing ache still echoing in my abdomen. My pants are soaked. My legs are trembling. Everything inside me is screaming not yet as miserable as I am, as I was I didn’t actually want to be doing this tonight. Regina crouches in front of me, steadying me with both hands, her voice calm in that way that means she’s barely holding it together.

“Where’s the potion, Emma?” Regina’s voice is quiet…but it cuts through the haze like a knife. There’s no room left for evasion now. I swallow, my whole body trembling as another contraction pulses low and deep through my back and belly. I can barely catch my breath, but I manage a whisper.

“I have to take it.”

“I know you do.” Her grip on my hips tightens just slightly…supportive, grounding…but I can feel the shift in her, the way her entire body coils in controlled tension. Her eyes rise to meet mine, slow and deliberate. Measured. But behind that calculated calm, I can already see it…the storm. Fear. Anger. Love, too. Always that. But love, strained.

“They’re not ready, Regina.” My voice breaks around the words. I blink hard, tears making the room blur at the edges. “They’re too small. Thirty-two weeks…if I give birth now…” I shake my head, unable to even say the rest. “They’ll be in the hospital for weeks, maybe months. And I don’t know if they’ll be okay. I don’t know if I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” she says again, her voice barely a breath now. “So where is the potion, Emma? Stop justifying. Just take it.”

I lift a trembling hand. With a soft flick of magic, the vial shimmers into existence…glowing faintly in the air like it's been waiting all this time to be found. I catch it in my palm, my fingers curling protectively around the cool glass. Regina’s eyes fall to the vial. Her breath catches.

“That’s the potion?” she asks, voice cautious, almost flat. “The one you told me you didn’t have?” My stomach turns to stone. I nod. Silence. The air between us stretches taut, until it feels like the very walls of the bathroom might snap from the weight of it. Her jaw tightens, eyes narrowing just slightly as she processes it. The lie. The secrecy. The truth she’s been circling for days.

“I didn’t have it,” I whisper hoarsely. “It was at my parents’ house. I put an ownership spell on it…that’s why you couldn’t summon it. You couldn’t even sense it. Like I said earlier, I couldn’t risk you taking it from me.” She doesn’t move.

“You lied to me,” she says softly. There’s no venom in it. No shouting. But somehow it’s worse than if she’d screamed.

“I don’t think this is the time to have this argument,” I say, my voice strained, shaking. I’m still sitting on the toilet, fluids pooling beneath me, and my whole body is tense. Every muscle is braced. Another contraction rips through me, sharp and fast, and I double over with a cry I can’t muffle this time. Regina is there in an instant, arms wrapping around me before I can crumple. Her hands are strong beneath my arms, catching me, holding me, grounding me even as I tremble. I cling to her, breathing hard, trying not to sob.

“Emma…” Her voice cracks on my name. She’s not angry anymore. She’s terrified. And so am I. Because the potion is in my hand now. The truth is out. My water’s broken. My body is in full revolt. There’s no stopping what’s coming. No more waiting. And there’s no turning back.

My free hand trembles violently, twitching like it’s not even mine anymore. Panic and instinct war beneath my skin, surging through my bloodstream with a pulse that doesn’t feel quite human. The magic stirs before I even call for it…hungry, aware, responsive. It knows what I want. What I need. What I’m about to do. Even before I do. Regina sees it. She doesn’t stop me. Not yet. The air in front of me ripples, and then the light bends inward….coalescing into a swirling orb of crimson and gold, like blood caught in flame. It solidifies with a soft pop and drops into my palm. The vial is small. Innocuous. But it glows with a pulse, like it’s alive. Like it’s waiting. The light from it washes over the tile, glinting off the sheen of amniotic fluid still running down my thighs, mixing with the faint blood already on the floor. I stare at the vial for a half-second. My chest rises and falls too fast, shallow and ragged. And then I move. I uncork it.

“Emma…wait…” Regina’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp with warning, but not fast enough. I haven’t tipped it yet. I hesitate, just for a moment.

“What?” I rasp, my voice barely human.

“This… it’s going to be painful. You can’t drink that standing. You could fall, seize… your body might not be able to handle the shock all at once.” Her voice is calm, but her hands are already on me.

“Shower?” I breathe, though it’s barely a word. “Or… floor. Just…help me.” We don’t make it far. The pain is already blooming beneath my skin, and I can barely move. She lowers me gently to the floor, guiding me to sit with my back against the door, her hands cradling my arms with the same reverence one would use on a bomb. I settle into the corner, limbs shaking. And then…

I drink it. The second the potion hits my tongue, everything changes. It doesn’t burn. It scalds. Not like swallowing a hot drink…like swallowing molten steel. A thousand suns crashing into my throat, tearing down through my spine, erupting into every inch of me like fire seeking air. And then it hits my womb. I scream. Not a word. Not even a sound that resembles anything human. Just pain…raw, instinctual, animal. It feels like a tidal wave slamming into brittle glass, and I’m the glass. I double over, my hands flying to my belly too late, trying to contain something that can’t be contained. Regina is shouting my name. I think, and then magic… a silencing charm on the bathroom.

I can’t hear her properly over the sound of blood rushing in my ears and the crackling of magic lashing through my body like a whip. The floor is too hard. My body is too full. I can’t breathe. They’re growing. Inside me. Too fast. Faster than Gold said. I thought this would be something slow, over the course of an hour or two… I can feel every inch of it. My skin stretches, belly expanding, limbs shifting beneath the surface. It’s like they’re pushing against the walls of a too-small room with nowhere left to go. My spine arches against the floor, my fingers claw at the tile for purchase. My vision goes white with it. Regina is there, her arms under my back, her cheek pressed to my forehead, her voice a constant thread, but I can’t hear her. I can’t feel her. All I feel is fire and tearing and pressure. So much pressure.

“Emma…” her voice finally cuts through the haze…closer now, sharper, panic straining it. “You have to breathe. Come back to me. Please…breathe…”

I can’t. I curl into myself, or try to. The best I can do is tilt, fold, collapse. My body folds around my belly as far as it can, as though I can shield them from what’s happening. As though I could stop what I started. Another contraction. This one is agony. It rips through me, toppling everything I have left. I sob into my arm, shaking from the force of it. My whole body is soaked…sweat, tears, amniotic fluid. I don’t know what’s what anymore. Regina’s hands are on my belly now. I should flinch away. I don’t. Because they’re warm. Steady. Unshakable. She whispers something….soft and urgent…into my hair. I can’t make out the words. Maybe it’s a grounding spell. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s just my name. I don’t know. But I think I feel something. A tether. Her magic…barely there, just enough to remind me I’m not alone. But I don’t know if that makes it better… or worse. Because this is happening. Because I made this happen. And now she’s the one holding me while I fall apart. And there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

“You didn’t say anything...” Regina’s voice breaks through the haze…soft, not accusatory. Not angry. Just… quiet. Hurt. Like a bruise that’s been forming under the skin for days. She’s crouched beside me, fingers still pressed to my sweat-slicked back, her robe damp where it touches me. She doesn’t look away when she speaks. She doesn’t blink.

“Did you know you were in labor again? Before Gold came?” It isn’t a question with claws. It’s worse than that. It’s bare. Open. She’s not looking for an explanation…just the truth. And somehow, that makes it harder to give. I should answer. I should apologize. But the words won’t come. I can feel the pain crawling through me again, rising like a tide of acid behind my ribs. My belly tightens…brutal, merciless, like my body is trying to crush itself from the inside out…and I let out a strangled breath, folding forward. The tile is slick with sweat and fluid. My skin is cold and burning all at once.

“Why would I say anything?” I finally whisper, the words a bitter shard on my tongue. “So you could drag me to the hospital again? So they could pump me full of meds to stop what’s already happening?” My voice is sharp. Too sharp. And it’s a lie. We both know it. “You finally shut up and left me alone,” I add, like a poison I can’t keep from spilling. “I just wanted a little bit of peace, Regina.”

The silence that follows is loud enough to swallow the room. I don’t look at her. But I feel it…the recoil, the tremble beneath her breath. The moment she stiffens, not visibly, not in a way anyone else would see… but I see it. Of course I do. I always see her. Especially when I pretend not to. It guts me. I shouldn’t have said it. But the pain is too much. The guilt is too much. And somehow, this…this lashing out…it’s easier than letting her in. Because if she wraps her arms around me right now, I’m going to shatter. And if I shatter, I don’t know if I’ll be able to put the pieces back together again.

“Emma…” she says my name like it’s the only thing she has left to hold onto. Not a reprimand. Not even a plea. Just… love. Raw and fragile and bleeding. I can’t answer her. Not yet.

The pain seizes again…violent this time. Hot. Deep. My belly pulses like it’s under siege, and then suddenly… A lurch in my stomach. I gag. There’s no time to fight it. I twist to the side just enough to vomit, retching hard onto the towel Regina had laid out beneath me. My whole body shakes as I empty what little is left inside me, bile and acid burning the back of my throat, my vision swimming in black spots. Regina’s hand is instantly at my back, firm and steady, anchoring me through it. I hear the horror in her breath.

“Emma… your magic… it’s reacting to the potion.” Her voice is shaking now, her hands moving quickly to cradle my shoulders, to wipe my face, to soothe the heat raging under my skin. “It’s warring with itself…your magic is trying to protect the pregnancy, but the potion’s forcing it forward anyway. It’s chaos. It’s a war inside you.” I groan…loud, guttural, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes. My abdomen pulses again. Another contraction. Another expansion. My skin feels stretched to the edge of rupture. Like I’m being turned inside out while the world watches. They’re moving, so much. I feel like I am going to be sick again.

“I didn’t know it was real.” I whisper. “It started when I was sleeping. I thought I was just uncomfortable, that it was just pressure and Braxton hicks. It felt the same as any of the other times when it wasn’t labor. I thought I could handle it until the morning…until it passed and then Gold said what he did…I realized he’s right…” Regina’s thumb brushes under my chin, lifting my face until our eyes meet. Her own are wide, wet, dark with fear and fury.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice is barely a whisper now, wrecked and small.

“Because if I said it out loud… it would be real. You wouldn’t have let me take the potion, and you would have forced me back to the hospital.” She exhales shakily and pulls me into her lap….gently, protectively, letting me fold into her warmth even though I don’t deserve it.

“I should’ve known,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against mine. “You were trying to protect them. But you are mine too, Emma. You have to let me protect you.” I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say I love her. That I trust her. That I see her. But all I can do is cry against her neck while my body fights itself from the inside out. And hope it’s not too late. “This is why I didn’t want you to take the potion,” Regina breathes against my temple, one hand pressed flat against my back as she holds me in her lap like she can absorb the pain for me if she just keeps me close enough. Her voice is raw now…ragged from fear, from helplessness. “Because this kind of magic... it’s not gentle. It doesn’t ask the body’s permission. It demands.” Her fingers stroke along my spine, trembling. “Your magic was never going to accept being overpowered without a fight. You’re you, Emma. It fought back. And you…” her voice breaks, “you were caught in the middle.”

The pain crests again, worse than before. A white-hot lance that shoots from my hips up through my spine, blinding me with its ferocity. I scream…or maybe I just think I do…but the sound doesn’t quite make it out. Everything is fragmented. Fuzzy. Distant. I’m slipping. I know it. The pain roars like static in my ears. I feel my limbs start to go limp in Regina’s arms, the world narrowing to the sound of her voice calling my name…once, twice, over and over…but I can’t respond. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. And then… Just as suddenly as it started…It stops. My whole body shudders one final time, and then goes still. Not numb, not unconscious. Just... still. I blink slowly, vision swimming, the tile swimming back into focus piece by piece. Regina’s face is the first thing I really see…just above me, close enough to kiss. Her eyes are wet and wild and searching mine like she’s waiting for me to vanish. I draw in a breath. Shaky. Thin. But real.

“I…” My lips barely move. “What… happened?”

“You passed out, but you’re okay. It’s done,” she whispers, her voice frayed at the edges with both relief and grief. “They’ve grown. They’re in position. It’s over, Emma. You made it.” Regina’s expression softens with disbelief. And awe. I blink again, the room less blurry now. My limbs are leaden, my hair clinging to my face. But the pain… the agony... it’s gone. What remains is dull, rhythmic. Familiar.

“I’m still contracting,” I murmur, brows pulling tight in confusion. Her lips curve…only slightly. A pale imitation of a smile. But it’s there.

“Yes,” she says gently, brushing my damp hair back from my face. “Those would be regular contractions now. You know, the old-fashioned kind. Non-magical. Mundane. Entirely boring. I hear women have been doing it this way for centuries.” I huff out a weak laugh. Just air, no sound. But it counts.

“You’re in labor,” Regina continues, voice low, soothing. “But the magic’s done. What’s happening now… it’s natural. Normal.” Her hand rests on my belly, reverent. “Your body is doing exactly what it was meant to.” I look up at her, dazed, eyes brimming with tears I hadn’t felt forming. “And you’re okay,” she whispers, the words breaking like a prayer. “You’re still here.” She leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine, her hand never leaving my stomach. Her breathing is uneven, as if she only now remembers she can.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper…raspy, shaky, and clinging to the edges of composure like it might dissolve if I speak too loudly. Regina’s head lifts instantly.

“Emma…” I cut her off, feeling somewhat better since the contractions caused by the rapid growth have ceased a weak laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep and cracked. “I have puke in my hair, Regina. I am not going to spend however many more hours it takes for these babies to finally make their dramatic escape with puke in my hair.” Her mouth twitches…just slightly. Almost a smile. Almost. But her eyes are still too worried to let the expression settle.

“I was only going to say… let me help you.” I want to wave her off, to pretend I’ve got this. That I’m still strong enough. Still the same woman I was before the potion, before the contractions, before the fear. But when I push myself upright, the world tilts like I’ve just stepped onto a moving ship. My head spins, stomach flips, and I blink against the dizziness clawing at my skull. Regina’s hand is there before I can even ask, steadying me.

“Slow,” she murmurs, guiding me to sit on the edge of the tub bench for a moment. “Don’t rush. Let your body catch up. It’s been through a lot…” I nod, though it feels too heavy. Everything feels too heavy now. My stomach…our babies…is so much fuller than it was just an hour ago. The weight is staggering. Like a sudden gravity shift. My back throbs in protest, the sharp pressure of the sudden growth radiating from my lower spine like a warning flare. My hips ache under the strain. My center of gravity is all wrong…unfamiliar, off-kilter. Even standing feels like a mistake.

“They’re heavier,” I mutter under my breath. “Bigger. I can feel it. Even the way they move is… different. They’re stronger.” I say, relieved.

Regina doesn’t respond with words. She helps me to my feet with both arms, then carefully starts the shower…warm and soft, steam beginning to rise around us. She keeps her hand on my waist the whole time, steadying me like I might vanish. When the bench in the shower is warm enough, she gently helps me out of my clothes. There’s nothing clinical about it, nothing detached. Just Regina, quiet and focused, fingers tender where they brush over my skin. Like she’s handling something fragile. Sacred. I lower myself onto the bench, easing down slowly, groaning as my back protests the movement. My head falls back against the tile, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of the water spills over my shoulders, my chest, my belly. The ache is still there…but dulled now. The burn in my throat, the queasy twist in my gut, the horror of earlier…it all ebbs a little under the cascade of heat. And then I hear it. A breath. Sharpened. Unsteady.

“What?” I murmur, eyes still closed. My fingers twitch in the steam. Regina doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is a whisper. Careful. Like she doesn’t want to scare me.

“The curse… it bruised you.” My eyes open. Slowly. The steam blurs her a little, makes her look like a dream I can’t quite hold onto.

“Bruised me?” I echo, heart skipping. “What do you mean?”

She kneels beside the bench, one hand ghosting over my lower belly, and then the spot just below my sternum. Her fingertips never fully settle…hovering like she’s afraid to cause more harm. “Here. And here. The places where the magic forced growth too quickly… the blood vessels near the surface couldn’t keep up.” She swallows. “Your skin… it’s marbled in places. Dark. Blueish. Tender.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

“So I look as good as I feel.” Her eyes flick up to mine, and despite everything…everything…there’s a spark of amusement there. Barely-there. But real.

“You look like a woman who just survived a magical bio-accelerant curse, or a beating with blunt force trauma.” she says dryly. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still coherent.”

“Regina,” I whisper, eyes fluttering closed again, exhaustion pulling me down like undertow. “I don’t want to be strong anymore. Just for tonight. I want to rest. I want to sit here and let you touch my hair and not feel like I have to fix anything.” Her hand slides up, threading gently through my damp hair, careful not to tug at the tangled mess there.

“Then don’t,” she murmurs. “Take a break, just for now. Let me take care of you.” And I let her. Because I can. Because she will. And because for the first time in hours, the storm inside me has finally… finally passed. Regina doesn’t rush anything. She waits until my breathing evens out, until the trembling in my limbs fades to a soft, dull echo. Then, only when she’s sure the worst of it has passed, she rises with the kind of grace I used to find intimidating…and now find comforting.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says gently. It’s not a question. Not a suggestion. Just something steady, inevitable, kind. The same way she says I love you. With certainty. I nod, slow and heavy, and lean forward just enough for her to reach behind me. Her hands gather my hair, warm water sluicing through it in slow, practiced sweeps. She moves like she’s done this a thousand times…like we have all the time in the world. And maybe, in this moment, we do. She doesn’t speak much. Just hums softly now and then, fingertips working the shampoo through the tangles and sweat and remnants of sickness, and then gently washes my body. The scent of lavender and something earthy…her favorite blend…fills the air, grounding me more than I expected.

“I’m sorry I made you do this,” I whisper, my voice barely audible beneath the hiss of water. “I’m sorry I’m disgusting.”

“You didn’t make me,” she says quietly, without hesitation. “And you’re not disgusting. You needed me. That’s enough.”

She rinses me slowly, shielding my eyes like I’m fragile porcelain. Like if she’s not careful, I’ll shatter. Maybe she’s right.

When it’s over, she wraps me in one of the soft towels from the warmer. Not the usual ones we use…this one’s thicker, plush. White with a stitched logo that I can’t quite make out. Magic woven into the edges. Comfort layered into every thread. She dries me in slow circles, mindful of the bruising she told me about. I wince when her fingers graze the worst spots on my abdomen, but she doesn’t apologize. She just whispers,

“I know,” and keeps going. Once I’m dry, she helps me step into the bedroom…arm around my waist, guiding me with patient strength. I sag against her with each step, the weight of my now-full belly a tether I can’t ignore. But she carries what I can’t. Like always. The room has been quietly transformed while we were gone. A change of sheets. A few candles flickering low on the dresser. Fresh night air sifting in through a cracked window. It smells like rain and rosemary. Waiting at the foot of the bed is a soft cotton maternity gown…loose and long, pale blue with tiny embroidered flowers near the hem. Beside it, soft underwear, and something folded discreetly: a thick pad enchanted to wick away the amniotic fluid still leaking slowly from my body. Nothing sterile. Nothing cold. Just careful, practical, gentle.

“Here,” Regina murmurs, kneeling again to help me step into the underwear, guiding it up with a reverence that makes me bite back tears. “Lean on me.”

“I already am,” I say softly. And I mean it in every possible way. Once I’m dressed, she eases the gown over my shoulders, smoothing the fabric down over the swell of my stomach. Her hand lingers there a moment…just a moment…fingers splayed, her expression unreadable.

“You’re not scared?” I ask, because I am. She lifts her eyes to mine.

“I’m terrified,” she says simply. “But I believe in you more than I believe in fear.” She helps me back into bed with a warmth tucked into every movement. A nest of pillows waits, arranged just right, and the bed itself has been enchanted since earlier. I feel it when I lie back…the subtle weightlessness, the way the mattress adjusts to my body, easing pressure on my hips and spine. Magic cradling me without touching.

The storm hasn’t let up. Rain still drums against the windows, wind hisses through the trees, and thunder rumbles low in the distance…but compared to the ache rolling through me, it feels like background noise. Far away. Unimportant.

She helps me move, and I curl up on the window bench, propped up against a fortress of pillows Regina arranged with quiet, loving determination. A soft knit blanket is draped across my lap, though I keep kicking it off when the heat creeps in. Sweat clings to my temple. My breathing has changed…deeper now, slower…but I try not to make it obvious. Regina would notice. Of course she would. But the girls…I don’t want them to be frightened.  She’d lit candles too. Warm little pools of light flicker across the walls, softening the sharp edges of the room. She said it would feel safer this way, calmer. That we should welcome our babies into something gentle, something warm. I didn’t argue. The truth is….I needed it too. The next contraction is already climbing. It wraps around my hips and pulls, deep and low, like a rising tide that knows no mercy. I press my lips together, hold my breath through it, and count.

Then I hear it…tiny footsteps padding down the stairs. Two pajama-clad figures appear at the edge of the bedroom, frozen just past the threshold, silhouetted by a flash of lightning behind them. Their hair is messy, cheeks pink with sleep. Isabella clutches a stuffed bear so tight the little seams stretch, and Julia’s sucking her thumb, other hand holding her sisters tightly.

“Mommy?” Isabella whispers. Her voice is barely there, tremulous. “We couldn’t sleep. The storm is scaring us.” Regina starts to rise from her spot, probably to guide them back to their bedrooms, but I reach out a hand.

“It’s okay,” I say gently. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. But it’s enough. “Come sit with me for a moment.” Isabella doesn’t hesitate. She walks right to me, like the past few weeks didn’t happen…like I haven’t been drifting in and out of something dark and quiet and lonely. She crawls up onto the bench beside me, climbing into my side like it’s her rightful place, and rests her head on my chest. I exhale slowly, one hand wrapping around her tiny back. We sit like that for a few minutes, Julia had went to snuggle with Regina, watching the rain together. The next contraction starts to build. I close my eyes, try to breathe through it, quiet and slow, but I can’t hide it. My body tenses. Isabella startles. She lifts her head, her wide eyes searching my face. She feels it…how hard I’m trying not to show the pain. She’s always been so attuned to me. Like she can hear things I haven’t said.

“I’m okay, little love,” I say softly. I kiss her forehead, but she doesn’t relax.

“But…” Before she can finish, I gently take both her hands in mine, small and soft and still sticky with sleep, and I guide them to my belly. I press them flat, just above where the last contraction left its mark. And right on cue…there’s a flutter. Then a full-bodied kick. Her eyes go round as saucers.

“The babies are excited to meet you,” I tell her, brushing her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. “They’re just getting ready. It’s almost time. They’re big enough now.” Julia clambers up beside us, not to be left out. She mimics her sister’s movement, resting her tiny palms over my belly. I help her find a spot…and she gasps when she feels the ripple beneath her fingers. I can’t help the tear that slips down my cheek. Not from pain this time. Just from… this. This moment.

“They’re going to be born tonight,” I whisper, my voice hitching slightly as the next contraction takes root. It’s stronger. Lower. But I don’t flinch. I won’t…not in front of them. “When you wake up in the morning… they’ll be here. You’ll get to meet them.”

“Them?” Isabella echoes, eyes narrowing. “Does that mean two?” I glance at Regina. She’s seated on the bench now too, on the other side of Julia, her hand resting lightly on my knee. Her expression is soft, her pride and worry braided together in her gaze.

“We just found out when we were at the hospital,” she explains gently. “There’s a second baby. Hiding, waiting. One little sister, and one little brother.”

Both girls squeal…not loud, just those breathless gasps of joy they give when their hearts are too full to hold it all. They snuggle closer, and Regina’s hand finds mine. We sit like that, the five of us, wrapped in candlelight and each other, and for one suspended moment I don’t feel the fear. I only feel love. Until another contraction hits. This one’s sharper, deeper…less easy to hide. It curls through my lower back like a vice, dragging all the air from my lungs for a heartbeat too long. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to make a sound, but I feel it on my face. My girls feel it too.

“Why does it hurt?” Isabella asks. Her voice is so soft it barely makes it across the room, like she’s afraid even the sound of it might make things worse. She’s curled up at the edge of the bed, knees tucked beneath her, hands folded like she’s bracing for an answer she’s not sure she wants. I glance toward her, breathing carefully through the tight band still wrapped around my ribs. Another contraction is coming, low and slow like a warning roll of thunder. But I smile anyway. For her. Because she needs me to.

“Do you remember,” I say gently, brushing a bit of damp hair from her face, “when we read the Where Do Babies Come From book together?” She nods slowly, her eyes wide and wet, like she’s trying not to cry but isn’t quite winning.

“Well, that’s why,” I say. “This is part of it. My body is getting ready to help your brother and sister be born. It’s... uncomfortable, sometimes. Okay, it hurts. But it’s not forever. And I’m okay.” She nods again, but her bottom lip trembles. She doesn’t look convinced. Julia’s voice pipes up from the other side of the bed…smaller, more frightened.

“Does it hurt the babies?” My breath catches. For a second I forget how to speak. And then I reach out, guiding her little hand to the curve of my belly, where the twins are still shifting restlessly beneath the surface. Her palm is so tiny against the warmth of me, but I swear they move toward it…like they know.

“No, love,” I whisper. “They’re not hurting. I promise. For them… this is just a transition. Like when you leave a warm bath and step into a soft towel. A little surprising. Maybe a little cold. But not painful. Not scary. Just... new.” Julia’s eyes blink slowly, her brows knitting in thought. Then she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my stomach, like she’s trying to comfort them. Or me. Maybe both. There’s a quiet moment. And then Regina kneels down on the side of the window bench, her robe slipping off one shoulder, her hand resting protectively on Julia’s back.

“She’s telling the truth,” Regina says, her voice low and steady…the kind of voice she only uses when she wants her words to stick. “Babies are brave little things. And so are their big sisters. Especially when things feel confusing or scary.” Julia leans against her, nestling into the crook of her arm without a word. “They’re safe,” Regina adds, her hand moving to rest beside Julia’s against my stomach. “They’re held in the strongest, safest place they could be…your Mommy. And she may be tired, and hurting a bit… but she’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known, and your baby siblings are going to be born tonight, in so much strength, and love.” She says it so simply. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s gravity. And somehow, despite the pain still humming low in my back, and the next contraction stirring again on the horizon, I feel steadier. I feel seen. I look between them…my daughters, my wife…and feel the echo of something larger than fear. Something like courage, passed from hand to hand in the quiet. Isabella finally whispers,

“When they come out, can we help hold them, and take care of them?” Isabella asks, Regina smiles.

“Depending on how fast they get here you can be the first ones to tell them good morning.”

“You’ll be okay?” Julia’s voice trembles like it’s hanging on a single thread. She’s standing close now, her small fingers twisted in the hem of my blanket, her brown eyes wide and glossy with fear she’s too little to name. I swallow around the lump swelling in my throat. It tastes like iron and salt and something heavier beneath. I don’t want them to see the pain. I don’t want this moment to be marked by it.

“Yes,” I whisper, smoothing her hair back, her curls still damp from earlier. “Yes, I will be. I want you both to know that, okay? I love you more than anything. And right now… I need you back in your beds.” They shift. Two little shadows of worry and resistance.

“Once you’re in your beds, your Momma is going to use just a little bit of magic,” I continue, forcing calm into my voice as another contraction curls like a fist deep in my belly. My breath hitches…but I push through it, talking between clenched teeth. “Just to help you sleep. No more thinking about the storm. No more worrying about me. I promise, when you wake up… you’ll meet your brother and sister.” Isabella’s eyes widen in wonder, and her lips wobble.

“But we want to stay!” she blurts, voice cracking. She clutches tighter to my wrist. “We want to meet them! We can help!” I bite down on the ache behind my eyes.

“Isabella…” I murmur, shaking my head gently as I cup her cheek. “Sweetheart, they’re not quite ready yet. And I have… a lot of work to do first. My body isn’t ready yet.” Regina’s voice drifts in then…low, reassuring, ever the steady presence behind the storm.

“She means hours of work,” she adds softly, stepping closer, wrapping a hand around Isabella’s back and rubbing slow circles. “Mommy’s going to need rest. Focus. She’s still getting ready to bring the babies earthside…and you know how much energy that takes.” Her tone is kind, but there’s something tired woven beneath it. I hear it. The weight of the night, the storm, the girls, me…everything pulling at her, demanding more than she has to give. But her eyes are warm, her smile soft. For them, she makes it look easy. “You two need sleep so you can be your best selves when the babies come,” Regina continues. “I need you strong and rested, ready to help when we really need you. Come on, my loves… I’ll tuck you both in.” They hesitate. Isabella grabs my hand even tighter. Julia pouts, her frown suspicious and crumpled.

“Go on,” I say gently, squeezing her little fingers. “I promise…I’m okay. And you won’t hear a thing, okay? Momma will do her quiet magic. She’ll enhance your room too, just in case the sleepy spell doesn’t do the trick. Soundproofed. Cozy.”

“Why?” Isabella presses, giving me that look, one eyebrow slightly cocked like a tiny lawyer ready to call me on every loophole.

“Because…” I start, then pause as another ripple tears across my back, low and dull and lingering. I breathe through it, forcing a smile through the haze. “Because you’re already scared of the storm. And… sometimes when a baby’s being born, it can sound scary too, even if it’s not. There might be some noise. There might be some yelling, or no no words.”

“Like when I stubbed my toe on the door?” Julia asks innocently. I can’t help it…I laugh, breathless but real.

“Exactly like that.” They giggle a little, and I pull them close. Somehow…somehow…I manage to open my arms wide enough, curling around them even as I sit hunched and half-twisted on the bench. I breathe them in. Their scent. Their heat. The little gasp of their breath against my neck. I press kisses to their heads, to their cheeks, to their temples, memorizing every inch of them like they’re about to grow up overnight. “You’re going to be amazing big sisters,” I whisper. “I’m so proud of you both already.”

Isabella beams like the storm never existed. Julia burrows against me with one final squishy hug that nearly knocks the wind from me. Regina moves in, crouching to meet them at eye level. I don’t catch what she says…something low and sacred, just for them…but they nod, both of them, solemn and brave. They pause at the door. Look back one last time.

“I love you,” Isabella says, her voice soft and small and filled with more than any child her age should hold.

“I love you more,” I whisper. And then they’re gone…into Julia’s room. I hear the soft click of the bedroom door, the hum of the TV flickering on. Static. Familiar voices. An enchanted volume spell mutes the sound on our side. And just like that, it’s quiet again. Too quiet.

“I’ll be there in just a minute.” Regina calls after them, before turning back to me.  “I’m going to do what now? Magic sleep?” Her voice is dry, exasperated…but I know her too well. She’s already made up her mind, it’s against what we would normally do. She wants to be sure this is what I want. I plead, barely holding it in anymore.

“Please,” I say. She steps forward slowly. Her brow furrows, the weariness behind her eyes showing now that the girls are gone. “I know you can do it. Not a curse, but I know you can make people sleep, safely. The spell you could have, should have used on me. They don’t have uncontrolled magic. They don’t have angry babies trying to be born. Please… help them sleep through this. They don’t need to hear me in pain and be traumatized.”

“Emma… We’ve never used magic on them. Not for anything other than healing.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But just this once. It’s safe. They were already scared from the storm. They wouldn’t sleep through this, Regina. You saw how scared they were when they saw I’m in pain. I need them safe tonight. I need to know they’re sleeping soundly, not listening to me scream.” Her mouth opens…but then she closes it again, her eyes flicking toward the stairs. She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she nods.

“Just this once,” she says, as though reminding herself.

She leaves the room to go to them, and I stand again, finding my balance and realizing I am steadier than I initially thought, begin to pace…slow, deliberate steps between the contractions. My body feels like a foreign object now. My hands cradle my stomach. I whisper calming words to the babies I haven’t yet met. “You’re okay… we’re okay. Just a little longer.” I remember what Gold said about the deal for Regina, to cure her infertility curse that was brought on by the potion.  The deal has to be done immediately after the birth. The thread, the bond…it burns brightest right after. That’s your moment. I glance toward the window, watching the lightning illuminate the trees in flashes of silver and shadow. The thought creeps in…just a quiet whisper. Maybe I should call him. I don’t know how though without Regina knowing, stopping me.  Before I can even sort through the threads of what just happened…before the silence has fully settled…Regina’s back.

She steps into the room like she’s carrying the weight of two storms: one raging outside the house, and the other held tight behind her ribs. Her robe is still damp around the edges from where it brushed against the wet tile in the bathroom with me earlier, her hair pulled back loosely, stray strands curling in the humidity. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me from across the room, her eyes tracing the shape of me like she’s still trying to count all the pieces and figure out which ones are cracked.  As I moves…steadily now…walking back and forth with more purpose than before, more grounded. I track her with my eyes, too into it to stop, but unwilling to look away. Finally, she stops in front of me, forcing me to stop walking and gives a small, tired smile.

“They’re sleeping,” she says, voice low, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. “Their room is enchanted. Soundproof. Safe. They won’t hear a thing. Or be afraid.” My breath slips out in a soft exhale.

“Thank you.” Regina crouches slightly, brushing a hand on my arm, steadying me without needing to say why.

“Are you sure you’re okay to walk?” I nod, though it’s slower than I mean it to be.

“I think… earlier was just the shock. The weight. Everything hitting me all at once. I’m more steady now.” It’s not exactly a lie. It’s not exactly the truth, either. I glance up and meet her gaze. She’s watching me too closely again…like I’m a candle she’s afraid will flicker out. Like she’s memorizing the lines of my face in case I vanish between one breath and the next. Her eyes flick over my expression, down to my mouth, to my shoulders, like she’s trying to track pain the way she would a pulse. I try to give her something strong to hold onto. But all I have left is the echo of adrenaline, the ache of the last contraction still humming in my spine, and a wild, bone-deep certainty that everything is happening too fast.

“They’re coming,” I say. The words fall out of me, not frantic…just true. I lean my head back for a second, trying to catch my breath, then push forward again, too restless to stay still for long. “No matter what we do. No matter how much we prepare or delay…they’re coming, tonight, Regina.” She doesn’t ask how soon. Not yet. And maybe that silence is the kindest thing she can give me right now. No platitudes. No denial. Just the quiet grace of understanding.

“So let’s move,” I say, my voice suddenly more alive, more certain, like I’ve hit the eye of the storm. “Let’s walk or pace or do that ridiculous sideways hip sway you had me do for pain relief when I was in labor with Isabella.” A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth despite the pain. “I just can’t sit here waiting for the next wave to take me under. They’re safe now. The danger has passed. The rest is just… time.” I glance down at my belly, resting my palm against the curve that is tighter and heavier than ever before. The life inside me shifts in response…a slow roll, a foot pressing up just beneath my ribs like they heard me.

“They’re coming regardless,” I whisper, almost reverently. “So let’s help them get here.”

A low rumble answers me. Thunder…soft at first, like a warning growl stitched into the bones of the house. Then another, louder this time. The windows tremble in their frames. I can feel the electricity in the air like it’s brushing the fine hairs along my arms. The scent of rain pushes against the edges of the sealed house…earthy, heavy, ancient. It smells like magic. Like power on the brink. Regina doesn’t say anything. She just offers me her hands. And I take them.

“Dance with me, then,” Regina says quietly.

I blink at her, confused for half a second, until she lifts her hand with a subtle flick of her fingers. A soft crackle hums through the room, and the radio on the dresser stirs to life. The music that flows out is slow, old-fashioned, wrapped in strings and warmth…the kind of melody meant for candlelight and silk dresses. Something timeless. Something that once would’ve played in a grand ballroom with marble floors and chandeliers. Not in a storm-soaked house where I’m barefoot, half-limping through early labor in my nightgown.

“Really?” I ask, my voice small. Fragile. I don’t dare let myself reach for hope unless I’m sure it’s real. Regina smiles. Not wide. Not theatrical. Just soft and steady, like the curve of her lips is holding something sacred.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It’s silly, maybe. But it’s a distraction. If you want it. You said you want to move…” Of course I want it. Of course I do. I nod, a little choked, and she turns the volume up…just enough for the music to fill the room like a balm. The rhythm settles in my bones almost instantly. Not enough to erase the pain, but enough to quiet the noise in my head. She steps toward me, offering her hands again, just like she did earlier. But this time, they don’t carry urgency. Just warmth. Comfort. She guides me gently into her arms, her palm resting on the small of my back, the other linking with mine.

And then we sway. Not perfectly. Not like the last time we danced in some enchanted moment years ago. This is slower. Heavier. My belly makes it awkward, and every other step has to pause for a breath or a shift in balance, or to breathe with the contractions because I keep tensing up, holding my breath. But Regina’s there through all of it…anchoring me, adjusting to my pace, her movements molding around mine like she’s remembering our rhythm from another life. One song melts into the next. The contractions still come, low and deep, but I can ride them like waves now. As long as I’m in her arms, moving like this, they’re not crushing me. They crest and fall, and in the between moments, I’m swaying in the warmth of her chest, my cheek pressed to her collarbone, her heartbeat thrumming against my temple.

One song. Then another. Then a third. At some point, I lose count. I stop trying to track the time, or the minutes between contractions. I’m not sure how long we’ve been dancing…how long we’ve just been here…but it doesn’t matter. My head is nestled against her shoulder, and her chin rests on top of mine. We move in a slow circle across the room. The rain taps soft against the windows like applause. The thunder rolls on in the distance, but the storm feels far away now. I can feel the shift inside me. Subtle, but unmistakable. The babies are moving lower. It’s working. The gentle sway, the motion, the way Regina presses her hands into my back just so…it’s all encouraging them downward. Everything in me is opening, stretching, making way. My hips ache with it, but not in a bad way. It’s purposeful. Natural.

“Regina…” I whisper, not even sure what I’m trying to say. She just hums, a soft affirmation, and holds me closer. So we keep dancing. In the middle of the storm. In the middle of everything. Because this…this is our way through. It’s been an hour. Maybe more.

Time has started to feel slippery…untrustworthy. The contractions haven’t settled into any kind of predictable rhythm. They come and go like the tide, sometimes strong, sometimes barely there, always enough to keep my body tense and my thoughts in a slow, spiraling loop. They’re painful, sure…but not like earlier. Not like the hellfire of that first hour when the potion tore through me and dragged my children’s bodies into full-term shape in a matter of minutes. This is something else. Slower. Duller. Lingering. Still, a quiet dread starts to settle in the pit of my stomach.

What if nothing’s happening? What if it was all for nothing? What if the magic just left me stuck in this halfway place…hurting, swollen, exhausted…and I’m not even progressing? Just…feeling it. Endlessly. No end. No arrival. No relief. I shift my weight from foot to foot, pressing my palm to the small of my back, trying to ease the ache there. Regina is nearby, just out of reach, tidying something that doesn’t need to be tidied…her way of coping. Always moving. Always doing. I watch her for a beat. I stop moving, and look up at her, trying to ignore how much I want to kiss her.  And then, out of nowhere, I hear myself say,

“Do you want to get something to eat?” She looks up immediately, startled, like I’ve just asked her to go stargazing in the middle of a hurricane.

“You’re hungry… during this?” she asks cautiously, brows lifted in uncertainty. I blink, then nod.

“Actually… yeah.” I press a hand to my belly, not in pain but almost in disbelief. “I think I am.” It’s a strange realization. I don’t remember feeling hungry for weeks. My body’s been too focused on surviving. Too tight. Too wired. But right now, as I stand here in the afterglow of fire and contraction, my stomach gives the faintest rumble. Regina crosses toward me, concern still written between her brows.

“I could bring you something. I don’t mind.” But I shake my head, already feeling the itch beneath my skin to move, to do.

“No… let’s go downstairs.” She tilts her head.

“You want to walk?”

“There’s more room down there,” I say softly. “More space to move around. And it’s further from the girls.”

“They’re not going to hear anything,” she reminds me, a gentle edge to her voice. “They’re in Julia’s room, sleeping. I did the enchantments like you asked me to.”

“I know…” I pause, swallowing down the tightness in my throat. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I need a change of scenery. Something simple. Something…normal.” She nods slowly, still watching me closely.

“Let’s make pancakes,” I murmur, and the words are so absurd, so ridiculously ordinary in the middle of all this chaos that I almost laugh. “Real, syrupy, blueberry ones. With whipped cream, if we still have any.” A smile plays at the corner of Regina’s mouth…tired, but genuine.

“That’s what you want right now? Pancakes?”

“Desperately,” I say, and it’s the first time I’ve felt anything close to joy in hours.

She offers me her arm without another word, and together we make our way out of the room…through the dim hallway, past the soft hum of the girls’ enchanted slumber, and down the stairs toward the kitchen, where the lights are warm and the world, for just a moment, feels beautifully… human. I’m still in labor. I’m still scared. But there’s something sacred in the ordinary, and right now, pancakes feel like hope. The kitchen glows in the dim storm light, golden and unreal. Rain taps at the windows in steady rhythm as if the sky itself is holding its breath. We move like we’re suspended in some strange, hushed world…a pocket of calm that shouldn’t exist, not here, not now. But it does. Regina flips a pancake on the griddle like we aren’t in the middle of labor. Like I’m not contracting every few minutes. Like the storm hasn’t flooded the roads and boxed us into this house with no exit but through. She moves with practiced grace…slippers scuffing across tile, her robe cinched tighter over the cotton shirt she changed into after the shower. She hums softly under her breath, some tune I can’t name. I sit at the kitchen table, I had pulled one of her oversized sweaters on, over my dress, feeling too chilled. There’s a towel beneath me, just in case, and I’ve already had to pause and breathe through two contractions. They’re duller now, manageable. But they still come…steady, like the beat of a slow drum. And I’m starving. Regina sets a plate in front of me, steam curling up from the pancakes like a quiet offering.

“Real maple syrup, too,” she murmurs, nudging it closer. I smile faintly.

“You spoil me.” She arches a brow but doesn’t smile back. Instead, she watches me…too still. Too quiet.

“What?” I ask between bites, and it’s genuine. I’m not hiding anymore. Not really. The potion is long gone. The pain came and went in its fiery blaze. And now? Now I feel…suspended. As if we’re in the eye of the storm…peaceful, strange, and too quiet to trust. Regina doesn’t answer right away. She moves to sit beside me, still watching. Her fingers toy with the edge of her robe belt, twisting it once, twice.

“This is going to sound ridiculous,” she says finally, voice low. “But you’re too calm.”

 “What? That does sound ridiculous. I’m in pain...in a matter of hours I am going to be…”It doesn’t even matter though. I just let her finish whatever she was going to say and focus on my food.

“Don’t get me wrong…Gods, I’m grateful you’re not screaming in agony right now…but this…” She gestures vaguely. “Pancakes? Laughter? You’re radiant. Sweaty, yes. Exhausted, yes. But... this isn’t what I expected from magically-induced labor.” I shrug, chewing slowly.

“Maybe the worst of it already passed.”

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, her gaze darkening slightly, “your magic is holding back the worst of it. Shielding you from the trauma until the last possible moment.” I stop chewing. She notices. She always notices. “I don’t say that to scare you,” she adds gently. “But I know your magic better than you think. You’re powerful, Emma. Even exhausted. Even pregnant. You’ve always used magic to protect others. It’s not a stretch to believe it’s protecting you now. Slowing things. Muffling it.” I set my fork down.

“So…what, it’s a trick? A delay?”

“I think,” she says slowly, “it’s giving you one last moment to breathe. One last moment to sit here with me, in the quiet, with syrup on your lips and nothing breaking yet.” Her words hang between us like mist. Sticky. Tender. True.

“And when that moment ends?” I whisper. She reaches out, brushing her thumb across my cheek.

“Then I’ll be there,” she says. “Holding your hand. Or holding your hair. Or holding you together, if I have to.”

And just like that…my throat closes. I blink against the burn behind my eyes and nod, one hand drifting to my stomach, to the shifting weight beneath. They’re still moving. Still coming. But for now? I take another bite of pancake. Let the warmth fill me. Let the moment stretch. Because I know she’s right. The storm hasn’t truly broken yet. But when it does… I she’ll be here, because she always is.

We finish the pancakes slowly, like we’re both trying to delay the inevitable. I linger over the last bite, letting the syrup coat my tongue, savoring the warmth…not just from the food, but from her. From the flickering candles she lit during a power flicker, the hum of her presence across the table. The storm still groans outside, but in here, everything feels wrapped in cotton. Distant. Dreamlike.

Regina leans back in her chair, stretching slightly. She thinks I don’t notice the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her eyes flutter half-closed for a second too long. But I do. I see the wear behind her eyes, the tension she’s trying to carry in silence. She’s been at this for hours…days really. Weeks. Carrying me through each storm. Each fall. Each contraction. Each choice I didn’t know how to make. And now I see it…plain as day. She’s exhausted.

“Let me do the dishes,” I say gently, pushing my plate back and trying to rise with care. Her eyes snap to mine.

“Absolutely not.” I blink, startled.

“Regina…”

“No,” she says, firmer now. “You’re in labor, Emma.”

“I’m not actively crowning, or doubled over in pain.” I deadpan. “I can handle soap and water. You just made dinner, this late at night, and you’re exhausted.”

“And you just drank a magical potion a few hours ago that set your uterus on fire spent an hour on the floor writhing in agonizing pain, and then proceeded to be on your feet for over an hour trying to dance through the contractions before you finally sat down so you could eat, but that’s enough rest so…” she snaps. “Sit. Down. Miss Swan…”

“Ew.” I say, wrinkling up my nose. “Don’t call me that. You only call me that when you’re mad at me.” It’s a force of habit she never truly broke after all of those years of me being Emma Swan, Miss Swan, Sheriff Swan. Mrs. Swan-Mills doesn’t have the same ring to it when said in a frustrating or condescending tone. I hold her gaze. She’s not even looking at the plates anymore…just me. Her hands are already moving, collecting forks and napkins with quiet fury. I see it now…this isn’t about the dishes. It’s about control. About holding on to the only pieces of this night she can hold.

“Emma.” She says, correcting herself. “Sit down. Please.”

“You don’t have to do everything,” I say, softer now. “Let me help.”

“You are helping,” she mutters, turning to the sink. “This is helping, you resting is helping.”

I don’t argue. Not again. Not because she’s right…but because she’s hurting. Because she’s scared. Because she needs this moment to keep her hands busy, to scrub plates instead of falling apart. So I let her. I stand slowly and move to the window instead, one hand pressed lightly to my belly. The babies shift against my palm, slow and low. I watch the lightning flicker against the glass like a war playing out far from here. I let the rhythm of her washing…water, scrub, rinse…fill the silence between us.

And in that silence, I understand her. She’s not just washing dishes. She’s anchoring herself. Because once those plates are clean, once that last fork is set on the towel to dry… we’re out of moments to stall. And the next one? Will change everything, but it’s not time, not yet. Regina stands by the window, her posture stiff and elegant in a way that only she could manage…even now. The last plate is drying beside the sink, forgotten, untouched. Her arms are folded across her chest, her fingers digging lightly into the sleeves of her robe. She’s staring out into the storm again, the glass pane flickering with pale lightning every few seconds, outlining her silhouette like a ghost.

She hasn’t said a word in nearly five minutes. The house feels too quiet…too still…except for the distant hum of the storm, the creak of wind against the shutters, and the soft ticking of the wall clock above the stove. The pancakes are gone. The dishes are done. There’s nothing left to distract us anymore. And then, finally, without turning around, she says it.

“Did you want this to happen?”

The words are soft. Barely louder than the storm. But they crash through the silence like thunder. I look at her. Really look. Her back is straight, but her whole body hums with tension—like a thread stretched too tight.

“Regina…”

“You wanted them born tonight,” she says again, still facing the storm. There’s no bite to it, not exactly. Just this raw, worn-out edge beneath her voice. Like she’s been trying not to ask for a while. Like the question has been gnawing at her since the moment Gold told her I was in labor, since the moment my water broke. And it lands hard…because it’s not anger I hear. It’s grief. Muddled with fear. And something else, too…something quieter. Like betrayal, dressed in heartbreak. A contraction begins to twist low in my belly. Slow at first, then tighter. I suck in a breath, bracing against the dull ache as it builds, but the tension in my chest is worse.

“I didn’t do this,” I say, the words strained, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t cause this. I didn’t put myself into labor.” Her reflection flickers in the glass…stormlight dancing across her face in fractured ribbons. She doesn’t move. Not at first. But I see the tightening of her jaw. The glisten in her eyes.

“You asked me to put you into labor,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it. “You begged me, earlier, to put you into labor, so you could take the potion, so you could be done. You said you couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I know what I said,” I murmur, fingers curling over the curve of my belly, grounding myself against the rising tide. “But this… this wasn’t that. I didn’t ask for this. It just… it happened. I didn’t want it to be tonight. I was just…”I say, looking for an excuse coming up empty handed. “I was just miserable and talking, Regina…everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“But still you got your wish?” She asks, I don’t say anything right away, and then she’s silent again too. The storm rumbles overhead, wind clawing at the windowpanes. In the distance, thunder growls low and long, like something ancient and angry stirring awake. I close my eyes.

“Please, Regina,” I whisper, emotion clawing its way up my throat, thick and sharp. “I don’t want to fight with you. Not tonight. Not now.”

There’s a pause. And then… I hear her breathe. It’s just a single exhale, but it’s enough. Her shoulders fall, just slightly, and I can feel the air shift in the room. That fragile wall between us—the one I didn’t even realize had been rising…starts to lower. When I open my eyes, she’s turned around. And she’s looking at me. Really looking. And it nearly breaks me. Because her eyes aren’t angry anymore. They’re scared. And not just for the babies. Not just for me. For all of it. For how this night unraveled so fast. For how we keep stumbling toward something we can’t undo. For how she can’t fix this with magic, or time, or love alone. For how helpless she feels watching me hurt.

“I didn’t want this to happen like this,” I say again, quieter now…like the truth might somehow land softer if I whisper it. “But I do want them. And I want you. I just…” I trail off, throat tight, hands curled around the growing weight of my belly. “I’m scared too.” The words hover between us, suspended in the heavy air of the kitchen, thick with the scent of syrup and storm and something else…something more intimate. Rawness. Vulnerability. The honesty that only arrives when all the distractions have finally fallen away.

“But we’ve made the most of it… right?” I go on, trying to shape the silence into something gentler. “We danced. We had dinner.” My voice breaks around a half-laugh, shaky and small. “We talked without screaming kids in the background.” I search her face, hoping the flicker of humor lands somewhere soft. “It’s not ideal, no. But… it’s been a nice experience.” The last word falls a little flat, but it’s the best I can do. It’s not elegant. It’s not profound. But it’s true. Regina doesn’t respond right away. Her mouth opens slightly like she might speak…say something sarcastic or soft or comforting…but she doesn’t get the chance.

Because just then, another contraction hits me like a slow burn igniting in my lower spine. I grip the armrest, knuckles whitening, riding it out with breath that trembles at the edges. My whole body curls inward with the pressure, my knees angling in, my abdomen tightening like a fist around fire. I don’t cry out this time. I just breathe through it. Count it. One… two… three… When it passes, I blink back the sheen of tears in my eyes and look up… And she’s there. She’s not by the window anymore. She’s right in front of me. Kneeling on the floor like she was always meant to be there, like gravity just pulled her down the moment I needed her most. Her hands slide into mine, warm and grounding, thumbs brushing over my knuckles in steady, slow circles. Her eyes meet mine…deep and dark and steady…and I feel everything in me still.

“You’re not alone,” she says softly. Not a whisper. Not a plea. Just a promise. “No matter how this ends… no matter what happens next… I’m with you. We’re still in this together.”

It’s not magic. Not in the usual sense. But it feels like it. Like something ancient and steady and real is being threaded between our hearts again…re-knotted after everything we’ve been through tonight. Every fray. Every silence. Every whispered fear. And just like that, something inside me shifts. My breath slows. My shoulders drop. The panic unclenches just a little. The storm still howls outside. Lightning flashes through the window, casting brief ghosts of light against the far wall. The wind claws at the edges of the house like it’s trying to find a way in. But in here, in this quiet moment, with her hands wrapped around mine and our foreheads nearly touching…I am okay.

It’s been hours since I took the potion.  Hours of this… this low, burning ache that pulses like a second heartbeat, deep in my spine, wrapping around my hips like iron chains. They’re not consistent…these contractions. Not rhythmic enough to say “this is it,” not chaotic enough to say “false alarm.” Just relentless. Grinding. Lingering. And worse…they’re not quiet. I bite down on a folded blanket as another one rolls through me, muffling the sound that claws its way up my throat. I can’t let the girls hear. Not like this. I keep forgetting that Regina has done me the kindness of ensuring that they won’t hear. It’s mostly needing a distraction, distractions help.

So I move. I walk. It’s more like a slow shuffle, one hand braced against the cool wall, the other cradling the heavy weight of my belly as I ease my way down the hallway. The storm has quieted outside, but inside my body, the thunder is still rolling. The hallway is dim…Regina must’ve enchanted the sconces again, their soft golden glow casting flickers of warmth over the photos on the wall. One of them catches my eye: me and Regina, holding a much-younger Isabella at the beach. Julia in my belly at the time, my hand resting over the swell, our faces sun-kissed and laughing. I breathe through another wave and let my fingers graze the edge of the frame. That life…the one in the photograph…it feels galaxies away from this moment. But I want to get back there. I want my girls to see me strong again. Whole. Not pacing the house in the dead of night like a ghost trying to outrun her own body. Footsteps pad behind me…barefoot and cautious. Regina.

“Emma,” she says softly, and I don’t turn to her yet. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll cry. Or collapse. So I just shake my head.

“I’m fine,” I whisper. “I was just checking on the girls, they’re still sleeping. I want them to stay sleeping.” She doesn’t argue. Not yet. Instead, she steps closer, silent but solid, a steady presence in the flickering light. I feel her reach for me, fingertips brushing lightly against my lower back, grounding me.

“We’ll do this your way,” Regina murmurs from beside me, her voice quiet but steady, threading through the low hum of pain and breath like silk pulled through a needle. “But we have to find a way to regulate the pain, Emma. This isn’t sustainable.”

“I’m walking…I’m okay, Regina. This isn’t as bad as it looks.” I know she’s right. I don’t want her to be, but she is. Her hand moves to my lower back again, her magic not flaring…just her, warm and present. Real.

“My magic can’t fix this,” she continues, more gently now, as if trying to make the truth less cruel. “You know that. There’s nothing broken to heal… nothing out of place to reverse. Your body is doing exactly what it’s meant to. This…” she gestures vaguely, helplessly, toward my belly and the storm of contractions tightening there, “….this is the problem we had with Julia.”

FLASHBACK

And just like that, we’re back there. The memory doesn’t return all at once. It never has. It comes in jagged, broken pieces, like shards of glass catching the light. Fragments, scattered and sharp. Some clearer than others. All of them soaked in pain. I remember the blood first. Too much of it. The kind of pain that steals breath and swallows sound. Regina’s voice, low and firm but barely holding back panic…“We’re going to the hospital. Now.” My mother’s face, pale and unsure, clutching Isabella in the hallway, whispering something I couldn’t make out. How she wasn’t even supposed to be there, but the storm had come on so suddenly. The way Regina kissed Isabella’s forehead before wrapping me in a blanket and guiding me through the storm.

The blizzard was merciless…white-out conditions, snow thick and blinding, the roads iced over like glass. I remember Regina helping me into the car, her arms strong, her mouth set in that determined line that always meant don’t argue with me. Her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her other hand clutching the phone, barking our location to 911 letting them know we were on the way to the hosptial between contractions that hit me like waves with no warning.

I was in the passenger seat, legs apart, trying to keep from pushing…there is blood, too much blood with every contraction… I’m trying and failing. My body betrayed me, or maybe it knew better than I did. The baby needed to come out. Right then. I was sobbing, begging her not to stop the car, to just drive faster, even though I knew there wasn’t time. Then the pressure hit me…sharp and unbearable…and I screamed. There was no transition, no progression. I felt her crown then  I felt my body bear down, not with me, but through me. It was as if my magic had taken over, forcing the baby out of me before I could even catch my breath. And in that blinding moment of agony, I pushed with every part of myself…magic and muscle and sheer desperation…until she was in my arms, one push…Slick and crying. I pulled her to my chest, tucked her beneath my sweater for warmth, my body shaking from cold and adrenaline. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong. It was too cold. There was too much blood.

And I cried…not from joy, not at first…though it should have been, but because I thought I’d ruined everything and I was in shock.  Regina’s car was soaked in blood. I kept whispering apologies between sobs, barely able to hold myself upright,

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I ruined your car…”

And Regina…gods, Regina had already stopped the car pulling into a parking lot…her hands were already on me, checking the baby, assessing me, and frowning like I was the ridiculous part of this equation. Her voice was clipped but soft, “Cars can be cleaned.”

Everything went blurry after that. She used her magic to scan me, frowned. Left, and then my door was flung open. Cold air rushed in like a scream. Regina was there again, leaning in, forcing my seat to recline, her face tight with fear and focus. Her magic surged through her fingertips and into my body before I could speak.

It didn’t feel like healing. It felt like lightning. I remember the warmth of her magic swallowing the cold, flooding me from the inside, her hands trembling despite the calm on her face. I remember her whispering my name like a spell she couldn’t afford to get wrong. And then… Darkness. Then sterile light. I woke up three days later in the hospital. Alone for a moment, before I turned my head and saw her…Regina…in the corner, asleep in the chair beside my bed, the baby swaddled in the bassinet next to her. I realized I’d survived. We both had.

END FLASHBACK

“I’m okay,” I whisper, not because it’s fully true, but because I need it to be. “This is different. It’s not like that…It’s just a slow process. I thought… I thought it would be faster the fourth time around.” I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a gasp, tight and raw. I press my hand harder against the wall. Regina huffs softly, a breath caught somewhere between exasperation and affection.

“Clearly, after impatiently trying to plot their escape all those times, the twins have now decided they’d rather stay put a little longer.”

“They’re stubborn, already learning from the best.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.” Her voice is dry, but her palm finds mine again, and she threads our fingers together without hesitation. “They’re mine too, remember?” The warmth in her touch eases something sharp in me, something bone-deep and unrelenting. I lean against her a little more, letting her steady me.

“I just need to keep moving,” I say again, though the words are thinner now, more fragile.

She doesn’t try to stop me. But she doesn’t let go either. And for now, that’s enough. Because deep down…I trust her to catch me. But I need to do this my way. Even if the way is messy and stubborn and born of desperation. Because that’s how I’ve survived everything else. And this? This is no different. Every movement feels deliberate…controlled, even as the storm inside me builds. There’s still a slow leak with every contraction. The pressure comes in waves…tight, burning, then easing just enough to breathe. They’re about six minutes apart now. Not unbearable, but real, and they’ve found a rhythm. Strong. I pace. Back and forth across the living room. I count my steps. Twenty seven from one end to the other. Then I turn and do it again. And again. I breathe. I sweat. I mutter under my breath. Regina doesn’t interrupt. The air feels… wrong. I pause by the window and peer through the slats of the blinds. The storm is growing stronger outside. The kind that turns the sky into veins of pulsing light and shakes the walls with thunder. Rain pelts the windows sideways, heavy and constant. The streets are still flooded. rivers of brown water racing down the pavement, pooling at the curb. The lights flicker above me once, then again before completely going out. Great. I hear Regina’s footsteps as she comes to stand beside me. Her arms fold tight across her chest as she takes in the view, her brows pinched with worry. The wind howls.

“Perfect night for a blackout,” I mutter.

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring out into the wet, electric dark. And I know exactly what she’s thinking. I can feel the panic rising in her.  We’re snowed in. But with thunder. With no escape route, no safe drive, no portal she’d dare use in this storm with a woman in labor and twins on the way. I stop pacing, standing beside her at the window, one hand pressed to the center of my belly. The twins shift again…strong. Purposeful. They’re so much bigger already. I feel it in every inch of my body. Regina’s gaze flicks toward me, assessing, as if she’s trying to decide how this is going to play out.

Instead of arguing with me, or throwing it in my face that this was a bad idea Regina lifts her hand, fingers flexing with that quiet precision she always has when working subtle magic. There’s no incantation, no dramatic glow…just a shift in the air, a soft pulse that radiates from her palm like a heartbeat. The storm still rages outside, thunder low and persistent in the distance, but inside, the atmosphere bends to her will. The overhead lights don’t flicker back on, exactly…this isn’t electricity. It’s softer than that. Warmer. The kind of glow that mimics candlelight but never wavers, hovering gently in the corners of the ceiling, casting a golden hue over the living room. The shadows pull back, not vanishing entirely, but softening around the edges, like they’ve been told they’re no longer needed.

She moves from the living room to the kitchen and then the downstairs bathroom with a simple wave of her hand each time, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. Wherever she goes, that same welcoming light blooms into being, calm and even, like magic tailored to soothe and protect. Not bright enough to wake the girls upstairs. Not jarring to a laboring mother’s eyes. Just enough to see clearly, to move gently through the hours ahead.

“These are the places we’ll need most,” Regina murmurs, more to herself than to me, but I hear it anyway. There’s purpose in her movements now…practicality wrapped in care. Preparing the space as if we’re about to cast some sacred spell instead of bring life into the world. And in a way… we are. “What is it with you and storms?” she asks, not unkindly, but, throwing a hand toward the window where lightning dances along the flooded street. “You wanted Julia born at home, and we got a blizzard. You wanted the twins born here, and now it’s a goddamn typhoon.” “What are we going to do if something happens?” She asks softly. “We don’t own a boat, or a boating license, and you know I won’t poof you in extreme weather. I can’t, Emma. It’s too dangerous. If the spell misfires mid-transport…you could end up in a wall, or bleeding out in the middle of a forest somewhere.  Magic isn’t that precise when the sky is splitting itself open. There’s too much interference.” Her voice cracks a little at the edges now, and I finally meet her gaze. She’s not angry. Not really. She’s terrified. Just like me. I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to the swell of my belly. The twins are quiet now, resting in the eye of the storm, but my body aches with their presence. With everything I’m carrying.

“I know,” I whisper. “I know it’s dangerous. I never wanted to put us at risk. I just…” I blink fast, brushing away a tear before it can fall. “I just wanted to bring them into the world wrapped in love. In the home we built. With you. I can’t control the weather, Regina…you know this isn’t me.” That’s when her expression finally shifts. Just a little. The crease between her brows softens. Her jaw unclenches. She looks at me like she’s seeing past the storm, past the pain, past the stubbornness…to the part of me that’s just a woman trying her best to hold everything together. “I’ll be okay. I just need you to trust me.”

I can feel it shifting…my body, the air, the rhythm of everything. The contractions are stronger now. Sharper. They’ve picked up speed, coming faster, closer together…maybe five minutes apart, maybe less. I’m not timing them anymore. There’s no point. I can feel it in the way my breath shortens, in the way my spine curls each time one rolls through. The pressure is real. Heavy. Relentless. And I’m starting to fray. Regina moves through the living room again, adjusting something near the couch. She says something…it’s not cruel, not even pointed…but it lands wrong. I don’t even know what she said, or what I responded but we’re just, too close, annoying each other, not intentionally, but all the same.

“Well, maybe if we’d done this the normal way, we’d be resting comfortably in a hospital bed with a nurse to snap at instead of each other.” I turn slowly, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Thanks,” I say flatly, breath catching on the edge of another contraction. “That’s really helpful right now.” She winces, just barely, and I can see the regret flicker across her face, but she doesn’t apologize…not yet. She’s tired. We both are. And her brand of exhaustion always comes out in control and commentary. I lean forward, pressing my hands into my knees, trying to breathe through the next wave, but it hits harder than the last. My jaw clenches. My entire body stiffens, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed by how much I want to do something about it. Fix it.

“I hate this,” I grit out between breaths. “I hate not being able to fix it.” Regina is by my side before I even realize she’s moved. She doesn’t say anything yet. Just rests a hand lightly on my back, steady. Grounding. But it doesn’t help this time…not the way it usually does.

“I don’t remember it being like this,” I say, voice cracking. “With the girls, it wasn’t… this drawn out. With Henry, it was faster. With them, I could do something. I had adrenaline, I had options. This…this feels like I’m just…just waiting to suffer.”

“Emma…” Regina starts gently, but I wave her off, the pain turning sharp again as another contraction crests. It’s not just physical…it’s the helplessness, the heat and pulse of magic coiled in my chest that I can’t use without risking the babies. It’s the storm raging outside. It’s how long this is taking and how not in control I feel. I squeeze my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek.

“I just want it to be over. I want them here. I want my body back. I want to stop hurting.” Regina crouches in front of me now, hand sliding down my arm, fingers curling around mine. She doesn’t say I’m being dramatic. She doesn’t offer false reassurances. She just holds me through it…her eyes softer now, the fight gone from her voice.

“They’re coming, Emma,” she murmurs. “I know it’s taking longer than you expected, but your body is doing exactly what it needs to. You’re not broken. You’re not powerless. You’re bringing them here. Every breath, every contraction… it matters.” I let my forehead fall against hers. My breathing is ragged, and the tears are closer than I want them to be. But for now, I don’t fall apart. Not completely. I nod once. Just enough to let her know I’m still here. Still fighting. Even if it doesn’t feel like anything is ever going to change.

“Kiss me, Regina… please.” My voice is barely above a whisper, cracked and frayed from everything I’m holding in…pain, fear, exhaustion, frustration. “I know I’m a wreck, I know I look…hell, I feel…repulsive right now, but just… please.” She’s standing just a few feet away, watching me with that sharp, unreadable gaze that always makes me feel seen and scrutinized all at once. I reach for her like the tide reaching for the moon, not quite able to stand still anymore. “Oxytocin,” I add, a shaky breath catching in my throat. “It’s a natural pain relief.” Her brow arches with clinical precision.

“The amount of oxytocin released during kissing is minimal at best,” she says, voice steady, matter-of-fact, like she’s quoting from some ancient magical medical textbook. “It wouldn’t do much.” I give a tired laugh, more breath than sound, then smile at her with what I hope passes for charm.

“Well… unless you’re game for more, it’s better than nothing, and we don’t have pain relief here.”

That gets her.  Regina's lips twitch…almost a smile, almost a smirk…but it doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. She steps forward finally, slow and deliberate, and kneels at the edge of the couch where I’ve been curled like a storm-ready shell. Her hand finds mine, warm and grounding.

“Oh… it’s not that I’m not game,” she murmurs, voice dipping low, the edge of something suggestive in it. “It’s not that I wouldn’t help you in that way.” Her fingers graze my jaw, brushing a damp strand of hair away with careful precision, like I’m something breakable. “It’s that you’re not thinking clearly. You’re in pain. You’re desperate. And you want to fix that by throwing everything at it like a fireball hoping something sticks.”

“I’m trying to survive this,” I whisper. “It’s been hours…it’s too long.”

“I know,” she says, softer now, her forehead nearly resting against mine. “And I hate seeing you like this. I hate that I can’t fix it. But I won’t take advantage of your pain, even if you’re asking me to.”

“I’m asking you to kiss me, not tie me to a bed,” I snap, the words sharper than I intend…but they land hollow, without heat. Just tired. Just aching. Regina’s eyes flick to mine, wide and glistening, her arms still folded, her spine drawn tight like she’s holding back more than she’s letting show. She doesn’t flinch at my tone. She just… breathes. One slow inhale. Then another.

“I’m not saying no because I don’t want you, Emma,” she says softly, her voice barely more than a thread. It catches at the end, a tremble slipping through her resolve. “I’m saying no because I do. Because I love you. And when I kiss you like that again…really kiss you…I want it to be because we’re both fully in it. Not just because you’re in pain. Not because you’re grasping for something to hold on to while your body’s being torn apart from the inside.” She steps closer, but doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Her hands hover near mine, aching to close the distance but still holding restraint. “And if you ever want to do something spicy or ridiculous in labor,” she adds, a weak smile tugging at the edge of her mouth, “you’re going to tell me before we get to this point. When you can actually string together full thoughts and remember what consent looks like without wincing between contractions.” I swallow hard. The honesty in her voice cracks something open inside me. Not in a painful way. But in the way love sometimes does when it refuses to let you fall all the way apart. There’s a long silence between us…thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… full. My chest trembles with the weight of everything we haven’t said.

“You want me. I want you.” My voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. “Why do the circumstances have to count?” Her lips part slightly, but I keep going. The words slip out before I can stop them, tumbling fast and hot and full of feeling.

“We’ve kissed drunk. Remember? That god-awful hotel room in Boston, when your heels broke and I half carried you while you hobbled six blocks in the rain, because you broke your ankle and were worried about people seeing you heal it?” Her eyes soften. “We kissed at that music festival when we were so high we thought the Ferris wheel was a time machine. We’ve kissed in battlefields, in alleys, under spell work that was barely holding. We’ve kissed in dreams and nightmares and timelines that no longer exist.” My throat tightens. I can’t stop now. I don’t want to. “True love’s kiss has literally saved both of our lives. And, frankly, there was a real lack of consent in at least half of those moments…because one of us was usually unconscious or half-dead.” Regina finally exhales a laugh. It’s small, and it breaks something in her too. Her arms uncross. Her shoulders soften. Her eyes glisten with love and exhaustion.

“I know,” she whispers, stepping into the space between us. “I know all of that. But this moment… this one? I want to remember it as something tender. Not something we reached for to escape the pain. Not something blurred by magic and blood and fear. I want to choose it. With you. And I want you clearheaded when you choose it, too.” Her hand lifts to my cheek, brushing back the damp hair at my temple. I lean into her instinctively, my eyes fluttering closed. And even though she doesn’t kiss me…not yet..her thumb traces the line of my jaw with such reverence that it almost feels like one. My whole body stills, drawn in by the gravity of her.

“I’m here,” she murmurs. “That doesn’t stop just because I’m not kissing you.”

She reaches for me. It’s instinct…I know that. Regina’s always been like that. Her hands speak for her when her voice can’t. They’re the first thing she offers when something inside her gets too big to contain. That softness. That quiet ache to fix. But this time, when her arms lift…when she tries to fold me into her like she always does…I take a step back. It’s small. Barely more than a shift of weight. But it’s enough. Enough for her to feel it. Enough to make her arms falter mid-air before they fall, slowly, like she’s just remembered gravity exists. The silence that follows isn’t empty…it pulses, full and sharp and aching between us. I can feel her eyes on me, stunned, like I just hit her. And maybe I did. Not with fists. But with distance. With silence. With that single step backward that said more than anything else I’ve done all night.

“You’re my wife,” I say. The words are quiet. Hollow at first. Like I’m trying them on and finding they don’t fit right anymore. But then something inside me cracks, something that’s been aching all night, and my voice rises…not in volume, but in bite. “You’re my wife, Regina. So why the hell does it feel like you’re a stranger?” She doesn’t answer. Not at first. Just stares at me like I’ve torn open something sacred. “You keep saying I’m different,” I go on, pressing my hands low against the swell of my belly as another contraction stirs beneath the surface, “but you’ve changed too. You don’t touch me unless you’re checking for signs of labor, or talking to the babies, sometimes you hold me but it always calculated, so careful. You haven’t kissed me properly in weeks. You talk to me like I’m made of glass, and maybe I am breaking, maybe I am fragile…but I don’t need a nurse. I need you.” Still, she says nothing. And that silence is worse than if she’d screamed at me. The pressure in my chest swells like the pain in my back…tight, searing, unrelenting. I dig my nails into my own palms just to feel something that isn’t this… this hollow version of us. “To feel this alone,” I whisper, “with you standing right there… what the hell is that?” Regina’s mouth parts, but it takes her a second to speak. When she does, her voice sounds distant, like she’s talking from the edge of some cliff we both missed falling off.

“What do you want from me, Emma?” And it’s not angry. It’s not even frustrated. It’s exhausted. And that somehow hurts more than if she were furious. I laugh…but it’s a sharp, broken sound. More of a gasp than anything else. My whole body trembles as the next contraction starts to build, but I speak anyway.

“I want you back,” I say. “I want you. Yell at me. Kiss me. Touch me. Throw something. Throw me. I don’t care. You don’t even have to worry about preterm labor anymore…I’m already in labor, Regina. It’s happening. So stop acting like I’ll shatter if you breathe near me.” She flinches. I see it…the way her eyes blink fast, the way her lips twitch like she’s trying not to cry.

“I love you,” I continue, my voice breaking now, “and I know you love me. I know you’re just trying to help, trying to follow every doctor’s order, every precaution, trying to hold me together because God forbid anything else goes wrong. But this… this version of you? The one that brings me water before I even ask, who tiptoes around me like I’m a spell she doesn’t know how to cast without setting off an explosion?” I shake my head, the tears spilling freely now. “You’re not wrong, Regina. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’ve been everything, for me, for our girls, but I don’t recognize us anymore. I just wanted a kiss. Not a doctor. Not a midwife. Not a stranger. You.” She steps forward again…slow this time, cautious, like I might vanish if she moves too fast. Her expression is soft, but shattered.

“I’m not a stranger to you,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how we got so far apart, Emma. I’ve been trying… but I’m scared too. And I don’t know how to fix this without hurting you more.” The words crack me open. But I don’t let her close the distance.

“Am I delivering this baby on my own too?” I ask, and even though I try to say it with strength, my voice wavers. I hate how small it sounds.

“Emma…”

“How are you going to deliver our babies,” I choke, “if you won’t even touch me?” Regina stares at me for one agonizing moment longer. Then she takes another step. I see it happen in her eyes…the moment she decides to throw caution away, to close the space between us…but before she can reach me, I flinch again, retreating just enough. “I don’t even want you to kiss me now,” I say, and it comes out like a slap. “Just leave me alone. I’m fine. I’ll figure this out on my own.” Her hands fall again. Her mouth opens, but no words come. And for the first time all night, she doesn’t try to fix it. She just stands there…heart in her eyes, pain written all over her face…watching me fall apart in real time, knowing there’s nothing she can do to stop it. And maybe that’s the worst part. Because neither of us really knows how to come back from this. Not yet. It’s too hot without the AC. Sweat clings to every inch of me like a second skin, and despite the fans Regina conjured hours ago, the air in the house feels like it's standing still. Too hot. Too thick. Like I’m suffocating on everything I can’t say. I sit forward, bracing my hands against my knees, and exhale slowly. “I’m going to go for a walk,” I say, my voice low but firm, slicing through the stillness of the room like a ripple on glass. Regina is still by the sink, arms crossed, spine straight like steel. Her head jerks slightly at the sound of my voice, then turns slowly, eyes narrowing like she’s not entirely sure she heard me right.

“A walk?” she echoes, like I’ve just told her I’m off to wrestle a manticore in the backyard. “Emma, it’s pouring. There’s a flash flood warning. Lightning.”

“Mmhmm.” I brace my hands against the small of my back as I stand…slowly, carefully. The weight of my belly pulls at everything now: my balance, my breath, my patience. The contractions aren’t unbearable yet, but they’re deeper. Meaner. More insistent. Still… not enough to mean anything. Not enough to stop my body from fidgeting in this place of limbo. “I’m not walking to town,” I add, when she doesn’t move. “Just to the porch. It’s a wraparound. I figured I’d walk it like a track. Get some air. Watch the storm for a few minutes.” Regina stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she says, slowly. “You’re in active labor.”

“Am I?” I mutter, too tired to mask the edge creeping in. “Because it’s been hours, and nothing has changed except that I’m sweaty, irritated, and stuck in this glorified oven of a house, with no electricity with false hope and Braxton hicks for company.” Her brow furrows. Her mouth parts like she’s about to argue again, but I don’t give her the space. “I need to move. I need air. And I need to stop sitting still like we’re waiting for someone to announce that the show’s begun. I need to get away from you and stop fighting with you, because it’s making me hate you.” She doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but her silence lengthens…laced with all the things she’s not saying. I see the fear battling with the fire behind her eyes.

“And what happens if you get struck by lightning on the porch?” she finally snaps, her tone tight.  The corner of my mouth tugs up, though there’s no humor in it.

“Maybe the shock will jumpstart real labor. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

“Emma,” she says, flat and sharp. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree, voice thinner now, more brittle. “It’s not funny. It’s not even frustrating anymore. It’s maddening. I feel like I’m pacing inside my own skin and can’t get out. I’m hot. I’m restless. My body is doing everything and nothing at once. And you…you just keep looking at me like I might fall apart, and I can’t take it.” She breathes in like she might argue again, but I push through. “Just the porch,” I promise. “Ten feet. Just…half an hour… You’ll be able to see me the whole time. But I have to do something. Please.” There’s a shift then…a small one. A flicker behind her eyes that softens the hard line of her jaw. She doesn’t step forward, but she doesn’t stop me either.

“Fine,” she says finally, voice hushed and stiff. “And I’m coming with you.” I sigh… that defeats the purpose of me asking her to be alone.

“You’re exhausted,” I protest gently.

“And you’re in labor,” she fires back, not missing a beat. But the bite is gone. What’s left is pure fear and love, laced so tightly together they’re indistinguishable. Her walls are cracking. I can see it in the way her eyes flicker to my belly like it’s about to drop the sky. I step forward, brushing her hand as I pass.

“I’ll stay where you can see me.” She doesn't answer, but she doesn’t let go of my hand either, not right away. Her grip is tight…almost too tight…like letting go of me means letting go of the last sliver of control she has. At the porch door, I pause. The wood frame is cool under my palm, a grounding presence. Her fingers are still tangled with mine. “You need to rest,” I say softly, and her head snaps toward me, a protest already forming on her lips.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” I whisper. “And that’s okay. You’ve been doing everything…carrying the weight of all this right alongside me, and maybe more. But when it gets real…and it will get real…I need you sharp. I need you at your best.” Her eyes glisten, glassy now, the tight lines around her mouth trembling. “I’m not trying to push you away,” I continue. “I’m trusting you. To breathe. To lay down. To let me walk this off for a few minutes so you don’t fall apart too…we can’t both fall apart at the same time.” She doesn’t speak. Just stares at me like she’s trying to memorize me…barefoot, belly huge, the storm flickering behind me like the world’s been set on fire. “I want your arms to be the first thing they know,” I say. “But to do that, you need to sleep. Even just for a little while.” She’s quiet for a long time. Then slowly, she lets go. Her fingers linger…one last brush, one final squeeze…before falling to her side.

“Call out once,” she murmurs. “And I’ll be there.”

“I know,” I say. “You always are.”

She leans in, presses a kiss to my temple so gentle I nearly weep, and turns back into the house. I step out.

The storm greets me like an old friend…fierce and wild and brimming with heat. The porch creaks beneath me as I pace, slowly, back and forth in the wet warmth. Thunder rolls over the rooftop, and the smell of rain clings to everything. It’s chaos…but it matches something in me. Something primal. Something ancient. And it calms me. The lights flicker behind me. I pause and glance back. One light dims. Then another. She’s casted the same enchantment in our room.  Her silhouette appears in the bedroom window. I can just make out her form…slow, reluctant, crawling into bed like she’s being forced to part with something sacred. I see her hand smooth over the space where I just was. Then she lays her head down. I turn back to the storm and close my eyes. And for just a breath, the waiting doesn’t feel so impossible.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” I whisper, barely moving my lips.

He doesn’t so much arrive as he unfolds from the darkness…like smoke curling from a matchhead, leaking out from a shadow thick enough to swallow sound. He peels away from the porch column where the rain doesn’t quite reach, blending into view with that uncanny smoothness that never fails to raise the hairs on my neck. Always just out of reach of the window. Always just in case she wakes, sees, and changes her mind. Coward. I don’t face him. I don’t need to. I wrap my arms tightly around myself, trying to look casual, transfixed by the storm’s rhythm as I pace the slick wooden boards of the porch. Slow steps. Deep breaths. The air thick with ozone and secrets. Behind me, he hums…low and sharp, like a blade drawn slowly from velvet.

“Ohhh… the Savior’s actually in labor. Imagine that.” His voice drips with mock wonder, serpentine and cold. “If only someone had prophesied such a thing. Oh wait…I did.” Lightning flashes. Thunder growls behind it. My fingers curl tighter over my belly as a contraction builds again…low and tight and mean. He sees the change in my posture, the way my back arches slightly, shoulders stiffen.

“This wasn’t your doing,” I grit out, voice tight with pain. “And Regina said thought the same thing, but I  didn’t summon this. This wasn’t a spell or a prophecy…it just happened.”

“Mmm.” He tuts. “And yet, here you are. Belly full. Magic crawling through the storm like it’s trying to claw its way out of you. It reeks of fate, dearie.” I breathe through the contraction, pressing one palm against the porch rail, grounding myself. The rain lashes the edge of the roofline, just inches from my bare feet. When it finally fades, I exhale…shaky, but standing.

“I didn’t come out here to argue the fates.” My voice is steadier now, steel underneath the ache. “I came to make the deal. The one we talked about in your shop… for Regina.” There’s a pause. A second of silence so taut it might snap. Then…

“Oh, that,” he says, slowly, voice curling with pleasure like smoke from a lit candle. “The grand bargain. You give me what I want… and I make sure this is your last time carrying life in that womb of yours. No accidents. No relapses. No more pregnancies for you.” I don’t answer. I’m already staring straight ahead, heart thundering louder than the storm. “You called me out in the middle of a monsoon,” he muses, stepping a little closer, the glow of his eyes catching in the lightning. “To give something away. Not to save your life. Not to barter for your children. No, no. You came to pay. You’re shaking in your skin, and still you’re more afraid of not doing this than you are of me. Love does make fools of us all.”

“You told me to call when the time was right,” I snap. “Well, it is. She’s asleep. Finally. I got her to rest.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, too smoothly. “That wasn’t entirely you, my dear.” I whip around, my glare cutting through the stormlight.

“What?” He waves one hand lazily, dismissive.

“A charm. Subtle. Calming. Dreamless sleep. She’ll be fine. She’ll wake feeling refreshed, none the wiser. Honestly, I did you a favor. We both know what happened last time she interrupted one of our talks.” I press a hand to my ribs, breathing through the tightness there…not from the baby this time, but from guilt. Rage. Shame. Because he’s right. And that makes it worse. Another contraction rakes through me, stronger now…deep and dragging. I lean heavily on the porch rail and ride it out, gritting my teeth. When it passes, I straighten, voice trembling but clear.

“Tell me what you need from me. Let’s get it over with.” He chuckles softly….low and dark and almost fond.

“Isn’t this more about what you need?” he purrs, his boots tapping faintly across the wooden slats as he inches closer, never quite breaching my space. He doesn’t need to. “Let’s not pretend this is only about Regina. You want certainty. Finality. A future that doesn’t include this happening again.” I nod once, sharp and certain.

“I want to make sure this is it. No more surprises. No more... what-ifs. This is my decision. I want this to be my last pregnancy. My last time carrying. No regrets. No second-guessing. Mine.” His expression flickers…just briefly…into something almost respectful.

“And does your Queen know?” he asks. “About your renewed enthusiasm for self-sacrifice? Or has she conveniently forgotten that little almost-deal we almost sealed?” I stiffen. There’s the real reason I needed this done in the dark. In secret.

“She doesn’t remember we even talked about it,” I say flatly. “Which begs the question…what the hell did you do to her?” His grin widens, but doesn’t answer. Not really.

“She was quite… emotional at the time,” he murmurs. “Memories are such delicate things. Slippery when grief is involved. A flick here, a nudge there…” I cut him off with a glare sharp enough to split stone.

“You messed with her head?”

“I did nothing that wasn’t merciful,” he says with a hand over his chest. “Believe me, forgetting that moment was a kindness, because now she will get what she’s so desperately wanted, a chance to carry a baby of her own.” I say nothing. Because deep down, I know what Regina would’ve done if she remembered. And I’m not ready to lose her over this. Not tonight. Not ever. A crack of thunder shakes the sky. The porch trembles slightly beneath my feet.

“Let’s make the deal,” I whisper. “Now. While I still have something left to give. You said it has to happen as they’re born…they’ll be here eventually…” Rumpelstiltskin nods, slow and indulgent, like he’s humoring a child. But his eyes…glinting gold and endless…never leave mine. The storm swells. And somewhere, deep inside me, the babies begin to shift. Ready or not. Gold tsks softly, the sound far too delicate for how sharp it cuts through the silence between us.

“You’ll have to be careful. Such secrets between lovers…” he murmurs, almost sing-song. “Never ends well, dearie.”

“I’m not asking for your commentary,” I snap, but the edge fades fast as I wince, another contraction twisting low through my spine like a hot wire being pulled tight. My grip tightens on the porch rail, knuckles white. I breathe through it, slow and steady, teeth clenched. Gold hums in amusement, stepping just a fraction closer. Not enough to breach the invisible line between us—but enough to draw the moment tighter. Denser. Like gravity is bending toward him.

“No, I suppose not,” he says smoothly. “You’re not asking for my thoughts. You’re asking for power.” The wind gusts, carrying the scent of lightning and wet cedar. The rain sheets just inches beyond the porch roof, cascading like a waterfall, turning the yard to shadow and shimmer.

“I’m asking you to honor the offer,” I say, my voice rough now, hoarse from both effort and exhaustion. “We made a deal. Or we almost did.” Gold’s eyes gleam, catching the flicker of storm light.

“A deal only matters once it’s signed,” he replies, tone light but dangerous. “And you’ve waited quite a long time, haven’t you? But you’re still just in time…barely. You must decide before the babies come. Before the first cry.”

“Why?” I ask, chest rising and falling unevenly. He lifts his hand, elegant and practiced, waving it with a dramatic flourish.

“Because choice is the key,” he says. “The decision must be yours. Entirely. Willingly. If you wait too long, it’s no longer sacrifice…it’s circumstance. And then?” He shrugs, as if bored. “Then fate takes the reins, and I simply become a spectator.” The contraction fades, and I glance over my shoulder, toward the bedroom window. The light inside is soft now. The silhouette of Regina just barely visible behind the gauzy curtain. Her body curled inward, hand pressed against the place I left in the bed, as if her skin still remembers mine.

“Will it hurt?” I ask quietly, still watching her. Still thinking of what I’m giving up. Gold pauses. When he speaks again, it’s softer…still dangerous, but less performative. Almost… sincere.

“No more than you already have.” A beat. “And when it’s done, you’ll never question whether it was the right choice again. There will be no doubt. No regrets. Only certainty.” I turn back to him slowly, arms wrapped tight around my belly. The ache there is constant now, low and pressing. A storm within a storm.

“I want you to make good on the offer,” I say. “I want you to take my magic instead of Regina’s. Just for the initial transfer. Long enough for her to conceive, just as you said in your office, but my magic instead of hers.” He watches me closely now. Still as death. “When these babies are out of me…when this is over…I want you to transfer my fertility to her,” I continue. “Permanently. Break the curse that’s still anchoring her womb. Let her carry next time. Let her feel it all. The ache. The kick. The connection.” My throat tightens. “Let her have that. That’s what we agreed to.”

“And your magic?” he asks, head tilting, gaze narrowing.

“Just for the moment it takes to move the spark, however long you would have taken hers.” I meet his eyes. “Compromise mine. Leave hers alone. I can live with the shift. Hell, I’m used to it…mine’s always gone sideways after childbirth anyway.” He chuckles, but there’s no cruelty in it this time. Only something bordering on admiration.

“So,” he says, voice low and curious, “it is your choice. Your sacrifice. You’ll give part of yourself…magic temporarily, fertility permanently…so that she can carry life. So that her body is no longer bound by the curse I once gave her to carve into herself.”

“Yes.” The storm crashes louder around us, like it’s listening. Like it knows something’s shifting. There’s a pause…just a breath too long. He studies me like I’m a spell he didn’t cast. A miracle he didn’t create.

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” he asks, voice almost reverent now. “This isn’t just an exchange. This is the closing of a door. Final. Irrevocable.”

“I know.” Another contraction begins. I don’t flinch this time. I brace, I breathe, I ride it. When it passes, I whisper:

“She deserves to be a mother in every sense. Not just by love. But by blood. By body, because that’s what she dreams of.” Rumpelstiltskin nods once, slow and deliberate.

“And what,” he drawls smoothly, “has the Queen said about all this?” My jaw tightens before I even realize it, the muscles clenching on instinct.

“We’re not telling her.” His brows lift, amused, as though I’ve said something scandalous and delightful.

“Secrets in a marriage you want to keep… very brave of you.”

“I will, eventually tell her, but not tonight I’m kind of busy if you haven’t noticed…She wants this, Rumple.” I don’t let the name stick in my throat. “More than anything. I’ve heard her say it…seen it. The way she looks at babies. The way she touches my stomach when she thinks I’m asleep. She just… she won’t let herself want it. Not out loud. Not if she thinks the price is me.” He tilts his head slightly, voice low and dry.

“Ah. Pride. A terrible thing when paired with longing.”

“She’d say no, again.” I tell him, certain. “She’d argue, she’d protect me like she always does. She’d see it as me giving something up. But this? It doesn’t hurt me, Rumple. It gives her something she was robbed of. Something she deserves.” He studies me now…not the performance, not the drama…but me. The kind of gaze that sees things others don’t. I feel it peel back my intentions like layers of silk.

“And you’d do it without her consent?” he asks softly, no longer mocking. “Give her the gift… and let her think it was fate?” I nod.

“Yes.”

“And when she starts to suspect?”

“She won’t,” I say quickly. “Because I am going to tell her the truth before anything happens between us.”

“And if there’s a ‘happy little accident? Like your oldest daughter, your lovely little mini me Isabella?”

“She’ll never know it came from me. Just make it happen…when they’re born. Quiet. Clean.” There’s a pause. Then a smile…sharp and cold and golden.

“Very well, Miss Swan-Mills. Your terms are accepted. When the moment comes, your fertility, and with it a small piece of your magic, will be… repurposed.” His fingers spark faintly, a flicker of gold threading through the shadows.

“She’ll carry life. Because of you. And never know it, unless you tell her.”

“That’s all I want, and I will tell her, when things settle down. This is still going to be her choice. I’m just giving her the opportunity to have a choice.”

“I’ll be watching. When the babies come… the deal will seal itself.” I take a breath.

“How will you do it? I mean…how will you take it? You can’t be seen. She’ll know something’s wrong.” Rumple steps into the half-light like a ghost, his voice low and velvet-dark.

“It will be subtle. When your body crests between life and loss…just before the first breath is drawn…your magic will flicker. It always does, yes? Postpartum lull. I’ll be near. Not in the room, but close enough to catch it. Guide it. She’ll never know.”

“Will I feel it?”

“A flicker. A breath heavier than the rest. But you’ll be doing more difficult things at the time.” I nod again, biting the inside of my cheek.

“And she’ll have no idea?”

“None,” he confirms. “Not until the seed starts to root. Until she dreams of children she hasn’t conceived yet, but by then, you will have already told her right? So nothing to fear.” I look up toward the creaking of the house…toward where she sleeps, unknowing.

“She can never know it came from me, not until I tell her myself. You cannot tell her what happened. She will probably realize something isn’t quite right. She’ll come to you. Say nothing.  I will tell her the truth, when the time is right.” Rumple studies me, and for the first time, there’s no smile on his face. Only something that might almost be respect.

“All secrets have weight, dearie,” he says gently. “Make sure you’re strong enough to carry this one.”

“I am,” I tell him. “For her? Always. How will she conceive?”

“Practicality,” he muses. “I admire that.”

“I don’t even know how I got pregnant,” I admit. “We weren’t even trying. But with her….how will it happen? Will it be right away?”

“The body will respond,” he says smoothly. “She’ll be fertile in the most natural of ways. No more enchantments. Just a restored biology. Nature will do the rest.”

“And how long will it last?”

“Months,” he says. “A season, perhaps. Her body will prepare, but it won’t wait forever.” I flinch.

“That’s not good enough.”

“Pardon?”

“If she wants more children later? Or what if I can’t tell her right away? I don’t want her under a deadline. I want her whole. Permanently. As if the curse never touched her.” That pulls his expression tighter.

“That’s not a simple request. You’re asking for a fundamental rewrite of an old curse. Something written in blood and bound in darkness.”

“I don’t care,” I say again, voice firm. “She deserves it. She deserves to choose, whenever she’s ready.” He stares at me, then slowly nods.

“Then we’ll do it right, for the original cost. Her fertility, restored permanently. Her choice…always.”

“And no magic binding. No manipulation,” I say quickly.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Only possibility. What she does with it? That’s up to love, not power.”

He takes a step back, into shadow. Then pauses again.

“Oh…and Emma?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll still have your magic. But… it may feel different. Softer. Deeper. Magic rewards sacrifice when it’s made for love, and you will still need to conceive the first child she carries within that initial window when the chances are the highest for it to take root, permanently. It’s a longer window, but still a window you’re turning into a door.”

“Rumple?”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything to…speed this along, would you?” I ask. He turns fully back to face me, one brow arched. I can feel his gaze…not lecherous, not clinical, but weighing, calculating. Another contraction hits, this one sharper, and I grip the railing harder, knuckles going white. He watches me work through it, and I hate how much he enjoys watching people in the midst of desperation.

“You know,” he says slowly, thoughtfully, “where I’m from, if a woman wanted to move labor along… she’d have a little kissy kissy time with the person who put the baby in her.”

 “Seriously?” He shrugs with infuriating nonchalance.

“Oxytocin, dearie. Love hormones. Touch, skin-to-skin. Orgasm. It all helps to, ah… expel the baby.” He gestures vaguely toward my belly with a little flourish. “Nature’s design. Rather poetic and sweet, really. What gets the baby in also gets them out.” I bite back a groan as the contraction ebbs, leaving sweat prickling behind my ears.

“Well, Regina’s not exactly that type, especially not mid-labor, the whole preterm labor and bedrest thing kind of threw her off. She won’t even kiss me, let alone touch me in a way to get the oxytocin flowing…” I mutter, adjusting my weight on the porch boards. “And I’m a little busy not dying, to enjoy some alone time, so… got anything in your magical bag of tricks that doesn’t involve sex?” He lets out a theatrical sigh, as if I’ve ruined all his fun.

“You modern women. No patience for the classics.”

“Rumple…” My voice has an edge now — weary, cracking under everything I’m holding up. “Please.” He studies me again, more serious now. The teasing fades from his eyes, just for a breath.

“You’ve already had the growth potion. That much magic, so close to the birth… anything more could risk throwing your system out of balance.” He taps his chin. “But. There might be a… tincture. A very old spell. Organic. Safe enough, if you’re already dilated.”

“Will it help move things along?”

“If your body is ready, yes.” He lifts a finger, eyes narrowing. “But if it’s not… it could make the pain worse. Your choice, dearie.” I pause, wind curling around me, rain hissing just beyond the porch roof. Thunder rumbles overhead. I nod.

“I want it.” He smiles again … too sharp, too pleased.

“Of course you do.” With a flick of his wrist, a small vial appears between his fingers — no bigger than a perfume bottle, the liquid inside swirling like molten amber. He offers it to me like it’s sacred.

“Drink this,” he says. “All of it. And then get ready, Savior. Because when they come… they’ll come fast.”

“How fast?”

“Before dawns first light.” Sounds good to me that’s only a few hours at this point, maybe less, what time is it? My fingers close around the vial. It's warm.

“And Rumple?” I say before he can disappear again. He waits, eyebrows raised.

“If this kills me—”

“—it won’t,” he interrupts smoothly. “You’re far too stubborn to die tonight, especially when I have a vested interested in you living.”

“This is between us.” I tell him, and he simply nods. I don’t even bother asking him what he means. Most people have a vested interest in me living. I am unfortunately The Savior.  I look down at the vial in my hand. Lightning flashes overhead. And then, I drink. He doesn’t disappear right away.

Instead, Rumpelstiltskin lingers in the shadows like he belongs there. Half cloaked in the storm-dark porch, half grinning like a man who’s just pulled off a perfectly choreographed game of chess. With a rustle of fabric, he produces it…the contract.

The original one. The one I already read weeks ago, when I still thought this deal was a last-resort idea, not something I’d actually sign while in active labor under cover of night during a typhoon. The parchment practically hums with old magic, edges curling like smoke. His quill appears with a dramatic twirl of his fingers.

“Standard terms,” he says, annoyingly pleasant. “You’ve read it. Clause thirty-seven, subparagraph B, soul-thread transfer activated only post-birth. You carry the bond. You choose the sacrifice. You pay the price.”

“And the potion?” I ask, glancing down at the still-glowing vial clutched between my fingers.

“On the house.” He shrugs. “Call it… a gesture of faith. Or maybe gratitude. Not every day someone hands over a living tether to one of the most potent magical lineages in this realm.”

My hand shakes slightly as I take the quill, fingers wet with sweat despite the warm night air. The porch creaks beneath me as I lower myself to the nearest bench and steady the parchment on my thigh. The contraction builds again, and I press my lips together, breathing through my nose, bracing myself silently while the wave crests. God, they’re stronger now. Lower. My belly feels tight and sharp, the babies repositioning…descending. I sign without reading again. I don’t need to. I already read every word. I already accepted the terms, buried the fear, and made peace with the cost. Regina will never know. And that’s the point. I scribble my name across the bottom, and the moment the ink dries, the parchment flashes gold before curling into ash, vanishing into thin air.

“There.” I sit back, drawing a slow breath, my palm rising to cover my mouth. Not out of regret…but to stop the sound threatening to rise from my throat. The potion is working fast. I can feel it. The shift inside me, urgent and raw. The babies are pressing down. I am opening. Rumple watches me carefully, but with something quieter behind his eyes now—less amusement, more reverence.

“I’ll be waiting,” he says simply. I glance up at him. My eyes sting. Not from tears…but from everything else.

“Not watching,” he adds quickly. “I’m no voyeur, dearie. But I’ll feel it. When they come, the bond will crack open like an egg. And the curse she clings to will shatter with it.” I swallow hard, my throat thick. He steps back, already fading into the night, into the storm. “Congratulations, Savior. You’re about to be a mother… all over again.”

And with that, he’s gone. The wind howls louder in his absence. A flash of lightning splits the clouds overhead, followed by a deep, rolling thunder. The potion churns through me like wildfire, and I grip the porch railing to steady myself, bracing as another contraction rolls in, fierce and final. There’s no turning back now.

Chapter Text

EMMA SWAN- MILLS POINT OF VIEW:

“Regina…”

Her name leaves me in a whisper…fragile, aching. It’s not a warning. Not even a plea. It’s instinct, something pulled from deep inside me like breath or blood. I push the door open with one trembling hand, and the humid warmth of the house envelops me like a blanket I can’t shake off. The air is thick with the storm, with magic, with everything that’s about to happen. Everything I started. I step inside and close the door behind me. Slowly. Carefully. Because any sudden movement might knock me off balance, and I’m not sure I’d get back up if that happened.

The contraction hasn’t even hit yet, not fully. But I feel it coming…this swell rising beneath my skin, deep and hard and endless. My whole body feels wrong now…heavy and electric all at once. Like my muscles are trying to peel away from my bones. Like I’m holding something too big for me, too powerful. Something that’s about to break free. The potion worked. I can feel it. It’s like my body’s a tunnel now, wide and slick and unrelenting. My hips ache. My thighs shake. And lower…lower, there’s this downward pull, a pressure so intense it steals my breath. I knew it would speed things up. I knew that. But I didn’t know it would feel like this…like a tidal wave inside me, every part of me opening enough… whether I’m ready or not.

I press my back to the wall and let my head fall forward, eyes closed. Sweat beads down my spine, my neck, my chest. My dress clings to me. My legs… gods, my legs might as well be made of stone. I don’t even know how I’m standing. And then I hear her.

Her footsteps…fast, determined…coming down the stairs. There’s something comforting about the sound. Like muscle memory. Like safety. For a heartbeat, I can pretend none of this is real. But then she rounds the corner. She’s got her arms full—blankets, towels, a stack of newborn diapers, two impossibly tiny onesies folded with obsessive precision. It’s so Regina. So practical, so prepared, so sure she’ll be the one catching them when they come. She’s beautiful and fierce and completely unprepared for what she’s about to see. Her eyes lift, and they find mine instantly. She freezes. The towels tilt. The onesies slip. Her face drains of color.

“Emma…”

My name cracks in the air between us. I try to smile. I really do. But it comes out a grimace…tight, trembling, probably terrifying. My hand drifts to the round swell of my belly, which feels impossibly low now, like it might drop right between my knees if I take another step.

“Hey,” I manage, and my voice is hoarse, wrecked. “So… the walking helped…I think it’s finally time.” She drops everything. It all hits the floor in a pile of softness, forgotten. In two long strides she’s in front of me, hands reaching, hovering, unsure where to touch first. Her eyes dart to mine, then to my belly, then back again.

“How close? Emma…what happened? You were okay an hour ago, you were walking…what…?” I can’t answer right away. A contraction slams into me, sudden and brutal. My knees buckle, and I gasp, catching the edge of the wall for support as a strangled moan escapes me. She catches me before I fall. One arm wraps around my back, the other presses against my belly with gentle, practiced pressure.  “Okay. Okay. I’ve got you.” I cling to her. Gods, I cling to her.

“It’s fast,” I choke out once the wave passes. “Faster than before. I think…I think the babies are coming. Like now.” Her face twists. Not with anger. Not even confusion. With something deeper. Worry. Fear. That too-familiar helplessness she hates. I want to tell her not to panic. That it’s okay. That I made a choice. That I did this.

But she’s already moving again…guiding me toward the couch, using her magic to call for supplies, she had dropped, for control in a moment that’s rapidly slipping out of it. And me? I let her. I let her take the lead, let her be strong for both of us. Because what’s coming…what I’ve set in motion…it’s too late to stop now. The potion worked. It’s time.

“I’m going to check you, okay?” Regina says softly, kneeling between my legs, her sleeves already pushed up, her voice steady in a way that makes my breath catch. She's calm. Focused. But I can see the tension behind her eyes…the way her jaw clenches just slightly, like she’s holding something in. I nod, too winded to speak. My body is trembling now, every nerve raw, every muscle strung too tight. Sweat clings to my skin. I can feel my hair sticking to the back of my neck. Regina gently removes the last of my clothes, her touch clinical but still careful, reverent even. She places something beneath  me…layers of soft towels, absorbent pads, something to catch what’s already begun to flow. My body’s preparing on instinct. It’s go time. There’s no turning back. I glance down at her through heavy eyes and try to force a crooked smile.

“This is… not exactly how I pictured our first date night in months to have gone.” Regina doesn’t laugh. Not really. Just a small, exhale of breath that could’ve been a laugh if she weren’t so damn focused.

“Well, you were already in labor when we danced and had pancakes. Seems only fair we round the night out with a birth.”

“At the rate we were going I thought they were going to take a lot longer.”  I manage a small huff of amusement…half-laugh, half-moan…as another contraction begins to ripple through me. It’s lower now. Sharper. Like my entire pelvis is splintering from the inside.

“You’re not wrong,” She mutters , gripping the arm of the couch as she positions herself closer. Her fingers are sure and practiced as she examines me. She doesn’t flinch, but her expression shifts instantly…eyebrows lifting, her mouth parting just slightly. “Do you feel like you need to push?” she asks quickly, her tone sharper now, more urgent. “The first baby is crowning.”

 “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she echoes, and for the first time tonight, there’s a flicker of disbelief in her voice. Not judgment. Just… shock. Like she can’t quite wrap her head around how calm I still am, or how disconnected I sound.

“It doesn’t feel like it did with the other kids,” I say hoarsely, wincing. “But I can feel them though… both of them.” Her brow furrows.

“You mean you feel one pushing and the other moving?”

“No,” I whisper. “I feel them. At the same time. Everything. It's like my body is… already making room for both.”

It doesn’t even make sense, I know that. Only one baby is born at a time. That’s how this works. But I feel stretched so thin I could tear down the middle. I feel every movement…every twist, every heartbeat. There’s no rhythm anymore, no spacing out the waves. Just a constant build, climbing and crashing like the thunder outside. Regina’s lips part like she wants to respond, but no words come. Instead, she stares at me, wide-eyed and overwhelmed in the kind of way she rarely lets show. She looks like she’s seeing me for the first time…like I’m some fragile, celestial thing she can’t quite believe is still standing, still breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers finally, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep…”

“No,” I cut her off, reaching for her hand. “Don’t. You needed rest, and I asked you to. I begged you to. You needed to be strong for this part.” My legs shake beneath me, trembling so hard it’s hard to stay in position. She shifts instantly, her hands gently repositioning my thighs, tucking something beneath my back for support. Her touch is so warm. So grounding. “I’m going to need you to be so strong, Regina.” She nods, once, her throat working as she swallows hard. Her fingers tighten around mine.

“Emma I…”

“The walk helped,” I whisper cutting her off. “The storm… it’s still going. Still beautiful, in the dark.” Regina lifts her eyes to mine, and for a second, she softens completely. “When they’re born,” I say, squeezing her hand, “if it’s still raining… we’ll go sit on the porch. Just us. Watch it together.” A promise. A hope. A lifeline. Regina leans in and presses her forehead to mine. Her voice is barely a breath.

“Okay. But only after you’re holding them. Safe and screaming in your arms.” Another contraction builds…long, low, powerful…and this time, I don’t fight it.

“Regina… I…” My voice cracks as the words break free, thin and strangled between contractions. My hands are shaking, nails digging into the cushion beneath me as I lean forward. Everything inside me feels like it’s bearing down all at once. The contractions are coming fast now. No space to breathe between them, no rhythm…just one long, crashing wave. I’m gasping through it, sweat beading down my spine, jaw clenched so tight I think I might crack a tooth. “I need to push.” Regina’s face, already pale, somehow goes a shade lighter. But she doesn’t panic. Her hand finds mine again, steady and warm and anchoring.

“Okay. Okay, love, I’ve got you,” she says quickly. Her voice trembles just slightly, but she’s holding it together…for me. “We’ll do this together, alright? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe.”

I nod, even though the pressure is so intense I can barely see straight. It’s not even pressure anymore…it’s something primal. A force, ancient and irresistible, taking over my body like it has its own mind. I bear down, bracing myself, and push. It’s harder than I expect. Slower. For as fast as everything felt just moments ago, this part stretches. I can feel every inch of progress, every muscle straining with effort. I cry out, and Regina murmurs something I can’t quite hear, but her hand is there…supporting me, holding me, grounding me.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispers, her voice softer now, reverent. “You’re incredible, Emma. Just… just breathe. Let your body lead. I’m here. I’ve got them.” I push again, groaning with the exertion, the fire low in my pelvis burning hotter now…widening, stretching. It feels endless. My arms are shaking. I’m using everything I have.

“Rest,” Regina says gently, her hand pressing to the top of my thigh. “Just for a moment. Just breathe. You’re doing everything right.” I hear the awe in her voice, and the way she’s trying to mask how terrified she is under all that focus. “Whoever decided to come out first is just stubborn.” I laugh…a breathy, ragged, desperate sound. Of course one of our kids would be stubborn. Regina brushes damp hair from my forehead, her fingers trembling.

“Just a little longer. You can do this.” Another contraction tears through me, and I push again, harder this time, curling forward over my belly with the force of it. I scream through gritted teeth, vision swimming. Something shifts. I feel it. And Regina gasps.

“Almost there,” she breathes, voice cracking with wonder. “Emma, You’re almost there. One more…just one more and we’ll see baby’s face.” I nod, sobbing through it.

“Okay.”

And I push. The sound I make isn’t a scream this time…it’s lower, deeper, some growl of effort torn from my chest as I curl over myself, hands clutching the backs of my thighs. My whole body strains forward, every nerve alight, every breath focused on this one impossible task. I feel the pressure crest, then shift… My body folds forward with the next contraction, and I push with everything I have left. Something shifts, slides, stretches… Then relief. A rush of relief so sharp I almost sob.

“Ooooh…” I gasp, head falling back against the pillow.

“The head is born,” Regina says softly, like she’s not entirely sure she’s saying it out loud. Her voice cracks, thick with awe. “Emma, the baby’s head is born. Just a few more pushes and this baby will be here. Look at this…” I glance down and freeze as she presses something into my hand…a mirror. When did she even get that?

“Is she okay?”

“She’s okay,” Regina breathes, already moving with calm precision. She supports the tiny head carefully in her hands, the rest of our baby’s body still waiting for its moment. “You’re doing so well, Emma. Just breathe.” I exhale shakily, leaning back just enough to try to see, but Regina has deciding I’m not going to look, or maybe that I’m shaking too much, takes the mirror from me, angling it so I can see the baby, my progress better.  And there she is. Our baby’s head. A crown of dark, thick hair…damp and curling in tufts just like Regina’s. A crown of dark, wet hair, curling like ink against my skin. A sudden, startling release of pressure that steals the breath from my lungs. I blink through tears and sweat and reach for her instinctively. I choke on a sound that’s half laugh, half sob.

“Our daughter…” I whisper, staring down at the impossible sight. Regina lets out a soft, breathy noise…like she wasn’t ready for that word, like it’s doing something dangerous to her heart.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “How do you know?”

“I had a dream,” I say, breath catching. “After we found out about the twins… I didn’t know it meant anything. But I saw them. She looks like you. And he… he looks like me.”

I trail off, unsure if it sounds crazy. But it doesn’t feel crazy. It feels… true. Like I’ve been waiting for this moment since before I even understood what I was waiting for. Regina’s quiet, focused…using her fingers and a clean cloth to gently wipe mucus from the baby’s nose and mouth, the way we practiced, the way we read about. She’s calm, steady, more doctor than Queen in this moment, and somehow both. Her hands are sure, but I can feel the subtle tremble in her breath as she works.

“She was older, but she’s got your hair,” I whisper again, unable to stop staring. “Dark and wild and thick…just like yours was in that photo from that beach trip, the one you hate.” Regina huffs, but it’s soft and raw.

“She’s not even born yet, and already you’re making fun of  her for looking like me.” I smile…tired, aching, but real.

“Hey…I love that picture.” The contraction’s already building again, fast and strong. I can feel the pressure bearing down, the urgency as my body takes over.

“Emma…” Regina says gently, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “Are you ready?” I nod, bracing myself again.

“Let’s meet her.” And I push. The next contraction rising fast behind the last, no time to recover, no space between. Almost too fast. Like with Julia. But not as sharp, not as punishing or violent. That time my body knew there was something wrong, and keeping her in would have hurt her. This…It’s like something inside me is easing the way, cushioning the strain. My magic, maybe…protecting me. Guiding me. Telling me, you can do this, just a little more.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay, she’s almost here.” Regina steadies me, one hand cupped beneath, the other gripping mine tight.

“Push again when you’re ready, love.” And I do.

The baby’s shoulders slip free, one at a time, and I cry out…not from pain, not exactly, but from the pressure, the sheer overwhelming reality of her emerging into the world. I take another breath and push again, harder than I thought I had left in me. There’s a sudden rush…of fluids, of warmth, of everything breaking open…and then the baby is born. The room goes silent for one long, suspended second. Then she cries. A sharp, piercing wail that fills every inch of the house, louder than the thunder outside, louder than my heartbeat. The sound of her breaks me open all over again. Regina stares down at the baby in her hands like she’s just caught the stars. Her lips tremble, eyes wide and wet.

“She’s perfect,” she whispers, voice shaking as she carefully checks her over. “Emma, she’s… she’s perfect.”

She moves quickly, calmly…magic flickering softly at her fingertips as she delivers the placenta, clean and efficient, wrapping the cord in a soft cloth before severing it with a gentle pulse of light. She whispers something I can’t quite hear…maybe a spell, maybe a prayer. Then, finally, wraps our daughter in a towel and she places our daughter in my arms. She’s warm and slippery and so very real. I cradle her against my chest, one hand cupped protectively over her back. Her skin is flushed and soft, her eyes a deep brown, not the traditional newborn blue. Her dark hair matted to her head, her cries beginning to slow as she hears my heartbeat again. I press my cheek to the top of her  head and exhale shakily.

“Hey there,” I whisper. “Hi, baby girl…” Regina kneels beside me, her hand still on my thigh, the other trembling as she brushes sweat-soaked hair from my face. The baby is warm and impossibly small against my chest, her body still slick with birth, her cries tapering off as she finds the rhythm of my heartbeat. I cradle her close, my fingers trembling as they trace the curve of her tiny face, the softness of her skin. And for the first time in hours…maybe days…it’s quiet. Regina is kneeling beside me, her hand still resting on my thigh where she steadied me just moments ago. She’s staring, absolutely frozen, like the sight of our daughter has stolen every thought from her mind. Her eyes shine, wide and stunned, and her lips part, but no words come out right away. Then, softly…so softly I almost don’t catch it…she breathes.

“Hello, little one,” Regina murmurs, her voice shaking just a little. “Do you know how long we’ve waited for you?” She doesn’t look at me. Just at her. At this tiny, blinking miracle curled in my arms. Her fingers move instinctively, reverently, brushing the baby’s damp curls away from her forehead. She trails a knuckle gently down her cheek, and I can see it…the moment her whole heart cracks open, just as it’s done with our other children. The baby gives a soft, hiccupy cry, like she’s answering. Regina smiles, eyes filling with tears she doesn’t try to hide.

“I was right. She has your hair. She looks like you.” I say in an exhausted, but happy sort of way.

I watch her, my chest aching in the best way. There’s something so raw, so unguarded in her expression…none of the walls, none of the careful control. Just pure wonder. Regina glances up at me, and for a second we just exist like this…mother to mother, heart to heart, our daughter safe between us. Then I feel it. A sharp, deep pressure blooming low in my abdomen. I wince, my body tensing, and Regina immediately notices. She shifts, focused again, hands already moving to adjust the blanket beneath me.

“Contraction?” she asks, voice slipping seamlessly back into her calm, capable tone…but her eyes linger on our baby for just one more second, full of something too big for words.

“Take her,” I say, my voice strained, breath hitching around the edge of another contraction. Regina looks at me, startled.

“Emma…”

“I don’t want to drop her,” I whisper, already curling inward. “Her brother’s ready…he’s right there. I can feel him.” She moves instantly. Regina has always been fast in a crisis, but this is something else—gentle and precise, like she’s handling glass. She slips her hands beneath our daughter with care, and I feel her warmth vanish from my chest as Regina lifts her. My arms ache with the sudden emptiness, but only for a second, because already the next wave is coming, sharp and deep. I grunt softly, shifting in place, trying to brace myself against the ache that’s building fast.

“God, I can’t find a good position…”

“You’re doing beautifully,” Regina says, her voice calm even as she moves with quiet urgency. She crosses the room, bends low, and places our daughter gently into the waiting Moses basket beside the couch…the one she brought down hours ago, just in case. I see her linger for a moment, adjusting the blanket, making sure the baby is secure, warm, safe.

“I’m here,” she murmurs, kneeling again, brushing the damp hair from my forehead. Her eyes are wild now, not with panic…but with adrenaline, and awe. “You’re not doing this alone.” I nod, panting, already curling forward as another contraction rolls through me. This one’s stronger…more urgent. There’s no more easing into it. My body has decided. It’s time.

“He’s coming,” I breathe, gripping her forearm. “It’s happening…again.” And Regina, solid and grounding, just nods.

“Let’s meet him, then.”

My body won’t stay still. The moment our daughter is safe in the Moses basket, cradled in layers of soft cotton and Regina’s magic, something in me begins to unravel. The pressure is relentless…low and deep and steady now, no longer coming in waves but hanging in the air, thick and constant. I shift, then shift again, wincing as my knees press into the throw blanket bunched beneath me on the couch.

“I can’t…” I gasp, pushing upward, bracing one hand on the armrest as the other curls protectively around my belly. “I can’t get comfortable.” Regina’s already there, hands hovering like she’s not sure where to touch.

“Okay, okay,” she says softly, calm even though her eyes are everywhere. “What do you need? Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know,” I grit out. “Everything hurts. My back, my hips…God, it’s like he’s trying to break me open from the inside.”

Regina gently helps me to my feet. My legs shake with the effort, and for a second I think they might give out, but her arms are steady and sure as she guides me to the floor, to the soft rug just in front of the couch. The lights are low now, flickering warm and golden from her earlier spell. It should feel peaceful. It doesn’t. Not yet. I try leaning against the couch. That’s worse. I try squatting. My thighs burn.

“No, no…this isn’t right,” I groan, breath catching as the next contraction digs into me with merciless determination.

“Let’s try something else,” Regina murmurs, her hand at the small of my back. “Get on your hands and knees. Like a yoga pose. It might help shift the pressure.” I drop down into the position instinctively, palms flat against the rug, knees wide, belly swaying low between them. The moment I settle into it, something clicks. Not a full release—not relief…but something loosens in me. The intensity is still there, but it’s different now. I can breathe through it.

“Oh,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to the back of my wrist. “Okay. Okay… yeah.” Regina kneels beside me, one hand rubbing gentle circles across my lower back, her voice low and steady.

“That’s good. That’s it. Stay just like that. You’re safe. He’s close, I can feel it. You’re doing so well.”

I groan through clenched teeth as another contraction rips through me, but this time I don’t flail. I press into the earth, into the rug, into the bones of this home we built together. And Regina’s hand never leaves my spine…not even for a second. My hair is damp against my neck. I’m shaking, sweating, breath shallow. But I’m not alone. I can feel her watching me…present, fierce, ready. She’s here. We’re here. And he’s almost here too. I rock back and forth, the rug beneath me soaked in sweat and storm light, trying to ride the rhythm of the pain. It’s primal now…deep and wrenching. Not sharp, not piercing like before… just big. Like something ancient inside me is cracking wide open.

“I need to push,” I whisper, voice frayed at the edges. “But…God, Regina, it’s too fast. It’s happening too fast. I…” Before I can say more, her hands are on me—one cupping the side of my face, the other moving to the opposite cheek as she crouches in front of me. She’s forcing me to be still. To see her.

“Hey,” she says fiercely, her voice low and sharp with command. “You can do this.” Her forehead presses to mine, grounding me. She’s warm and steady and trembling all at once, and I know…this is terrifying her, too. “You will do this. I’m here, I’ve got you, and you’re not doing this alone.” Her eyes are locked on mine, fierce and wet and brimming with too many things to name. “Look at me…just keep looking at me. You’re okay, Emma.”

I nod, even though I can’t fully meet her gaze. She’s behind me now, moving fast, checking again, ready to catch him if he comes this second. I brace on my hands and knees, trying to swallow the rising tide of panic. The pain builds again, jagged and consuming, curling through my spine and down into my thighs. I don’t hold back. I push…raw, shaking, desperate.

And through the heat and the sweat, through the pulse of the storm pounding outside the windows, I force myself to believe her. I let myself fall into that place inside me where her words can live. Where they mean something. I can do this. Except… It’s too much. Everything is unraveling. The contractions are crashing down on me in relentless waves now—one, then another, then another. No room between them to breathe. To rest. To exist. I’m being swallowed whole. I try to breathe…inhale, exhale…but it’s no use. My lungs won’t fill. The air’s too thick. Too hot.

“Regina…” I gasp, voice breaking. My hands scramble against the mat, useless. I can’t catch my breath. My vision wavers. Black blooms at the corners. The room pulses in and out of focus.

My body feels wrong…not just tired, but…disconnected. Like I’m slipping. Like something is pulling me away from myself. Panic claws up my throat, cold and sharp.

“I can’t…” I choke. “I can’t do this…I can’t breathe…I…”

“Emma.” Her voice snaps through the fog like a whip. “Emma, look at me. Look at me.” She’s shifting me, her hands strong and sure. One arm wraps around my shoulders, the other cups the back of my head. She pulls me up, not roughly, but urgently…enough to break whatever spiral I’ve fallen into, and lays me on the couch.

“Sit back, come on…just for a second.” She guides me into a modified position, still kneeling but upright, chest supported against her shoulder as she kneels behind me. Her arms cage me gently, holding me still. “You’re spacing out,” she murmurs, lips close to my ear. “You’re scaring me.” I blink. Once. Twice. Her face swims into view again. “There you are,” she breathes. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.” Her hands move to my belly, one splayed low, the other pressing softly to the curve above it. She hums something under her breath—barely a sound—not magic, but Warm and subtle, just enough to anchor me. She’s talking to him.

“It’s not stopping,” I whisper, dazed. “He’s coming too fast, Regina, I don’t…my body’s not ready…”

“Yes, it is,” she says, calm but intense. “It is. It’s moving faster than we expected, but your body knows what to do. And I know what to do. You’re safe. We’re doing this together.” I grip her forearm as the next contraction crashes through me, stronger than before, my whole body shuddering with it. I don’t scream…but only because I don’t have the air.

“Breathe with me,” she murmurs again. “You can’t pass out. You’re too close. Just a little more.” I close my eyes and feel her forehead touch mine again, our breaths syncing as I try to steady myself. Her presence is a tether, her voice the only thing I can follow through the chaos ripping through my body. He’s coming. And I’m still here.

“Mmmph.” A sound escapes me…half whimper, half strangled cry…as another contraction rips through. My arms tremble where they’re braced on the mat, my hips shifting, rocking back into the curve of Regina’s steady hands.

“Magic,” I gasp. “Please…” I don’t even know what I’m asking her for. Relief? Strength? Escape?

“Emma…” Regina says behind me, the edge of worry in her voice slicing through the storm.

“I’m passing out…” I pant, and I mean it. I feel myself slipping, drifting somewhere outside my body. My limbs are leaden and weak, my vision a blur. My body’s shaking, wrung out and trembling, but there’s no stopping it now. The contractions won’t stop, and I can feel him…our son….bearing down whether I’m ready or not. Whether I want to or not. My magic feels like it’s tearing me apart from the inside out, too much power funneling through a body too exhausted to hold it. Regina’s hands come to my face again. She’s behind me, but she shifts to one side, reaching for the mirror she used earlier, angling it where I can see if I want to.

“Just breathe,” she says, breathless but sure. “He’s coming. You’re doing it, Emma. You’re already doing it.” I can’t answer. My voice has been swallowed by the pain. But then…I push. Not by choice. Not with thought. My body does it for me. And then…

“There,” Regina says, awed. “Emma… look.”

I blink through tears and sweat and watch as the mirror catches it…his head, is born, pale and slick and crowned with hair as gold as mine. I sob, not in pain now but in disbelief. He’s here. Or almost. Half in the world. Half still clinging to whatever liminal place children come from. Then, for just a heartbeat, everything stills. I’m still upright, leaning forward, arms shaking as I rest against the couch. Regina steadies me with one hand and gathers something behind me with the other. Then it hits again….another contraction, sharp and fast, as if the last one never ended. I push again. Harder. And just like that…his shoulders, his chest, his body slides free in a rush of fluid and warmth, and then… Silence. Total silence. No cry. No scream. Just the sound of rain hammering the roof and my heart in my throat. I collapse back, catching myself on one elbow, my other hand scrambling to see, to feel, to know. I squint past the curve of my stomach, wide-eyed and heaving.

“Regina?” I manage, breath ragged and shallow. She’s crouched over him, hands moving with practiced urgency…but her face… Her face is lit up with the softest, most stunned kind of joy.

“He’s perfect,” she whispers. But he isn’t crying. My chest seizes.

“Why isn’t he crying?” My voice cracks…too high, too scared.

“He’s okay,” she says quickly, still watching him. She isn’t panicked…if anything, she’s laughing, a disbelieving sort of breathless laugh that doesn’t match the chaos in my chest. “He’s okay. He’s just… looking around.”

“What?” I breathe. She glances up, her eyes shining.

“He’s just… calm. Emma, he’s calm. Like he’s been here before.” I don’t know how to process that. She waits just a moment longer…checking him, whispering something I can’t hear…jus like she did with our daughter…and then delivers the placenta swiftly, sealing the cord with magic that glows soft and warm. She wraps him in a towel, handling him like something sacred. Then she carries him over and places him in my arms.

“He’s beautiful,” she murmurs, kneeling beside me. I look down at him…at this impossibly serene little boy with my hair and Regina’s eyelashes, blinking up at me like he knows everything. There’s no fear in him. No anger. Just… presence. I’m still panting. I feel completely hollowed out and somehow more full than I ever have before. Regina leans in, kisses my forehead, brushes hair back from my face. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting him to be that quiet. None of our babies have been quiet.”

“I thought something was wrong,” I whisper, voice wobbling. She shakes her head gently.

“No, love. Nothing’s wrong. He’s just… content.”

She shifts to help me recline, adjusting pillows behind me so I can lay back fully. Her hands are gentle, confident, tender in every movement. Then she rises and crosses the room to the Moses basket, retrieving our daughter. She curls the tiny bundle into the crook of my other arm. And just like that… they’re both there. Two little bodies pressed to mine. Two hearts beating against my chest. One dark-haired girl, one fair-haired boy. The perfect balance of us. I blink back tears, overcome. My body is shaking again—but not from effort now. From awe. From love. From the sheer magnitude of what just happened. And then something inside me shifts.

A slow current, deep and low. Like the tide turning beneath the surface. A whoosh, not painful…not even physical, really. Just something ancient and magical pulling away. A thread snipping. A door closing. I exhale. It’s done. The deal. The sacrifice. The choice I made weeks ago, maybe longer…when I knew in my bones that these would be my last. The contract I signed tonight…That the magic inside me, the part that could bring life, wouldn’t belong to me anymore. I gave it away. And I feel it leave me now. I didn’t expect it to hurt. But it does. Not physically…emotionally. It aches in that secret, hollow part of me that knew I would miss this. Even when I was done. Even when I was certain. Even when I am certain. 100% The tears start again, thick and quiet. Regina sees them instantly.

“Emma?” she asks softly, touching my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay,” I whisper, kissing the top of our son’s head. “I’m more than okay. They’re beautiful. I’m just… I’m so happy it’s done.” She settles beside me, curling around us, arms brushing gently against my side, her hand resting over our daughter’s back. Her eyes are tired but full. We don’t speak again for a while. There’s no need.

The storm still rages outside, but in here…it’s calm. It’s quiet. It’s the first breath after the hardest push. I feel whole. Regina helps me adjust the pillows again, gentle and sure, like I’m made of something precious. The storm is still murmuring outside…quieter now, distant, like even it knows the most important moment has already happened here, in this room. She sits beside me, slipping in close behind, her arms wrapping around my waist, steadying me even as I try to cradle both babies at once. I lean into her with a shaky exhale, feeling the strength of her body against mine, warm and solid. She presses a kiss into my hair, just behind my ear, and rests her chin lightly on my shoulder, watching with me as the babies snuggle in…tiny, warm, perfect. And then…soft movement. Our daughter begins to root, tiny mouth searching, nose scrunching with instinct.

“Oh,” I whisper, shifting slightly. “They’re…”

“I see…” Regina murmurs. “Here, let me help.”

She eases my dress open, her hands gentle as she positions the babies…our daughter first, guiding her to latch with that quiet, confident grace I’ve come to rely on. Then our son, wriggling with surprising strength, finds the other side. Regina watches, fascinated, her fingers brushing their soft cheeks as they both settle in. I can’t stop watching either. Their eyes flutter closed, tiny hands curling. It’s instinct, all of it…and yet it feels like magic. This connection. This moment.

“I forgot how small they are at first,” I murmur, voice thick. “And how… much they know. Even now.” Regina doesn’t speak right away. Her arms slip fully around me, holding me, her cheek resting against mine as we both gaze down at the curve of our babies’ heads.

“I love you,” she whispers finally, her voice hushed and reverent. “I love you so much.” I close my eyes, leaning further into her embrace, feeling the words sink into me like warmth in my chest. “I’m so proud of you,” she continues, a tremble in her voice now. “You were… Emma, you were so strong.” Tears rise again, but not from fear or pain. From joy. From the unbearable tenderness of being held like this—fully, wholly—by the woman I love, while our children nurse peacefully in my arms.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I murmur. “You were everything I needed.” We sit like that for a while…just the four of us. The babies nursing quietly, Regina’s arms keeping me together when I feel like I might fall apart from the sheer depth of love pressing against my ribs. Her lips press soft kisses into my temple, my shoulder, my cheek…anywhere she can reach without disturbing them.

“They’re perfect,” Regina whispers again, one hand lifting to brush our daughter’s downy hair. “You gave them life… and now they get to grow up knowing they were loved like this. From the very beginning.” I nod slowly, eyes burning, my heart so full it aches.

“We did this,” I say quietly. “Together.” Regina’s eyes find mine, dark and warm and overflowing.

“Together,” she echoes, kissing me again. “Always.”

The babies are finally full, their tiny mouths slackening, soft breaths brushing against my skin. Their little hands still twitch as they drift into sleep, curled gently against my chest. The weight of them is comforting… grounding. But I feel it now…underneath the awe, beneath the love and adrenaline…my body is trembling, weakening. Like the seams are holding, but only just. Like the moment I stop focusing, I’ll unravel completely. Regina notices. Of course she does. She shifts beside me, her hand moving to my shoulder as she leans close, her voice velvet-soft but edged with concern.

“Let me take them,” she murmurs. “Now that they’ve fed, I can clean them up, get them warm and cozy while you rest.” I don’t answer right away. I don’t want to let go of them, not yet. My arms tighten a little, just instinct. Just the need to hold onto this peace a bit longer. Regina sees that too, and doesn’t press. Instead, she brushes her thumb gently beneath my eye, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Emma… your body has just gone through something traumatic. Beautiful, yes…but traumatic all the same.” Her voice dips, softer now. “You’re pale. You’re shaking. You’ve been through too much to carry this alone.”

“I’m okay,” I whisper, though even I can hear how unconvincing I sound. Her eyes narrow with gentle challenge. “Go ahead and take them, and I can get a shower.”

“Can you even feel your legs?” I try shifting slightly, testing the weight of my own limbs. They’re there… sort of. But everything is heavy. Sluggish. My head swims when I move too fast.

“I just…I want to shower,” I say, my voice small, cracking around the edges. “I feel… I feel like I’m still in it. Like if I don’t wash it away, I’ll never come down.” Regina nods, understanding flickering in her eyes, but she doesn’t let me off the hook.

“Can you stand?” she asks gently. “Because if not, I’d rather you rest…just for a little while. Let me get them settled first, and then I’ll help you. I promise. As soon as they’re clean and warm.” I look down at the babies again, still asleep in my arms, as if the storm never touched them. My arms ache, but I don’t want to say it.

“I just… I don’t want to miss anything,” I murmur. Regina crouches in front of me now, eye level, one hand over mine.

“You won’t,” she promises. “They’re not going anywhere. And you’ll feel better when you’ve rested, even just a little. Let me take care of them. Let me take care of you.” Her words slide under my skin like balm, undoing whatever thread of resistance I’d been clinging to. I nod slowly, reluctant but trusting. Carefully, Regina slips her arms beneath the babies…one, then the other…lifting them with practiced gentleness. She holds them close as she rises, cradling them like they’re made of starlight. “They’ll be right in the next room,” she says, pressing a kiss to my temple as she passes. “You’ll hear everything. And I’ll be back for you in just a few minutes.”

As she moves down the hallway, her silhouette glowing in the soft light, I feel a strange combination of emptiness and relief. My body sinks into the pillows, finally letting go. I watch her disappear into the downstairs bathroom with the babies and supplies in the moses basket humming to them under her breath. And for the first time since the contractions started, I let myself close my eyes. Just for a moment.

Falling asleep might be the hardest part of all—because it doesn’t feel like drifting. It’s not gentle. It’s not gradual. It’s like the moment I finally let go, everything caves in at once. There’s no slowing, no easing down from the high of labor. My body, wrecked and trembling, curls around the ache like it’s a new limb. I feel soaked in sweat and afterbirth, raw and used up and heavy in a way no words can describe. I want to move…to shower, to feel clean, to feel like myself again…but I can’t. My body refuses. And my eyes… God, my eyes burn too much to open. It takes everything I have just to breathe. Then comes the fall into sleep…sudden and absolute. There’s no sound, no sensation, just a wave of darkness swallowing me whole. I don’t dream. I don’t float. I sink. Deep. Quiet. Protected. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Could be minutes, hours, an entire lifetime…but the first thing I feel again is the familiar shimmer of my magic wrapping around me, holding me like a second skin. Not painful. Not forceful. Just present. Protective. Healing. And then I hear her.

“Emma?” Her voice breaks through the dark like a flame, sharp and bright and terrified.

“Hey…” I whisper, hoarse, not quite back in my body yet. My tongue feels thick, and my limbs are slow to respond. My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “What’s happened? Are the babies okay?” Regina exhales like someone breaking the surface after nearly drowning. Her hands cup my face before I even fully see her, trembling but warm.

“Oh, thank God, Emma…” she breathes, eyes glistening. “You passed out. I…I couldn’t wake you. You wouldn’t respond. I was about to…” she cuts herself off, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Magical blackout,” I mumble, trying to soothe, even as my heart thumps a little too hard beneath my ribs. “I’m okay.” But the words feel uncertain, even to me. Am I okay? Because I’ve never…never…blacked out like that before. Not even after the others. Not even after the worst days. I’ve never felt this empty. This… hollowed out. Like my magic had to sedate me just to keep me breathing. Still, I lift a shaky hand to brush the back of hers with my fingers. “I’m here,” I add. “I’m still here.” Regina lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She nods, eyes fluttering closed for a second in pure relief, then gestures to the side with a tilt of her head.

“The babies are perfect,” she whispers. “Sleeping, both of them. Swaddled like little burritos.” I follow her gaze…slowly, my head thick with fog…and see the Moses basket just a few feet away. And there they are. Our babies. Tucked side by side beneath soft cream blankets. Tiny fists curled up near their faces, mouths slack with newborn sleep, their chests rising and falling in delicate rhythm. A lump forms in my throat, too big to swallow.

“They’re okay,” I whisper. “They’re really okay.” Regina kisses my forehead, lingering there, as if anchoring me to the here and now.

“They’re more than okay,” she murmurs. “They’re perfect, just like their big sisters.” I nod weakly, eyes fluttering shut again. But this time, it's not unconsciousness that pulls at me.It's peace.

“Let me heal you…” Regina says softly, her voice full of the kind of love that feels sacred, reverent. “Then you can shower, start feeling more like yourself before it’s time for the babies to nurse again.” I turn my head to look at her, the words slow to rise through the haze in my mind.

“Like you did after Julia?” My voice is scratchy, worn. “Completely heal me… as if this never happened?” Regina gives a gentle nod, brushing a hand over my sweat-damp hair.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Minus the three-day hospital stay and the endless IVs. You didn’t lose much blood this time.” I nod back, just once.

“Okay,” I whisper. And I mean it.

I let my body sink deeper into the nest of pillows and blankets she arranged for me. Everything aches. Everything feels stretched too far, pulled apart, frayed at the edges. But here…cocooned in the warmth of our home, our babies safe and sleeping…I feel safe enough to surrender. The house is still again. Just the rain, soft and rhythmic on the roof, and the occasional distant roll of thunder. The storm’s gentler now, like the sky itself is exhaling with us. I close my eyes. Regina settles beside me. I feel the shift of the mattress, the warmth of her thigh against my hip. Her hands glow faintly, golden and soft, not the showy kind of magic…this is different. This is intimate. Healing. Her magic hums through the air like a lullaby.

“I’ll start from the top,” she says, and I nod again, letting her push back the hair from my face. Her hands hover over my forehead, and immediately, a tingling warmth floods through me. The headache I’d been carrying since sometime between the first contraction and the moment our son was born begins to dissolve. Tension unwinds from my temples. My jaw, which had been clenched tight from the sheer force of effort, loosens. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My body softens under her hands.

She works with slow, deliberate reverence. Magic seeps down through my neck, releasing the knots in my shoulders, the sore strain in my upper back. Every place that bore the burden of labor…my arms, my wrists, my hands that gripped the floor so hard I might’ve bruised…eases under her touch. She pauses when she reaches my belly. Her fingers splay gently over my abdomen. I gasp softly. Not in pain, but at the sheer contrast…the wave of warmth that radiates out from her palm into the aching stretch of skin and muscle that still thinks it’s housing life. I hadn’t realized how heavy it still felt…like a weight I couldn’t set down. Until now. Until the swelling goes down, and the pressure releases.

“It feels like my body didn’t get the message,” I whisper, my hand covering hers. “Like it didn’t realize they were out.” Her gaze flickers up to mine.

“It takes time,” she says. “Sometimes weeks, months if you don’t have magic…Especially with twins. Your body was so full. Your magic… it’s still catching up.” I close my eyes again.

“It felt off. Tilted. Like I wasn’t in myself anymore.”

“You weren’t. You were holding space for them. Now you can come back.”

She moves lower, down toward the deepest ache. Her hands hover, glowing gently, over my uterus…the cradle where our children lived. I feel it contracting under her guidance, but not like before. This time it’s not pain, it’s… relief. Her magic doesn’t just shrink it back down; it soothes, restores, centers me again. I can feel the inflammation retreating, the torn muscles knitting, the rawness fading to nothing but memory. Another sigh escapes me…long, slow, grateful. Lower still, she sweeps over the places I don’t name out loud. The places no one talks about after birth unless they’re medical professionals or mothers themselves. She heals what stretched and tore, what bled and swelled. I can feel her magic easing the sting I didn’t even realize I’d braced myself against, calming the soreness, the tenderness, the fear I hadn’t given voice to. She says nothing, but I know she’s taking her time. I open my eyes again and find her watching me, her brow soft, her expression open and unguarded.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You did all the hard work,” she replies. “This… this is the least I can do.” For a long moment, neither of us speak. Her hands settle over my belly once more, the final sweep of magic gentle as a feather. There’s no more pain. Just stillness. Just warmth. Just me. Whole. Again.

Regina’s hand lifts gently, and the soft glow of her magic begins to ripple through the room like a breeze that carries more than air…it carries intention. She doesn’t speak, just moves slowly, deliberately. The aftermath of birth fades around me: the stained towels vanish, the sheen of sweat on my skin disappears, the ache in my joints dulls even further. The couch I’m lying on…once wrinkled, damp, bearing the undeniable mark of labor…is suddenly clean, soft beneath me. The cushions seem to breathe again. The air shifts. I blink, surprised to feel new clothes against my skin…fresh, soft, like they’ve been warmed by the dryer. My hair is no longer matted to my neck; it feels light, clean, as though I just stepped out of the shower. I smell like lavender and eucalyptus, one of Regina’s herbal blends.

“Regina…” I murmur, caught between awe and appreciation. My body feels new. Not like it never gave birth…but like it was honored for doing so.

“You can still shower,” she says, her voice a balm. “In a minute. I’ll help you if you want, but just… rest for a little while longer, okay?” There’s something in her voice. Not strain, exactly…but something quieter. Hesitant.

“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, propping myself up a bit. “Regina, I feel fine. Actually… I feel normal.” But when I turn my head, catch her in the corner of my eye, she’s watching me differently. Not in awe, not with adoration…but with that sharp, assessing look she gives when something doesn’t sit right in her gut. She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lifts her hands over me again, murmuring softly beneath her breath. I know this spell. Not healing…it’s diagnostic. She’s scanning me. My heart stumbles a little in my chest. “What is it?” My voice cracks with fatigue, but there’s a thread of steel in it now. She’s too quiet. Her brow furrows too deeply. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

“What exactly did you do with Gold?” My stomach clenches. I almost laugh. Almost.

“What?” She doesn’t flinch. “What did you agree to with Rumpelstiltskin?” Her voice is soft, but there’s no room to squirm away from the question. Not with Regina.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, aiming for confused, maybe a little irritated. But my throat is too dry, and I can feel the lie vibrating under my skin. Regina lifts a single brow. She’s not buying it. She hesitates, as though weighing how much to tell me, how much I already know. Then she says it…gently, but directly. “Regina, you were with me every second, heard every word.”

“Your womb,” she murmurs. “It’s healed. Entirely. But it’s more than that. It’s… it’s gone quiet.”

“Quiet?” I echo, heart pounding.

“There’s no trace of postpartum trauma. No inflammation. No swelling. You’re whole…but… it’s like your body was reset. Like it was rewritten.” She moves her hand again, her magic pulsing faintly. “Emma, it’s as if your magic rerouted itself. I can’t find any ovarian activity. No follicles. No regenerative cycle. You don’t just feel normal. You are…too normal.” My body goes cold. Too normal. Like I’ve never given birth. Like I’ll never do it again.

“That’s impossible,” I say, trying to sound incredulous. “I just gave birth. You were there.”

“I know what I saw. And what I feel now… isn’t what should be.” Her voice softens, thickens. “Emma, your reproductive magic…your fertility…it’s not dormant. It’s gone. Like it’s been… taken.”

My mouth goes dry. She’s not wrong. She’s closer to the truth than I expected, than I hoped she’d get. And it scares the hell out of me. Because I promised she’d never know until I tell her. I didn’t think she would figure it out this quickly. I didn’t even know that she could see infertility. And now, somehow, she’s staring at the truth with her hands glowing. Regina lingers by me, her gaze flicking between me and the soft blue glow still fading from her fingertips. Her brows are drawn together, not with anger…something heavier. Older. A memory surfacing from somewhere deep.

“I’ve only ever felt something like this once before,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Seen it… in my own body.” I look up at her slowly. She’s not looking at me now…she’s staring past me, into a space only she can see. Her voice is quiet, almost reverent. “After I took that potion,” she continues, “when I was still young and so... desperate. When I thought I could outsmart fate. When I started to doubt whether I’d ever be a mother, because of that impulsive decision I made... I tried to heal myself, Emma. My healing magic didn’t work, because it was like it couldn’t reach where it needed to go, it was like the magic had disappeared. Gone... redirected. Sealed off.” She presses her hand gently to her abdomen, like her body remembers. “It felt like this. Exactly like this. Quiet. Empty.” A breath catches in my throat.

“Regina…” She looks at me now. Not suspicious. Just searching.

“I’ve never felt that in someone else before,” she says, voice soft but sure. “Until now.” Her eyes hold mine. Open. Waiting. I want to tell her the truth. I do. But the words lodge somewhere behind my ribs, caught in the tangle of everything I did to give her this gift she doesn’t even know she has yet. Everything I gave up.

“I’d certainly hope my womb is empty,” I try to joke weakly, looking over at our babies sleeping peacefully. “After how miserable two was I can’t imagine three.”  But she doesn’t laugh. She just watches me. Sharp, quiet. Patient. I bite my lip. “Maybe it’s just the spell you used. Maybe your healing magic went a little overboard.” She doesn’t correct me, but her expression makes it clear that even she doesn’t believe that. Still, she lets it go…for now. She stands slowly, brushing her palms against her thighs.

“You need rest,” she says, her voice measured. “You’ve given enough for one night.”

“I’m not tired.” I whisper. “The magic too that too. But as she moves away, I feel it again…like a whisper across my skin. The absence. Not a wound. Not a loss. A choice. I asked for this. And now, Regina’s body holds the magic mine no longer carries. The ability to carry life. She hasn’t felt it yet. But she will. And when she does… When this has had time to settle and I tell her the truth…I hope she still looks at me the same way.

“Still… rest is essential,” Regina says, her voice gentle but clipped, like she’s holding something back. But I shake my head, slowly, stubbornly.

“Regina, I want to talk…I’m not tired, when you healed me you took the exhaustion too….”

I don’t mean to sound defiant, but I hear it in my tone…some shaky mix of certainty and weariness. I want to tell her the truth. Really, I do. It’s right there on the edge of my tongue. I can feel the words trying to push through the fog of everything that’s just happened, trying to force their way into the open. But then I see her expression…and it stills me.

She’s not angry. Not exactly. She’s afraid. Her jaw is tight, her hands are still, her eyes shining with something she hasn’t quite named yet. And she’s doing what Regina always does when she’s trying not to lose control: pulling inward, creating distance so she won’t say something sharp or unforgivable. She’s putting walls between us, brick by brick, not because she wants to hurt me…but because she’s terrified I’m already hurt, and worse, that I let it happen. She’s trying to piece it all together. Not because she doesn’t trust me…but because she knows me. Because the math isn’t adding up.

“You’re lying,” she says softly. There’s no venom in it. No accusation. Just… disappointment. Grief, maybe. My chest tightens. She kneels beside me, searching my face, and I can feel it in the space between us….this aching truth she’s trying to pull from the air. “I know you are,” she adds, almost whispering now. “Because I can feel it, Emma. You’re different. Not just healed…changed.” I flinch. It’s involuntary, and I hate that she sees it. I start to turn away, but she cups my cheek…fingers warm, steady, trembling just a little…and draws me gently back to face her. “Whatever it is,” she breathes, voice trembling now, “you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. And that scares me more than anything else.”

God. I don’t say anything. I can’t. Because I see it all in her face: the suspicion, the sorrow, the love. She knows something’s wrong. She doesn’t know what it is yet, not entirely, but she knows it’s something to do with me. With what I gave up. She knows I can’t carry any more children. She felt it with her magic.  But she doesn’t understand why…and that’s what’s tearing her apart. She doesn’t trust that I am okay. And still… she hasn’t pulled her hand away. Not yet. I draw a slow, shaky breath, hoping it’ll steady the rising panic in my throat. It doesn’t.

“Regina,” I say carefully, forcing a small smile to my lips. “It’s healed… because you healed it. That’s all there is to it. You fixed me, just like after Julia. It’s not some big magical conspiracy.” Her eyes stay on mine, unblinking. I shift a little, trying to play it casual, and try to lighten the moment with a familiar tone.

“I…” But I don’t let her finish the thought.

“Now, if we could be very much done with this heavy-duty interrogation,” I mutter, “and you could maybe turn your attention to my swollen feet and tragic excuse for ankles, I’d really appreciate it. As much as I appreciate the healing you’ve already done, I’d also love to be able to walk normally again.”  I expect her to laugh. Even a half-smile would be enough. But she doesn’t. She just watches me…quiet, guarded, calculating.

“You’re joking about this like you don’t think I can feel it?” she asks, so softly it barely cuts through the air. Her arms fold slowly across her chest, her posture taut and unreadable. “I know your body, Emma. I know your magic. I taught you your magic. I know the way it pulses. The way it responds.” Her voice falters. “And this…this isn’t like last time. This isn’t just healing. It’s like… something’s been rewired, taken.” I look at her, swallowing hard. She’s not done. “It’s like a wound that’s been sealed with something else’s thread. Something older. Something I didn’t put there. I felt it when I scanned you. Like… like a spell I’ve never seen before. Threaded in gold.”

I flinch again…because I know what she’s sensing. Rumpelstiltskin’s signature. Faint but unmistakable. She should have never been able to see it, but I didn’t know that she would be, so I didn’t know to ask for her not to be. I open my mouth…wanting to explain, to deny, to protect her from this truth…but I can’t. I’m too tired, too tangled in what I did and why I did it, too afraid of her reaction to tell her the truth now. So instead, I shift again and offer her a crooked smile, one that barely holds. I nod toward my feet.

“Well… magic thread or not, these cankles still hurt like hell. Think you can help with that, or do I have to actually negotiate a deal with a different dark wizard?”

Regina narrows her eyes at me, the corners of her mouth twitching…but she doesn’t smile. She just kneels a little closer, resting her hand lightly against my shin, her magic already pulsing to life again. But her eyes never leave mine. And I know this conversation isn’t over.

Regina doesn’t speak again at first. She just lowers herself to the edge of the couch, gently lifts one of my feet into her lap, and begins to work her hands over my aching ankles…firm, purposeful, tender. It’s not just magic she uses, though there’s a soft glow beneath her palms. It’s her fingers too…pressing into the swelling, coaxing it down, tracing the lines of a body that’s been pushed past its limits and is now trying to find its way back to something like home. My eyes fall closed for a moment, and I let out a low sigh I didn’t realize I’d been holding. She shifts to the other foot, and I can feel it…my circulation settling, the tightness unraveling. Her magic hums softly against my skin, warm and grounding, and for a few blissful minutes, I forget everything else. The lies. The deal. The weight of what I gave up.

“Better?” she asks eventually, voice low and smooth. I blink, dazed by the comfort.

“Much,” I murmur honestly. “You’ve got magic hands. And regular hands. Which are apparently just as magical. Thank you…” She gives me a look. Something between amusement and restrained frustration. And then, she drops the next line like a stone into still water:

“Great,” she says. “Now talk. Because if you won’t give me answers… I know he will.” My heart stutters. I freeze, body suddenly too alert, too tense.

“Regina…”

She doesn’t press. Not yet. But the threat lingers, subtle and sharp. Not because she wants to punish me…but because she knows there’s something I’m hiding. Something that matters. Something that has everything to do with what she felt when she touched my womb and found… nothing. But before I can find my footing. Before I can invent some half-truth that won’t sound like a lie…the softest noise rises from the corner of the room. A tiny, mewling whimper. Then another. The babies. I shift instinctively, and Regina moves with me. We both look toward the Moses basket where they stir…stretching, fussing, hands curled into fists, cheeks flushed with newborn effort. Our son lets out a more determined cry, and our daughter’s little mouth begins to root against the edge of her swaddle.

“They’re hungry,” I say quickly…too quickly…and I’m grateful for the excuse, even if the guilt coils tight in my stomach. “Can you hand them to me?” Regina hesitates, just for a second. Then she rises, crossing the room, and returns with both babies bundled against her chest…one in each arm, like she was born to hold them. I reach out and take them, and the moment they’re in my arms, everything else falls away.

We shift together, easing into the familiar rhythm we’ve always known. Regina adjusts the pillows behind my back, supporting my spine, guiding me into the tandem hold we really haven’t perfected yet, but will in time, one baby at each breast, their small mouths latching like they have always known how. And in that moment, I can breathe again. Their suckling is slow and steady, greedy and soothing because them being hungry gives us an excuse to fall into silence. Our daughter’s hand curls against my chest. Our son blinks sleepily up at me, eyes just barely open. Regina crouches beside me, her hand stroking the soft crown of our daughter’s head, and then our sons.

“They’re perfect,” she whispers. I nod, swallowing hard.

“They really are.” She watches me for a long moment, and for now… she lets it go. She doesn’t ask again. She doesn’t press. We sit in the quiet, the thunder now just a distant hum, the rain like a lullaby against the roof. And for a while, we are not women caught in secrets or sacrifice. We’re just two mothers, and the miracle we made. We sit like that for… I don’t know how long. Time doesn’t feel real right now, not in this quiet, not with the weight of our newborns nestled in our arms and the soft hum of the rain still threading through the world outside.

The babies are finished nursing again, their tiny bodies warm and heavy with sleep. Regina helps me sit forward, and we change them together…dirty diapers swapped out for fresh ones, their limbs stretching and curling with those sweet little grunts that somehow make my heart feel too big for my chest. She bundles up our daughter with practiced hands, so gentle, so sure. I mirror her with our son, who lets out a sleepy sigh and then blinks up at me…his eyes flashing in the low light. Green. Exactly the same shade as mine. My breath catches. He also skipped the newborn blue. I glance over at Regina, who’s looking down at our daughter like she’s the entire universe.

And suddenly I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to pull us back into that place, the one where everything is sharp and brittle. Where the truth sits just beneath the surface, waiting to break us. So instead, I shift slightly on the couch, drawing our boy closer, and murmur,

“Are you seriously going to be mad at me and demand answers I can’t give you… after this?” Regina doesn’t look up. “After this?” I repeat, voice softer now, coaxing. “Look how cute they are…we made them and they are precious.”

“Emma…” she warns, but there’s no real heat behind it. I glance down at the baby again, letting a small smile tug at my lips.

“We haven’t even named them yet,” I say gently. “Let’s just… be here. With them. For a little while longer.” She finally looks over at me, and there’s something warring in her expression…concern, frustration, and that overwhelming love that never really lets go.

“You’re deflecting,” she says quietly. “Distracting me with baby cuddles.”

“Isn’t it the best distraction?” I ask, with a smile that’s more weary than playful. “They’re warm and sleepy and brand. They smell so good, and if I wait just a few more hours, it’ll be morning… the girls will wake up, and we’ll have real chaos. They’re so excited to meet the babies, and then, maybe you’ll forget about this conversation all together.” I watch her shoulders soften, just a little. The tension doesn’t leave completely, but she leans into it…into us. Her hand strokes gently over our daughter’s cheek.

“I know you’re scared,” she says, not unkindly. “I just wish you didn’t feel like you had to be scared alone.” I swallow hard.

“I’m not scared.” I whisper, glancing between her and the babies in our arms. “I just want to enjoy them, with you, and then with our amazing girls.”

We fall quiet again. Her arm brushes against mine as we lean in closer, the weight of our children grounding us. The questions are still there, waiting in the air like mist…but for now, we let them drift. Because sometimes love looks like holding your partner’s silence… and not letting go.

We lay the babies back into their Moses basket…two tiny miracles wrapped in soft blankets, their chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm. For a moment, everything feels suspended in peace. The fire crackles gently beside us, casting golden shadows across their impossibly delicate faces. My hand hovers above their heads, not touching, just feeling the warmth of their presence, the truth of them. They are ours.

I think about walking around…Water sounds good. Food, maybe. My body’s still hollowed-out and aching, not hurting though… the healing helped so much…but something simple, something normal might anchor me. I shift my weight, start to push up from the couch when…Regina turns to me. And her eyes are steel. A chill prickles across my spine. She doesn’t speak…not at first…but then, her voice cuts through the quiet like a blade:

“Rumpelstiltskin.” It’s not a whisper. It’s not a plea. It’s a summons. A name flung like a thunderclap into the world. The air crackles in response.

“Regina!” I hiss, scrambling to my feet and nearly tripping over the blanket I’d tossed across my legs. My heart’s in my throat, pounding hard against my ribs. “What are you doing?!”

She doesn’t answer me. She doesn’t have to. Because already the air is shifting…rippling like heat off pavement. The scent of old parchment and something older…smoke, rot, and spell ink…slithers through the room like fog. And then he’s there. Leaning casually against the wooden archway, as if he’s been invited to afternoon tea. Rumpelstiltskin, in all his infuriating smugness. Head tilted, fingers steepled, golden eyes gleaming like they know too much. They always do.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and sharp all at once. “Glad to see all is… well.” His gaze drifts lazily across the room…at me, at the fire, at the babies nestled in the basket like storybook characters too new to be real. “Two little bundles of something truly… unique.” He smiles, teeth glinting. “One of each. How symmetrical.” He circles slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a man inspecting artwork he’s already sold to someone at twice its worth. “Light and dark. Sun and shadow. Chaos… and calm. Lovely little metaphors for the future. Just dripping with fate.” Regina doesn’t move. Her stance is coiled, arms folding tight across her chest, voice cutting through the false warmth like a blade through silk.

“What did you do?” Rumple lifts his eyebrows.

“Pardon?”

“This stinks of you,” she snarls. “Your magic. Your fingerprints. You’ve touched something…her. What. Did. You. Do.” He clasps a hand to his chest like a performer mid-soliloquy.

“Do?” he echoes, his mouth curling into that ever-present smirk. “Whatever do you mean, dearie? You’ll have to be more specific, I’ve done a lot of things over the years.”

His eyes flick to me…quick, calculating, catching me there in my silence. I feel it like a pin pressed against skin. A spark of guilt. Recognition. He knows. Of course he knows. He always knows. But the moment passes. He slides his gaze back to Regina, all faux-hurt and amusement.

“You wound me, Madame Mayor. Truly. To toss such accusations into my lap after all I’ve done for your little family? All those kindnesses… unpaid, I might add…”

“You’re lying,” Regina says, firm, quiet, deadly.

“Oh, but of course I’m lying,” Rumple says brightly, as if she’s finally said something reasonable. “I’m always lying. You know that better than anyone, dearie.” He tips forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper spun with gleeful menace. “The question isn’t whether I’m lying…it’s about what.”

“I told her you had nothing to do with this,” I say quietly, almost desperately. My hands are clenched at my sides. I need this not to spiral. Rumple turns to me fully now, and his smile stretches slow and knowing.

“Oh… I know you did.” There’s something ancient behind his eyes. Not cruelty exactly…something worse. Satisfaction.

“I could feel your silence from a continent away,” he says, taking a slow, precise step closer. “And hers…oh, her suspicion is loud. Such beautiful tension between the two of you. Such delicious strain. Must be exhausting.”

“Enough,” Regina snaps. “You’re not here to play games.”

“Oh, Regina,” Rumple says with a soft chuckle. “It’s always a game. You know that. You played it first, as did your mother, and many before her, and now your wifey.” He glances toward the babies, a flick of something softer…almost reverent…passing over his expression. But it’s gone in a blink.

“You should be grateful,” he murmurs. “All that love. All that life. So… much of it. And for such a small price.”

“What did you take?” Regina growls. “Tell me now, or I swear…”

“You already know what I took,” he interrupts smoothly, turning his back on her as he makes his way toward the fire. “You felt it. You said it yourself.” He turns slightly, just enough to glance at me over his shoulder. “And she gave it freely.”

I stay silent. Because what can I say? Regina turns to me, betrayal flickering in her eyes like a storm that hasn’t broken yet. And I can’t even bring myself to meet her gaze. Rumple sighs, long-suffering and smug.

“You always ask after, don’t you? Never during. Never before the magic settles in and sings lullabies to your future.” His eyes flash gold. “But magic is never just magic. It’s a promise. And now… the deal is done. It seems like you, and the Savior, should have a little talk, shouldn’t you?”

Regina is still staring at the space where he stood. And I can feel her fury rising like a tide. But the babies sigh in their sleep, tiny hands curling, bodies shifting closer to each other in the basket. Their very existence is a balm I don’t deserve. I lower myself slowly back onto the couch, my limbs trembling…not from pain, but from everything I didn’t say. And everything I still can’t.  Gold hasn’t left. He lingers like smoke, like the echo of a spell still settling into the bones of the house. Leaning casually near the fire, arms crossed over his chest, he watches everything with that infuriating calm…half amused, half expectant, as though he’s just waiting for us to admit what he already knows.

“Regina…” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper. My throat is dry, my chest tight. “I told you… this was me. It wasn’t him.” Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing, sharp and glinting in the firelight.

“What did you do? I’m not angry, but I need to know what you’ve done.” I try to hold her gaze, but it’s like standing too close to a wildfire.

“It has nothing to do with him,” I repeat. Lie. Half-truth. Something in between. “It wasn’t a deal.”

“You’ve said that,” she replies, voice low but shaking with restrained fury. “But you still haven’t told me what you did.” I swallow hard, the words turning to dust in my mouth. I don’t want to lie to her. Not about this. Not now. But I also don’t know how to tell the truth. Not when it could tear open something I’m not ready to bleed from, not when everything we’ve just gone through is so fresh… so new. So I give her a partial truth.

“When I was on bed rest…” I begin slowly, deliberately. “And they told me I was facing weeks…months…more of that, barely able to move, not even able to hold the girls or sleep through the night or do anything on my own…” I pause, searching for the next part, the part that might make sense. “I…I panicked. I didn’t want to do this again. Not like that. I thought…” I close my eyes, forcing the words. “I wished that I’d never have to carry children again. That I would just… be done. That I’d be infertile, so I’d never go through that again.” Her face doesn’t change. Not immediately. But I see it in her eyes…that flicker. That ripple of disbelief. Then she crosses her arms, tighter now, as if physically bracing herself against what she already knows that I am not giving her the whole truth.

“That’s not how magic works,” Regina says, evenly. “It’s not how your magic works. You can’t just wish a part of your body away,  and deem it ineffective, Emma. Not something like that. Not without help.” And that’s when he speaks. From the firelit shadows where he’s been lingering, silent as death and twice as smug.

“Indeed,” Rumplestiltskin murmurs, his tone silken and casual. “Magic, my dear Savior, is not a wishing well. It is intent. It is structure. It is cost.” He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his boots nearly silent against the hardwood floor. “And what you did?” His gaze cuts to me, sharp enough to flay. “Wasn’t just a wish. It was a deal. Maybe not with me…” he places a hand delicately against his chest, mock innocence glittering in his eyes “…but a deal with yourself. It was a decision. A desperate, aching decision etched in magic. Carved into your body like a brand. That’s why she feels it.” He nods toward Regina. Regina doesn’t look at him  She’s still watching me. Only me. And it hurts more than anything Rumple could say.

“Emma,” she says again, softer now. There’s no rage in her voice anymore…just heartbreak. “What did you do?” I can’t answer. Because what do I say? That in a moment of weakness, I traded away my fertility because the fear and the pain swallowed me whole? Because I was afraid I wouldn’t survive the next time? Because I thought, somehow, I was protecting all of us? My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“Regina…” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to make you upset…”

“She meant to,” Rumple cuts in smoothly. I give him a look of betrayal in a ‘I’m taking the heat off your back, I just defended you’ sort of way. “She may not have known what she was agreeing to, but she meant every word. And magic listens to intent, dearie. It always does.”

“Get out,” Regina says coldly.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Rumple huffs, though he’s already backing away. “You’re angry now, but one day you’ll thank me. Or she will, when she realizes what she gained in exchange.”

“What did she gain?” Regina bites out. He just grins, head tilting with a glimmer of mischief. I’m Still standing. Still hollowed out. Still unable to say the one thing Regina needs to hear: Why. Because I don’t know how to tell her. Because I don’t know if she’ll forgive me. Even though the result will be something she’s always wanted. I sit back down on the couch…

“Just tell me what she did, please…I can help her.” Regina says, and her voice isn’t sharp anymore…it’s raw. Strained like the last thread holding everything together is about to snap. She stands near the fireplace, arms wrapped tightly around herself…not for warmth, but as if she’s trying to hold in whatever’s breaking apart inside her. The flicker of firelight dances across her face, casting shadows under her eyes, hollow with exhaustion and disbelief.

“I don’t help…Regina I’m fine.”  My chest aches at the sight of her. I did this. And I don't know how to fix it. Rumplestiltskin stands across the room, his posture infuriatingly relaxed. His fingertips trail the edge of our bookshelf, grazing over the spines of worn novels and family photo frames like he's browsing through memories he doesn't own. The calm in him is unbearable. Leisurely. Like this is all just theater and he's watching us stumble through the final act.

“I said no,” he replies softly, finally turning toward Regina. His voice is low, almost gentle…but it holds no compassion. There’s something in his eyes that gleams with amusement and something darker…like pity. But not for her. It’s not a denial. Not a protest. Not outrage at being accused. It’s a refusal. A calculated, quiet refusal. And Regina… she stills. Her arms stay crossed, her spine straight, but her expression falters for just a breath. That’s all it takes. Her eyes go glassy for a moment, like she’s trying not to see what she’s already piecing together.

“So she did make a deal,” she whispers, the words barely parting her lips. She says it like it physically hurts her to admit it out loud. And I think maybe it does. Her jaw tightens. Her chin lifts…regal instinct, like her backbone is trying to keep her steady when her heart isn’t. But I can feel the shift, the tremble in the room, in her. The weight of confirmation settles into the space between us with suffocating finality. Checkmate. She turns to me then, slowly. And I swear…for a moment…I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Her eyes lock onto mine, and there’s no fury there. Not yet. Not even accusation. Just pain.

“Emma,” she says. Just my name. That’s all. And it hits harder than a scream. I want to speak. I try. My mouth opens, but nothing comes. No words. No breath. Nothing but shame and the thick, rising weight of regret clogging my throat.

“No. I didn’t. This was me, my magic. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, to lie.”  I start, voice cracking like old glass. But even I don’t believe the excuse. Because I did mean to. I knew what I was doing, even if I didn't understand the full cost. I made the choice. I walked into it willingly. For her. For them. For us. I made the choice to sacrifice my ability to carry a child again so that she will be able to, even though she told me no, it’s especially worse because she doesn’t remember telling me no, or know what I did.  Regina shakes her head, just a little. Her gaze doesn’t leave mine…doesn’t waver, doesn’t blink. I can tell she’s searching for something in me. Maybe an answer. Maybe a crack. Maybe something she can still trust. It’s not that I didn’t mean to do it. It’s that I didn’t mean to get caught.

“Why?” she asks, and the word is like a wound opening. “Why would you go to him?”

I look at her, my throat tight, my hands gripping the blanket in my lap like it’s the only thing tethering me to the room. She deserves an answer. She deserves the answer. Because I love you. Because I wanted this life with you. Because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to be pregnant again, not after what happened with this pregnancy. Because I couldn’t go through it again. Because the girls needed me. Because you needed me. Because I needed me. Because I didn’t trust the world to let me live through another nine months of fear or on bed rest.  Because this way, it ended on my terms. Because I thought I could control it. Because I was wrong. But I can’t say any of that. Not while he’s still here. Not with his magic crackling at the edge of the room like a second heartbeat, waiting. So I look down. Ashamed. And silent. Regina doesn’t push again. Not yet. She just stands there, alone in the flickering light, trying to breathe through something I think might be heartbreak. And Rumple? He smiles faintly from the shadows, like he’s seen this before. Like he wrote this scene. He takes a small step back, tipping his head toward Regina with a flourish.

“Well,” he says with mock courtesy, “I believe my presence here is no longer required.” And with a shimmer of golden light and the faintest scent of parchment and smoke, he disappears. Leaving us in the silence. Just the two of us. And everything I still haven’t said.

“Emma…” Her voice is soft, careful. But I hear it. The shift. The calculation. I glance up from the blanket I’ve been folding and sigh.

“What now?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than I mean them to. My body still aches…not from pain, but from the weight of everything we haven’t said. From the eyes I feel watching me like I’m a puzzle she’s still trying to solve. Regina hesitates, then says it.

“Kiss me.” I blink. Look up at her slowly.

“What?” She lifts her chin, but there’s a flicker of something beneath the surface…nerves? Defiance? Desperation? I can’t tell.

“Kiss me,” she repeats, quieter this time. Like it costs her something to say it. That’s not what I expected. Not from her. Not now.

“No.” Her brows lift, stunned.

“No?”

“No.” I stand my ground. “What is me kissing you going to do, Regina? Is that going to suddenly erase your fear that I went crawling to Rumpelstiltskin in the middle of the night and signed my soul away? Is it going to fix this rift, or undo the fact that you don’t trust me right now?” Her eyes darken slightly, hurt flickering there…but she doesn’t look away.

“I don’t know,” she admits, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Maybe not. But you’ve been practically begging me to seduce you for weeks now, so maybe I’m just trying a new approach.” She shrugs like it’s nothing, but I can hear the strain behind the humor. “You’re healed. It’s safe now, right?”

My jaw clenches at that. Not because she’s wrong. I am healed…completely. She made sure of it. Every tear, every bruise, every ache wiped away with that careful, reverent magic of hers. And I made sure of the rest. I can’t get pregnant again. Not ever. That part of me is gone…by my choice, sealed with a deal and a thread of Gold’s magic I can still feel lingering like smoke in my chest. Physically, yes, it would be safe. I want her. God, I want her. It’s not even about sex…not really. It’s just about the connection, about her the way she looks at me when I hold our children. The way her voice softens around my name. The way her magic hums when she touches me, still echoing against my skin like it belongs there. And I want to lose myself in that. In her. In the safety of her arms and the kind of love that doesn’t ask questions until morning. But I can’t. Not all the way. Not yet.

But it wouldn’t be honest. And that matters. Because I know something she doesn’t. And that something lives between us now, silent and heavy, wrapped in threads of golden magic and choices I made when I was too exhausted, too scared to see clearly, though a choice I wanted. That I know she wants too… The truth is, I can’t let us go too far. Not until I tell her. Not until I rip open the truth and let her see what I’ve done. Because it’s not just about me anymore. It never was. She deserves to know. Because if we cross that line, if I let her love me fully, if we make love and she…God forbid…ends up pregnant, and I never told her what happened… I don’t think I could live with that. I would have taken that choice from her. And I know what that feels like. To have your choice taken, not in the same way, but I would never do that to her. I narrow my eyes at her, giving her a look I know she’s not expecting.

“Hmm,” I murmur, pretending to consider her words. “That’s interesting. What was it you were saying earlier about not taking advantage of someone in a painful, vulnerable state?” My voice softens, turns coy. “You seem like you’re in a pretty painful, vulnerable state right now, Regina.” She blinks.

“Excuse me?” I smile…not cruelly, but pointed as if we’re just having a normal conversation.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right? You were so worried about me a few hours ago. Wouldn’t let me even think about kissing you while I was actively in labor and in immense amounts of pain. Now look at you. Stressed. Raw. Unsteady.” I lean forward just slightly. “So maybe I’ll show you the same courtesy I was extended and just… wait a little while.” She stares at me, lips parted, utterly caught off guard. Her face flickers through surprise, indignation, and then… something like shame. She runs a hand through her hair and looks away toward the fire, jaw working as if she’s trying to form a rebuttal she doesn’t quite believe in.

“That’s not what I meant,” she mutters finally. I nod slowly.

“I know. But it is what you’re feeling. And maybe that’s the point.” I rise carefully from the couch, ignoring the twinge in my back. I can feel the shift in her…see it in the way her shoulders slope, the way she avoids my eyes. “I love you,” I say softly, standing beside her now. “But if you’re asking me to kiss you to avoid talking about this, it’s not going to happen. Not until we’re honest with each other again. Not until I can look at you and know I’ve told you everything you deserve to know.”

She looks at me then, eyes glistening, mouth parted like she wants to speak but can’t. And it kills me not to close the space between us. Not to just wrap my arms around her and press our foreheads together like we always do when the world gets too loud. But if I do that now…if I let her distract me…we’ll never say the things that need to be said. So I just reach out and gently brush her knuckles with mine, grounding her. Grounding me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “But I need you to see me again. Not the version of me you’re scared I’ve become. Me.”

She nods, once. Silent. And we stand like that, side by side, the fire crackling between us and the sound of our children breathing in the next room. I wait. I hold back, even when it hurts. Even when her mouth is inches from mine and her hands are soft and sure against my skin. Even when she whispers my name like it’s a promise and a plea all at once. Because love doesn’t just mean holding someone through the pain. Sometimes it means holding back when you want nothing more than to fall into them completely. She deserves the truth. She deserves the choice. And I’m going to give it to her. Even if it breaks me.

The smell of coffee is just starting to fill the kitchen when I hear the unmistakable sound of little feet pounding down the hallway. I barely have time to turn around before…

“MOMMY!” Isabella barrels into the kitchen like a whirlwind of curls and energy, launching herself into my arms before I can even set down the mug I’m holding. I grunt softly, more from surprise than anything else, and instinctively wrap her up in a hug. She pulls back after a moment, eyes wide, taking in the sight of me. Her hands land on my belly…small, curious palms pressing gently against the flatness of it…and her mouth falls open with a gasp. “Your tummy is tiny again!” she exclaims. “Does that mean the babies are here?! Are they? Where are they? What are their names?!” I laugh, breathless, hugging her back.

 “Whoa, slow down…” But I don’t get a chance to say anything more before Julia comes flying in right behind her, arms already outstretched.

“Are they adorable like kittens?” she demands, throwing her arms around my waist and hugging me with the kind of ferocity only a four-year-old can manage. “Can we hold them? One each? And take a picture and put it on the fridge and tell everyone they’re ours now?” I blink, momentarily stunned by the avalanche of words, questions, and pure childlike enthusiasm. My coffee’s forgotten. My breath’s gone. I can’t stop smiling.

“I…oka…uh…” I try, hands hovering in the air like I’m trying to physically catch all their questions before they fall on the floor. “I’d love a picture, but kittens?”

“They’re sleeping.” Regina says coming into the room from behind me, her voice soft, calm and warm.  She steps into the kitchen, her hair pulled into a lazy bun and one of my old sweaters wrapped around her shoulders. She looks tired…bone-tired…but there’s a gentleness in her eyes that makes my heart ache a little. Like me, she’d only managed a few hours of sleep last night, catching it in patches between feedings and snuggles and everything else newborns bring. It wasn’t enough. But somehow, it’s manageable.

“I just wanted to wake you both first, so you can wake  up gently, and have time for breakfast before you meet them.”

“Where are the babies?” Julia whispers, as if they might be too fragile for even her voice. Regina walks over and crouches to their level.

“They’re still sleeping. Let’s let them rest for now, and we’ll have cocoa and breakfast first, okay?” Isabella looks like she might protest, her mouth already opening to make a case for immediate sibling introductions…but then she thinks better of it, biting her lip and nodding solemnly.

“Okay,” she agrees. “But only because they’re babies and babies need a lot of sleep.”

“And milk,” Julia adds helpfully. “And kisses.”

“Definitely kisses,” I say, finally able to speak again. I reach for their hands and lead them toward the table. “We’ll have breakfast, and then, when they wake up, you can both meet them properly. One each, and take a picture, just like you said.”

They squeal, bouncing toward their seats, and I turn to meet Regina’s gaze. She hands me my mug wordlessly, fingers brushing mine, her eyes lingering on me for just a moment longer than necessary. I know there’s more between us…so much more…but for now, this is enough. The scent of cinnamon toast and warm cocoa begins to fill the air. And in this quiet moment…this rare, fragile lull before the next storm of newborn chaos…I let myself feel the sweetness of it. Of family. Of home. Of two sleepy little girls vibrating with excitement at the news of their new siblings and a woman I love watching them like they’re the greatest magic she’s ever seen.

I’m standing at the kitchen island, slicing strawberries with slow, practiced movements, the girls’ chatter humming behind me like background music. The toaster clicks up two more slices of cinnamon swirl bread, golden and warm, and I pull them free, slathering a thin layer of butter over the top, watching it melt into the grooves. Plates are already lined up…small ones, each with their own pile of toast, fruit, and little cups of yogurt that I’ve sweetened with a drizzle of honey. I’m in the middle of arranging blueberries and strawberries into a flower on Julia’s plate…having just finished Isabella’s because of course I am, because that’s who I’ve become…when I feel her.

Arms slide around my waist from behind, familiar and sure, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Regina. She molds against me with that quiet ease that only comes from years of knowing someone’s rhythm. Her body curved to mine, her warmth seeping through the fabric of my borrowed shirt. I tilt my head slightly just as her lips find the soft skin just below my ear…warm and lingering, the kind of kiss that says I’m here without needing to say anything at all. Goosebumps scatter across my arms.  She rests her chin on my shoulder, her breath a quiet exhale against my neck.

“You’re making them flowers now?” she murmurs, amusement in her voice but no real judgment. I glance down at the arrangement of berries, my heart thudding with something tender.

“They’re five and three. It buys me like, five extra minutes of peace.” She hums a low sound of agreement, the vibration of it sinking into my bones.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m effective,” I counter softly. Regina chuckles against my skin. I can feel her smile, not just on her lips but in the way her hands tighten ever so slightly around my waist. She stays there for a moment, just holding me while I finish plating the toast, the fruit, the yogurt. Just being there, being still, in a life that rarely ever is. And maybe it’s the simplicity of the moment, the quiet domesticity of it, or maybe it’s the way she’s clinging a little tighter than usual…but I feel the tears threatening again. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming fullness of it all.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and I’m not even sure what I’m thanking her for. Everything, probably.

She doesn’t ask. She just presses another kiss to my neck, softer this time, then rests her forehead against the side of my head like she’s anchoring both of us there…right here, in this kitchen, in this morning, in this life we built from the rubble. We stay like that for another few seconds…just long enough for the toast to cool and the blueberries to start rolling slowly across the plate like they’re trying to escape. And when the girls shout from the table for their breakfast, neither of us moves right away. Because this? This is the quiet between the storms. And we know better than to waste it. Regina takes the girls’ plates from the counter without a word, the warmth of her touch still lingering on my waist for a beat longer before she steps away. I watch her move…graceful even in her fatigue, even in the soft gray cardigan slipping off one shoulder…as she crosses the kitchen with their breakfast. She kneels slightly to set the plates down on the little table we painted together in the spring, now cluttered with crayons and sticker sheets and tiny glittering tiaras.

“Cinnamon toast, yogurt, and fruit flowers,” she announces like a waitress at a five-star fairy tale café. Isabella and Julia practically squeal in unison.

“Thank you!” Julia beams, already scooping a strawberry into her mouth before the plate even settles. Isabella reaches for a blueberry, pauses dramatically, and says,

“This is the best breakfast ever. I love when play magic waitress.” Regina smirks.

“It was mostly your Mommy this time. I just did the delivery service.” She returns a moment later with two mugs…little ones, decorated with chipped unicorns and faded stars. She sets them down carefully in front of the girls, each topped with a dusting of cinnamon that curls into the steam like a spell. “Blow on it first,” she warns gently, and they both obediently puff tiny breaths over the cocoa.

Then, she turns back toward me, her steps slow, deliberate. I’ve turned back to her, at the sink now, pretending to rinse something that doesn’t really need rinsing, just to stay moving. My heart is still lodged somewhere in my throat, beating too hard for no reason at all. Regina comes to stand beside me, silent for a moment, then reaches out to brush her fingers against mine.

“Are you ready to talk yet?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Not accusing. Not even firm. Just… tentative. Careful, like I might break. I pause, then turn the water off.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say softly. I don’t look at her right away. “We’re fine. Our family is fine.” She doesn’t reply. Just waits. So I make myself go on. “We both have more than we ever thought possible,” I say, slowly, like maybe if I say it out loud, it will be enough to convince us both. “We have a home, and love, and four children who adore us. Two newborns sleeping in the next room who are healthy and whole. You and me? We survived everything. We got our happy ending.”

She studies me for a long second. I can feel her eyes on the side of my face, reading every small twitch of muscle, every pause in my breath. Her silence isn’t angry. It’s knowing. Heavy. But when I finally do glance over, she doesn’t press me. She just nods once, very slightly. Regina gathers the last of the napkins from the counter like she’s about to return to the girls, letting the weight of my words hang there between us, suspended in the quiet hum of the kitchen. The girls’ laughter echoes from their tiny table behind us…muffled giggles, the clink of spoons against ceramic, cinnamon-scented joy. It should feel warm. Safe. She takes one step toward them, maybe two, before something shifts. She pauses…completely still, like she’s listening to something only she can hear. And then, slowly, she turns back to me. Her eyes are different now…softer, but full of something I can’t quite define. Not judgment. Not anger. Longing, maybe. Pain.

“Emma,” she says gently. “I’m not mad.” I swallow, suddenly aware of how tight my shoulders are, how hard my hands are gripping the edge of the counter. “Please,” she adds, stepping closer again. “Just… tell me what happened. What really happened?” My mouth opens, but before I can deny or deflect, she continues…quiet, but cutting.

“When I came up behind you earlier, you flinched.”

“I didn’t,” I lie immediately, too quick, too defensive.  Her brow arches, just slightly.

“You did. I felt it.” I let out a slow breath, trying to summon something close to nonchalance. I focus on the sink, on the water droplets clinging to the edge of the faucet.

“Maybe I’m just adjusting,” I mutter. “To being able to move again. Breathe again. Everything feels different after birth, especially this time. It’s like... there’s space in my body again, and I don’t quite know what to do with it yet.” It’s not a lie. Not entirely. But it’s not the truth either. She watches me, arms loosely folded now, like she doesn’t quite believe me but doesn’t want to call me out again…not yet. Not here, not with our daughters humming through another round of “Ring Around the Rosie” a few feet away. Still, her voice dips, gentle as a hand brushing back hair from my face.

“You don’t flinch with me,” she says softly. “You never have. Not even when you’re in pain. Not even when you were in labor, begging me to use magic because it was too much. But this morning, just for a second... you pulled away.” It’s not true that I haven’t flinched, that I don’t flinch, I do. Maybe I have just been better at hiding it in the past, or maybe what I think is flinching and she thinks is flinching is not the same thing. I don’t respond. Can’t. Because she’s not wrong, and I don’t want to lie to her again. So I reach for a coffee cup I don’t need, just to keep my hands busy. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. She just stands there, quietly letting her presence wrap around me like a question left unanswered.

And when she finally turns to go…back to the girls, back to the comfort of what she can hold onto….her fingers brush lightly across my arm in passing. Not for control, or pressure. Just... connection. I stare into my coffee as if it has answers. But there’s only warmth. And the sound of little girls laughing. And the weight of a truth I still haven’t spoken out loud. I don’t follow her. I stay in the kitchen, leaning my hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from my half-empty mug. My hands feel too big somehow, awkward against the warm ceramic. The girls' laughter echoes from the next room…soft and high-pitched and wild. Regina’s voice blends in with theirs for a moment as she gently redirects spilled cocoa and sticky fingers. I should join them. But I don’t. Instead, I lift my voice just enough to reach her as she turns back toward the kitchen. She pauses in the doorway, her silhouette framed by soft morning light. There’s a hesitation in her stance, like she knows I’m not done yet.

“Why did you want me to kiss you last night?” I ask, eyes still fixed on the coffee, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Was that supposed to be some kind of trick? Were you trying to prove something? Push me into telling you what you wanted to hear?” There’s a beat of silence so complete, I can hear the ticking of the kitchen clock above the stove. Her breath doesn’t hitch, doesn’t catch…but it still changes. Softer. Measured. Like she’s bracing for a different kind of pain. When she finally steps back toward me, she doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t even look surprised. She just looks… tired.

“No,” she says simply. “I wasn’t trying to trick you.” I glance at her then, trying to read her expression, but her face is calm…too calm. “I wasn’t looking for a confession,” she continues. “I was trying to find you again. The real you. The one who lets me hold her when she’s falling apart. The one who doesn’t push me away when she’s scared.” I want to interrupt her, tell her I’m not pushing her away, that she doesn’t understand…but I stay quiet. Because maybe I have been. She steps closer, and there’s no fire in her voice now…just the same aching steadiness she’s used when patching me up, when kissing my forehead in hospital rooms or holding me through nightmares. “I asked you to kiss me because I needed to know if you were still here with me. Not just in body. But here.” She taps her hand lightly against her own chest. “If you still felt safe. With me, and you just proved that you don’t… but that’s okay we’ll fix it.”  I blink, slow and deliberate, because my throat’s starting to feel tight again.

“I do,” I say softly. “I do feel safe with you.”

“Then tell me the truth,” she whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Because I’m not afraid of the truth, Emma. I’m only afraid of losing you to it.” Her words land heavy. Not angry. Not manipulative. Just... honest. And I realize then that this…this is the moment she’s been waiting for. Not to punish me. Not to pull the truth out of me like a splinter. But to be let in. To be trusted. And I’m not sure I can give her that yet. But I want to. God, I want to. She’s still watching me like I might say something that unravels everything…or patches it back together. And I can’t take the way her eyes soften. The way she’s still offering me gentleness even when I don’t deserve it. So I deflect. Again.

“You remember how you didn’t believe me last night?” I ask, not accusingly, just… level. Careful. My voice is low, almost too casual, but it hits its mark. I see the flicker of guilt in her expression before she slowly nods. I take a breath, stare down at the mug in my hands like maybe it holds something steadier than I do. “Well…” I continue, lifting my gaze to hers. “I don’t believe you now.” She blinks. Her brow knits, confusion spreading across her face…but she doesn’t say anything. She waits.

“You’re lying,” I say, a little softer this time, but no less sure. “And I know you are… because it’s one of my super powers. Remember?” That earns me a reaction…barely. The smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. It doesn’t become a smile. Not really. It’s more like an echo of one, weighed down by too much else.

“I didn’t lie,” she says, quiet but firm.

“You said you weren’t trying to get anything out of me with that kiss that I’ve been begging you for.” I tilt my head, searching her. “But you were. You wanted proof. You were scared. And maybe you didn’t mean to manipulate me…but it wasn’t just about closeness, Regina. It was a test.” Silence stretches out between us. It’s not angry silence, just… complicated. She crosses her arms again, wraps them tighter around herself like she’s holding something in. Her jaw flexes.

“I was scared,” she admits finally. “Still am. But I wasn’t testing you, Emma. I was reaching for you. The only way I know how, the way you’ve been begging me to.”

I nod slowly, because I believe that too. But it doesn’t change what’s between us. It just names it. Regina steps forward, slowly…carefully…like she’s approaching something wild and wounded. Her arms start to lift, her eyes softening with the kind of tenderness she’s always reserved just for me. She’s reaching for comfort…for contact…for a moment where everything doesn’t feel so fragile. But I can’t. Not right now. I step slightly to the side…just enough. Not a shove, not a rejection, just a quiet shift of weight that says not today. Her hands hover in the space where my waist used to be, and for a breath, neither of us moves.

Then I grab my plate. Cinnamon toast, berries, yogurt I don’t actually want but know I should eat. I cross the room without another word and slide into the tiny chair at the kids’ table. The girls scoot over without hesitation, making room like this is the most normal thing in the world. I take a bite. The toast is sweet and warm, the cocoa rich with cinnamon and cream. The girls giggle about something…Julia’s retelling a dream she had where a kitten rode a unicycle and Isabella keeps interrupting with corrections. And for a second, I let it be enough. I don’t look at Regina. I don’t have it in me. But I feel her behind me…still watching, still waiting. She doesn’t speak. Eventually, I hear the soft clink of her putting her plate back on the counter. And then quiet. Not angry. Just quiet. I stay with the girls. Because this…this uncomplicated, messy, sleepy, cocoa-stained morning—is something I can handle. Her arms? Her questions? Not yet. It starts as the softest sound…barely more than a breathy sigh…but both girls freeze instantly.

"Did you hear that?" Isabella asks, eyes wide. Julia nods, her spoon clattering into her empty yogurt cup.

"The babies!" Another tiny cry follows, unmistakable now. High-pitched. New. Alive. I smile in spite of myself, rising from the kid-sized chair with a soft grunt and brushing toast crumbs off my pajama pants.

“Alright, let’s go wash up before you even think about touching them, no sticky fingers on the babies.”

“Can we please hold them now?” Isabella pleads, practically vibrating.

“Yes,” I say, glancing toward the hallway, “but first…hands.”

They’re already running toward the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the floor. I follow behind them, turning the water on, guiding small hands under warm water, lathering the soap between their fingers like I’ve done a thousand times. Julia hums the alphabet song under her breath like she’s timing herself. Isabella is all questions…Do babies like sparkles? Do they know who we are yet? Can I teach her to braid hair? Do babies know how to burp the alphabet yet? And I answer with nods and chuckles, towel-drying their hands as they bounce on their toes. When we emerge again into the living room, Regina is already there. She’s seated on the couch now, both babies cradled against her chest in those ridiculous tiny newborn swaddles…our son in soft seafoam green, our daughter in lavender, both tucked neatly under the arc of Regina’s protective arm. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the floor. It feels like the entire house is holding its breath in reverence.

“They’re awake,” she says softly, looking up at me. “And very curious.” The girls tiptoe over as if stepping into a sacred moment. They hover at the edge of the couch, eyes huge, hearts in their throats.

“Hi,” Julia whispers, peeking over the blanket edge. “Hi baby sister and baby brother.”

“They still don’t have names,” I remind them, crouching beside them now, one arm draped around each of their backs. “We’re waiting until we find just the right ones feel right.”

“They’re so tiny,” Isabella breathes. “Like dolls. But better. Because they’re real.”

Regina lifts her gaze, and our eyes meet…gentler this time, softened by the spell of our children, by the calm in the storm. Her lips curve into the kind of smile I fell in love with all those years ago…quiet, aching, full of all the things she never says out loud. She shifts just enough to hand me our daughter. Automatically, I settle onto the cushion beside her and draw the tiny body into the crook of my arm. The baby snuffles once, then sighs, her miniature fingers curling in a fist near her chin.

“She looks like you,” Julia says, voice hushed, looking at the baby in my arms.

“No, he looks like Mommy,” Isabella argues, pointing to the baby boy now resting peacefully against Regina’s chest. “See? He has green eyes like her. I saw.”

“We both saw,” Julia agrees, nodding. “Baby sister has brown eyes like me and Momma do!”

“I think they both look like themselves,” I say, leaning my head lightly against Regina’s shoulder. Regina doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she brushes a fingertip across our son’s cheek.

 “They’re perfect,” she murmurs.  The girls settle at our feet, peering up with reverence. Julia places one  hand gently on each of the baby’s swaddle and whispers,

“I think you’re going to be magical. You feel like magic.” Isabella crawls into my lap carefully so as not to jostle her new sister, resting her cheek on my arm.

“Are they going to sleep in our rooms?”

“No,” I say, laughing softly. “They’re going to stay with Momma and I…and then in their nursery. You won’t want to hear them cry at two in the morning.”

“Yes I will,” she insists. “I want to do everything with them.” Regina smiles, shifting just enough to lean her head against mine. Her free hand finds my leg, squeezing gently.

“I think they’re going to be loved more than they’ll even know.” We sit like that for a long while…two mothers, four children, one room steeped in the kind of quiet magic no spell could ever replicate. No more words. Just warmth. Just family.. And for now, that’s enough. The girls ask to hold the babies, and we position them gently in their arms.

“I think she’s smiling,” Isabella whispers, cradling her baby sister with both arms as if she’s holding the rarest, most delicate treasure in the world.

“She’s not smiling,” Julia says, though she sounds more in awe than argumentative. “She’s… squinting. Or maybe gonna cry…please don’t cry.”

“I like to think it’s smiling,” Isabella insists, beaming down at the baby’s scrunched little face. Meanwhile, Julia is holding their baby brother with surprising confidence for someone so small herself. Her legs dangle off the couch, but she’s absolutely still, focused, cradling him just right with one hand carefully supporting his head like she’s been practicing her whole life for this moment. Regina leans back watching them…heart in her throat, eyes soft. I catch the look and smile to myself, then reach for my phone.

“Don’t move,” I whisper. They freeze instantly. Well, the girls do. The babies each give a little wriggle, a sleepy squeak, but otherwise remain still in their sisters’ arms. Regina had moved out of the way.  The frame is perfect. The sunlight from the window makes everything look golden and warm. Julia’s holding her brother like she’s afraid to blink. Isabella’s smiling so wide it nearly breaks my heart. And the babies…our brand-new, perfect twins…are nestled between them like they’ve always belonged here. Click. Then another. And another.

“I want that one,” Regina says, appearing beside me now. She peeks at the photo I’ve just taken. “Printed. For the fridge. And maybe another one for upstairs, one for my office. And one for my wallet. Our four beautiful children.” I laugh.

“You’re going to wallpaper the house with it?”

“Don’t tempt me.” I send it to the printer with a few taps…modern magic at work…and slip the phone into my pocket just as Isabella says.

“Can we hold them every morning? Every single one?”

“We’ll have to see how they feel about that,” I say gently, easing myself down beside them. “But right now, they look pretty happy.” Julia leans in and kisses the baby’s forehead.

“I love them already. Like… forever love.” Regina’s hand finds mine on the armrest. She squeezes once, warm and sure, and whispers

“I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life.” I turn my hand in hers, fingers threading together.

“We will.” And across the room, the printer hums softly, the photo sliding out onto the tray…one perfect memory, already captured, already part of our story.

Chapter Text

A COUPLE WEEKS LATER

EMMA SWAN’s POINT OF VIEW:

“Emma…” Her voice is soft…too soft…and laced with something that stills me.

“Yeah?” I ask, not looking up at first. She waits until I do. Her eyes search mine in the dim glow of the nursery light spilling down the hallway, the low hum of the baby monitor crackling faintly behind her. She's in one of my old shirts again, the hem grazing her bare thighs, her hair loose, her lips parted like there’s a kiss barely trapped behind them.

“What’s really going on?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” She steps in close…close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the weight of her gaze. Her hand lifts, like she’s going to brush my hair behind my ear, or maybe cradle my face and leans in…but I shift back, subtle, instinctive. Her hand falls. Not harshly, but slowly. Deliberately.

“That,” she says, voice threaded with hurt and just enough sharpness to make my chest ache. “That right there.” I open my mouth. Close it again.

“You’ve been... distant,” she murmurs. “Colder, since the twins were born. Before that…you were always reaching for me. Touching me. Clinging to me in the middle of the night like I was the only thing keeping you grounded.” Her eyes flicker with something raw. “When you were in labor… God, Emma, you were begging me to stay close. To hold you, kiss you, touch you… like we couldn’t possibly get close enough. Like you needed every part of me just to breathe. And now?” Her voice cracks. “Now I can’t even kiss you without you pulling away?”

I exhale, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like a leak…like something inside me is giving out, slowly, painfully. It’s true…we’ve found a rhythm since the twins came. A beautiful, messy rhythm. Diapers and bottles, lullabies Storytimes. The girls adore their baby siblings, and Regina and I… we’ve stepped into this new chapter of motherhood together like we were born for it, like they were always apart of our lives.  It’s not bad. It’s not lacking joy. But there’s something missing…something Regina has clearly felt, and that I’ve been trying to pretend isn’t there.

“I guess I’m just…” I start, but the words dry up on my tongue.

Tired? No. She knows I’m not. She sees me, knows my tells. I’m healed, fully. She made sure of that…stayed up all night with me the night I gave birth, healed me with her magic, completely. She knows my body better than anyone ever has. But she doesn’t know the secret I’m keeping just beneath my skin. She doesn’t know what I did. I haven’t told her about the deal. About Gold. About the bargain I made with shadows and magic and consequences. She doesn’t know that I gave up my fertility…my future chance at bearing a child again…so she could have that chance. So she could carry life, if she ever wanted to. So we could make something together that came from her, if she needed to feel that kind of connection again.

What she doesn’t know is that right now, right now, her chances of conceiving are at their highest. And I’ve been avoiding her…not because I don’t want her, but because I want her too much. And if I touch her like I want to, if I love her the way I ache to… I’ll break the illusion. I’ll have to tell her. And I’m not ready. I’m scared of what she'll say. But she’s not done.

“Don’t give me excuses,” she says, voice low and rough, stepping in again. She corners me gently…like a wave at my back, inescapable, inevitable. Her fingers touch my wrist. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just there. “Emma,” she says, steady now. “We don’t lie to each other anymore. Not about things that matter.” Her thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, and my breath hitches at the contact. God, I miss her. “So tell me,” she whispers. “Tell me what’s going on inside that beautiful head of yours before I lose mine wondering.” I close my eyes, jaw tight, the confession choking me from the inside out. I could kiss her now…take the easy road, distract her, drown in her skin. But I don’t. Because she deserves the truth. Because I promised her a happy ending. And that promise has never felt heavier than it does now.

“You’ll be angry with me,” I say finally, barely above a whisper.

Regina’s touch still lingers on my wrist like heat left after a flame, but she doesn’t tighten her grip, doesn’t pull away. She just waits. That’s the worst part…how patient she is. How she never pushes too hard. How she loves me without conditions and still manages to undo me with nothing more than her silence. I can’t meet her eyes. Because she will be. Angry, I mean. Not just angry…hurt. And I can’t bear that. I’ve seen Regina in pain before. I’ve seen her rage, her heartbreak, the way she folds in on herself when she feels betrayed. I’ve seen the ruins left behind when people she loves make choices without her. And I’ve made those kinds of choices. Too many. She told me not to make the deal with Gold, and I did.  I lean back against the wall, the cool plaster grounding me while my heart stutters in my chest. The babies are quiet. The girls are down for the night too…house is quiet. Too quiet. It makes the air around us feel too thick…like it’s holding its breath for me. Would she understand? Would she forgive me for making the choice without her? For going behind her back, even if it was for her, for us? I close my eyes and exhale shakily.

“I’m not angry with you…” She says, so softly. “Just…confused, because you’re lying to me.”

“Why do you think I’m lying to you?”

“That’s what I want you to tell me.” She says. She takes a slow step towards me, her eyes studying every inch of my face. “You’ve been acting this way since you saw Gold last…What did you do? Your miraculous healing…your sudden…infertility. That’s far beyond the scope of my magic.”

The words hit like ice water. My heart stumbles in my chest. I look down at the babies, still peaceful. Still so new. My hands tremble slightly where they rest on the edge of the basket. She knows something’s off. But something else is clear too…she doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember the day in the pawnshop. She doesn’t remember Rumple’s offer. She’s acting like this is all brand new. Something happened. Gold took her memory, he had to have, we know he did.

“I told you,” I say, quieter now, more careful. “My magic is unpredictable. You know that. I know that. Think about it, Regina… how did I not get pregnant all those years between Henry and Isabella? Between Isabella and Julia? Julia and now?” Regina crosses her arms again, eyes narrowing. I keep going. “It wasn’t abstinence,” I add, trying to smile. “It wasn’t me avoiding you. It’s probably just some magical form of birth control. Some defense system…my body protecting itself until it was ready. Until we were ready.” Her silence stretches, heavy and unreadable. Finally, she tilts her head, slowly, studying me.

“No,” she says. “No, that’s not what this is.”

“Regina…”

“I’ve healed you before,” she cuts in. “I know your body. I’ve seen it shift and mend. I’ve watched it after the babies were born. And this was different, Emma. This wasn’t protective magic. This wasn’t just a defense system.” She swallows hard, voice softer now, but laced with dread. “This was final. Like something… sealed.”

I look away. I have to look away, because I know she’s right. And I’m not ready to tell her yet…not the truth. Not that I made a deal. Not that I gave her the one thing I knew she still wanted. Not that it cost me everything. Not yet. Lying isn’t better than the truth. But right now? It’s kinder. And that’s all I can offer.

“So,” I say, shifting my weight on the couch and glancing over at her with a hopeful little grin, trying to inject some lightness into the fog that’s settled between us, “since you’re apparently the undisputed master of healing and I’m officially back to normal… can we maybe resume life as normal, too?” Regina doesn’t even look at me. When she finally speaks, her tone is clipped and unmoved.

“No,” she says simply. “I’m still frustrated with you. How are we going to go back to normal when it’s like we’re not even married?” I let out a long breath and lean my head back against the couch cushion.

“Regina…”

“No, Emma,” she cuts in, finally turning to face me. “Don’t ‘Regina’ me. You always do this…try to charm your way out of things when I’m still upset.” I sit up a bit straighter.

“Okay, fine. You’re upset. I get it. But come on…we haven’t even named the babies yet. It’s been two solid weeks, Regina. You’ve been too busy… well, freaking out.” Her eyes narrow.

“With just cause. You’re not going to gaslight me into thinking I’m crazy.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel crazy,” I say softly. “I’m not. “She stares at me for a moment too long, jaw clenched like she’s holding back something sharp. Her fingers flex against her arms, like she wants to pace but is forcing herself to stay grounded.

“You made choices without me,” she finally says. “Big ones. And you’ve lied about them.”

“I haven’t…”

“Lied by omission is still lying. Whatever you’re not telling me…” That stings, mostly because she’s right.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” I say quietly. “Everything was happening so fast, and I didn’t know how to talk about it without... I don’t know. Ruining this moment. This window of peace, and then one day lead into the next and everything began to blur in the chaos of caring for twins…” Regina steps closer, and her voice softens…but just barely.

“And you thought hiding things would protect that peace?”

 “I thought I was protecting you. You were terrified when I was put on bed rest, when I was in labor…after the birth…You still are, and it’s been a couple of weeks, you know I’m fine.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“You love me.” She glares at me.

“Sometimes it feels like it’s unfortunately.” I smile, just a little.

“So… we stop fighting and name them?” Her mouth twitches, like she wants to hold on to the anger just a little longer, but I see it…the crack in her armor. The warmth pushing through.

“We name them,” she says reluctantly. “But this isn’t over.” I nod.

“I know. We’ll work on it later…for now I’m going to go for a run,” I say, reaching down to tighten the laces of my sneakers, my voice as casual as I can manage. Regina looks up from where she’s folding a soft muslin blanket on the couch. Her brow furrows slightly, lips parting like she’s not quite sure she heard me right.

“A run?”

“Yeah.” I straighten and tug my ponytail tighter. “Just… need to get back into shape after carrying the babies.” She doesn’t answer at first, just watches me. There’s a quiet shift in the air…like a chord pulled just slightly out of tune.

“It’s nighttime, Emma.” I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Exactly. It’s cooler. Peaceful. Less people. Perfect time, really.”

She sets the blanket down, slowly, deliberately, and stands. She’s wearing one of my old sweatshirts again…hood down, sleeves pushed up, her hair falling loose around her shoulders like midnight silk. She crosses the room with slow, purposeful steps, and I feel her eyes on me like heat. Not angry. Not quite suspicious. Just… concerned. Curious. She always sees too much.

“That’s not safe,” she says gently, folding her arms.

“It’s just a few blocks. I’ll stay where there are lights,” I tell her, already reaching for the door.

“Emma.” Her voice stops me. I pause, my fingers grazing the doorknob.

“Why are you really going?” she asks softly, not accusing…just asking. Her eyes are sharp, but her voice is tender, and that tenderness is what almost undoes me. “Because I’ve known you a long time, and running just to ‘get back into shape’ doesn’t sound like you.”

My throat tightens. She’s not wrong. It’s not about exercise, not really. It’s about movement. Escape. Control. About trying to outrun the guilt pressing down on my chest like a second skin. I haven’t told her everything…still haven’t…and I feel it rising in me like smoke, like something choking. I take a breath, then another, steadying.

“I just need some air.”

“You can get air on the porch,” she says, stepping closer. “You can get air with me. We could go for a walk together, if that’s what you want.” I turn to face her, my back still against the door.

“That’s not what I need right now. Besides, the kids are sleeping, we can’t leave them.”

“Then what do you need?” Her voice is soft, but it cuts through me. “Distance? Space from me? From the kids? Emma, if you need a break…say that. Don’t dress it up like it’s a workout.” She’s not angry. And somehow, that makes it worse. If she yelled, if she accused, if she stormed off…I’d know what to do with that. But this quiet? This knowing? It unravels me.

“Fine…I just need a break.” I admit softly. Her expression flickers…just slightly…but she doesn’t speak.

“I thought running might help,” I continue. “Clear my head. Remind me I’m still in control of something that doesn’t include diaper changes and the twins nursing schedule.” She steps forward, just enough that I can smell her…vanilla and cedar and the faintest trace of baby lotion. Her fingers hover near mine. Not quite touching. An offering.

“Take a break, but you don’t have to run, Emma. Not from me. Not ever.” I laugh, but it’s bitter.

“You say that now. You don’t know what I’ve done.” Her eyes flash, fierce and full of fire.

“I mean it now. And I’ll mean it later. Even if I’m hurt. Even if I’m furious. I’ll still be here. But don’t lie to me by calling it a jog.” I want to kiss her. God, I want to bury my face in her neck and tell her everything. Let her hold me through the grief and guilt of it all. But I’m not ready…not yet. So I nod, slowly.

“I’ll stay close,” I promise. “Half an hour. I just… need to move, and I’ll tell you, everything when I get back.” She studies me a moment longer. Then she leans in, presses a kiss to the side of my temple…gentle, slow, achingly soft.

“Come back to me,” she whispers. And I don’t know if she means tonight… or in every way that matters. But I nod anyway. Because I want to. I want to come back to her. I want our lives to go back to normal…I just have to find my way through the storm first.

LATER AT RUMPLE’s SHOP:

“How did you manage to slip away from your Queen so quickly, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin drawls, stepping out of the shadows like he never left them. His voice carries that familiar amusement…silk and bite wrapped in one. “Less than a month after birthing twins, no less. That has to be some sort of new record. You’re not even off maternity leave yet.” I let out a slow breath, brushing a strand of hair from my still-damp temple.

“Yes, well… she’s mad at me. So she asked where I was going, but she’s not particularly interested in policing my whereabouts at the moment.” He chuckles, tilting his head.

“Ah. A lover’s quarrel. And here I thought your new little family might buy us a longer reprieve.” I ignore that.

“We haven’t even named the twins yet.” His eyebrows raise slightly.

“You don’t say.”

“We were arguing. First about me coming to you to help with the birth, then about names. Nothing sounds right. Nothing fits.”

“Well,” he says with a smirk, “I’m assuming you didn’t come here for relationship advice. Or baby names.”

“No,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder toward the distant flicker of candlelight that still glows faintly through the storm-washed windows. “And she doesn’t know that the original deal already took place.”

“Still?” he says, sounding surprised and almost impressed. “My, my, you’re better at lying than I gave you credit for.” I don’t respond to that. I just shift my stance, squaring my shoulders.

“What I need to know is what happens next. Not now…when the time comes. When I’m ready. When she’s ready. When the twins are older. Do I have to do anything special?” Rumple’s expression shifts. The amusement doesn’t fade entirely, but it dulls…giving way to something sharper underneath. He steps closer, folding his hands behind his back.

“There is a window,” he says carefully. “Just like there was for you. I’ve already explained this…”

“What does that mean? Explain again.”

“It means,” he says, with the kind of careful precision that makes my skin crawl, “if she conceives within that window…say, in the next few months…it will pass. The magic will root itself. Settle into place. If not… the transfer remains temporary. Like a flame waiting for kindling.”

“So she has to…” I trail off, the weight of it starting to sink in. “We have to try. Within a certain amount of time.” He nods.

“If you want it to stick.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then she’ll simply go back to being who she was before. Magic or no magic, dearie, fertility has a mind of its own once the window closes. There won’t be a second chance. Not with this magic.” I close my eyes, feeling that familiar knot of guilt twist deeper in my chest.

“She didn’t want this.”

“Did you?” he asks, voice almost gentle now. “You came to me, Emma. You made a choice. A sacrifice. That means something. Now you have to decide if you’re going to follow through with it… or let it fade into nothing.” I glance up at him.

“And if she never wants to have another baby?” He shrugs.

“Then you’ll have given her the chance. That’s all the magic was ever meant to be…a chance.”

“What do I do?” I ask him, my voice barely rising over the quiet hiss of the storm wrapping around the porch. My fingers press into the wooden railing as if I can anchor myself to something…anything…other than the mess I’ve created.

“I know she wants a big family,” I continue, more to myself than to him, “but I just gave birth to twins. Two weeks ago... And she’s so angry with me right now.” Rumpelstiltskin gives a soft hum, a pensive sound, not quite sympathetic but not unkind either.

“And you with her.”

“What?” I blink, looking at him sharply. “I’m not angry with her.”

“Aren’t you?” he says, tipping his head, his tone smooth like oil slipping through cracks. “You left her alone. With four children, two of them barely weeks old. To do the exact thing she asked you not to do in the first place.”

“She can’t control who I speak to, and the children are all sleeping. It’s not like I left her to go to the club or something…”

“No,” he agrees with a shrug, “but she can try.” He looks out toward the swirling clouds, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And it seems she’s quite good at trying.” I shake my head, arms folding tightly over my chest.

“If this is what she wishes… if this is what she’s always wanted…how do I make it happen? How do I give her the family she dreams of, without it destroying us?” Rumple’s expression shifts. The humor leaves him for a moment, replaced by something quieter, something that almost borders on kind.

“You tell her.”

“How do I tell her?” I ask softly. “We’re both so stressed. She knows that I’ve been lying to her since the babies were born, but she doesn’t know about what. She doesn’t understand…”

“She doesn’t want to hear it,” he corrects. “There’s a difference. She feels the truth. But she isn’t ready to face it.”

“And if she never is?” He steps closer, not threateningly, but deliberately.

“Then you’ll have to decide whether her happiness is worth her resentment. Whether the chance you gave her…this gift…is something she’ll come to treasure… or something she’ll believe was stolen.”

“I didn’t steal anything…”

“No,” he interrupts gently, “but you kept a secret. You chose for her. And sooner or later, Emma…” He tilts his head. “She will find out, even if you do not tell her unless your choice is to never touch her again.” I let the words hang in the air between us like smoke. The storm rolls louder in the distance, thunder low and heavy.

“I just wanted to give her something she couldn’t give herself,” I say softly. Rumple nods.

“And perhaps, in time, she’ll see it that way. But make no mistake…” He leans in, voice a low murmur now. “You made a deal, dearie. And deals always demand something in return. Even the ones made out of love.” He straightens again, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve.

“Enjoy your family, Emma. While it’s still quiet.”

“How do I conceive this child with her?” I ask, turning to face him fully now. “I gave her my fertility… fine. But what does that mean exactly? How does it work?” Rumple smiles slowly, like he’s been waiting for this question all along.

“The window,” he says lightly, “is the next few months. Give or take. You’re at your most fertile in the early months after childbirth, Emma. The body likes to... keep things rolling. Efficient, you might say.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I say flatly. His grin widens, impish, golden eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Oh? Are you asking how the baby is going to get in her womb? Do you really need the where do babies come from lecture, dearie? I could fetch a storybook. One with pictures from your own bookshelf. Maybe even a pop-up edition.” I shoot him a deadpan look.

“Cute. And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“Well,” he drawls, brushing imaginary dust from his coat, “in your case, it will require intention. A desire from both of you. Magic born from emotion…no surprises there. You’ve already passed the power to her. The moment you sealed the deal, you became the vessel through which it transfers. And like any seed, it needs soil, warmth, and care to take root.”

“Are you seriously using gardening metaphors right now?” He shrugs innocently.

“The heart knows what it wants, Emma. And when both your hearts agree…truly agree…it will happen. No spell. No ceremony. No potion. Just… magic. Real magic. Old magic.”

“So… what? If we kiss with enough feelings behind it she just wakes up pregnant?” His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Not quite. There’s still… a certain amount of physicality required.”

“Of course there is,” I mutter. “Because it wouldn’t be weird enough already.”

“But you’ll know when it’s time,” he adds, this time softer. “The magic will know. She’ll feel it too. And the moment will be yours. Entirely.” I shift uncomfortably, looking out at the rain again.

“And if she’s still furious with me? If she never forgives me?” He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me, strangely quiet. And when he does speak, there’s no glee in it, only gravity.

“Then she’ll never receive what you tried to give her. And your sacrifice will become a curse instead of a gift.” I close my eyes, heart tight in my chest.

“Enjoy your night, Savior,” he says, quieter now, almost tender in his own twisted way. “Hold them close. Both of them. Because if she ever finds out what you’ve done… and feels robbed instead of blessed…” He trails off, letting the threat linger in the wind. “Well. You’ll need more than magic to fix that.”

“I need your help,” I say quietly, stepping closer to the place where he last shimmered into view. “I can’t do this without her consent.”

“You weren’t so worried about that when you transferred your fertility to her,” he says, not unkindly, just… pointedly. I shake my head, swallowing hard.

“No. Because that was my sacrifice to make. That was something I gave to her. I knew she wanted to carry a child. She's said so…more than once. She’s dreamed of it. The end result is something she wants. But this?” My voice wavers. “This isn’t the same.” Rumple leans against the porch post like he has all the time in the world.

“Then tell her. I advised that from the start. But you didn’t want her to know. That’s the trouble with people like you…people with moral compasses. You struggle when the truth gets inconvenient.”

“It’s not about inconvenience. It’s about right and wrong,” I snap. “She has to know. She has to consent. I can’t… I won’t do this if there’s even the smallest chance she’ll wake up pregnant and terrified, thinking I did something to her…after she told me not to.” Rumple arches a brow, fingers dancing along the edge of his cane.

“Did she tell you, before she impregnated you with your first child together?” I freeze.

“No,” I admit, voice dropping. “She didn’t know. She thought that infertility potion stripped her of every aspect of fertility. She had no idea it was still possible.” He leans in slightly.

“Well then. Maybe you don’t know either.”

“That’s… horrible,” I whisper.

“That’s magic,” he counters. I close my eyes, feeling the ache bloom behind them. My hands tremble at my sides.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “Not like this. She’ll be afraid if it happens and she didn’t know. She’ll look at me like I’m a stranger. She’ll think I lied to her…violated her.” Rumple’s voice is soft, but it cuts straight through me.

“Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. But that is the risk you chose when you made this deal. Another you failed to consider.”

He lets that sit between us, sharp and bitter as the storm-charged air. I don’t speak. I can’t. Because no matter how justified I thought I was, no matter how selfless the intention… I’m beginning to see the truth in what he's not saying. Even a gift… can become a betrayal, if it isn't asked for.

“So what do I do?” I ask, the words barely more than a breath. They slip out before I can reel them back, heavy with everything I’m too afraid to say out loud. Rumplestiltskin doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head, studies me in that way he does…like he’s watching a slow unraveling, fascinated by every thread that’s starting to fray.

“You stop spiraling,” he says at last, voice unexpectedly calm. “You’re no good to anyone like this…certainly not to her.” I let out a shaky breath and drop onto the bench on the porch, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. The weight of the night, the storm, the choices…it all presses down on me like wet wool.

“She deserves to know,” I murmur. “But I don’t know how to tell her. Not without breaking something between us.”

“Then don’t lead with the confession,” Rumple says smoothly. “Lead with why. The heart of it. Start there.” I look up, skeptical.

“Since when are you the patron saint of good communication?” He grins, wolfish.

“I’m not. But I do know how to make a deal survive its consequences.” I shake my head, half-laughing despite the knot still wound tight in my chest.

“And what if she never forgives me?” He shrugs, the faintest tilt of one shoulder.

“Then you live with it. Like everyone else who’s ever done something reckless… in the name of love.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond this time. Just leaves to go into his office in the back of the shop and I’m left alone… but steadier somehow. Not fixed. Not fearless. But no longer spiraling. Just… still. Still enough to remember that the most important truths aren’t spoken all at once. They’re earned…slowly, painfully, one quiet step at a time.

REGINA GOES HOME 

I leave his shop, starting the run back to our home. My lungs burn. Not from the run. Not really. I’ve run farther, harder, longer before. I’ve fought monsters and magic and chased down every version of danger a person can find in a cursed town. But this?

This is different. This is guilt threading through my veins like poison. I force my pace to stay steady as I turn the corner onto our street, keeping my breaths rhythmic, my stride long. The night air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, and my skin is damp with sweat…some of it real, some of it panic.

I just left Gold’s shop. I still feel the weight of the conversation clinging to me, the echo of his voice…slick and smug…sliding across my skin like oil. I can hear it in my head, the reminder of the bargain I made, the consequences I'd been so ready to shoulder when I thought I could do it alone. When I thought Regina didn’t need to know, I was wrong. I never would have been able to go back to normal without her knowing, without her consent of the risk that we’d be taking.

I pick up my pace again, sprinting the last stretch down the block…not because I want to, but because I need to look like I’ve been out here the whole time. Running. Not bargaining with the Dark One. Not rearranging the future of our family without her consent. Just… exercising. Just a woman trying to reclaim her body after childbirth. Nothing suspicious about that.

My feet slow as I hit the driveway, gravel crunching under my soles. The house is quiet…warm light glows in the front window. I can just make out Regina's silhouette as she rocks one of the babies in the armchair, her body curled protectively around their tiny frame. My heart thuds…not from exertion this time, but something deeper. Heavier. Like gravity itself has wrapped around my ribs. I step up onto the porch and stop. Just… stop.

Because going inside means looking her in the eye. It means pretending. Again. It means lying by omission, letting her believe this was a normal evening, a normal run, that I’m still the same woman she kissed goodbye an hour ago. But I’m not. I can feel it. The deal I made is a splinter under my skin, and no matter how I try to keep it buried, it throbs…especially now, because I promised her that I’d tell her everything when I go home. My hand hovers over the doorknob. Just inches from it. Inside, everything is soft. Warm. Home.

And I’m still out here in the dark, damp and trembling, smelling like fear and sweat and milk…I need to shower, then nurse the babies they’ll be waking soon, and pump, so many things to do all while having the conversation I don’t want to have with Regina.

I want to go in. I want to curl into the chair beside her, press my face to her shoulder, breathe in the scent of her shampoo and the faint trace of lavender oil she dabs behind her ears. I want to watch her sleep, maybe feel her arm reach for me unconsciously in the middle of the night. I want our life…the life we’ve built, fragile and fierce and so beautiful it hurts. But I hesitate. Because what if she knows?

What if she smells the lie on me, this whole time and just hasn’t told me exactly what her version of the truth is? What if she asks where I ran, and I say the trail by the river, and she asks if I saw the foxes, or the moonlight on the water, or that twisted old pine tree I always mention… and I won’t be able to lie well enough to cover the fact that I never saw any of it.

What if she sees through me? Or worse…what if she doesn’t? What if she kisses me and whispers “I missed you” into my skin, and I let her, knowing she’s loving a version of me that doesn’t deserve it?

My stomach turns. My hand finally lands on the doorknob. Cold. Steady. I take one last breath of night air, hold it, then let it out slowly. And I open the door. The coolness of the air conditioning spills out to meet me. The faint cry of a baby. The low hum of Regina’s voice…soft, tired, soothing. Home. I step inside, wiping the sweat from my brow, and paste on a tired smile.

“Hey,” I call out gently. “I’m back.” And I pray she doesn’t look too closely. Because I’m not sure how long I can keep this up. The stairs creak under my feet as I make my way up, every step somehow both too loud and not loud enough.

I wipe my palms on the sides of my leggings, still damp from the run…or what I’m pretending was a run. I did run some…right? My heart hasn’t quite settled, even now. My body’s cooled down, but inside, I’m still burning with everything I haven’t said. Every secret still sitting on my tongue like a stone I can’t swallow. The hallway light is dim, a soft golden pool cast from the nursery door left cracked open. I follow the familiar sound of hushed lullabies playing through the baby monitor, mingled with the soft, rhythmic creak of the glider rocking. And then I see her.

Regina.

She’s tucked into the nursery chair, one of the babies nestled in her arms, the other asleep in the bassinet nearby. She looks tired…deliciously soft in that way only she ever lets herself be at home, in private. Her hair is pulled half-up, strands falling loose around her temples. One slipper is kicked off under the chair, her leg curled beneath her, fingers gently rubbing the baby’s back in slow circles. Tell me why she has dressed the babies identically? Little sleeper with yellow ducks, matching hat, wrapped in matching blankets, at least they’re not identical otherwise we’d be in a mess.

There’s a bottle on the nearby table, almost empty. Another one, resting near it, but closer to the crib. She glances up when I hover in the doorway, and something flickers across her face…relief, maybe. Or resignation. Or simply the quiet acknowledgment of a rhythm she’s kept alone tonight.

“You’re back,” she says, not cold, not sharp…just simple. Like an observation. Like a sigh in the shape of a sentence. “I didn’t know how long you’d be gone,” she adds, voice low so she doesn’t wake the baby in her arms. “They were hungry, so I gave them each a bottle. Pumped milk. They ate well.”

“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside, quieter now. She nods, eyes drifting back down to the little one against her chest.

“They already had their baths too. Our daughter fell asleep in the bath, and stayed asleep, she loves the water. Our son hated it, and well…he only just drifted off. I think he likes the sound of the rain on the glass better.” She says, gesturing to the window. I hadn’t even noticed it was raining. I cross the room, barely brushing my fingers along the crib rail as I pass.

“You did everything,” I murmur. The words are light but heavy in my mouth.

“I’m their mother,” she replies, almost absently. “It’s what we do. You’d have done the same for me if I needed a…run.”  I want to say we again. I want her to say it and mean it the way we did before all of this…the way we said it the day we brought the twins into the world, bleary-eyed and joyful, side by side. I kneel down beside the chair, close to her legs, one hand resting gently on her knee. The silence between us stretches just a beat too long, thick and tangled, when I try to lighten it…just enough to breathe.

“Okay but…” I lift my hands a little, palms up, “…in my defense, if you ever said you were going on a run? I’d be calling your doctor. Possibly arranging a psych eval.” Her brow arches, unimpressed.

“Excuse me?”

“Regina,” I say, fighting a grin, “you don’t run. You power-walk when you’re angry and you wear heels on forest trails, which…by the way…is a crime against ankle bones. But you do not run. If you suddenly laced up sneakers and announced you were jogging for your mental health, I’d assume one of two things: alien possession or a complete emotional collapse.” She stares at me. I stare back. And then…thank God…her lips twitch.

“You’re deflecting,” she says, dry as ever.

“Obviously,” I reply. “But come on, that was funny.” She shakes her head slowly, but the corner of her mouth lifts.

“You are infuriating.”

“And you love me.”

“Debatable at the moment.”

But her voice is softer now. And when she finally gets up and gently places baby boy in the crib next to his sister, she steps into me, so close enough that I can feel her breath against my collarbone…I know the ice is cracking, even if the hurt hasn’t thawed yet.

“I’m sorry I missed it tonight.”  She doesn’t pull away. But she doesn’t touch me either.

“I’m just tired,” she says after a pause, still not looking at me. “It’s been a long day.” I nod.

“I could’ve helped. I should’ve…”

“You went for a run,” she says, and this time there is something in her voice. Not quite accusation. Not quite approval. Just… something. I study her profile in the low light…the delicate curve of her jaw, the dark lashes resting against her cheek as she closes her eyes briefly. “You don’t have to explain,” she adds softly. “That’s fine…normal even…I just… I didn’t know when you were coming back.”

And that hits harder than anything else. Because it’s not about the bottles or the bath or the bedtime lullabies. It’s about not knowing where I was. It’s about me keeping part of myself behind some invisible door. It’s about the way she waited…and the way I didn’t tell her she didn’t need to.

“I didn’t mean to be gone that long. I’m sorry I worried you.”

She nods, still not quite meeting my eyes. I don’t know if she believes me. But I also don’t know if I deserve for her to. The babies in the crib shifts with a little whimper and sighs. Regina moves to soothe them instantly, gently making shushing sounds and patting them. She’s still magic, even in this…especially in this. In the quiet moments. In the ordinary. She holds our daughter like she’s sacred. And I feel like a ghost, watching from just outside the frame.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, looking back up at Regina. “For looking after them.” She glances at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

“Sure,” she replies, her voice light, but not dismissive. “They’re my kids too, Emma.”

My stomach twists. Not because I doubt that…God, no. There’s no one on this earth I trust more with them. It’s just the way she says it: factual. Clean. A quiet reminder of the truth I’ve been twisting in my gut ever since I left for Gold’s. She is their mother. She does what needs to be done without resentment, without hesitation. And I…tonight…I vanished without so much as a kiss goodbye.

“I’ll take a quick shower,” I say, my voice catching slightly on the word quick, like I’m promising not to be gone long this time. “Then I’ll pump, so missing this feed doesn’t mess with my production. I don’t want my supply to dip.” Regina nods, rocking slightly, her hand stroking slow circles on the baby’s back.

“Okay.”

Just that…okay. No snide comment, no passive jab. Just simple, functional okay. It almost breaks my heart more than if she were angry. I lean in and press a feather-light kiss to each of the baby’s heads.

“I love you sweet peas.” I whisper to them. “I missed you while I was on my run tonight. I can’t wait to see you again when you wake up. We’re you both little angels for your Mama? I hope so.” Regina glances over, and I catch the faintest smile tug at the corner of her mouth. Not quite forgiveness. But a crack in the frost. “I know you don’t understand a word I’m saying yet, but someday you will. And I hope you’ll always remember that I loved you every day from the very start, even if I’m not always here.” The room is quiet. Just the ticking of the mobile above the crib and the faint static of the monitor.

“I’ll be quick,” I promise Regina again as I back toward the door.

She doesn’t stop watching me. But she nods. And for now, that’s enough. I step into the hallway, leaving the golden warmth of the nursery behind me, and head for the shower…heart heavy, body aching, and the sting of everything unsaid still clinging to my skin like sweat.

The water scalds me at first…hot enough to draw a sharp gasp from my throat as it hits my skin…but I let it. I need it. I need to feel something that burns, something that distracts me from the ache in my chest, from the tension crawling beneath my skin like static. I stand under the stream, my head bowed, arms braced against the tile, and let it wash the night off me…along with the guilt, the fear, the sting of what I haven’t said.

I think about Gold’s eyes, that knowing smirk. The way he’d said “Regina will find out, eventually.” Like it was inevitable. Like it would break us. The steam curls around me, thick and heady. My muscles finally begin to relax under the heat, but my heart keeps pounding, relentless. Because I know what’s waiting outside this moment of quiet.

Regina. Her eyes. Her voice. The truth I promised her.

I stay under the water until it starts to cool, until I can’t put off the world anymore. Then I shut the faucet off with a tired exhale, towel off, and pull on a clean shirt and cotton sleep shorts. Comfortable. Familiar. Not seductive. I don’t have the right to reach for that right now…not when I’m hiding from her. The house is still hushed when I move barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards cool beneath my feet. The nursery door is slightly ajar, the nightlight casting a soft golden glow across the hallway floor.

I peek in. Both babies are asleep now. Baby Boy has shifted to his side, his lips parted in that soft, dreaming way newborns have. Baby Girl is curled in the crib now too, her tiny hand resting palm-up near her cheek like she fell asleep mid-reach.

My heart squeezes. They’re perfect. So impossibly perfect. And I can’t stop thinking about the price I paid for this. To give Regina the chance, the experience to experience all the things that I have done.  I step away quietly, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear if they stir, and head downstairs to the kitchen. The house is dim, only the over-the-stove light glowing gently, casting soft shadows along the countertops.

I open the fridge, pull out one of the sterilized bottles, and settle into the chair with the pump. The familiar hum starts, rhythmic and low. I try to focus on that…the practical, the necessary. Breastfeeding logistics. Bottle storage. Milk dates. Things that don’t require confessions or heartbreak. It takes time. It always does. But when I’m done with both sides, I transfer the milk into labeled bags, press the air out, seal them carefully, and store them in the freezer like nothing in the world is wrong.

When I close the freezer door, she’s there. Regina. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me. She’s barefoot, her arms folded loosely over her chest, still wearing my hoodie, sleeves pushed up, her hair falling around her shoulders like a dark halo. Her face is soft, but there's tension behind her eyes…like she's been holding something in her jaw too long and it aches now just to speak.

“You said you’d tell me everything when you got home,” she says finally, almost hesitantly. My breath catches. I hold her gaze for a long moment. And then I nod.

“Yes,” I say. “And I will.” Her eyes narrow, just slightly…not out of suspicion, but out of something deeper. Hope laced with hurt.

“But you haven’t.”

“I just needed to…” I trail off, gesturing vaguely to the freezer, to the house, to the silence. “Get through the rest of the night first. Logistics of being a breastfeeding mom to two newborns.”

Regina doesn’t move. She doesn’t press. She’s never the first to beg. But she’s waiting. Holding her breath in that beautiful, infuriating way of hers…offering patience, when I know she has every right to demand more. I step forward. Not close enough to touch her. Just close enough that I can feel her.

“I will tell you, Regina. I promise. Just… can it wait?” Her eyes search mine, and something fragile settles between us. A quiet understanding, maybe. Or maybe just the quiet before the storm.

“You’re scared,” she says softly.

“I am.”

“Of what?”

“Of what you’ll think of me. Of what I’ve done. Of losing the way you look at me.” She swallows. Her arms stay crossed. But her voice is warm, aching.

“Then you must think I’m someone very different from the woman who loves you.”

“I think you’re everything,” I whisper. “Which is why this is so hard.” She doesn’t answer right away. She just stands there, watching me. Weighed down by what I haven’t said. By what she already suspects.

“Come to bed soon?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

“I will.”

I expect her to walk away. She turns like she might, her bare feet scuffing against the tile. But then she stops. Still. Her spine stiffens…just a little…and I know that movement. I know that hesitation. It’s the moment before she calls my bluff, before she peels the truth from my silence like skin from a wound. She turns back to face me.

“No,” she says quietly. And that one word is a full-body thing. Not a shout. Not a plea. Just a firm, final syllable that lands like a stone dropped in water…rippling through the quiet.

“No? You don’t want me to come to bed with you?”

“No, I’m not letting this go. You said you’d tell me when you got home,” she repeats, her voice low, tight around the edges. “And I’ve waited. I bathed our daughters. I fed them. I rocked them. I told myself not to assume anything. Not to let my mind spiral into the worst-case scenarios, but whatever this is that is going on is clearly tearing you apart, Emma. That’s not okay.” She steps closer now, into the soft overhead light of the kitchen. Her eyes are glassy…not with tears, not yet…but with that look she gets when her heart is turning itself inside out to stay calm. “You promised me,” she says, slower this time. “And I need you to keep that promise, Emma.”

“Regina…”

“No more stalling,” she cuts in. “No more vague answers. No more pushing me away with half-smiles and talks about the kids. I know something’s wrong. I’ve known it for days. Hell, weeks. Since the twins were born. You don’t touch me anymore. You flinch when I try. You go on these convenient nighttime runs…” her voice breaks a little, “…and you come back looking like you’ve been carrying something heavier than your own body weight.” Her arms unfold, and she moves even closer. Close enough that I can see the glint of the gold band on her finger…the one she never takes off. The one that binds us in every way that matters.

“You’re not alone anymore, Emma,” she whispers. “You don’t get to make yourself into an island just because you’re scared.” I look down, but she reaches up and gently, firmly, tilts my chin so I have to face her. “You promised,” she says again, her eyes locked to mine. “And if this is going to work...if we’re going to last through this chaos and these babies and our older kids and this messy, wonderful life…then you have to let me in.” The kitchen feels too quiet, like the whole house is holding its breath for my answer. I want to fold into her. To bury my face against her collarbone, breathe in the safety of her skin and the lavender in her hair and say I didn’t mean to lie. But I did lie. And I am scared.

“I went to Gold,” I say, and the words taste like rust in my mouth. “The night the twins were born… he took the price for a deal I had made weeks before. Tonight…” I swallow, forcing myself to continue, “…I was late getting back because I stopped by his shop. I needed to make sure everything was in place. That it all held. Before I told you the truth.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Regina blinks slowly, as if she didn’t quite hear me…like her brain is buffering the confession, giving her a second to decide if she’s going to scream, or cry, or shatter. But she does none of those things. She just says, very quietly,

“Actually… I think I’m going to go to bed.” It hits harder than yelling. Harder than a slap. It’s a retreat, and it’s worse than anger.

“Regina, wait…” My voice breaks into the air, soft but immediate, laced with panic. I step forward before I even think about it, my hand reaching out to find hers…wrapping gently around her wrist. Her skin is warm. Familiar. Still hers. Still mine. But she doesn’t turn. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all. Just lets me hold her like an echo of what we used to be.

“Regina, I’m sorry,” I whisper, my thumb brushing softly across the inside of her wrist, like maybe I can soothe the fury rising under the surface of her silence. Her shoulders rise and fall with a slow, precise breath.

“I don’t want to hear it, Emma.” Her voice is calm. Almost too calm. It has that quiet sharpness to it, the kind of brittle edge that cracks only once before it cuts too deep. “I love you. I’m going to bed.” She starts to pull away again.

“No… please,” I say quickly, stepping in close, my hand still gently wrapped around hers. “I need to talk to you. I thought… I thought you wanted to know. About what’s been going on. About why I’ve been different.”

“I did want to know,” she says without turning, her voice dropping low, almost dangerous. “I still want to know. But not like this. Not when it’s already been decided. Not when you’ve kept it to yourself for this long.” Her voice trembles then…just the faintest crack beneath her control. “I begged you to let me in,” she says, more quietly now, like the anger is already slipping beneath the tide of something deeper. “I opened every part of my life for you, Emma. I let you in when it scared the hell out of me. And you stood right there in front of me, day after day, holding this thing in your chest like I couldn’t handle it.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I breathe.

“But you did.” She turns then…finally. Her eyes meet mine, dark and wet, and I see the full weight of it all sitting behind them. The betrayal. The disappointment. The ache.

“You made a deal with the Dark One. I don’t even have to know what the deal was to know that you made a bad, dangerous choice. And now what? I’m just supposed to fall into your arms and say thank you for telling me?” Tears sting at the corners of my eyes.

“No,” I say hoarsely. “I didn’t want thanks. I just wanted to give you a choice.”

“You wanted to control the choice,” she snaps, her voice finally breaking through the careful calm. “You made it alone. You decided what was best for us without asking if I agreed. You didn’t trust me with the truth. And that’s what hurts most.” Her hand slips out of mine, slow and deliberate.

“I love you,” she says again, steadier this time, but distant now. “But I’m too tired to keep pretending this doesn’t matter.”

She goes utterly still. I falter. She doesn’t know, the deal I made with Gold. She doesn’t remember that she specifically told me not to. I study her face, the confusion behind her tired eyes, the searching way she looks at me like she’s trying to follow a conversation she doesn’t remember starting. My stomach twists. Gold took it. He took the memory of that day in the shop. Of the deal he offered me. The very one she turned down on my behalf. Of the conversation in the hospital. She doesn’t remember.

She turns and leaves to the bedroom, and I follow her. I hesitate in the doorway of our bedroom, hovering there with a lump in my throat and the weight of what I’m about to say pressing against my chest. Regina is seated on the edge of the bed, her back rigid, folding a tiny onesie in her lap that clearly doesn’t need folding again. Her eyes flick up to me, tired and wary.

“What do you remember about the deal that I made with Gold?” I ask quietly, my voice barely more than a breath. She doesn’t look up right away. When she does, her brow is furrowed, arms crossing defensively.

“The first one.” She says. “You told me about the potion that brought the babies to term.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Why?”

“Mmmhmm.” I nod, lips pressed together, heart pounding. I look away.

“How come?” she asks, voice sharper now, all controlled precision…Regina when she’s trying not to lose her temper. I take a shaky breath, fingers twisting together.

“Do you… do you want to know what really happened?” My voice is quiet, but steady. “That did happen. The potion, I mean. But there’s more. Something that happened before that. Something I haven’t told you, that you don’t remember.”

“Emma, I was there. I remember your water breaking and you taking the potion to avoid a hospital stay.” She says and there is a defensive edge to her voice. “I remember that.”

“I know,” I say quickly, softly, taking a step closer. “I know you were. But if you want to know I need you to listen to me…please.”

“You’re scaring me,” she says, the words quieter now, and I hear the undercurrent of something else. Worry. Hurt.

“I’m sorry… Regina, just listen, okay? Please let me explain before you react.” I reach for the post at the end of the bed, gripping it to keep my hands from shaking. “A Month ago… I went to Gold’s shop. To make a deal.” Her entire body stiffens, but I rush forward with the next words. “But you stopped me,” I add quickly. “You found out. You came into the shop and you told me not to do it. You were angry, but… not because of the deal. Because I didn’t talk to you first. You told me no.” Her brows furrow, lips parting…but no sound comes out at first. Then:

“What was the deal?”

“The deal was to break the infertility curse that the potion put on you all those years ago. But the price was that I had to give something in return.” I hesitate. “A magical transfer, my fertility, upon time of the twins birth as they drew their first breaths.” She stares at me. Silent. Unmoving.

“I don’t remember that,” she finally says, the words like glass shattering in the stillness. “I would never… I would never allow you to do that.”

“You didn’t,” I insist. “You didn’t allow me. You stopped me. You said no. But when I went into labor, and you were asleep, and everything was so overwhelming… I called him. I made the deal.” My voice breaks slightly. “And I think… I think he took your memory of the first time. Of that conversation in the shop. That’s why you don’t remember stopping me.” Regina stands up slowly, like her legs are moving before her brain can catch up. Her eyes lock onto mine, stormy with confusion and disbelief.

“Why would he take my memories?” she demands, her voice trembling with something I can’t name…fear? Rage? Betrayal?

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “To protect the deal? So you couldn’t stop it again? Because you’re the only one who could’ve talked me out of it, and he knew that. Together we are powerful, our children are powerful.” She turns from me, pacing three slow, tight steps across the room. Her hands are clenched at her sides, and when she stops, she doesn’t look at me.

“I didn’t go on a long run tonight. Not really. I needed to look like I did, because I knew you’d ask. And I couldn’t lie to your face. Not directly. But I also couldn’t tell you yet, not until I knew how.” Regina exhales through her nose…slow, measured…but doesn’t speak. I brace for the storm. But she doesn’t explode. She just waits. And that’s somehow worse. Her silence is louder than shouting.

“So…” Regina’s voice is barely above a whisper, cautious like she’s afraid saying the words out loud might break whatever spell we’re still tangled in. “So now the curse is broken?” I look at her…really look at her. She’s standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold her body still while her mind races a thousand miles ahead.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “It is.” She doesn't move, doesn’t blink. I can almost feel the weight of her heartbeat across the space between us. “I don’t have physical proof, Regina,” I add quickly, gently. “But you can scan yourself. Like you did me after the twins were born. Just... check. You’ll see.”

She hesitates for the barest second…then turns. With trembling fingers, she lifts her hand and calls the magic forward. It glows warm and golden against her palm, pooling around her skin before she sends it downward, across her lower belly. Her eyes flutter shut as she lets the magic settle over her, through her. It hums softly, curling like smoke beneath her fingertips. She exhales sharply, eyes snapping open. And I see it…there, in her expression. The shift. The disbelief melting into stunned, aching certainty.

“It’s working,” she breathes. “Everything is… it’s all working. My ovaries, my uterus… my cycles… Emma, it’s like none of the damage was ever there.” I nod slowly, my voice barely audible.

“I know.” She stands frozen for a second longer, then moves…carefully, like she doesn’t quite trust her legs…and sinks down onto the edge of the bed.

“I need to sit down,” she mutters, breathless, like the world’s tilting on its axis. She doesn’t look at me. Just stares at nothing in particular, hands planted on her thighs, her entire body locked in that quiet kind of shock that follows miracles. I want to go to her. I ache to.

I want to kneel in front of her, rest my hands on her knees, press my lips to her palm and tell her I’d do it all over again if it meant seeing her like this…whole, unbroken, free. But I don’t move. Because this moment isn’t about me. It’s hers. Her breath stutters, and she blinks like her vision’s swimming, like she can’t quite decide whether she’s furious or overwhelmed or just… stunned into stillness.

Her hands tremble faintly. I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself in place. Because the truth is…I don’t know what she’s feeling yet. I don’t know if this is the moment she forgives me, or the one where she folds herself in around this truth and shuts me out. Maybe both. So I just stand there. Quiet. Still. Waiting for the woman I love to decide what this means…for her, for us, for the future we traded and the one I tried to give her.

“I thought you trusted me,” she says softly, without looking up.

“I do,” I breathe. “That’s why I’m telling you, now that I’m sure everything is in place.” She finally turns her head, her eyes shining, though her face is unreadable.

“Then why didn’t you tell me before you made the deal?” I don’t have a good answer. Just the truth.

“Because I knew you would have said no. Because it’s something you desperately wanted, and still you said no, not because you didn’t want it, but because you were afraid of hurting me. I was afraid I’d take away something you wanted. I was trying to give you something I could never give before, Regina.” She looks at me like she’s seeing all of me at once…and she doesn’t yet know what to do with that.

“Do you want to yell at me now?” I ask, my voice cracking with the effort to stay steady.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. And then silence stretches between us…tense, uncertain, thick with all the things still unspoken.

“Why didn’t you tell me the night they were born?” Regina’s voice cuts through the stillness of the room like a knife…sharp, calm, but anything but quiet. She doesn’t look away from me, her expression unreadable, but there’s a storm behind her eyes that makes me want to curl in on myself. “At any point the night they were born?” she adds, and her tone hardens. “While I was healing you? While I was holding our babies?” My mouth opens, but the words come slower than I mean for them to.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You were so upset when you healed me… when you saw... It just seemed like really bad timing, especially since I wasn’t hurt by this, at all and neither were you or our children.” I trail off, because I don’t know how to say when you saw that something was gone from me that shouldn’t be, that the puzzle pieces didn’t add up. I can still see the way her hands froze when she realized what she was feeling…or what she wasn’t feeling…under my skin.

“Emma…”

“Then you were yelling at me, yelling at Rumpelstiltskin,” I continue, voice cracking as I try to keep myself together. “And I… I had just given birth to twins, Regina. I was exhausted. I was overwhelmed, and I guess I just didn’t know how to tell you that I did this without your consent.”

“So you lied instead?” Her words are cold. Controlled. But barely.

“I didn’t mean to.” My voice is thick, raw. “It really could have been my magic. You know how unpredictable it is after childbirth. You know how it flares and backfires and reacts to everything during pregnancy and the months afterwards. We’ve both seen that. It wouldn’t be the first time my body did something without me asking it to. And we know,” I add quickly, desperate now, “we know we’ve only ever conceived every few years. Even when we weren’t trying. Even when we weren’t careful. Something’s been working this whole time. Some kind of protection…maybe my body just… shut that part down again after the twins. Maybe it’s just doing what it’s always done.” Her body tenses, and I see it…the way she’s trying to hold herself steady, trying not to say the first angry thing that comes to mind.

“You’re saying maybe you didn’t make the deal?” she asks flatly.

“No,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I made the deal. I’m not denying that, you’ve seen the proof.” She flinches, just slightly, like that truth physically strikes her.

“I’m saying… I didn’t do it to hurt you,” I rush on. “I did it because you wanted this. You’ve always wanted this. A big family. A chance to carry a child. And I thought…the price really wasn’t that bad Regina. Not for someone that I love. I was finally able to give you something. Not just the kids, not just the chaos our lives have become but something real, something you’ve wanted, a chance to experience what I have.” Regina stares at me, breathing hard, her eyes glossy but dry. For a moment, I think she’s going to walk away again. But she doesn’t. Instead, she says…quietly, carefully:

“I wanted to want that…Someday. I didn’t want it now. Not like this. And not from a deal with him.” I nod, biting my lip.

“I know. I know. And I’m sorry I took that decision away from you, made the deal with Gold after you said no.” She finally sits, slowly, on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t reach for me. But she also doesn’t ask me to leave.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Regina’s voice is low, even, but not emotionless. If anything, the careful way she speaks is more dangerous than yelling.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid…” I say softly, the words tasting like guilt as they leave my mouth. She looks at me like I’ve grown another head.

“Afraid of what, exactly?” I swallow hard, my eyes darting away for a moment.

“Gold said your best chance… is between now and three months from now. Because I’m most fertile right after giving birth.” Regina stares at me, unmoving. Her face shifts slowly…from confusion, to dawning horror, to something like betrayed disbelief.

“Emma,” she says, her voice sharper now, “we just had twins. Twins. Are you fucking insane?” I wince at her tone but don’t flinch away. I deserve that.

“That’s why I’ve been so different. I don’t really know how this works…” I explain quickly. “I didn’t know that there would be a specific window, or that it would have to happen that quickly. I…I needed to be sure that you knew before we resumed life as normal just in case…I didn’t want you to end up pregnant without your knowledge and consent.”

“Oh, you thought now was the right time?” she snaps. “After keeping it a secret for weeks? After making a life-altering, body-altering deal on my behalf, behind my back?”

“Regina, I didn’t do it to trick you,” I say, stepping toward her. “I didn’t even know the fertility would return so fast. Gold said once you carry a pregnancy and give birth, the healing becomes permanent. I thought I was giving you something that would… help you. That would give you the chance to have what you wanted again.”

“Help me. Without asking me. Without telling me. Just like him.” That hits like a slap. My stomach twists.

“I’m not him,” I whisper. “I would never force anything on you like that. I just thought….if you changed your mind, if you ever did want more…at least now you could. I didn’t want to trap you. I just wanted to open the door.”

“You didn’t open the door, Emma,” she says, her voice trembling with hurt. “You shoved me through it. And now I’m standing here, finding out that at any moment…because you’re fertile…I could wake up pregnant, without ever making the choice.” I shake my head hard, desperate.

“No. That’s not what I want. I would never…not without you knowing. That’s why I’m telling you now. Because I won’t touch you, not even kiss you, unless you tell me you’re ready, and you understand what could happen. I won’t risk you waking up one day and hating me, thinking I manipulated you.” Regina doesn’t speak for a moment. She just looks at me, breathing slowly, like she’s trying to process too many things at once. When she finally does, her voice is quieter, but no less sharp.

 “You should have told me before. You should have trusted me enough to let me decide.”

“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry. I can’t undo the deal, but I can make sure you’re the one in control now. No surprises. No accidents. I swear to you.” Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to figure out if she still recognizes me through all of this. I don’t know if she does. I don’t know if I do.

“Then you better start proving that,” she says. “Because trust doesn’t come back just because someone says sorry.”

“I didn’t keep it a secret, Regina,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t even realize you didn’t remember until last night. There’s nothing I could have done differently.” Regina spins on me, eyes blazing.

“Nothing you could have done differently? Seriously? Emma…except not make the deal you knew I didn’t want you to make. Oh my God…Emma!” I flinch at the way she says my name. Like it hurts her to even speak it.

“You said…” I start, then stop, closing my eyes for a second. “You said you wanted the curse broken.” She lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head, pacing away from me like she needs the distance or she’ll explode.

“And you said you wouldn’t sacrifice yourself to do it. You said you’d only do it if I wanted you to. And I didn’t. I don’t. I told you that. Not to hurt yourself.” I move toward her, slowly, hands open at my sides.

“And I haven’t hurt myself. I listened. That day in Gold’s shop, when you stopped me…I listened. I didn’t go through with it. Then. But later… after what happened at the hospital… how sick I got…how sick they got…I panicked. I was terrified I was going to lose them. Lose you.” Her arms fold tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched.

“So you went to him again. Alone.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Because I was desperate. Because I knew we wouldn’t get another chance if something went wrong again. I knew that I never wanted to risk carrying another set of twins, the complications that came with it. Because the idea of you never getting that dream, never getting to carry life inside you again…it haunted me. So I made the deal. And I thought… I thought you’d remember. I thought you’d be mad, sure…but not blindsided.”

“I was blindsided!” she shouts, suddenly. Her voice echoes off the nursery door behind her. “I felt something change in you when I healed you. I felt something missing. And I thought maybe it was magic, maybe it was trauma…but now I know it was you. You traded away a part of yourself…your future…for me. Without my consent. That’s not love, Emma. That’s betrayal.” My throat is tight. I can’t breathe around the guilt pressing into my ribs.

“I didn’t mean for it to feel that way. I thought I was giving you a gift. I didn’t realize Gold took your memory until you looked me in the eye and didn’t remember stopping me. I swear.” She looks away, blinking fast. Her voice is quieter now, but not gentler.

“You always do this. You make the hard choice for everyone else. You carry it alone, and you hide behind sacrifice. But we’re not strangers, Emma. We’re married. We’re supposed to make choices together.”

“I know.” My voice cracks, and I step forward again, closing the space between us. “And I was wrong. I thought I was helping, I thought I was saving something. But I broke your trust instead. I’m sorry…” She doesn’t say anything for a longest of pauses. Just stares past me, breathing hard, her shoulders still tense like she’s holding herself together with sheer will. Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t ask if I wanted to be saved.”

“Did you ever ask me any of the times that you’ve saved me?” I ask her, my voice low, my frustration slipping through despite everything. “Because I don’t remember consent forms being exchanged every time you tore your soul apart to bring me back from the edge.” She stiffens, but doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s what we do, Regina. We save each other. Darkness and light…that’s us. That’s how it’s always been. You know that.” Her arms are crossed tight against her chest, jaw clenched.

“Emma…”

“No.” I shake my head, stepping closer, feeling like I might unravel if I don’t say this out loud. “I’ve had five children. Five. And they’re amazing. We made an incredible family. But Regina…after the bedrest, and the pelvic rest, and the constant fear that something would go wrong again… my body’s done. Even if my heart isn’t.”

She looks at me then, really looks…her eyes searching my face like she’s trying to find something she missed. I press a hand gently to my temple, then to my chest.

“I would’ve rather taken a poisoned arrow to the heart than go through that again. And I meant that. And that terrified me, Regina. I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know how to tell you what was going on in here,” I say, softly tapping my head again, then swallowing hard. “I kept telling myself I could get through it. That it would get better. But it didn’t, and then they were born and there was so much…relief.”  I take a shaky breath and force my voice to steady. “We have five beautiful children. And you’ve always told me we could be done whenever I said so. That you’d never ask for more than I could give. But that doesn’t mean you have to be done. That doesn’t mean your dream…your lifelong dream…has to die just because mine has changed.”Her lips part like she wants to argue…but there’s hesitation now, something soft breaking through the wall she’s built.

“You told me no because you were afraid I’d be hurt. And I get that. I do. But I wasn’t hurt, Regina. Gold kept his word. I’m okay. The babies are okay…you’re okay…And I’d do it again…not because I don’t trust you to choose for yourself, but because I do. Because I know what this means to you to have the choice of deciding if you want to have a baby or not.” I glance toward the upstairs hallway, towards the room where our babies sleep…our miracles, all four of them, unplanned and impossible and perfect.

“You deserve a chance to carry life inside you if that’s what you want still. You deserve the right to choose that for yourself. And I wanted to give you that… even if you couldn’t say yes at the time.” Regina swallows hard, her mouth set in a tremble she’s trying so hard to hide. “You were never supposed to be hurt,” I whisper. “And I’m so sorry that my choice hurt you anyway.”

Regina doesn’t answer right away. She just stands there, staring at me, as if she’s trying to reconcile the woman in front of her with the one she’s built up in her mind over the last few weeks. Her arms are still folded, but not in that rigid, defensive way anymore. Now it feels more like she’s holding herself together.

“I told you no,” she says finally, her voice quiet. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… tired. “I said no, Emma. I told you I didn’t want you to make a deal. I meant it.”

“I know.” She nods slowly, but then her voice wavers…fragile in a way I so rarely hear from her.

“And the worst part is that I don’t even remember saying it. You do, and you deliberately went against my wishes.” I step forward, but she holds up a hand…not to stop me, but to give herself the space to get through this without breaking.

“I’ve spent the last few weeks convinced something was wrong with me. That I’d done something…forgotten something, and now… now I find out I didn’t forget. It was taken from me.” She lowers her hand, and when her eyes find mine again, they’re glistening.

“By Gold, not by me, and not by my wishes. I had nothing to do with that, Regina.”

“I am angry with you, Emma. Because you lied. Because you went behind my back, even when I apparently begged you not to. And maybe… maybe part of me is afraid that this is who we’re becoming. That we don’t trust each other enough to make these choices together.” I swallow the lump in my throat, not daring to speak. Not yet.

“But…” her voice cracks just slightly, “…you’re right. I do want it. I want to carry a child. I have for a long time. And I told myself it was okay that I never would. That being a mother didn’t have to look a certain way. That the children we’ve raised, the ones we’ve loved…they were enough.” Her shoulders slump a little, as if saying it aloud costs her something.

“But the truth is… I still wanted it. I still do.”

“Then have it.” I say softly. “You can, have it now.”

A silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft tick of the old clock above the fireplace and the gentle hum of the house settling around us. She steps closer now, her eyes locked with mine.

“You gave me something I’ve mourned for years. Something I thought was impossible. You risked something precious to give me a choice… even if you took one away in the process.” I can see her wrestling with it all…the gratitude, the betrayal, the yearning, the fear. Every emotion plays across her face, warring behind her eyes.

“I don’t forgive you,” she says, and my heart lurches. “Not just yet, but I understand you.” That lands between us like a fragile kind of peace. The kind you don’t expect to hold for long, but you’re grateful for all the same. “I don’t know what happens next,” she admits, quieter now. “But I don’t want to figure it out alone.” She finally reaches for my hand…tentative, unsure…and laces our fingers together.

I don’t mean to cry. I really don’t. But the second Regina takes my hand, something inside me crumples. Maybe it’s the way she says “I don’t want to figure it out alone.” Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been holding my breath for what feels like days. Or maybe it’s just the raw, crushing relief that she’s still here. I try to blink it back, to swallow the thick burn behind my eyes…but the tears spill anyway, hot and fast.

“I was just trying to do something right,” I whisper, the words breaking apart in my throat. “For once.”

Regina’s entire expression softens. She looks down at our joined hands, then up again, and something shifts in her. I can see it…the guilt landing like weight on her chest. Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but instead she pulls me in.

Just pulls me in. Her arms come around me without hesitation, warm and steady, the kind of embrace that wraps all the way around your heart. My head finds her shoulder, and I breathe her in…something grounding in the middle of the emotional storm still spinning through us both.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I didn’t know how else to give you what you wanted.”

“I know,” she murmurs, stroking a hand slowly through my hair. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry I yelled.” She’s quiet for a long moment, holding me while I tremble against her. Then she whispers, almost like she’s afraid of the answer, “Was it worth it?” I nod, tears slipping down my cheek and onto her collarbone.

“If I could do it again…I would. A thousand times.” Regina lets out a shaky breath, and when she speaks next, her voice is thick with emotion.  You shouldn’t have had to make that choice alone.” I pull back just enough to meet her eyes…glossy now too.

“I didn’t want you to lose hope,” I whisper.

“How could I when you are my hope,” she says, cupping my face. “You’re everything. And I didn’t want to lose you in the process of trying to gain something else.” Her thumb brushes a tear from my cheek. Then another.

“You just had twins less than a month ago. You’re exhausted. You’re hormonal. You’re overwhelmed. And I’ve done nothing but accuse and push and yell.”

“You were scared,” I say. “So was I.”

“I am scared,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m also…” She shakes her head, like she can’t quite find the word. “I’m grateful. Furious, confused, amazed…but grateful.” We sit with that. And for the first time since the storm began, something like calm settles between us.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” I say.

“Neither do I.”