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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Emma Swan paced the apartment she shared with David and Snow, panic clawing at her chest. Her trembling hands reached for the unopened bottle of Jack on the kitchen counter. The glass clinked as she poured a generous splash of the amber liquid into a tumbler. With a sharp tilt of the head, she downed it in one.

Her mind was racing. She poured another. The whiskey burned a familiar path down her throat, doing little to soothe the rising tide of dread swirling inside her.

This isn’t real. It can’t be. One night, that’s all it took to break everything. Magic’s supposed to follow rules—some kind of logic. But now I’m... what, a science experiment gone sideways?

She slammed the tumbler down and poured another, jaw clenched tight.

What if Regina finds out? No—when Regina finds out. She’ll eviscerate me. With words if I’m lucky. And Snow—oh god. I can’t face her. I can’t even face a mirror right now.

The liquor traced fire down her throat again. Still no relief.

Fix it, Swan. There must be a way. Gold, maybe? Or the Sorcerer’s books?

She scrubbed her face, trying to steady the flood of adrenaline

Breathe. Just… breathe. One problem at a time.

Slamming the tumbler down again, Emma massaged her temple

"This can’t be happening. This can-not be happening." She chanted it like a mantra

She flailed her arms in frustration, gesturing wildly at herself.

“Ugh!” she cried, slamming her fist into the cupboard with a hollow thud.

Face in her hands, she dragged her fingers down her cheeks, stretching her features into something caught between despair and disbelief. Finally, her arms fell—one resting on a tense bicep, the other hanging limp at her side. Jaw tight, she lifted the hem of her shirt, fingers grazing over newly chiselled abs, down past her navel to—

“You have got to be kidding me… a happy trail. A real happy trail. Ugh!”

Her eyes traced the fine blond hair that disappeared beneath her waistband. She audibly gulped, slammed her eyes shut, and yanked the shirt down, tucking it tightly into her jeans like she could tuck reality out of sight
“Fuck!”

Leaning hard on the counter’s edge, she rose onto her toes, forehead thumping rhythmically against the cupboard.

“This is not happening. Think”

Her gaze landed on the half-empty bottle of Jack. She snatched it up and drained what was left in a series of determined gulps.

“Unbelievable…” she hiccupped. “

Drunk and defeated, Emma stumbled toward the metal stairs and climbed them clumsily to her loft. Collapsing fully clothed onto the bed, she mumbled incoherently as the stress—and a bottle of whiskey—dragged her under.

SQ

Hearing Emma’s alarm still blaring as she stepped out of the shower, Snow towelled off and dressed quickly. Passing through the kitchen, her eyes landed on the drained bottle of Jack. Her brow creased.

Climbing a few rungs of the metal stairs, she called up with a cheerful lilt, “Emma, honey, I’m about to head out! Judging by the bottle, I’m guessing last night didn’t go quite as planned?”

A gravelly voice, thick with sleep replied, “Total disaster.”

The tone made Snow’s stomach twist.

“Emma?” she called again, climbing higher. “Sweetheart?”

“Shit” Emma muttered, immediately clamping her hands over her mouth.

Snow rushed up the remaining steps and flung open the bedroom door - empty. The window was wide open. No one on the fire escape. No one in the street below. Whoever had been in there had gone

She snatched up her phone. Voicemail.

“Darn it…”

Fighting the rising panic, she quickly dialled the Sheriff’s station.

“Sheriff’s Office. David speaking.”

“David! Oh, thank goodness.”

“Snow honey. Are you okay?”

“Well… you know I got home late last night—”

“I don’t need reminding,” he chuckled. “Being your husband on the night shift does have its… benefits.”

“David,” she said pointedly, then softened. “This might be serious.”

“Alright. Talk to me”

“This morning, I noticed an empty bottle of Jack in the kitchen. I figured Emma had a rough night, so I called up to her —but she didn’t reply. Someone else did”

“What do you mean someone else? Did she have company?”

“That’s just it—I don’t know. When I ran upstairs, her room was empty. The window was open, and whoever had been there was gone. I tried her phone—it goes straight to voicemail.”

“She’s probably on her way to the station. Maybe stopped at Granny’s for her usual bear claw and coffee.”

“I don’t know, David. I have a bad feeling.”

“Hey… don’t worry. Our daughter’s the Saviour, remember? She can handle whatever Storybrooke throws at her. And if not—she’s got us.”

SQ

Emma slipped out the bedroom window, descending the fire escape two rungs at a time. Her heart pounded as she hit the street, legs pumping toward Granny’s. She had hoped—foolishly—that after a night of sleep, things would return to normal. But one word from her mouth, and the panic in Snow’s voice made it clear: nothing was normal.

She needed a plan. And she needed coffee.

Sliding into a stool at the counter, Emma caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored wall—broad shoulders, square jaw, the uncanny echo of her father’s features staring back. She quickly looked away, chin tucked low as Ruby’s voice carried across the diner.

“Nope, haven’t seen her this morning, David... Yes, I’ll call if she shows up… You know me—I’ve got the best ears in Storybrooke. Bye.”

Ruby turned, phone still in hand, and caught Emma trying to disappear into her coffee cup.

“Well, hey there, stranger,” she said with a grin. “You’ve got that ‘morning-after-the-night-before crisis’ look.”

Emma let out a dry laugh. “You’ve got no idea.”

Ruby kept going, eyes twinkling.

“Are you the delivery guy? Because I could swear you’ve got a package just for me.”

Emma groaned internally. Oh great. This day just keeps on giving. As if an identity crisis weren’t enough, now her best friend—completely unaware—was flirting with her.

She offered a tight smile, aiming for casual. “Just here for the coffee. Promise.”

“Mmm, shame,” Ruby said, voice syrup smooth. “Because I’ve got the buns… just wondering if you’ve got the—”

“Just coffee and a bear claw, please,” Emma cut in, flashing a weary, practiced grin.

“You can’t blame a girl for trying.” Ruby gave her a wink and a once-over. “You’re a fine-looking specimen—and this town’s crawling with dwarves and trolls.”

Emma chuckled, low and uneasy. “Then I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should,” Ruby said, heading off with a sway. “I’ll be right back.

The bell above the diner door tinkled—sharp, crisp, commanding.

Emma didn’t need to turn around. She’d memorized that sound. That confident clip of heels on tile. That distinct, calculating energy that filled the room before Regina Mills ever said a word.

Ruby looked up from the coffee machine, her flirty smirk faltering for just a breath. “Well, speak of the perfectly tailored devil.”

Regina strode inside with effortless authority, eyes scanning the diner—and freezing on the man seated at the counter, hunched over a steaming mug and half-eaten bear claw.

She frowned.

Emma stiffened, barely lifting her gaze. Too late to run now.

“And where is our beloved Sheriff this morning?” Regina asked, voice clipped but smooth. “I’m beginning to feel abandoned.”

Ruby wiped her hands on a dish towel, the picture of innocent mischief. “That’s the question of the day, Madame Mayor. Haven’t seen her. But we do have a new regular.”

Emma shrank slightly in her seat, muttering into her cup, “Please no. Please not today.”

Regina’s eyes narrowed, that classic brow arching dangerously. She took a few slow, deliberate steps toward the counter.

“And who, pray tell,” she said, voice like velvet over steel, “is this? Someone trying to stake a claim on the Sheriff’s usual.”

Regina’s gaze once again flicked to the seated man. For a moment, her expression shifted—something unspoken rippling beneath the surface. Confusion? A spark? It vanished beneath a carefully sculpted mask.

Emma kept her head down, nibbling the pastry, listening. Since when were Ruby and Regina so friendly? Her gut twisted—not quite with jealousy, but... something.

“What do you mean?” Regina asked, tone sharpening.

“David called earlier,” Ruby explained. “No one’s seen Emma since last night. And apparently, someone climbed out of her bedroom window this morning.”

Emma glanced up just in time to catch the flicker of something on Regina’s face—hurt, maybe? But just as quickly, Madame Mayor straightened.

“Must I do everything in this town?” she sighed.

Pulling out her phone, she slid her finger across the screen. Emma’s face lit up.

Panic surged.

“Excuse me,” Emma blurted, heading for the restroom. She hadn’t even shut the stall door before the Halloween theme tune began playing in her pocket.

Ruby and Regina turned toward the sound.

Inside the stall, Emma locked the door behind her, heart thudding. She fumbled with her button-down jeans.

“Okay,” she whispered. “You’ve been avoiding this for too long. Time to deal with it.”

Several awkward, silent seconds passed as she hesitated, unsure of even the basics anymore.

“This used to be so easy,” she muttered. “Sit. Pee. Wipe. Done. Now it’s—what, a puzzle box? Come on, work with me here…”

She let out a shaky, involuntary laugh.

“Emma Swan. Saviour of Storybrooke. Brought down by basic plumbing.”

Eventually, she managed, exhaling with an exaggerated, weary sigh.

“That was ridiculous.”
SQ

Buttoning up, Emma unlatched the door—only to find Regina leaning against the far wall, arms folded, gaze heavy with amused triumph. She pushed off with a single step, heels clicking just enough to make Emma feel like prey under glass.

Regina didn’t speak. She stopped beside the mirror, still and watchful, a silent judgment wrapped in velvet curiosity.

Emma focused on the tap. Washed her hands longer than needed. “Y’know,” she muttered, half-dry, half-defensive, “you don’t have to supervise.”

Regina tilted her head. “You do realise, dear,” she drawled, “this is the ladies’ restroom?”

Emma swallowed.

Regina moved closer—deliberately. One finger traced Emma’s shoulder, circled behind, then lifted her chin with a featherlight touch.

Emma’s eyes fluttered shut. A static charge lit her nerves like a warning.

Regina smirked. “What a delectable young man you make, Ms. Swan.”

Emma blinked. Her jaw slackened.

“Regina—what are you doing?”

Regina laughed—honest, free, and disarming. A sound Emma had never heard from her. And she liked it.

“Oh, Ms. Swan. I have questions. So many questions. But first—” Regina leaned in, amused and intrigued. “Exactly what have you done?”

Emma sighed. “It’s… complicated. Magic, mayhem, and a wild guess gone wrong.”

Regina arched a brow.

Emma straightened. “And you might be the only one who can help fix it.”

“I have to admit,” she said, “for someone who’s usually charging headfirst into danger, you’ve been very... evasive this morning.”

Emma pulled a paper towel from the dispenser with shaky hands. “Yeah, well. I’ve had a complicated morning.”

“Clearly.”

Their eyes locked in the mirror. Regina’s were sharp and assessing, but not unkind. Emma could almost feel the gears turning behind them.

“I take it this wasn’t some kind of prank,” Regina continued. “Or... an ill-advised magical experiment?”

Emma winced. “Not exactly. More like... a side effect. Of... something unpredictable.”

“That’s not even remotely comforting.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Emma said quickly. “I was trying to fix something else. Something small. I didn’t think it would affect me. And I didn’t think I’d—” She gestured vaguely at her reflection. “—end up like this.”

Regina tilted her head. “So, you are Emma Swan.”

“In the most confusing, chaotic way possible. Yes.”

There was a pause. Then, to Emma’s utter surprise, Regina laughed again—quiet, rich, and warm. Emma found herself smiling despite the weight on her chest.

“Well,” Regina said, smoothing her hair with practiced grace. “It’s certainly the strangest morning I’ve had in a while—and this town has set the bar.”

Emma leaned against the sink, some of the panic finally easing. “So you’re not going to drag me to the vault and interrogate me magically?”

“Not yet,” Regina replied, lips twitching. “But if you keep running off and hiding in restrooms, I might change my mind.”

Emma huffed a laugh.

“Look,” Regina said, tone softening. “Whatever happened, you’re clearly in over your head. But you came to Granny’s. You didn’t run off into the woods, which is, frankly, what I expected.”

“I thought about it.”

Regina gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Let’s get out of the bathroom. You can tell me the rest over breakfast. I’ll even let you steal my extra jam.”

Emma blinked. “You hate sharing the jam.”

“I know.” Regina’s smile was small but genuine. “That’s how seriously I’m taking this.”

SQ

The door squeaked as they stepped out of the restroom. Regina moved gracefully, composed as always; Emma, by contrast, looked like a deer caught in magical headlights. A few patrons glanced up, but Ruby, ever the professional, met the strangers’ sheepish glance with a subtle thumbs-up and returned to her coffee machine.

They slipped into a booth near the back, one of the quieter spots. Emma scooted in first, sinking into the red vinyl like it might swallow her whole. Regina sat opposite, spine impossibly straight, arms folded across the table.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Emma drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “So… how much trouble am I in?”

Regina tilted her head, considering. “On a scale from ‘minor inconvenience’ to ‘you’ve doomed us all’… somewhere between unpredictable side effects and a town-wide magical scandal.”

Emma winced. “That's what I was afraid of.”

“You should’ve come to me sooner.”

“I panicked. I didn’t know what the spell was. I didn’t even mean to break anything—it just sort of… happened.” She paused, then added quietly, “And I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Regina’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. She reached for the napkin dispenser but let her hand rest on the tabletop instead. “Emma... I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. You frustrate me. Constantly. But hate? No.”

Emma leaned back, blinking hard. “That’s… good. Because honestly, this whole thing’s been terrifying. I woke up, looked in the mirror, and didn’t recognize myself. And then when Snow came upstairs and heard me talk...” She trailed off, letting the sentence fall flat.

Regina studied her. “You’re still you, you know. Underneath the Charming”

“Maybe. But I don’t feel like me. I feel like someone else wearing my life.”

They sat with that for a beat, the hum of the diner cocooning them.

Finally, Regina spoke. “We’ll fix this. We’ll figure it out together.”

Emma exhaled slowly. “Together, huh?”

“Well,” Regina said, lifting her coffee with a faint smile, “you did technically trigger a soul-binding incantation. I suppose that makes this a shared responsibility.”

Emma gave a nervous laugh. “You sure you’re up for that?”

“I’ve handled far worse than an enchanted, accidental... identity crisis.” Regina arched a brow. “Besides—if anyone can unravel it, it’s me.”

Emma smiled into her coffee cup. “I believe you.

Chapter Text

Regina Mills—self-appointed Mayor of Storybrooke and reforming Evil Queen—drummed her fingers rhythmically against her desk as she studied the blonde Sheriff seated nervously across from her. She had to admit, even in female form, Emma Swan’s natural beauty had been... distracting. There was something radiant about her—a warmth that captivated, charmed, and disarmed, and considering her lineage, that glow was almost certainly a family trait. The chin alone screamed Charming.
But this version of Emma was something else entirely.

Broad-shouldered and lean, her shirt fit a little too snug over muscular arms and a sculpted torso that radiated strength, confidence... and more than a little arrogance. It was, Regina had to admit, deeply attractive—and deeply irritating. Her body stirred in reluctant appreciation, even as something colder and older twisted inside her. That swagger reminded her of knights she’d loathed. Of entitlement wrapped in golden hair and green eyes that didn’t know how to look away.

A devilishly handsome grin pulled at Emma’s mouth as she caught Regina staring.

“Like what you see, Madam Mayor?”

Regina blinked. “Not entirely displeasing, dear.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming…”

Regina dropped her gaze, steadying herself. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand, Sheriff. Please explain how you managed to transform from quite an impressive Swan into… well, something a little different.”

Emma scratched absently at the scruff on her jaw, like the motion had always been familiar.

“I—I followed you last night.”

“Excuse me?”

The Previous Night

Following Regina to the graveyard had been easy—Emma was pretty sure the Mayor hadn’t suspected a thing. But what she hadn’t expected was for Regina to vanish into her father’s crypt. Three hours later, still crouched in the shadows, Emma started to wonder if Leroy’s grumbling about the “reforming” Evil Queen might have had some truth to it after all. She’d just about decided Regina had poofed herself back to the Mayoral mansion in a cloud of purple mist when the woman finally reappeared, looking dishevelled and… flustered. Without a glance back, she slipped into her Mercedes and sped off into the night

Curiosity overtaking caution, Emma made her way into the crypt. Atop Henry Mills Sr.’s stone casket sat a single black rose. Emma’s heart clenched. Was Regina mourning her father? Had she really spent hours here… grieving?

When did I start caring this much? she wondered. Maybe because I’ve never seen her as the Evil Queen. Just… Regina. Infuriating. Sharp. Unbearably put together. Regina.

Shaking off her thoughts, she scanned the tomb with her flashlight—nothing immediately suspicious. But then her boot crunched against something. Crouching, she found deep scratches in the stone near the casket, as if it had been moved. Bracing herself,
she shoved with all her strength. The heavy lid slid aside, revealing a narrow stairwell beneath.

Descending carefully, Emma entered a vaulted chamber that smelled of dust and centuries-old magic. Antique chests lined one wall, books and scrolls scattered across their tops. On the far end, a large circular mirror caught the light—its intricate frame unmistakably regal.

“There’s no way you didn’t belong to Her Majesty,” Emma muttered. “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” She snorted. “God, Swan, get a grip. ‘Fairest of them all’? That’s Snow White—my... wait. Ugh. Welcome to the damn Disney Zone.”

Drawn to a waist-high oak podium, Emma noticed a scroll—its surface etched with unfamiliar symbols—and a stoppered vial containing a swirling red mist. She gently picked it up, watching the enchanted fog dance.

Setting it down, she unrolled the parchment. Somehow, the symbols translated in her mind as clearly as if they'd been in English:

"True love is not just a kiss; it is the feeling that lingers long after the kiss has ended. It is eternal, infinite, equal, and pure. It cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be denied where it does, but the course of true love never does run smoothly”

“Okay. A little weird but, at least you're not plotting to skewer me, run me out of town, or curse Snow. Progress.”

She turned to leave but paused, suddenly struck with guilt. The space was clearly personal—little keepsakes tucked into corners, artifacts from another life. Regina’s life.

“This was a mistake”

As she turned sharply, her hip collided with the podium. It rocked. Time slowed as the vial toppled, flipped, and shattered against the tiled floor. The red mist rose in twisting spirals, climbed the side of the podium, and then—with a burst of golden light—merged with the scroll. In a heartbeat, the magic slammed into Emma’s chest, vanishing in a soft, lilac mist shaped like a heart.

Emma staggered back.

“Fuck! —Regina’s gonna kill me.”

She bolted up the stairs, only to drop to her knees beside Henry Sr.’s casket as dizziness and nausea overwhelmed her. After a few moments, the sensation faded enough for her to stand. Shakily, she left the crypt and began the long walk home—to the apartment she shared with Snow and David, heart hammering and mind reeling.

Present Day

The Sheriff could feel the weight of the Mayor’s stare, but her eyes refused to rise and meet the ones she knew would only hold disappointment. Emma knew that look. She’d worn it too many times before—on the receiving end of foster parents’ disdain, the
cold indifference of state homes, the quiet rejection she’d learned to expect. But this was different. This disappointment was from Regina… and that stung more than she’d ever admit.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, voice low but sincere.

“You’re sorry,” Regina repeated, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “For which part, Ms. Swan?”

“I—I don’t…”

“Understand,” Regina supplied. “Are you sorry for following me to my father’s crypt, thereby committing a felony? Or perhaps you’re sorry for violating the only place in this realm where I feel safe?” Her voice wavered, once, then hardened. “Or is it that you’re simply sorry you got caught? I suspect the latter.”

Emma winced. “Look, Regina—I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think. I should’ve trusted you. I can admit that. But I’m not sorry for reading that scroll. I just… I can’t be.”

“You read the scroll?”

Emma nodded, hesitant. “I read the scroll.”

“You broke the vial?”

"I broke the vial.”

“And?”

Emma shrugged sheepishly. “I… might’ve triggered something. It’s hard to explain.”

Regina’s tone turned razor sharp. “Sheriff, it is of the utmost importance that you relay exactly what happened in my vault.”

“It’s gonna sound ridiculous.”

“Given the current situation, I’m past judging. If you want my help, you’ll give me the truth. Now, please.”

“Okay, okay,” Emma exhaled. “The red mist… danced around the podium a little. Like, weirdly theatrical. Then it pulsed, lit up the scroll—it kind of absorbed the writing turned gold and shot across the vault and slamming into me. Right here.” She placed a palm over her chest.

“And?”

“Nothing. At first. I thought it fizzled out.”

“So, the incantation—”

“The incan-what-now?”

“The incantation,” Regina said, her patience thinning. “It hit you and absolutely nothing happened?”

“Well, aside from the obvious” Emma threw up her hands, “there was something, but I don’t think—”

“Sheriff. What was it?”

Emma rubbed at her jaw, nervously shifting her weight.

“After it hit me, there was this tingling—by the way, thanks for checking—and then this lilac mist shaped like a heart appeared over my chest. And then poof. Gone.”

Regina groaned, fingers moving to massage her temple. A migraine brewed just behind her eyes.

“Regina, what? How bad is it?”

“You’ve complicated our lives beyond reason, Ms. Swan.”

“Oh, c’mon. It was just a tiny heart-shaped mist. How much trouble can that cause?”

“Just go.”

Emma blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Go. Now.”

“You’re serious? You’re not going to help? Just like that, you’re washing your hands of this?” She stood abruptly. “What am I supposed to tell Snow and David? Or Henry? And don’t even get me started on Ruby. She tried to flirt with me using actual bakery metaphors -apparently my sausage can ‘fill her buns’ What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

Ruby. Of course she did. The wolf had never shown restraint—and the thought of her anywhere near Emma sent something irrational and heated through Regina’s chest. A jolt of jealousy flared through Regina at the image. If anyone was going to enjoy Emma’s... culinary talents, it sure as hell wouldn’t be that wolf. Disgusted with both the situation and herself Regina pressed her temples forcefully, disgusted with both her spiralling thoughts and the tangled web Emma had pulled her into.

“This transformation,” Emma said quietly, “it’s serious… isn’t it.”

“Yes, Ms. Swan. And as of this moment, I am uncertain whether I can reverse it—or what the long-term effects will be.”

“What kind of effects?”

Regina ignored the question, letting out a long, weary sigh.

“You’re to leave my office and go directly to the mansion.” She reached into a drawer and slid a key across the desk. “Stay out of trouble. And out of sight. Understood?”

Emma huffed, snatching the key. “I’m not a child, you know. I can follow instructions.”

“And yet,” Regina snapped, “here we are. Eyeball deep in your latest fiasco.”

Emma looked suitably chastised.

“Text your mother. Assure her you’re safe, but that you’ve left town for a few days.”

“Seriously? Snow will never buy that. I’m settled.”

“Then invent something. And don’t forget to contact my son. For whatever reason, he may be upset by your sudden disappearance.”
“
This just keeps getting suckier by the second.”

“For both of us, dear.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly are you going to be doing while I’m imprisoned in your fancy mansion?”

“Do not concern yourself with my whereabouts, Ms. Swan.” Regina’s gaze cooled. “Just trust that I intend to return with answers.”

SQ

Regina inhaled sharply as the bell above the shop door jingled, announcing her arrival. Lost in her own thoughts, she drifted toward the counter.

“Well, well… Your Majesty.” Mr. Gold’s voice curled through the air like smoke. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You know exactly why I’m here, imp. Don’t play coy. Name your price.”

“Now, now, dearie. Let’s not be hasty. Patience, after all, is a virtue.”

“I’m fresh out of virtues,” Regina snapped. “The Saviour’s idiocy is draining what little I have left.”

“And what, pray tell, has our dear Saviour done to push you into the welcoming arms of the Dark One?” He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Is it not… satisfying, knowing her heart has always been bound to the Evil Queen? Just as your heart—blackened and battered as it is—has always beat for hers? Poetic, isn’t it… if you like that sort of thing.”

Regina’s lips tightened. “Apparently, looking like the Greek god Adonis is Swan’s heart’s desire.”

“Adonis…” Rumple chuckled, his brow knitting in thought. “That… is an unforeseen complication.”

He tilted his head, smirking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound almost disappointed, Your Majesty. Could it be that you prefer the silken skin and bed-warming charm of fair maidens? And tell me—does our dear Saviour know of these… tastes? Then again…” He quoted with a wink, “‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’”

“True love?” Regina scoffed, waving him off. “Please. The… fascination I have with Ms. Swan is merely appreciation. She is—was—something rare and beautiful. And even in her current, Greek-statue state—though not entirely unpleasant—” She stopped herself, cheeks flushing at the memory of Granny’s bathroom.

“For Henry’s sake. And her idiotic parents. I need your help.” She exhaled. “So. Name your price.”

Gold’s smile sharpened. “Funny, isn’t it? You’d beg me for a price… in hopes that I might fix her.”

Regina narrowed her eyes, seeing through the baited implications.

“I’m afraid,” he said with a smirk, “this is one problem I can’t help with—no matter how tempting it might be to have that kind of leverage over you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“It’s not within my power to change her back.” He shrugged. “But it is within yours.”

Regina narrowed her gaze. “Stop being cryptic. We’ve already tried magic. It didn’t work.”

Gold’s smile was maddening. “I think you already know the answer, dearie.”

She held his stare.

“No. Certainly not.”

“Well then,” he said softly, “Ms. Swan will remain just as she is.”

Regina turned on her heel, fury bubbling under her skin as she stalked from the pawn shop.

Gold’s voice followed her like a curse. “Ta-ta, dearie. Watching this unfold is going to be… deliciously interesting.”

SQ

Wrapping her hands around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, Emma inhaled the cinnamon-sweet scent, savouring the comfort it offered. She peeked slyly over the rim, eyes drifting to the fireplace—where Regina stood, back turned, bathed in flickering firelight.

In her half-dreaming haze, the sight softened, reshaped by imagination. Regina moved with slow deliberation, fingers playing at the buttons of her damp blouse, letting the fabric slip from her shoulders. Her skirt followed, pooling at her feet in a quiet heap. All around her, the fire painted gold along the curves of her skin and the ends of her loose dark hair.

Emma blinked, enthralled, her hands tightening on the mug.

She set it down and stepped forward in a trance, drawn to the quiet glow and the woman inside it. She reached out—imagining the brush of lace and skin, the warmth, the rush that made her stomach flutter—

"Emma."

The voice was soft. Dreamlike.

"Emma."

Closer. Urgent.

"Ms. Swan!"

Emma jolted upright, nearly spilling her now-cold hot chocolate.

“Regina?” She rubbed her eyes. “I—I was just… I must’ve dozed off.”

Regina raised a brow, impeccably unbothered. “Clearly, dear. Judging by your expression, I must’ve been starring in quite the feature presentation.”

Emma flushed scarlet. “What? No! I—”
“Lasagne sound good for dinner?” Regina asked breezily, turning toward the kitchen. “And do close your mouth, dear. It attracts flies.”

Emma stared after her, wide-eyed and speechless, heat prickling along the back of her neck.

She flopped back onto the couch with a groan. “I seriously cannot catch a break

Chapter Text

Emma stood at the kitchen sink of the Mayoral Mansion, hands buried in warm sudsy water, while Regina dried the last plate with a floral tea towel and placed it neatly in the cupboard. A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that came from practiced companionship.

With a soft exhale, Emma rested her hands on the rim of the sink and absently rubbed her belly, still full of dinner. A small gasp escaped her lips as her fingers brushed firm, unfamiliar abdominals.

“For a moment, I forgot,” she said quietly. “I mean… I don’t feel any different from when I was—was…”

“Female?” Regina interjected, expression unreadable.

“Yeah. Female.” Emma frowned. “Honestly, Regina, do you think this is permanent? Because if it is, we—”

“We?” Regina raised an eyebrow.

“I.” Emma shot her a look. “I need to figure out how I’m going to explain this—this whatever this is to Snow and David.” She gestured wildly at her body, sending bubbles flying into the air. “I mean, come on! I went from having zero parents to having two fairy-tale ones. Snow freaking White and Prince freaking Charming. How is that even a thing? And you knew—of course you knew.”

Regina offered a small, knowing smile.

“But that’s not what’s worrying me. It’s Henry. What’s our son going to think if we can’t fix this?”

Regina gave a dry chuckle. “He’ll probably think his mother is in a fierce competition with his grandparents for the title of town idiot.”

Emma placed a hand over her chest in mock offense. “Do I at least get a sash? Maybe a bobblehead with a wobbly crown?”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Regina said, tapping a finger against her chin. “We could make it an annual event. The Idiot Games. Right after Miner’s Day.”

Emma gasped, amused. “You’re evil.”

“I try.”

Grinning, Emma flicked her fingers into the soapy water and sent a cascade of suds down the front of Regina’s crisp white blouse. Her breath caught as the fabric clung to skin and lace, now fully visible beneath the damp fabric.

Her pulse kicked into overdrive. Emma shifted uncomfortably as her jeans tugged snug, her breath catching.

Think of… Granny. Archie. Pongo—
Pongo? Wow. You’re really reaching.

Why isn’t this working? she thought, gritting her teeth against the whirlwind of thoughts clashing in her mind.

“Damn it,” she muttered, her voice dry, almost hoarse, as her latest fantasy threatened to hijack every ounce of self-control.

The mayor's crisp white blouse slipped off her shoulders and drifted to the floor, revealing a delicate white lace bra that hugged her curves. Regina's hands roamed her own body, tracing the contours of her hips and the flat plane of her abdomen, before slowly unzipping her pencil skirt. The skirt shimmied to the floor, pooling at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her lace underwear and sheer thigh-high stockings.

“Fuck” Emma breathed her mouth dry

Marco’s smile. Mr Gold. Ruby… NO. NO. NO. Not Ruby. Stop thinking about Ruby, but those short tight skirts that go… All the way up!

Fuck Ruby’s hot!

No! No! No!

STOP!

Leeroy. Smee. Killian. Killian frekin Jones. Filthy dirty, one-handed wonder with all the charm of a rambunctious skunk! There’s no way. Ever…

Regina, noticing the flicker of distraction cross Emma’s face, arched a perfectly manicured brow.
Ms. Swan. Tell me you didn’t just drench my outfit with dirty dishwater.”

Emma couldn’t resist a smirk. “It was a light splash. Drama Queen suits you better than Evil Queen right now.”

Regina narrowed her eyes, twisting the damp tea towel in her hands. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Have I?” Emma took a cautious step back, eyeing the tension in Regina’s arms. “It was an accident. Totally innocent. I mean, could’ve happened to anyone.”

Regina arched a perfect brow.

Emma began inching around the kitchen island, palms raised in surrender. “C’mon, Regina. Let’s not do something we’ll both laugh about later.”

Too late. With a snap, the towel lashed across Emma’s thigh.

“Damn!” Emma howled, hopping in place. “That flower towel has fangs!”

Regina’s smirk was all wicked satisfaction. “Lesson one: never trifle with royalty.”

Emma rubbed the sting out of her jeans, trying to pick the fastest path around the island—and failing. The next strike caught her square across the backside, and she dropped to her knees with an exaggerated groan.

“I yield!” she cried dramatically. “Mercy, my Queen. That towel fights dirty.”

Regina froze. Something in the way Emma said my Queen sent a shiver down her spine. Her fingers went limp, the towel falling unnoticed to the floor.

Emma peeked up, expecting another strike—and blinked in confusion at the sudden shift in Regina’s gaze.

“What?” she asked, her grin fading just slightly.

Their eyes held. Humour danced in both pairs, but there was something else now. Something charged.

“I believe your punishment is complete, Mr. Swan,” Regina murmured, offering her hand.

Emma took it, rising to her feet with a huff. “Really? ‘Mr. Swan’? That’s where we’re going with this?”

“It seems fitting under the circumstances,” Regina said primly.

“Well, remind me never to splash you again. I expected melting. Not Mortal Kombat: Tea Towel Edition.”

Regina chuckled. “You’re confusing me with the Wicked Witch of the West.”

Emma gave a playful scowl. “So much to learn about you, Your Evilness.”

Their laughter echoed through the kitchen, warm and unforced, hinting at something growing in the spaces between their jabs and jests.

SQ

Regina curled up on the leather two-seater, her legs tucked beneath her, an ancient tome resting open in her lap. She scanned the fragile pages for anything—any forgotten thread of magic—that might unravel Emma’s condition. Across from her, Emma was sprawled over the matching couch, arms folded behind her head, legs dangling off the armrest with absolute disregard for posture. But her attention was anything but lazy.

Regina pushed her glasses up her nose, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Emma smiled faintly. “Regina.”

A hum came in response, soft and distracted.

“It’s probably none of my business, but... where’d you go this afternoon?”

Regina sighed and gently closed the book, setting it and her glasses on the polished onyx table between them. “I went to see Mr. Gold.”

Emma sat up. “You did what? Gold—as in the slipperiest Dark One to ever dark? Seriously, Regina. You went alone? In the Enchanted Forest, sure, you were terrifying. But he’s a whole other level.”

“It’s complicated,” Regina said, calm but cautious. “Gold and I are capable of destroying each other. Which, oddly enough, makes us... useful to one another, on occasion.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Please don’t tell me you made a deal with him. I’d rather stay trapped in this body forever than have you owe that-that….”

Regina’s lips curved. “Imp, dear.”

“Right. Imp. So—tell me you didn’t.”

“I asked his price. But it turns out, his help is not what you need.”

Emma blew out a breath. “And if it had been?”

Regina didn’t hesitate. “Then I would’ve paid it.”

Emma stood abruptly, pacing. “No. Absolutely not. You’ve worked too damn hard to go trading Favors with magical psychopaths. Promise me, Regina. If turning me back means a deal with anyone like him, you walk away. Promise.”

She dropped to one knee beside Regina, taking her hand in both of hers—strong, warm, trembling with urgency.

Regina’s chest tightened. “I promise,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “No deals.”

Emma exhaled with relief and pulled her into an embrace.

“Emma,” Regina whispered, arms slowly winding around her. Her fingers found the short stubble at Emma’s nape and absently traced soft circles. “Emma.”

“I thought you’d made a deal,” Emma murmured, her lips brushing Regina’s ear. “And I’m... I’m not worth it. Henry needs you. You’re his mother.”

Regina closed her eyes. “You are too, Emma. He needs both of us.”

Emma pulled back, slowly settling on her heels.

"It`s alright Emma. I promise I did not make a deal with Mr Gold but if making a deal with the imp were the only way of helping you, I would gladly pay the price he would ask of me"

"You`d do that?"

"I would" Regina`s heart fluttered wildly at the admission

Emma studied her for a moment, then smiled. “So, if Gold’s not the answer, there’s someone else?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Emma arched a brow. “My Spidey senses are tingling. You do know something. What is it?”

“If I tell you now,” Regina said gently, “we might risk everything. This solution—it’s delicate. One misstep, and you could be trapped like this forever.”

Tentatively Emma softened “You called me beautiful.”

That stopped Regina cold, she tried to fight the smile tugging at her lips but ultimately surrendered.

“I see,” she said, voice warm and dry all at once. “Sheriff Swan’s powers of perception only activate when a compliment’s involved.”

Emma leaned back, arms crossed, wearing her grin like Armor. “We all have our strengths.”

“Modesty clearly being yours.”

“Only when absolutely necessary.”

There was a beat between them—charged, unspoken, not quite awkward but teetering on the edge of something else entirely. Regina glanced away first, composing herself as if straightening invisible cuffs.

“I meant what I said,” she offered softly. “About you being beautiful.”

Emma blinked, the teasing falter just enough to let something real slip through.

“…Thanks.”

“I may not always say what I feel, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it,” Regina added, still not quite meeting her eyes. “And right now, I’m feeling that if we linger on this moment any longer, I might forget there’s an entire magical crisis unfolding.”

Emma tilted her head. “So dramatic.”

“Says the woman whose superpower is emotional radar and knee-jerk sarcasm.”

“Touché, Your Evilness.”

“Now,” Regina said, finally standing and gathering her composure, “before your superpower gets any louder— and before we return to the part where we save your life. “May I ask, Mr. Swan…”

Emma groaned. “There it is. Mr. Swan.”

“It fits, don’t you think?”

“Barely. Go on—ask.”

“What tall tale did you tell your parents and Henry to explain your little disappearance?”

Emma stood with a grin. “Oh, Mayor Mills. That’s complicated. And if I confide in you, it may affect our chances…”

Regina rolled her eyes. “I don’t remember you being this insufferable before.”

“You weren’t paying attention,” Emma grinned.

“Emma followed Regina out of the study, but not before glancing once more at Regina’s faint smile. It might’ve been subtle—but to her, it was louder than any magic.

SQ

Stifling a yawn, Emma trailed behind Regina up the sweeping wooden staircase to the second floor of the Mayoral Mansion. At the landing, Regina paused, opened the first door on the left, and gestured inside.

“I trust this room will be adequate?”

Emma peeked inside, then bounded onto the bed with a grin, bouncing on her knees like a kid at a sleepover. “Comfortable mattress. High-thread-count cotton sheets.”

She flopped back onto the pillows, giving a satisfied wiggle. “Fluffy. I think I’ll manage. Trust me, I’ve slept in worse places—or wedged in the back seat of the bug.”

She waggled her eyebrows.

“You really are an incorrigible juvenile,” Regina said with a laugh.

Emma grinned. “I love your laugh. You should do it more often.” The words slipped out before her brain caught up.

Regina’s heart gave a traitorous flutter at the unexpected compliment.

"Yes, well… Sheriff…" Regina stumbled, clearly flustered—an unusual crack in her usual composure. "This room, regrettably, lacks an en suite. I've left clean towels, deodorant, and a new toothbrush in the bathroom for your use. Please place your clothes in the hamper—I’ll launder them overnight."

"Regina, really, that’s not necessary. You’ve already done more than enough."

"Nonsense. Clothes in the hamper. Tomorrow, we’ll see about acquiring something decent for you to wear."

Emma smiled, moved by the gesture. She reached for Regina’s hand, holding it delicately. “You’re incredible.”

She brushed her lips gently across Regina’s knuckles, her eyes locked on the Mayor’s.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reluctant as she let go.

"Yes, well... I-I—"

"You…?" Emma teased, brow arched.

"I’ll leave you to your shower, Mr. Swan," Regina said pointedly.

“Seriously? That again?”

"As I was trying to say before being rudely interrupted... I’ll leave you to enjoy your shower, Mr. Swan. My room is at the end of the hall if you need anything. Should hunger or thirst strike, feel free to help yourself—to something healthy from the kitchen. I’m aware of your juvenile palate."

Emma laughed. “Regina, I’ll be fine.”

"Very well. Goodnight, Mr. Swan."

Emma shook her head. “You’re going to drive me insane with that Mr. Swan nonsense.”

“Driving is unnecessary, dear. You’ve already been lightly grazed by the insanity stick.”

Emma blinked. “Wait… was that an actual attempt at humour?”

"Yes, dear. I believe it was." Regina winked, a rare, playful gleam in her eye as she exited the room.

Chapter Text

The pitter-patter of the shower had become a soothing backdrop, and Regina—entirely too curious for her own good—slipped silently into the steamy bathroom. Retrieving Emma’s discarded clothes from the hamper, she paused as humming gave way to muttering.

“Ugh, gross,” Emma said aloud, scrutinizing her armpit as though it had betrayed her. “Okay, fine. Manageable. At least I’m not sprouting back hair like some cursed forest dweller.”

Regina blinked. Forest dweller?

“I mean,” Emma continued, fingers now combing cautiously downward, “if I had found a full-on carpet situation down south, I’d be offering Gold my damn soul for a magical manscape. Preferably one with a warranty.”

Regina clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horrified amusement. The Saviour was apparently having a monologue with her own body. In the shower. Loudly.

Emma, meanwhile, was now admiring her abdomen in the steamed mirror. “Holy shit. I mean—look at this. I’ve got abs. Real abs. You could grate cheese on this board”

She flexed, impressed.

“No wonder Ruby was so eager for a spin on the Saviour express. I’m a full meal and a midnight snack.”

Regina narrowed her eyes. Ruby again.

“Honestly,” Emma went on, still blissfully unaware she had an audience of one villainous queen, “I’d date me. Hell, I’d write me fan mail.”

“Idiot,” Regina muttered, rolling her eyes as another hot flash of jealousy surged through her chest. “I will destroy that smug little wolf pup's happiness if it's the last thing I do. Flaying her alive is... appealing. Insolent girl, thinking she could stake a claim on what is mine? I am the Evil Queen. The Saviour is mine—and mine alone.”

“But…” Emma sighed. “I ache for her. Not just with want, but with something deeper—hotter. My body reacts before my brain has a chance to argue. One smile and I’m scorched; one brush of her fingertips and I come undone. And her laughter—it doesn’t just lift the weight off my chest… it unthreads something knotted and ancient inside me.”

How the hell did Regina become the centre of it all?

Every thought. Every breath.

She’s gravity now—the force tethering me to the earth, the pull I can’t resist.

And this?
This isn’t love. Not the neat, ribbon-wrapped kind poets pretend to understand.

It’s chaos.
Her name in every beat of silence. Her silhouette etched behind every blink.
She’s the storm and the stillness. The fire and the air.

I hate that it’s her.
I need it to be her.
And I would burn for her—gladly, endlessly, without a second thought.

Regina gasped, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as she heard Emma's raw admissions. Her brows arched in disbelief as Emma dramatically sighed.

“Ugh, I’m officially losing it. Regina’s right. I’ve been grazed by the insanity stick.”

And then, with theatrical flair: “I am literally showering with my self-esteem.”

That was Regina’s cue. She ghosted from the bathroom like a scandalized cat burglar, clutching Emma’s soiled clothes like evidence of a crime she wasn’t sure she was proud to have witnessed.

SQ

As the door clicked shut behind her, Regina leaned back against the hallway wall, clutching Emma’s laundry to her chest like it might anchor her to the floor. Her heart was thudding with such force it nearly drowned out the maddening echo of Emma’s voice that still clung to her ears.

“She would date herself,” Regina murmured dryly, eyes narrowing. “Of course she would. Narcissistic nincompoop.”

But even as her lips formed the insult, her treacherous heart fluttered. She wants me. She thinks about me. And not just casually, not in passing—no, this was Emma Swan engaging in full-blown Shakespearean shower soliloquy starring Regina Mills and… her abs.

Focus. She gritted her teeth and pressed a palm to her temple. She was the Mayor of Storybrooke. She’d negotiated peace with ogres, wrestled power from sorcerers, rewritten timelines. And yet one emotionally chaotic blonde with a fondness for cinnamon and leather jackets had her unravelling like the hem of a cheap ballgown.

And that smile, that ridiculous wolfish grin Emma wore when she knew she’d ruffled Regina’s perfectly arranged feathers—

It’s chaos.
Her name in every beat of silence. Her silhouette etched behind every blink.
She’s the storm and the stillness. The fire and the air

Regina inhaled sharply. Oh, she’d heard that. Every word. And now they were engraved on her psyche like cursed runes. Part of her—the rational part, the one that still clung to the idea of control—wanted to march back in there and demand silence.

The rest of her… wanted to curl up with that thought and replay it endlessly.

She pushed off the wall, spine ramrod straight, expression schooled into a picture of perfect neutrality. The Evil Queen did not pine. She schemed. She calculated. And most importantly, she did not let her imagination drift to Emma Swan stepping out of the shower in little more than confidence and nerve.

Composure, Regina. You’re fine. You’re not flustered. You’re just plotting… laundry vengeance.

She swept down the hall like a woman completely unbothered. Mostly.

SQ

Emma jolted awake.

Her heart thundered against her ribs, chasing the echo of the storm outside. Sweat clung to her brow as another low rumble rolled through the mansion, followed by a sharp crack of lightning that briefly turned the room into a charcoal sketch of itself. Shadows danced across the walls like spectres, morphing the familiar into something almost sinister.

She blinked hard, disoriented. The guest room—Regina’s guest room—was cavernous in the dark. Each flicker from the window carved it into strange shapes, stripping away comfort. The blankets tangled at her feet felt suddenly insufficient. Exposed. Small.

Another boom. Louder this time. Closer.

Emma scrambled to sit up, stubbing her toe on the leg of the dresser. “Shit,” she hissed, biting back a full-bodied curse. The pain flared like insult to injury as she slid down the wall with a low, embarrassed groan.

She drew her knees up; arms locked tightly around them and buried her face.

You can’t sit here terrified all night, Swan. Grow a pair.

The voice in her head was sharp, dry, and unmistakably Regina. Emma snorted softly, lifting her gaze to glance between her thighs. “Regina,” she muttered, deadpan, “Thanks for the pep talk.”

Outside, thunder cracked so fiercely it shook the glass.

Decision made, Emma pressed her back against the wall, bracing herself. She counted between lightning flash and thunderclap—one, two, three—and bolted. The hallway was a blur as she padded down it barefoot, limbs prickled with adrenaline.

Then she burst into Regina’s room.

The boom of thunder coincided with a streak of lightning that bathed the room in sharp white light—just long enough for Regina to sit bolt upright in bed, blinking away sleep.

“Mr. Swan? Wha–wha—”

Words died as her gaze landed on the figure standing frozen in her doorway.

Emma. Naked. Breathless. Eyes wild with panic, her skin sheened with perspiration and illuminated like marble beneath the lightning. For a second, everything went silent.

Regina’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her eyes locked on Emma’s. Piercing. Open. Too honest for comfort.

“I—I’m…” Emma’s voice broke. “I’m afraid.”

There. It was out in the open, bare as her skin.

Regina exhaled softly, brushing her hair back from her eyes. And then, with practiced grace, she lifted the edge of the crisp Egyptian cotton sheet and patted the empty space beside her.

“Dresser. Top drawer. Panties, Mr. Swan.”

Emma blinked, caught somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.

“Seriously? Your Evilness?”

“Yes, dear,” Regina said gently, lips quirking into the faintest smile.

"I always figured the best way to get to know someone was to go through their panty drawer," Emma muttered, lips twitching into a crooked grin as she made her way to the dresser.

Regina arched a brow but said nothing, watching her with something dangerously close to amusement.

Emma retrieved a pair—red lace, naturally—and stepped into them with minimal ceremony. Then, slipping beneath the sheet, she settled beside Regina and tugged the covers up to her waist. Warmth radiated from the other woman—heat that had little to do with the storm outside.

Regina lay on her side in her usual silk pyjamas; hands folded beneath her cheek like an angel with a rap sheet. Emma, in contrast, sprawled on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, trying not to notice how every inch of her skin tingled.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, turning her head to meet Regina’s gaze.

Regina didn’t miss a beat. “I’m quite accustomed to being awoken by storms, dear. You are aware I have an eleven-year-old son? Pre-teen. Shaggy brown hair. Answers to Henry?” She tilted her head. “Although I must admit, his entrances are considerably less…”

“Dramatic,” Emma offered.

“Precisely.”

“Sorry,” Emma repeated.

“It seems to be your mantra of late.” Regina’s tone was light, but her eyes flickered with something else—something sad.

Emma caught the shift but chose not to push. Not yet.

“So… You’re impressed. I can tell.” She jutted her chin out with mock bravado. “I wouldn’t blame you for catching feelings, especially with this Charming chin. It’s fate.”

Regina rolled her eyes, then reached out and gave Emma a gentle swat to the chest. The touch was light, fleeting—but it lit a fuse in Emma’s spine, white-hot heat zipping straight through her and pooling low.

Hell. I’m in trouble.

“Have I not already stated your appearance is not entirely displeasing, Mr. Swan?”

“I know there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Emma said, tapping the side of her nose. “Superpower. It knows.”

“You really are an idiot.”

They both chuckled, the sound easing the air between them.

“I’m your idiot, your Majesty.”

Regina blinked, pulse skipping, unsure if she’d heard it right. But Emma’s gaze was soft and steady unmasked.

“And pray tell,” Regina murmured, voice gone velvet, “how did the Evil Queen come to possess such a precious commodity?”

Emma shrugged, smile turning quiet.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Regina’s lips curved gently.

“Clearly, dear. Now close your eyes.”

SQ

Half-asleep, Emma took a deep inhale, filling her senses with Regina's intoxicating scent. It wasn't the polished, perfumed aroma that Storybrooke knew, but something far more intimate and secret. This was the scent of a lightly sweating, sleep-tousled Regina Mills, her exquisite body pressed tightly against Emma's own as she slept softly beside her.

Emma's hand instinctively roamed over Regina's smooth back, her fingernails lightly grazing the perfect skin, drawing a contented sigh from the drowsy brunette. Regina pulled herself even closer, her arm tightening around Emma's taut abdomen, her graceful fingertips tracing the defined muscles and sinewy lines of her body. A silky-smooth leg parted her powerful thighs, nestling between them as a soft, sensuous foot massaged her calf, eliciting a low, throaty moan from deep within her throat, her arousal flaring to life.

Fuck! I'm in deep shit. I'd give up my Spidey senses and my curse and everything if I could spend the rest of my life waking up with Regina wrapped around me like this. This feels... right. This feels like... home.

SQ

Regina woke to the sound of breathing that wasn’t hers. For a heartbeat, she lay still, disoriented—until the unmistakable press of a strong, steady body against her own chased sleep from her mind. Her irises darkened in recognition. It was Emma. Her saviour.

“Hi,” Emma murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

Regina didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “Hi,” she whispered back, her cheek brushing Emma's chest.

“Comfortable?”

“Extremely.”

A pause.

“I guess we fell asleep.”

“I suppose we did.”

Neither made a move to separate. The hush wrapped around them, thick with unspoken things—memory, gratitude, danger, desire. Her fingertips twitched against Emma’s skin, and she wondered if she could feel the question she didn’t dare ask.

"Not too much fur?"

"No."

"Because... I can always wax the rest. I know it might sting, but I’d gladly bear the burn for you." Emma’s voice wavered with teasing nervousness.

"That won’t be necessary, dear," came the calm reply.

"You really like it the way it is?" Emma pressed, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Absolutely," Regina replied, a grin playing at her lips.

Emma laughed softly. "I know it sounds absurd, but my Spidey senses are once again tingling. Let me guess—you’re into that rugged, endearingly scruffy look? The whole lumberjack charm, with a bit of beard and maybe even a plaid shirt?"

Regina chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. "Maybe. Just the thought of embracing that style, with the right motivation, has its appeal."

"Well, if that’s the case," Emma teased, her tone growing bolder, "I might just have to rethink my wardrobe—and maybe push you a little further out of your comfort zo… Fuck!"

"My panties suit you"

“Partial t-to white m-myself—whoa!” Emma stumbled over her words, nearly tripping on her own thoughts as Regina’s fingers ghosted lower. Her breath caught, eyes wide.

“Is this the motivation you require, Mr. Swan?” Regina’s voice was a sultry whisper, each syllable curling around Emma’s name like smoke.

Regina didn’t need to raise her voice—power, after all, wasn’t in volume. It was in the way her eyes flicked across every inch of Emma, slow and deliberate, daring her to resist her ministrations. Every glance was a challenge, a memory, a promise unspoken. And Emma—gods help her—her pelvis rotated involuntary- her breath betraying her. Shallow. Hitched. Wanting.

Her touch, featherlight and intentional, traced slow, deliberate patterns just below the line of red lace—teasing, not demanding. Emma’s breath hitched, her fingers clutching and unclenching the edge of the bedsheet as if grounding herself in the storm Regina so effortlessly summoned. Power passed between them, not as dominance, but recognition. Familiar. Earned.

Regina tilted her head, a smile ghosting her lips. “You always did need a little push.” She breathed into the shell of a soft ear

Emma blurted, stumbling over the words as if they’d tripped on her tongue. Her eyes widened, breath catching, and for a moment she looked like she might combust on the spot.

“Okay. That was... unexpected.” Regina’s smile was all velvet and victory. “You’re adorable when you malfunction.”

Emma lay still, but inside, everything trembled. Regina’s gaze moved over her like a memory she hadn’t earned the right to keep, and yet—there it was. Regina smiled—slow, devilish, knowing. The kind of smile that wasn’t just about amusement, but memory. Her fingertips moved with practiced ease, tracing idle patterns across Emma’s chest, not to provoke, but to remind.

Emma’s breath hitched, her body betraying the calm she tried to wear like Armor. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when Regina’s touch felt less like seduction and more like a reclamation—of trust, of history, of something still burning quietly between them.

“Talk to me.”

Regina’s voice cracked on the plea, barely more than a whisper. Emma turned her head away, eyes fixed on the far wall, as if distance could shield her from the weight of Regina’s gaze. But it was no use. She felt it—steady, unrelenting, full of questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

Regina’s breath trembled. “Please,” she said again, softer this time. “Talk to me.”

“I’m embarrassed and I’ve disappointed you.” Emma’s voice was barely audible, like it hurt to say. “All of my life I’ve been a disappointment. No one ever wanted to—” Her breath caught. “To want me. And now…”

She trailed off, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if the truth might be less sharp if she didn’t look at it. Her hands trembled, clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Regina didn’t speak. Not yet. But her silence wasn’t cold—it was listening. I’m still here. I’m not leaving.

“No, Emma, I’m not disappointed. You haven’t let me down—and you have nothing to be ashamed of.” Regina’s voice wavered, then steadied. “Please… look at me.”

Emma’s head snapped up. Her Queen was—pleading?

“But I—I mean, we didn’t…” Emma’s words tangled, caught between denial and something dangerously close to hope. There was no lie in Regina’s eyes. None at all.

Gently, Regina reached out, her fingertips resting against Emma’s lips.

“Shh,” she whispered. “I ache for you. Not just with want, but with something deeper—hotter. My body reacts before my brain has a chance to argue. One smile and I’m scorched; one brush of your fingertips and I come undone. And your laughter—it doesn’t just lift the weight off my chest… it unthreads something knotted and ancient inside me”

Raising a shapely eyebrow, Regina flashed a knowing smile as she echoed Emma’s own words from the bathroom.

“You eavesdropped?” Emma groaned. “Ugh, I should’ve known. How much did you hear? Wait—no, don’t tell me. Just kill me now. I take it back… you’re not a drama Queen; you really are the Evil Queen.”

“Yes,” Regina said smugly. “I am the Evil Queen, and you would do well to remember that. Next time—”

Emma cut in, eyes narrowing. “You want there to be a next time?”

Regina’s smile softened. “Yes. And next time, you won’t be quite so adolescent… or overwhelmed.”

“Oh, I’ll show you adolescent, your Evilness.”

With a wicked grin and a theatrical waggle of her brows, Emma flipped Regina onto her back, drawing out a surprised laugh that burst from the brunette in earnest.

“God, I love your laugh,” Emma breathed, voice turning fond—then mischievous. “But… payback’s a bitch, Your Majesty.”

She pounced, fingers flying. Regina shrieked and thrashed, helpless under the onslaught of merciless tickling. Their laughter tangled in the air, echoing off the walls as limbs scrambled for dominance in their unofficial battle for the title of Bedroom Tickle Champion.

Twined in chaos—legs tangled, bodies breathless—Regina ended up sprawled atop the saviour, their faces flushed, chests heaving in the aftermath.

Neither noticed the loud voices or the thudding footsteps on the stairs until the bedroom door burst open.

“Regina. I demand to know what you’ve done with my daugh—” Snow’s voice faltered mid-accusation. “I–I… Regina?” Her head tilted, brow furrowing in sheer confusion.

Behind her, David failed to stop in time and bumped into her back, sending both of them stumbling deeper into the room.

“Snow, why’d you stop so—oh…” David blinked, then flushed violently. “Ooooh.”

On the bed, Regina and Emma’s heads whipped toward the door in perfect unison, eyes wide.

“I see where you get your eloquence from, dear,” Regina whispered, her brow dipping to rest gently against Emma’s, the soft contact grounding them even as chaos clattered at the threshold.

For a suspended beat, the world narrowed to just the two of them—still tangled, still breathless, still wholly unwilling to acknowledge the two speechless interlopers gaping like fish in the doorway.

“Tell me, my Queen,” Emma muttered, breathless with laughter, “is it also customary during a heated bout of Bedroom Tickle Champion to be caught red-handed by one’s parents?”

Regina arched a brow, still half-pinned, half-regal. “It is… unusual. But given your parents’ brand of idiocy, perhaps we should have anticipated as much.”

Emma snorted, brushing Regina’s dark hair from her cheek.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life, my Queen,” Emma replied, and Regina’s heart somersaulted, thudding wild and bright against her ribs.

Regina’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Then let’s have some fun.”

Chapter Text

Snow stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes slowly sweeping over the tangled mess on the bed. Her confusion built in ripples until something clicked—her gaze locking onto Regina’s tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and… dishevelled state. For a moment, she simply stared, trying to reconcile the always-pristine Mayor with the chaotic intimacy before her. Then her eyes widened.

Oh. My. Goodness.

She snapped her gaze shut and spun on her heel—only to crash straight into David, who had been trailing just a step too closely. The collision sent them both stumbling, chests and foreheads colliding with a loud, graceless thud.

Across the room, Regina couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped her lips. Watching Snow and Charming bounce off each other like a poorly timed vaudeville act stirred unexpected warmth in her chest. As if drawn by instinct, she leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss to Emma’s lips—brief, reverent, natural.

Emma blinked, startled by the softness, but held her gaze. For a moment, there was just the two of them, suspended in the quiet before the storm.

Then Regina pulled away, smoothing the hem of her pyjama top and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. When she met Emma’s eyes again, her smile was soft—fleeting—before her Mayoral mask fell into place like armour.

“I apologise for the rude intrusion by Storybrooke’s very own Lloyd and Harry,” she said dryly, casting a sidelong glance at the fumbling couple. “As entertaining as their routine has been, I suggest a shower, dear. You look… thoroughly rumpled.”

That smug flicker returned to her gaze. “My only regret is that their idiocy interrupted our fun.”

Snow gaped. “If I didn’t know you better, Regina, I’d swear you were… smitten.”

Regina scoffed. “With that one? Tall, blonde, far too vanilla—and saddled with you two as parents? Please.”

But something in her voice didn’t quite land. Snow’s eyes narrowed—something unspoken tickling at the edges of her awareness.

“My Queen…” Emma’s voice was low, almost reverent. Her eyes flicked down, drawing Regina’s attention—reluctantly—to the scrap of lace that clung precariously in all the wrong places.

Heat bloomed on Regina’s cheeks. She arched a brow, lips twitching. “Well. That’s… revealing.”

Emma swallowed a laugh—and a groan. “A little help?”

Regina’s smile turned wicked, but her eyes softened as they met Emma’s again. “Always, dear. But know this—your blushes are far too charming for your own good.”

“Cover your blushes with these, dear.”

With a wicked glint in her eye, Regina scooped two pillows from the floor—casual victims of the earlier tickle skirmish—and tossed them at Emma.

“Thank you, Your Evilness,” Emma replied, dipping her head with mock solemnity. Grinning, she pressed the pillows strategically in front of her, sidestepping Regina with practiced grace.

As she passed, their shoulders brushed—too close, too familiar—and Regina’s smirk deepened.

Emma cast her parents a bashful smile as she darted by, slipping into the en-suite with a soft click of the door behind her.

Why do I feel like I’m missing something glaringly obvious?  Snow narrowed her eyes. What are you playing at, Regina?

With the Saviour safely behind the en-suite door, Regina’s patience snapped.

“Are you out of your idiotic little minds?” she barked, arms flaring wide. “What is the meaning of barging into my home uninvited? Clearly, you just couldn’t wait to see your Queen. Well—here I am. So, get on with it.”

Snow stepped forward, resolve steeling her spine. She’d lost her daughter to the Evil Queen once before—she would not let history repeat itself. Closing the gap, she met Regina eye to eye.

“What have you done with our daughter?”

Regina’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “I’m quite certain I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Snow's gaze cut sharply toward the en-suite.

“Emma’s bug is in your garage,” she said flatly. “It’s too late for the innocent act.”

Regina’s brow twitched—barely—but it was enough. For one telling second, her control cracked before slipping smoothly back into place.

“I’m sure I don’t—”

“Don’t insult me by pretending.” Snow’s voice rose, brittle with frustration.

Regina rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Are there no properties I own that the sanctimonious Charming's won’t storm through uninvited?”

“So, you’re not denying it?”

“Denying what, dear?” Regina smiled, sugar and spite.

Snow’s hands dropped to her sides with a dramatic slap of defeat. “That Emma’s Bug. Is. In. Your. Garage,” she said slowly, like coaxing a toddler through a confession.

“I would like nothing more than to have the Saviour’s Bug in my garage right now, dear,” Regina deadpanned. “And if you hadn't burst in so rudely… well, who knows.”

“I beg your pardon?” Snow snapped.

“I didn't come down in the last rainstorm, Snow,” Regina said coolly. “I know exactly what you and Charming are trying to do. Point the finger. Again.”

“We’re trying to find our daughter,” Snow fired back. “There was someone in her room—someone climbed through her window. She’s gone, and it’s suspicious. Her disappearance has your fingerprints all over it.”

Regina’s lips curled into a smirk. “Trust me, dear… my fingerprints were all over the Saviour earlier.”

Snow’s breath hitched. “You’ve seen her?”

“Don’t twist your panties in a knot. I haven’t seen her,” Regina replied, though colour bloomed hot in her cheeks. “Maybe the problem isn’t me. Maybe Emma doesn’t want to see you.” She stepped in, voice sharp. “Her mother—so noble, so simplistic—who thought salvation came from shoving a baby through a wardrobe and calling it destiny. She was afraid. Alone. For twenty-eight years. Frankly, I’m surprised she can even look at you.”

Snow’s face tightened. “It was you who unleashed the curse. You left us no choice. She was destined to break it.”

“Keep telling yourself that, dear. That you had no choice. That your cruelty was fate dressed as sacrifice. Maybe someday you’ll even believe it.”

“We did what we thought was right.”

Regina’s laugh was low and joyless. “There are always alternatives, Snow.”

Snow ignored her. “What have you done with Emma?”

Regina arched a brow. “Oh, Snow. My dear… what haven’t I done with her?”

Snow gasped. “I’ll never forgive you if—if—”

“Snow,” David said gently, hand steadying her shoulder. “Please. Stay calm.”

“Calm?” she bit out. “Emma is missing. One dubious call. No messages. And I’m supposed to believe the Evil Queen has nothing to do with it? What if she’s hurt—or worse?”

David’s arm held her tighter. Then he turned to Regina, jaw clenched. “Have you hurt Emma? Do you know where she is? Because if you do, Regina—so help me—”

Something flickered in Regina’s face. Guilt, sudden and sharp. The memory of Emma’s touch still lingered in her skin, her laugh in Regina’s breath. And for the first time, truly and deeply, Regina felt the weight of every wound she'd ever carved into the Saviour’s life.

Even Daniel’s death hadn’t torn like this.

“Regrettably, I have hurt Emma."

"Regina, no!" Snow shrieked, lunging for her—but David held her back, gripping her shoulders as she sobbed. "My daughter... what have you done? What have you done?"

A fireball erupted in Regina’s palm. Her chest heaved, breath sharp and shallow as fear, tightly wound and poorly disguised as anger, rolled off her in waves.

"I won’t let you destroy my happiness again. I won’t."

"I don’t understand," David said, stepping in front of Snow. "What’s going on?"

"Regina!"

The warning in Emma’s voice sliced through the room—low, firm, unmistakably a Charming.

Regina snapped to attention. Her eyes found Emma’s soaked figure standing in the en-suite doorway, towel wrapped around her waist, pain etched into every line of her face. The fireball winked out instantly.

"You were going to..." Emma choked. "To them? To my... parents? Seriously?"

"No—it was just a warning, dear," Regina said softly, stepping forward. She stopped short as Emma shook her head, eyes downcast, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Liar," Emma said quietly. Her voice didn’t rise—it didn’t need to. "This has to end. This war... this endless battle between the Charming's and the Evil Queen—it has to end."

"It will never end until the Evil Queen is dead!" Snow snapped. "At every turn, Regina chooses vengeance over forgiveness. She’s proven who she is again and again. Until she's punished, this doesn’t end." She narrowed her eyes. "Where is our daughter?"

Regina opened her mouth—but Emma cut her off.

"I’m right here."

Snow and David turned. Their daughter—muscular, dripping, unmistakable—stood in the doorway, green eyes guarded and resolute.

"Emma?" Snow whispered, stepping forward.

"Stop," Emma said, firm. "Don’t come any closer."

Snow froze. Her voice broke. "My little girl?"

"Ms. Swan is an exquisite woman," Regina said, recovering some of her fire, "and now quite the delectable young man. Not your little girl."

"Emma will always be our daughter," David said fiercely. "You stole her childhood once. You will not take her again."

Snow turned on Regina, trembling with fury. "Why would you do this? Transforming our beautiful daughter into some… twisted projection of your perversions? Was no one else in Storybrooke enough for you?"

Emma flinched.

"You were on her," Snow gasped. "You two—this isn’t happening. Emma would never… not with you. This is revenge. That’s all this is!"

Regina’s hands clenched as she watched Emma shrink into herself, every word planting fresh thorns of doubt. Her anger flared—but broke beneath sorrow.

"Emma," she whispered. "Please."

Emma looked up—torn, vulnerable. She turned to her parents.

"Regina didn’t do this to me. I did it. So stop threatening the woman I..." She faltered, unable to say it—not yet. "Please. If nothing else, do this for me." Her voice cracked. "I can’t... I can’t keep watching the people I love tear each other apart."

She gave Regina one final, fractured smile… and bolted. Regina reached for her—fingertips grazing bare skin—but Emma brushed her off, disappearing down the hall.

And Regina... was left with nothing but the echo.

SQ

Emma stumbled into Granny’s, bare feet slapping softly against tile, the chill clinging to her damp skin. Every head turned—because how could they not? A scantily clad Adonis stood shivering in the doorway, wrapped in borrowed bravado.

“Well, well, well…” Ruby grinned behind the counter, her eyes sweeping appreciatively. “Can’t stay away from me, huh? What’ll it be, handsome?”

“A hot chocolate with cinnamon. And a bear claw. The usual, please, Rubes.”

Ruby arched a brow. “You’ve been here once, and already you’ve got a ‘usual’?” She smirked. “Take a seat—I’ll be right back.”

A few moments later, she reappeared, tossing a pair of grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt across the counter.

“Just some clothes one of my exes left. They’re clean, promise. Figured you could use them.”

Emma’s face softened. “Rubes, you’re the best kind of friend.”

She disappeared into the restroom and re-emerged a few minutes later, dressed down but no less striking. Ruby delivered the order, setting the cup and pastry in front of her, gaze lingering a beat too long. Something about the Adonis’s scent tugged at her memory, but she shoved it aside.

Instead, she leaned across the counter, voice dipped low. “Your body is a wonderland, and I want to be Alice.”

Emma stilled.

Ruby didn’t seem to notice—or chose not to. She fluttered her lashes, voice syrupy with intent. “You’re so freaking hot, a firefighter couldn’t put you out.” Her fingers trailed boldly toward Emma’s forearm. “You’re as sweet as candy… I could just eat you up.”

Emma didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just sat there, face unreadable, eyes fixed forward, as if willing herself to disappear. Staring at the hand wrapped around her forearm. Her pulse roared in her ears, thoughts scattered, body rooted to the spot. She didn’t notice the bell above the door chime behind her.

“YOU!”

Regina’s voice cracked through the diner like thunder. She barely made it inside before her fury burst loose, fury blooming behind her eyes in a flash of violet.

“Regina—” Emma gasped, but one look at the approaching storm silenced her. She snapped her mouth shut.

“Madame Mayor,” Ruby greeted cheerfully, oblivious to the rising tension. Emma’s discomfort deepened.

Regina’s gaze narrowed. How dare that wolf pup touch what was hers.

“Is it standard practice for employees to harass patrons, Ms. Lucas?” she asked, voice like glass—smooth, sharp, dangerous.

Ruby pulled her hand back immediately, catching the message loud and clear. Even without her wolf senses, it was obvious: the Mayor had laid claim to the Adonis at the counter. But… something else flickered in her nose. Regina’s scent, yes—but no others. No conflicting trace. Just the Mayor… and the Saviour.

Regina’s attention returned to Emma.

“You left.”

“I know.”

“I was worried.”

“Were you?” Emma replied, flat.

“You have the superpower—you tell me. I dressed quickly and came here hoping you would be too. Am I lying?”

Emma shook her head. “I guess not… Ruby gave me some clothes.”

“Very fetching dear” Regina replied, her voice attempting levity

Emma sighed, eyes falling to the swirl of cream in her hot chocolate.

“Can we focus on ending this curse. Even if it means I lose…”

Regina stilled. “Lose what, dear?”

Emma shook her head, voice cracking around the edges. “I don’t know, Regina. I just—can we go home? Please. Will you take me home?”

Regina's heart squeezed. She had never seen her so unmoored, so defeated. And still, the word home on Emma’s lips bloomed something fragile and bright inside her.

“Of course, dear. Wait for me in the car—I’ll settle the cheque.”

As Emma slipped out, Regina turned her gaze on Ruby.

“Your Majesty,” Ruby began quickly, “had I realized, I never would’ve—”

“Silence.” The word dropped like a blade. “This is your first and only warning. The Saviour is mine. Are we clear?”

Ruby straightened. “Crystal.”

Regina tossed a bill onto the counter and strode from the diner without looking back. Behind her, Ruby exhaled—shaken but resigned. Whatever anyone said, however things looked from the outside, one thing had always been painfully, gloriously obvious:

From the moment Emma Swan arrived in Storybrooke… she had always belonged to Regina Mills.

Chapter Text

The drive back to the Mayoral Mansion passed in brittle silence. Emma stared out the passenger window, the glass fogging slightly with each breath. Her expression was blank, unreadable. Regina’s knuckles were pale against the steering wheel as she cast the occasional glance her way, choosing—deliberately—to ignore the tension pressed between them like a third passenger.

Once inside, they didn’t speak.

Emma climbed the stairs without a word, retreating to the second-floor guest room like a ghost seeking solitude. Regina watched her go, the click of the door upstairs a dull punctuation mark on the day’s unravelling.

In her study, Regina poured herself a generous glass of cider—strong, golden, comforting in its familiarity—and phoned her son. The conversation with Henry was gentler than expected but laced with quiet melancholy. The Charming’s, in all their righteous wisdom, had insisted he be moved out. Regina hadn’t fought. Emma, caught in the middle, had only apologized.

And Henry—her bright, brave boy—had gone willingly, eager to spend time with his birth mother and grandparents. Of course he had.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. Emma picked at her chicken salad, pushing bits of lettuce and tomato around her plate with the tip of her fork. Regina sipped her water, watching every small movement like a study in avoidance. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was punishment.

Later, the clang of plates and running water echoed from the kitchen. Regina followed the sound on instinct, each step of her heels tapping out her intent.

Emma didn’t turn as she approached, just scrubbed at the dishes with too much focus. Too much force. Regina stopped behind her, the silence stretching a moment longer before snapping.

“Enough,” she said softly.

Regina closed the distance, bracing Emma gently but firmly against the edge of the sink. Her breath caught—more from uncertainty than anger. She wanted connection, but Emma’s gaze flitted restlessly, refusing to settle on hers.

“Look at me,” Regina said, soft but urgent.

Emma didn’t. She couldn’t.

Leaning into the blonde placing her lips dangerously close to the shell of the saviour's ear Regina roughly cupped Emma`s sex as she husked

"You remind me of a Twinkie, every time I bite into you, you cream in my mouth… is that what you want to hear dear, some cheesy pick-up line from a cheap slutty wolf pup?"

“No,” Emma breathed, her chest rising and falling as the Queen’s presence pressed closer, saturating the space between them with possessiveness and a simmering jealousy that clung like smoke.

“No?” Regina echoed, voice velvet and ice.

Emma swallowed. “No, my Queen.”

A dangerous smile curved Regina’s lip. “Better. Now, tell me—what is it you want, Mr. Swan?”

It was a trap, loaded and lethal.

Emma’s thoughts tangled, but the look in Regina’s eyes was a dare she couldn’t back down from. She tilted her chin, heart hammering.

“You,” she said, steady now. “Only you… my Queen.”

Emma’s breath hitched as Regina's fingers gripped her chin between them, the brunette's touch sending shivers down her spine. "Really dear," Regina murmured, her voice a low purr, "after your behaviour at Granny's, do you truly believe you deserve this intimate reward?"

With a flick of her wrist, Regina opened Emma's shirt, her hands gliding over the saviour's muscular shoulders, pushing the fabric down to her biceps, trapping her arms. Emma gripped the sink, her knuckles white, as Regina's lips trailed hot, wet kisses from her collarbone down to her sternum, then lower still. She paused at Emma's navel, her breath warm against the saviour's skin.

Emma's hips jerked involuntarily as Regina loosened her belt, the button fly of her pants giving way with a sharp rip. Emma's pants slid down her muscular thighs, her erection straining against her underwear, a dark spot of moisture already forming. Regina's lips followed the happy trail, her tongue darting out to tease the sensitive skin just above Emma's hipsters. She placed a chaste kiss on the bulge, her eyes flicking up to meet Emma's gaze, a wicked smile playing on her lips.

Regina's fingers hooked under the waistband of Emma's underwear, teasing the saviour by tracing the length of her erection through the fabric. She tugged the underwear down, freeing Emma's throbbing length, which stood proud and dripping. Emma's breath hitched, her body trembling with anticipation.

"Tell me, saviour," Regina murmured, her voice a low growl, "are you mine?"

Emma's heart pounded in her chest, her mouth dry. "Yes, my Queen," she managed to whisper, her voice hoarse with desire. "I am yours."

Regina's eyes flashed with possession, her body responding to Emma's words. She gripped Emma's scrotum, her touch firm, her voice a low snarl.

"Then remember this, my saviour. If you let another touch, you intimately, I will destroy your happiness. Is that clear?"

Emma's eyes drifted closed, a shiver of pleasure and pain coursing through her body. "Perfectly, my Queen," she whispered.

With a final squeeze, Regina released Emma, turning on her heel she sauntered from the room, a wicked smile on her lips. "When you're finished here, join me in the study," she called over her shoulder.

Emma stood there, her body aching with need, a stupid grin on her face. "Holy shit," she chuckled, pulling up her pants, her erection still throbbing. "That was... fucking intense."

SQ

Across town, Henry had been sent to the loft with his comics. He paid little attention to the hurried whispers below but couldn’t help wondering at the flurry of activity.

In the kitchen, Snow, Charming, and Blue sat around the island, nursing mugs of coffee and processing the morning’s events at the mayoral mansion.

“Regina has turned our beautiful daughter into… into something I can’t even begin to comprehend,” Snow choked, lowering her head as tears stung her eyes. “I can’t accept it. I won’t accept it.”

“It’s okay, Snow,” David said gently, rubbing circles into her back. “We’ll figure this out. We always do.” He turned to Blue. “How is this even possible?”

“I would say the Evil Queen’s up to her old tricks,” Blue offered. “This looks like a powerful curse cast on the Saviour.”

“To what end?” David asked.

“To destroy your happiness,” Blue said grimly. “It’s what she’s always wanted. And what better way to do that than by hurting your daughter?”

David raised an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m not sure Regina has hurt Emma. In fact… Emma looked like she was rather enjoying herself when we walked in.”

Snow’s glare silenced his smirk.

Feeling the pressure, and lacking any true evidence, Blue added hastily, “I’m sure Emma’s behaviour is just a side effect of the curse. Clearly, she’d never willingly entertain the idea of cavorting with the Evil Queen.”

“I thought as much,” Snow said, her spirits visibly lifted. She hummed softly to herself as she busied herself in the kitchen, clinging to the narrative like a lifeline.

David exchanged a glance with Blue. She looked uneasy.

He thought back to the stolen glances, the shifting tones, the energy between Emma and Regina that had always felt… more than antagonism. The kind of tension that made silence feel louder than words.

“Emma claimed she changed her own appearance,” he said. “That Regina was only trying to help. What if that’s true?”

A cold, humourless laugh escaped Snow.

“Oh please, David. What’s next? You’ll be claiming Regina is her true love and a kiss will break the curse?”

Blue’s eyes widened in alarm, but David just smiled, calm and unshaken. “True love is the strongest magic of all.”

Snow scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. Emma could never love the Evil Queen.”

David’s voice didn’t rise. “And what if it's Regina she loves?”

Snow’s face turned crimson as she slammed her cup onto the counter. “Enough. I won’t hear it, David. I don’t care what we have to do—we will bring our daughter back. Back to us. I know Regina—she’s cast a curse, and this time, she will pay for it.”

With a huff, Snow spun on her heel and marched up the loft ladder to check on Henry, leaving a heavy silence behind.

David and Blue sat in it.

“What do you know?” Blue asked softly.

“I don’t know anything for certain,” David replied. “It’s just… a feeling. That Regina didn’t do this. That she’s actually been trying to help Emma. But…”

“But?”

“If you’d seen the way they looked at each other this morning… it felt like more than magic. It felt real.”

Blue studied him. “And how would you feel if Regina was her true love?”

David rubbed at his jaw, thoughtful. “As much as Snow’s against it… I’m not. I believe the Evil Queen’s been tempered.”

“By love?” Blue asked.

“By Emma,” he said quietly. “The light in the dark.”

Blue smiled. “Then you’ll need to support your daughter, David. Snow’s going to be… difficult.”

“You don’t think Regina cast the curse either, do you?”

Blue’s gaze flickered. “No. It lacks her usual finesse. I think you should talk to Emma—alone.”

“And if it is true love?”

“Then I’d say,” she quoted with a glint of mischief, “true love is the strongest magic of all.”

David nodded, heart heavy with the quiet burden of knowing too much—and not nearly enough.

SQ

Regina sat behind her mahogany desk, sipping apple cider and leafing through a tome—already certain it held no answers to Emma’s predicament. Still, she wasn’t ready to admit the real truth: she was scared. Scared of what she felt.

You’re afraid. What if Emma doesn’t feel the same? But… what if she does?

A sigh escaped her lips.

“Knock, knock.”

Regina’s head snapped up. Emma leaned casually against the doorframe, hands shoved deep into her pockets, a bright smile lifting her features.

“Mir. Swan.”

“Whatcha doing?” Emma sauntered into the study, dropping into the chair across from her.

“Trying to find a solution to your predicament.”

Emma glanced at the book. “Yeah… I don’t think it’s in there, just saying.”

Regina sighed again and closed the tome, fingers lingering on the cover. She knew she had to tell the truth—had to say something real—but she was tired.

“Something wrong?” Emma asked, reading her too easily.

“Everything’s fine, dear. It’s just been a long day.”

Emma didn’t press. Instead, she watched in silence as Regina massaged her temple.

“The vial,” she said finally, “and that incantation thing in your vault… what exactly did I unleash?”

The question caught Regina off guard. She straightened, the Mayoral Mask snapping into place.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know—”

“Regina, it’s me. Emma. I’m not going to judge you, and I’m not angry.”

“How could you be angry with me?” Regina snapped before she could stop herself. “You’re the one who violated my sanctum, Mr. Swan. You who read the incantation and shattered the vial. Had your mother taught you proper manners—”

She froze. Her hand flew to her mouth, mortified.

“Emma, I—I didn’t mean…”

Emma inhaled sharply and stood, expression carefully neutral. The words had stung—she knew Regina hadn’t meant them, not really—but they still bruised.

“When you’re ready to talk,” she said, voice steady but distant, “and I mean really talk—not all this bullshit—you know where to find me.

SQ

Regina glanced at the clock on her dresser and sighed. She’d been tossing and turning for hours, her careless words echoing relentlessly through her mind, a mantra she couldn’t silence.

Had your mother taught you proper manners…

And then, not far behind, Emma’s voice haunted her:

When you're ready to really communicate, you know where to find me.

Now, standing at the guest room door, Regina took a steadying breath before slipping inside. She closed the door gently, leaning against it as if the wood could hold her together. She didn’t dare step further. Across the room, Emma lay on her back, one arm tucked behind her head—Regina assumed it was her usual sleeping pose.

“You’re beautiful, Emma,” Regina whispered into the quiet, in awe. “Even as Mr. Swan, I still see you. Radiant and shining. Your rockstar-blonde hair mussed around that slender alabaster neck… your lithe, beautiful body—toned and perfectly accented in all the right places.” She exhaled softly, almost laughing. “You’re so oblivious to the effect you have on people… on me, Miss Swan. You breeze through lives with nothing but charm, and people take notice. I noticed. Your Charming genes have so much to answer for.”

As if on cue, Emma shifted, yawning as she drifted into wakefulness. Her voice was heavy with sleep.

“Come to bed, my Queen,” she murmured, lifting the covers invitingly. “I know you’re exhausted.”

Regina moved quietly to the bed, melding herself into the space beside the Saviour as naturally as she had that morning. Emma’s arms wrapped around her slight frame, pulling her close. Together, they let out long, contented sighs.

“I could get used to this,” Regina whispered.

“Me too.”

Chapter Text

Emma climbed the sweeping staircase of the mansion, a breakfast tray teetering on one arm as she turned the guest room doorknob with her free hand. She’d been up since dawn—reluctantly peeling herself from the warm tangle of limbs and tousled brunette hair—to take her first run in days. Thank the stars for Ruby and her ex’s baggy sweats. The Mayor's dreaded shopping trip, much to Emma’s dismay, could be postponed no longer.

“Rise and shine, your Evilness,” Emma called, her voice far too chipper for such an ungodly hour.

Regina groaned in protest, stretching with deliberate languor. The mattress shifted beneath her as she dragged the sheet over her head, a mess of dark curls the only sign of life.

“Ten more minutes,” came the muffled groan.

Emma grinned. “Didn’t have you pegged for a snooze-button tyrant, Madame Mayor. I figured you for the ‘conquer the world before sunrise’ type.”

“Usually, Mr. Swan—”

Emma cut in with a theatrical groan. “Oh my god, that is so annoying. The whole ‘Mr. Swan’ thing? It grates my last nerve—and don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

Regina's voice floated out innocently. “Do I?”

“You do,” Emma shot back. “You just get off on driving me nuts.”

“Well, then. I suppose my ten minutes are forfeited?”

“Tragically, yes. But redemption arc incoming—there’s coffee,” Emma sing-songed, waving the cup dramatically beneath the fortress of covers, releasing the rich scent into the air. “Brewed exactly the way you like it.”

Regina sighed as her resolve gave way to the aroma. Slowly, she pushed the covers down to her waist and shuffled back against the headboard, smoothing her hair with a sleepy sort of grace.

“A single cup of coffee is hardly breakfast, dear.”

Emma raised a brow, smug. “Then it’s a good thing I brought reinforcements, Your Majesty.”

Emma set the tray gently in Regina’s lap. The brunette blinked at the decadent spread before her, surprise giving way to a quiet, awed wonder.

“You… made this?”

Emma scratched the back of her neck, suddenly sheepish. “Yeah. I mean—it’s nothing fancy. I just… thought maybe it’d be nice.”

Regina’s gaze softened. Her lips curved into something so tender, so disarming, it sent a jolt straight through Emma’s chest.

“There are pancakes. And waffles. Eggs Benedict—like, with the fancy hollandaise and everything. Super fruits: blueberries, strawberries, blackberries. Toast with actual preserves. Greek yoghurt. Juice. And, um… the pièce de résistance—your coffee.”

“Coffee,” Regina said dreamily, but her attention had shifted. “The lilacs?”

Emma followed her gaze to the delicate wildflowers nestled in a tiny white vase.

“This’ll probably sound silly,” she said, voice low as she shifted awkwardly. “I was running past the Toll Bridge, and the way the light hit them—these wildflowers—it just stopped me. Took my breath, like some kind of moment. And I thought… you’d see it too. I just wanted to make you smile.”

Regina was smiling—but tears had begun to slip silently down her cheeks.
Emma dropped to her knees beside the bed, cradling Regina’s hands.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—God, I’m such an idiot—”

“Ssh.” Regina placed a finger gently over Emma’s lips, her gaze luminous with warmth. “It’s not pathetic. It’s beautiful.”

Emma’s heart thundered. That smile—it was hers.

“This is… my first breakfast in bed.”

Emma said nothing, letting the moment breathe.

“As the Evil Queen, people brought me what I wanted because they feared me. In Storybrooke, it wasn’t much different. Except Henry… no one ever got close to The Evil Queen.”

“Close to Regina Mills,” Emma corrected softly.

Regina exhaled like she was finally letting something go.
“No one ever cared enough to do something so simple. To pick my favourite flowers. To make breakfast just to see me smile. Thank you, Emma.”

Emma squeezed her hand, then leaned forward to press a kiss to Regina’s forehead.
“You’re welcome.”

A loud rumble from Emma’s stomach shattered the moment.

Regina blinked, startled—then smiled. “Was that gratitude or a cry for help?”

Emma chuckled, sheepish. “Bit of both, maybe.”

Regina let out a soft laugh, wiping the last of her tears with the edge of the blanket. “Well,” she said, arching a brow, “I suppose the Queen should permit her knight to partake in the royal feast.”

Emma grinned, relieved by the levity. “Permission granted? Or am I supposed to grovel first?”

Regina tilted her head in faux consideration. “Hmm… grovelling has its charms.”

Emma narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“And you’re stalling.” Regina patted the edge of the tray. “Eat. That heroic stomach won’t quiet itself.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Emma picked up a slice of toast. “For the record, I didn’t poison anything.”

Regina smirked. “Pity. I do love a little danger with my breakfast.”

That soft intimacy lingered, laughter curling into the quiet like steam from a teacup—familiar, fragile, and utterly theirs.

SQ

Regina and Emma rested against the headboard, breakfast long devoured, the tray now an abandoned mess on the side dresser.

"Mr. Swan," Regina drawled, lips curled into a satisfied smirk, "that was quite the unorthodox way to start the morning. No less enjoyable than yesterday’s tickle war—which, I’ll remind you, I won."

Emma bumped her shoulder playfully. “Is that your roundabout way of admitting you had fun? And for the record, you didn’t win. The war was simply... postponed. To be continued—preferably soon.” She waggled her eyebrows with exaggerated flair.

“Oh really.” Regina’s brow arched. “Emma Swan.” Her voice dipped low, a whisper threaded with intent.

"Uh oh. Full name. This must be serious."

“It is.” Regina hesitated, then said, “I think it’s time we continue our... conversation.”

Emma blinked. “O-kay…”

“I’ll try to explain.”

“Should I be worried?”

Regina sighed, eyes dropping to their intertwined fingers before lifting again to meet Emma’s gaze.

“I don’t know how you’ll react once everything’s out in the open.”

Emma gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Together, remember? I just want honesty. Can we do that?”

Regina’s heart faltered. “Yes.”

“That’s my Queen.”

With a dramatic huff, Regina swatted Emma’s chest, but her smile gave her away.

“The vial and the incan—incan…”

“Spell dear” Regina muttered.

Emma winked. “What did I do?”

Regina groaned. “Explaining that is going to be... difficult. And, frankly, more than a little embarrassing.”

Three Nights Ago — Regina’s Vault

Descending into her father's crypt, Regina navigated the narrow stone steps toward her inner sanctum. The cool air pressed close, thick with centuries-old silence. She moved swiftly to the waist-high oak podium and uncorked a delicate glass vial that held a single brunette strand.

From her pocket, she withdrew a carefully folded white handkerchief. Peeling back its edges with reverent fingers, she revealed a single golden hair.

“This is preposterous,” she muttered. “What the imp suggests simply can’t be true. It has to be another one of his twisted games.”

But her hand trembled.

She stared at the golden strand, heart thudding in her ears, pulse roaring louder than reason. And with a breath she barely realized she was holding; Regina released the hair into the vial.

She gasped.

Inside the vial, the brunette and blonde strands twisted toward each other as if drawn by gravity. They spiralled, tangled—until they became inseparable, a single helix of fate. A soft red mist rose, pulsing gently, casting a warm glow over the glass.

“True love…” she whispered. “Impossible.”

Regina pressed a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thundered beneath her ribs, deafening. “Oh, Regina,” she chided herself. “Admit it. The first time you laid eyes on that infuriating, gorgeous blonde in that hideous red jacket… you knew.”

Suddenly restless, she moved through the vault with purpose, pulling tomes from shelves, scanning worn pages, searching for anything—anything—that might explain away what now glowed quietly before her. But the truth lingered, undeniable and defiant:

The Evil Queen and the Saviour had always been bound to one another—intricately, inevitably intertwined.

Love is weakness.

Or so she used to believe.

Regina didn’t look back. She fled the crypt, slipped into her Mercedes, and disappeared into the night.

Emma stared after her, stunned. “Wait—that was the night I followed you?”

Regina winced. “Leaving the vault… it led straight to our worst disaster. I didn’t know. I didn’t think…”

Silence swelled between them—dense, brittle.

Then Regina’s voice, low and trembling: “Say something. Please.”

Emma hesitated. “Did the potion make me feel this way? Are these feelings even real?”

Of all the questions Emma could’ve asked, this one knocked the breath clean from Regina’s chest.

She froze, her gaze snagged on Emma’s—bright, searching, painfully sincere. It was as if the floor had shifted beneath her, dropping her into some uncharted place where answers weren’t calculated or rehearsed. Just… raw.

Regina parted her lips, but no sound came. The silence filled in the cracks between them, heavy with possibility and dread.

That single question echoed louder than any declaration: Are my feelings real? Not Do you love me too? Not Will this last? But Is any of this mine to keep?

Her heart stuttered. She’d spent so long mastering control, building walls made of wit and smirks and the sharp edge of her tongue. But now, looking at Emma—disarmed and disarming—those defences felt like paper in a storm.

Finally, with a voice thinner than she'd like, she breathed, “You... have feelings for me?”

Her own words trembled, already fraying at the edges.

Emma blinked, startled by the tremble in Regina’s voice. Something about hearing it—soft, uncertain, vulnerable—stopped her from deflecting with the usual sarcasm.

She swallowed hard, her voice quieter now. “Yeah. I do.”

The air between them thickened.

“I mean…” She forced a breath, hands twisting in her lap. “At first, I thought it was just a side effect. A trick of magic. But it didn’t wear off. If anything, it got worse. Or… deeper.”

She glanced up, eyes searching Regina’s face, desperate to read her reaction.

“It’s not the potion. It's the way you've always looked at me when you think I’m not watching. It’s how we've always argued like hell and still you always make space for me. It’s how—” Her voice broke, just slightly. “It’s how I've always felt, and feel when I’m near you. Like maybe I can finally stop pretending I don’t want more.”

Emma gave a weak, crooked smile. “So yeah. I’ve got feelings. Real ones. Messy ones. For you.” She paused, as if teetering on a cliff edge. “And I don’t think a spell can fake that.”

“Emma,” Regina said, and this time her voice didn’t break. It deepened. Steadied. She looked—no, let herself look—at Emma, as if she’d stopped fighting something inside her. “What if I told you… I feel it too?”

The words had slipped out like breath on a mirror—fragile, revealing more than intended. But the second they left her lips; panic surged like a fault line cracking open beneath her ribs.

Because if she did feel it too—and God, she did—what then?

No plan. No contingency. No mask to fall back on. Just her, bare and blinking in the aftermath of a truth too large to take back.

Emma looked stunned. Soft. And something else Regina wasn’t ready to name.

She wanted to stay in that look.

But already, the edges of herself began curling inward. A reflex older than magic—older than mercy. This was the part where she got hurt. This was the moment it all got too real.

Her power flared at her fingertips, unbidden, like a shield summoned by fear rather than fury.

Run, some buried part of her hissed. Before she asks for more.

Emma reached for her, and her heart seized at the gesture. Gentle. Brave. Reckless.

“I’m sorry,” Regina thought, but didn’t say.

She vanished.

Because love was never her realm. Control was. And she’d just lost it.

The violet smoke hadn’t even cleared, and already Emma felt it—like the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Like her skin registered the space where Regina had been, a ghost of heat and heartbeat.

She let her arm fall slowly, fingers curling into a loose, helpless fist.

“Right,” she whispered, because saying anything louder might break her completely. “Of course you ran.”

She stood there, blinking hard, jaw clenched against the sting behind her eyes. Not just because Regina vanished. But how she did it—on the edge of something real, something Emma could feel stretching between them like a live wire.

“You almost said it.” Her voice cracked. “You almost let me believe it.”

But almost didn’t hold you at night. Almost didn’t stay.

She sank down onto the bed, heart doing that awful thing where it beat too hard and too hollow all at once. Her thumb brushed her wrist, where Regina had once touched her—quick, incidental, electric.

“She felt it.” The thought came unbidden, barely a breath.

She hadn’t imagined that.

And yet, here she was.

Left with magic smoke, a half-spoken truth, and a heart that wouldn’t shut up no matter how tightly she tried to pack it down.

SQ

Regina was still AWOL, and David’s text had felt less like a request and more like a summons. Now Emma stood at the apartment door—the place she used to call home—too uneasy to use her key.

Once, she would’ve strolled in, tossing out some casual remark for her parents. But everything had shifted. Fractured.

Calling this place home didn’t feel right anymore. Maybe it never had.

Home was Regina and Henry. The Mayoral Mansion. Not a cramped apartment where Henry had slept on a loft cot while his grandparents played at happy family.

She saw it clearly now—she’d made a terrible mistake.

David opened the door and stepped aside without a word.

“Where’s Henry?” Emma’s voice cut through the loft, low but urgent, her eyes already sweeping the space.

David shifted, thumb jerking vaguely toward the stairs.
Snow’s voice floated down before he could speak.

“David, who was at the doo—” She emerged from the hallway, towel in hand, and froze mid-step. The moment she registered Emma, the warmth drained from her face.

A beat of silence.

Then, with glacial detachment: “Oh. It’s you.”

She turned without another glance and walked into the kitchen, the dismissiveness louder than any accusation.

Emma offered David a brittle smile. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Nonsense,” Snow said, too brightly, as she filled the kettle without turning. “We need to talk. Tea?”

“I’m good.”

“Coffee?”

Emma’s voice sharpened. “Let’s just get this over with.”

That finally earned Snow’s gaze. She set the kettle down, turning with unnerving calm.

“Were you intimate with the Evil Queen?”

Emma froze. “How is that any of your fucking business? Seriously, Snow?”

Snow’s arms crossed like a shield. “She’s cursed you. Can’t you feel it?”

“She hasn’t cursed me,” Emma said, forcing a laugh. “Come on.”

Though maybe I never wanted the spell to break.

David shifted beside her, gaze dropping to the floor. “Emma, show some respect.”

“To someone who thinks love is a curse?”
Emma’s voice was low, but it cut like glass.

“Love? I’m your mother,” Snow snapped, arms crossed like a shield. “And I know you. This—this isn’t who you are. She’s twisted everything—your judgment, your sense of self.”

Emma didn’t flinch. Her reply was quiet, steady.
“No. This is who I am.”

David gave her a weary look, something like regret flickering behind his eyes. “You’ve made some… difficult choices. About Henry. About Regina.”

Emma’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm. “My only mistake was taking Henry from the woman who raised him. I did it because I was scared—scared I’d disappoint you. But I’m not scared anymore. I want to bring him home. To Regina. She loves him. That’s where he belongs.”

David looked away, the silence stretching like a fault line. Snow didn’t flinch.

“Don’t be absurd,” she said, voice like frost. “That woman doesn’t understand love. The curse is clouding your mind. The real you—the Saviour—would never give Henry to her. He’s a Charming. He stays here.”

Emma’s breath caught, fury and heartbreak colliding in her chest. “Do you even hear yourself?” she snapped. “Regina isn’t the Evil Queen anymore. And Henry’s not some prize to be claimed. He’s a Swan-Mills. And I’m taking him home.”

Snow’s voice sliced through the room. “This is your home, Emma. Not… not with that woman. She’s using you. Twisting you. I won’t let her tear this family apart.”

Emma’s breath stuttered. Rage bloomed, but this time it wasn't neat or containable—it clawed up her throat, sharp and messy.

“Just listen—”

“I am listening,” Snow spat. “To a daughter who sounds like a stranger. If you won’t stay and let us help you see sense, then you can say goodbye to Henry. He needs consistency. Safety. Not some—”

“Don’t.” Emma’s voice cracked like glass underfoot. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

Snow hesitated. But Emma was already shaking, eyes wet, voice rising, unravelling thread by trembling thread.

“You think this is about her? About Regina?” She laughed, brittle and breathless. “This isn’t some phase or spell or whatever fairytale garbage you’ve decided explains me! I chose her. I chose her—and that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

Snow flinched. “You don’t mean that.”

Emma’s hands curled into fists. “I mean every word. Because she saw me when you didn’t. Because for once, I wasn’t an afterthought in someone else’s prophecy.”

“Emma—”

“No,” she choked. “You don’t get to say my name like it still means daughter.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was scorched earth.

“Say it,” Emma snapped, voice catching on something too jagged to swallow. “Come on. Don’t just glare at me—say what you’re really thinking.”

Snow didn’t flinch. She studied her daughter like something beneath glass—familiar, fractured, a disappointment in a crown. Then her lips curved into something not quite a smile.

“You’re not a stray anymore, Emma,” she said, crisp as frost. “You’re royalty. And not Regina’s little... Enrique Iglesias indulgence.”

The words hit like a slap. Emma’s breath stuttered. “Jesus. You really think this is about Regina seducing me into the dark side? You think I’m her seedy little project?”

Snow just looked at her. Regal. Implacable.

“You’re being reckless. You’re letting emotion cloud your judgment—again. And I won’t let Henry pay the price for that.”

Emma laughed, sharp and humourless, but the sound cracked midway. “Oh, that’s rich. You wanna talk about who’s reckless? You’re ready to rip his life apart because he doesn’t fit into your cursed fairy-tale version of ‘family.’”

“He’s a child,” Snow said coolly. “He needs structure. Protection.”

“He needs me.” Emma’s voice trembled now, rage thinning into panic. “He needs Regina. We are his mothers. He knows that. He feels that.”

“There are ways,” Snow said coolly, each word deliberate. “Blue has magic. Potions. I doubt she would defy her Queen.” Her smile was soft, almost pitying. “As Henry’s grandmother, I seem to be the only one truly concerned for his well-being. His mother’s preoccupation with… indulgence over responsibility is, frankly, disturbing.”

Emma’s body stilled. Then—

“You have the fucking audacity to call Regina the Evil Queen?” Her voice trembled—not with uncertainty, but with restraint cracking at the edges. “You should teach a damn masterclass. Regina could take notes.”

Snow’s expression didn’t flinch. David looked like he wanted to disappear.

Emma turned to him, eyes like flame. “And you? You agree with this?”

David opened his mouth, but only a breath came out. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at anyone.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You do. You both do.”

Something inside her buckled.

“I gave you every piece of myself—trusted you with him. And now you stand there, smug and righteous, ready to erase me and call it salvation.”

“No one is erasing you,” David said, too soft, too late.

Emma stepped back. “No. You want Henry to forget that Regina and I exist. You want to hollow him out and call him safe.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was monstrous.

Snow stepped forward, voice soft but edged like a blade. “I am still the Queen. I made peace with what must be done a long time ago. You’ll have to do the same.”

Emma turned to David, desperate. “Please. Tell her she’s wrong. Tell her we’re not doing this.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Snow’s hand found his, fingers laced tight.

“He trusts me,” Snow said. “So should you.”

Then, from above:

“Grandma? Grandpa?”

Emma’s heart seized. She turned. Henry stood at the top of the stairs, hair askew, small shoulders wrapped in sleep and confusion.

“Who’s yelling?”

Emma tried to go to him—but Snow moved faster. She placed herself between them and opened the door.

“Emma was just leaving.”

And that’s when Emma broke. She stared at her son—hers—and something inside her fractured so quietly it barely made a sound. Just a breath. Just a word.

“Yeah, kid,” she said. “I was just leaving.”

Chapter Text

Emma wasn’t angry—anger was clean, directional. This was something filthier. She was hollowed out, nerves exposed like stripped wiring, sparks flying every time someone called her Saviour like it was a benediction instead of a curse. The word scraped along her spine, a title she never claimed, pressed into her skin by people who loved the idea of her more than they ever saw her.

She’d been mythologized, sanctified, burned at the altar of other people’s hope. Her parents had handed her a prophecy instead of a childhood. Her son had believed in her so fiercely it became a demand. And the town—God, the town—had knelt at her feet and waited for miracles, blind to the toll it took when she bled herself dry to meet their hunger.

Emma had smiled through it. Tight-lipped, bone-weary, spinning herself into the shape they needed. Until now. Now there was nothing left to shape. Just the ache in her chest and the creeping horror that maybe she’d been erased somewhere along the way—lost inside the legend they wrapped her in like funeral cloth.

Her fists hung useless at her sides, nails carving crescent moons into her palms—though she couldn’t feel them, not really. She was numb in the way people get right before something ruptures. Behind Granny’s, she doubled over like she’d taken a punch, whole body hitching around the aftermath. It wasn’t sickness. It was her ribs rebelling against containment, trying to splinter wide enough to let the fury out.

Nothing came. Just dry heaves and hollow gasps, like her body was choking on grief it had no vocabulary for. A thread of spit dangled from her lips, trembling with each ragged breath until she scrubbed it away, furious at its audacity. Her hand shook. She didn’t care. She whispered curses under her breath—not to anyone, not even herself—just shapeless expletives looping like a broken lullaby, the only rhythm she could cling to in a world that kept spinning as if she hadn’t just come undone.

She drifted through Storybrooke like smoke—formless, unnoticed. The sidewalks blurred beneath her, each step more muscle memory than intent. Dusk had surrendered to night somewhere behind her, but she hadn’t felt the shift—not until the cold slid under her clothes like regret. It wasn’t weather, not really. It was judgment. And she accepted it. Silent. Bare. Punishment worn like a second skin.

Eventually her legs gave out—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of holding herself together. She sank without drama, gravity tugging her down beside the crooked skeleton of Henry’s old fort. The grass was damp, pressing cool against her knees, the scent of earth thick in her throat. She folded into herself instinctively, arms wrapped tight, chin tucked low—as if curling small enough might make her vanish.

The fort loomed behind her, its wood splintered and grey with age, slats biting into her back. It had once echoed with laughter and whispered secrets; a sanctuary built from boyish dreams. Now it stood hollow. Forgotten. Just like her.

No tears came. Her eyes burned, dry and stubborn. But inside, her chest felt cleaved open—heart pounding in uneven bursts, breaths clipped and wrong, thoughts skittering across broken ground like glass underfoot. Every inhale was a negotiation. Every exhale, a surrender.

Her rage had drained out slowly, not in fire but in tremors—through fingertips gone cold and fists no longer clenched. What remained was worse: certainty. Not the cinematic kind, no grand epiphany or tragic nobility. Just a quiet, familiar verdict—she was a failure. Not broken in a poetic way. Just... disappointing. The girl who always ran. The woman still running, even when her feet hadn’t moved.

The yellow Bug waited a few blocks away, hood slick with dew, keys still warm in her coat pocket like a promise she didn’t want to keep. She could vanish. Tonight. No goodbyes. Just the hum of tires on asphalt and the old ache of escape.

She even shifted her weight forward, one foot pressing into the earth as if her body might make the choice before her heart had to. But then—

Henry.

Not just a name. A gravity. A boy with too much of her smile and too much of Regina’s spine. And her—that maddening contradiction of elegance and edge, of hands that could both wound and cradle. Neither of them asked her to stay. Not in words. But their presence haunted her like a question left hanging in an open doorframe.

She didn’t move.

Hope—the smallest, cruellest fragment of it—had anchored itself in her chest. That maybe someone saw her. Not the Saviour. Not the symbol. Just Emma.

And maybe that was the most dangerous hope of all.

SQ

The rain stitched meandering trails down the tall panes of the study window, each drop a slow heartbeat against the glass. Outside, the world blurred—grey, dripping, indifferent. Inside, silence pressed in like a held breath long overdue. Regina sat unmoving, spine rigid against the wingback chair, her fingers locked too tightly around a half-drunk tumbler of cider. The amber liquid quivered with every tremor she denied having.

Her other hand dug into the armrest, nails biting through satin polish to press crescents into velvet. Her jaw throbbed; she’d been clenching it for hours without noticing. The hearth behind her crackled low, offering warmth, but she remained untouched by it.

The worry had long since stopped knocking and had started scratching. And now it was howling.

Where the hell are you?
The question had lodged in Regina’s chest hours ago, a jagged rhythm syncing with her pulse. It wasn’t a whisper. It was an ache, pulsing behind her ribs, swelling each time the silence stretched a little further. Emma’s absence wasn’t just distance—it was deliberate. And it stung with the intimacy of consequence.

You wanted honesty. I gave you mine—unfiltered, unpractised. I let it spill out all at once because I couldn't hold it anymore. Not the words I love you, but I feel it too. There. Brutal. Undeniable. And then I watched your eyes go wide, your face fold inwards like something precious collapsing.

And I ran. Because I was terrified. Because I’ve always equated love with loss, and I didn’t know how to stay inside something that might break me. But maybe I already did. Maybe I broke us the moment I left you in that moment alone.

She hadn’t meant to hide in the vault, but when fear gripped her, her instinct was always retreat. It had taken her less than an hour to pull herself back together and return, ready to apologize, to beg if necessary. But Emma had been gone. The house emptied of her presence, the keys to the Bug missing, her phone cold and unreachable.

Now it had been nearly twelve hours. Calls unanswered. Messages unread. And that damn intuition in her bones, the one that had survived curses and deaths and darkness, was screaming.

Regina stood with a jolt, cider sloshing over her wrist. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered across the hardwood like gunfire. She didn’t flinch.

“Emma,” she breathed—hoarse, hollow—and vanished in a pulse of violet light.

She didn’t think. Just followed the pull beneath her sternum. The one that knew Emma like a second heartbeat.

She reappeared on the edge of town, damp leaves crackling underfoot. And there—there—curled beneath Henry’s old fort like discarded clothing, was Emma. Soaked through, lips pale, body trembling in erratic pulses. Mouth parted in unconscious surrender.

Regina dropped to her knees. “No, no, no—”

Emma shifted, groaning weakly as she listed toward her. Regina caught her before she hit the ground, pulling her close with shaking arms.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “Just—just hold on for me.”

Emma’s skin was icy, the kind of cold that crept inward. Regina cupped her face. “You’re okay. We’re going. Right now.”

Another flicker of magic, and the wind-stung beachfront gave way to the plush warmth of Regina’s bedroom. She didn’t hesitate. Clothes were peeled away with clinical precision—though her fingers trembled, though her throat locked when Emma whispered her name like a prayer barely remembered.

“I’m here,” she murmured, brushing matted strands from Emma’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, darling.”

Emma blinked at her, unfocused. Her voice cracked when it came.

“Don’t... don’t leave me.”

That was the sound that broke her. Not the cold. Not the silence. That.

Regina didn’t think. She just moved. The bed dipped as she climbed in, bare skin meeting bare skin, and she folded herself around Emma like she could hold her together by force of will alone. Arms, legs, breath—all offered without condition.

Emma didn’t flinch. She melted in, spine to chest, like this was the shape she'd always belonged to.

Regina tucked her closer, pressing their bodies into one seam of warmth, her heart thudding steady against Emma’s shoulder as if it could carry the rhythm for both of them.

Clothes forgotten, consequence irrelevant, Regina let the hush swallow them. Only touch mattered now—her hand sifting through pale hair, over and over, tender and terrified. If she stopped, Emma might dissolve. If she let go, she might wake up alone.

Emma trembled once. Regina held tighter. Not possession—protection. Not forgiveness—something just to the left of it.

And in the silence, thick as dusk, only one thing was clear: neither of them was pretending.

She almost died out there. That truth sat quiet and cruel in Regina’s throat.

How long had she wanted this? Not this moment exactly—she would never have imagined anything so raw—but this closeness. This permission. To be the one Emma turned to. Leaned on. Fell apart with. If things had gone a little differently—if Regina hadn’t fled—maybe this would’ve been soft. Chosen. Lit with candles instead of fear.

Emma shifted slightly, her nose brushing the hollow of Regina’s throat. Her breath ghosted against skin, and then—barely audible, as if it had slipped out before it could be swallowed—

“…didn’t think you’d come.”

Regina’s hand froze mid-stroke. Her chest tightened. She turned her face into Emma’s hair and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for days.

“I’ll always come,” she whispered into the dark. “Even if you don’t want me to. Especially then.”

Emma didn’t respond, but her fingers flexed against Regina’s side, pulling her just that little bit closer. Regina let her thoughts quiet. For once, silence didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like staying.

SQ

Regina's arms snaked around Emma's neck, her fingertips gently stroking the short blonde hairs at the nape, exploring each other's mouths with a sense of wonder and desperation. Emma's hands roamed Regina's back, memorizing every curve, every muscle. She could feel Regina's heartbeat, steady and strong, against her own chest.

"You're trembling," Regina whispered, her voice catching on the edges of concern. She didn’t mean to look so long, but Emma’s gaze—green, steady, and startlingly quiet—held her fast.

The air between them crackled with something unspoken. Emma's breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, she looked away—ashamed, maybe, or just too exposed.

"I'm not," she lied, barely above a breath, but her hands betrayed her—clenched, trembling, desperate to stay still.

Regina's gaze didn’t waver. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of everything they hadn’t said. Thick with longing, fear, and the unbearable weight of maybe.

Emma was captivated by the warm brown orbs staring back at her. She traced gentle fingertips along Regina’s collarbone, a featherlight motion that spoke more than words could reach. Her hand paused there, not for hesitation, but reverence—as if touching her meant crossing into something sacred.

Regina didn’t breathe, not properly. The tension in her jaw softened, but her eyes never left Emma’s, wide and unguarded.

“You always do that,” she murmured.

Emma tilted her head slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind Regina’s ear. “Do what?”

“Get close enough to undo me. Then pretend you haven’t.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not suffocating—ripe with the ache of recognition. Emma’s thumb skimmed the curve of Regina’s neck, no deeper motive than anchoring herself to the moment.

“I’m not pretending,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.”

"I thought I'd lost you," Regina breathed, her voice a whisper

Emma's hands roamed Regina's body, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, as if memorizing every inch of her. Regina's skin was hot and flushed, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that matched the rhythm of their movements. She wrapped her legs around Emma.

"Emma," she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire. "Don't stop."

Emma tilted her head, capturing Regina’s mouth in a kiss that was all hunger and history. Her tongue swept in, deliberate and claiming. Regina answered with a growl low in her throat, fingers digging into Emma’s back, nails carving promises into skin—marks that would echo long after the night gave way to morning.

The room filled with the sound of their passion, soft moans and gasps that escaped their lips. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them, lost in their own private universe, bound together by the intensity of their desire.

Emma revered Regina carefully, as if each touch might shatter the fragile truth blooming between them. Perspiration clung to their skin, glinting in the low light, their mouths brushing—then deepening—like they’d forgotten the world had ever known silence.

She didn’t rush. Each movement felt like a choice, a promise spelled out in the drag of breath and the tremble of limbs. Their bodies didn’t just move together—they listened, attuned to the unspoken ache that had haunted every stolen glance, every almost.

Emma guided them, not hurriedly—not like fire, more like gravity, patient and inevitable. Their lips met again, slower now, with the reverence of something rediscovered. Regina’s hand slid into Emma’s hair, fingertips threading through damp strands—trembling, just slightly, like her body hadn’t caught up with her heart. She anchored herself there, in the now, as if afraid this would vanish if she let go.

And through it all: the soft, jagged music of shared breath. No need for words. Just the press of skin and the sudden, unbearable knowledge that this—finally, this—was what it meant to be seen.

In the quiet after, they lay tangled, skin sticky with sweat, heartbeats trying to find their rhythm again. The air between them shimmered—not from heat, but from the unspoken.

Emma traced lazy circles along Regina’s spine, her fingers trembling like they hadn’t caught up to her courage yet. Regina's breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Their foreheads rested together, the world shrinking to the space between shared breaths.

And then—barely louder than the hush around them—Emma whispered, “I love you.”

A pause. Not shock, not fear—just a long, aching stillness, like the earth holding its breath.

Regina blinked once. Then again. Her hand rose to cup Emma’s cheek, and when she spoke, her voice was cracked porcelain.

“You’re not the only one.”

The smile that followed wasn’t wide. It was soft, a little broken, full of wonder. Like something delicate had been placed between them, and this time—they weren’t going to let it fall.

SQ

Emma woke in the familiar sprawl—flat on her back, one arm tucked behind her head. But the absence was immediate. The warmth that usually draped across her torso was gone, replaced by the chill of empty sheets and the hollow quiet that came with it.

The memories returned in quick succession: Regina’s disappearance. The fight with her parents. The impulse to run, and the guilt-laced decision to remain. She dragged her palms down her face with a groan, fingertips trailing the weariness etched into her skin.

Stretching, Emma realized she ached in places she hadn’t even known existed. Every muscle felt wrung out, tender in a way that spoke not just of physicality, but of something deeper—like she'd been cracked open and stitched back together with silk and fire.

She didn’t know what time it was. The room was hushed, wrapped in the kind of still dark that made clocks feel irrelevant. She blinked blearily at the ceiling, then turned her head toward the window. Nothing but the ink-black sky.

She ducked into the en suite, wrapped a towel low around her waist—binding the ache of want as best she could—and stepped out, intent on finding her missing queen.

Halfway down the stairs, she stopped cold.

A soft amber glow spilled from beneath the study door, gilding the hallway in quiet gold. Muffled voices murmured beyond the threshold, indistinct but unmistakable. Emma tilted her head, heart already quickening. Her body coiled with tension as she moved closer, barefoot and silent as shadow on the steps.

Regina cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear, her voice taut with the brittle edge of fatigue. “Yes, Dr. Whale, I’m well aware of the hour… I should have insisted, I know. But she’s—” A pause. Her jaw tightened, words folding inward. “You know how impossibly stubborn she can be.”

A silence bloomed on the other end of the line, and Regina’s fingers drummed an anxious rhythm against the desk.

“I just need to be certain I did everything by protocol.” Her voice softened, veering into something near confession. “Yes, I realize it was… unorthodox.”

Another pause. A barely audible breath of relief. “Thank you. Goodnight.”

She ended the call with a click that echoed too sharply in the quiet, then reached for the decanter on the sideboard. The amber liquid caught the firelight as it spilled into crystal, and for a moment she simply stood there—glass in hand, spine straight, heart unsteady.

When she finally turned toward the study, Emma was there already. Silent. Watching. Her presence so still it was as if she’d been carved from the quiet.

Regina didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But her fingers curled just slightly tighter around the tumbler

The sight hit Emma like a wave crashing over stone. Regina stood with casual elegance, one hip resting against the edge of the mahogany desk, the soft white of her shirt draping open just enough to invite speculation. It hung off one shoulder, loose and intimate in a way that felt almost accidental—except Emma knew better. Beneath, delicate lace clung to curves once etched into her memory, a cruel echo of something not yet forgotten.

Her gaze dragged lower—bare legs catching the firelight, warm and golden and entirely too real. The room swam slightly. Emma’s breath hitched, caught between reflex and restraint, her pulse stumbling through the moment like it had no roadmap.

Regina didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her eyes met Emma’s with quiet certainty, as though she’d known she’d be seen like this—wanted it, maybe. Or maybe she was just tired of hiding behind closed doors and cautious boundaries.

Emma stood motionless, every instinct firing—fight, flight, or fall. Her fingers curled against her thigh, aching to reach, to touch, to ask what this was, now. But instead, she let the silence thicken, let it hum around them like a secret neither of them was brave enough to speak.

“Emma,” Regina breathed, stepping forward without hesitation, like her body had been waiting for permission to move. She set the tumbler down with a soft click that still managed to feel final, then reached for Emma’s forehead—her fingers cool, deliberate, trembling only slightly.

Her eyes flicked across Emma’s face, cataloguing every fracture, every shadow. The panic was barely disguised, but Regina wore it the way she wore everything else—controlled, curated. Almost.

“I’m fine,” Emma breathed, fingers curling around Regina’s wrist—like she wasn’t sure if she needed grounding or if she was offering it. The contact steadied her, but it scorched too. “Just the kind of sore you get from diving in headfirst and loving like it won’t hurt.”

Regina stilled.

For a heartbeat, she let herself drift into the warmth of Emma’s presence, into the impossible hush between breaths. Then she tore herself away, abrupt, like the tenderness might crack her wide open.

“You left,” she said, sharper than intended. “I came back, and you were gone. Again.”

Emma’s breath caught. “You ran first.”

“I came back.”

“So, did I. I’m here.”

“Half-dead.” Regina’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and trembling. “Did you even stop to think what it would’ve done to us if you hadn’t come back?” Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She took a breath, but it didn’t steady her. “Henry. And me?” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Did you think about me?”

Emma flinched. Not because she hadn’t expected it—because she had. Because she'd earned every word.

“I didn’t think,” she admitted, voice scraped down to bone. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry.”

Regina didn’t shout it. She didn’t spit it. She just said it, soft and small and damning.

Then she said nothing.

And the nothing was louder.

She stepped back—not physically, not yet—but something behind her eyes pulled away like curtains slamming shut. The distance spilled into the room.

Emma had no idea what to do with the quiet. She could handle anger. But not this.

“You dive into danger like it owes you something,” Regina said, voice low and laced with steel. “Like pain is proof. Like bleeding makes you feel alive.”

“I’m the Saviour.” Emma’s voice wavered, but her chin stayed high.

Regina stepped closer. “And I’m the one who has to watch it happen. Over and over. You set yourself on fire just to prove the flames don’t scare you—but they scare me.”

Emma flinched. “Don’t.”

“You need to hear this—”

“No,” Emma snapped, eyes flashing. “You sound exactly like Snow.

Regina froze. No flinch. No scowl. Just a breath of a laugh—low, parched, void of humour.
“How dare you compare me to that—simpleton,” she bit out. But her voice trembled ever so slightly

Emma didn’t miss it. She just leaned in, sarcasm sharp and strained. “‘You need to hear this…I will not allow it; do you hear me? I will not allow it.’” Her imitation dripped with mockery, but her eyes didn’t play along.

Then, more quietly, “What is that—Controlling Behaviour for dummies? Do they teach that between fencing and etiquette in Royal Repression School?”

Regina’s mouth twitched, the beginning of a reply catching somewhere in her throat.
She raised a brow instead, masking her flinch behind practiced frost. “Naturally. Right after ‘How to Lose a War with Poise.’ Want my notes?”

It hung there—sarcasm fencing with sarcasm, but the sting wasn’t in the barbs. It was in the silences between them. The way Emma’s eyes had gone glassy. The way Regina looked away first.

Regina’s mouth tugged into something brittle—half smirk, half shield. “Right. I majored in obedience. Graduated with honours.” A beat. “Want a copy of the syllabus, Princess?”

It should’ve earned a laugh. Even just a twitch at the corner of Emma’s mouth.
It didn’t. She exhaled, slow and hollow

Regina blinked. The veneer cracked, just slightly. “You ran… because of us?”

Emma stepped in without thinking. Her hands found Regina’s shoulders like they’d always belonged there. “No.”

A breath. A silence that throbbed.

“…Then why?”

Emma rolled her eyes—too quick, too sharp. “Snow decided I don’t get to be a grown woman anymore. Apparently being the Saviour wasn’t enough. Now I’m downgraded to…” Her laugh was tight, joyless. “The Evil Queen’s Enrique Iglesias boytoy”

Regina blinked. “I don’t understand that reference.”

“I can be your hero, baby,” Emma muttered, half-singing, then cringed. “God. Never mind.”

Regina’s gaze darkened, her jaw tightening like she was biting back something lethal. She took a deliberate step closer to Emma, her voice soft but scorching.

“So that’s what she calls it. This.” Her hand lifted, gesturing—faintly, reverently—between them. “Some ridiculous fantasy. Like you’re a trophy I stole just to prove I could.”

She shook her head, bitter and incredulous.

“You’ve never been anyone’s accessory, Emma. And if Snow can’t grasp the difference between control and love, that’s not your burden to carry.”

Then, quieter—just for her:

“You are not small. And you do not belong to her.”

Emma barely breathed.

Regina’s words hung there—sharp, reverent, devastating—and something in Emma’s shoulders buckled, just for a second. Like the scaffolding she’d been clinging to gave out, and what was left was raw, blinking truth.

She looked away first.

“I know she’s scared,” Emma murmured, fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve. “Scared I’ll turn into someone she can’t fix. Someone who doesn’t need her to rescue me from bad choices, or broken love, or… you.”

The last word cracked—too honest, too tender to be thrown like a weapon.

Regina didn’t speak. Just waited, her stillness speaking louder than any comfort.

Emma’s laugh, when it came, was quiet and threadbare.

“I think I scared myself, too. Because it’s easy, right? Being the Saviour. You fix things. You save people. But this? Choosing something messy and real and terrifying, and still saying yes?”

She finally met Regina’s eyes. There was something defiant in it—threaded with need.

“I don’t regret you. Not even for a second. But God, sometimes I wish it were easier to explain why.”

And maybe that was the cruellest part—how love could burn brighter than any prophecy, but still leave them standing in its ashes, trying to prove it was worth the fire.

Regina stepped closer. Her fingers grazed Emma’s cheek—slow, searching, unbearably gentle. “Are you?” she asked, barely a whisper. “Mine?”

Emma didn’t answer—not right away. Her breath caught, a silent quake beneath her ribs, and for a heartbeat she just looked at Regina. Really looked.

Then, with the gentlest reverence, she leaned in. Pressed her lips to Regina’s like she’d been waiting a lifetime to remember how.

When she finally pulled back, foreheads brushing, her voice was barely a breath:

“Yeah. I think I always was.”

Regina’s laugh cracked down the middle. She pressed her palm lightly to Emma’s chest. “Well, I’d say you’re far more Hemsworth than Iglesias.”

And Emma—finally—smiled. A real one, soft and reluctant, like something half-buried had just been coaxed to the surface. “You’re such an ass.”

“But I make you laugh,” Regina murmured, smug and aching.

“You do,” Emma said quietly. “God help me, you really do.”

And when she kissed her—just a press of lips, soft and tentative—it was a thank you, a prayer.

Emma’s breath caught. Her hands cradled Regina’s face, anchoring there as she pressed her brow against hers. “There’s more,” she whispered. “Please… just hear me before you react.”

“My reactions are perfectly proportionate,” Regina replied, brittle. “But fine. Say it.”

“If I don’t return home…” Emma swallowed the word. “Snow says she’ll keep Henry.”

Silence, sharp and immediate.

“No,” Regina said, voice tight. “She wouldn’t.”

“She’s desperate. She’s scared. She thinks you’ve cursed me, and that keeping me away will… fix me.”

Regina stepped back.

“What else?” she asked. “You’re holding something back—tell me”

“She said—” Emma’s throat closed. “She said Blue has a potion. One that would make Henry of us.”

Regina staggered back like she’d been punched. Her hand found the edge of the desk. “This is why you didn’t come home. You were going to go back. To protect him. To leave me.”

Emma dropped to her knees in front of her, hands grasping for hers. “But I didn’t. Regina, look at me. Please.”

Regina wouldn’t.

“I’m here. I chose to be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still nothing.

Emma pressed Regina’s hand to her chest. “We’ll deal with Snow together. We’ll fight this. All of it. Just—don’t shut me out.”

Finally, Regina looked at her. Wet lashes. A face trying not to shatter.

“I’d like to be alone.”

Emma froze. The words, so simple, stripped the breath from her. She nodded once, numb, and rose slowly.

As she stepped away, Regina whispered, so quiet it might’ve only existed in the space between heartbeats:

“I remember everything.”

SQ

She doesn’t breathe, not really. Just holds air in her lungs like a secret she hasn’t decided to keep. The room around her exists, technically—walls, shadows, the shape of Emma moving away—but it’s blurred now, a smear of light and ache.

Her body registers the trembling edge of something, but her mind—her mind is miles back, frozen in the moment Emma said, “they’ll take him.” Not even the potion. Just that. The audacity. The cruelty. The gall of pretending it’s protection.

She clenches her jaw, not to bite back words—there’s nothing left to say—but to hold in the sound she’s afraid might come out. A cry, maybe. Or laughter that breaks like glass.

Her hand tingles where Emma had pressed it to her chest, like warmth imprinted itself into her skin. “I chose to be here,” she’d said. And Regina believes her. That’s the problem.

Her gaze falls to where Emma had been kneeling. The absence looks loud.

And slowly, very slowly, she sinks into the chair behind her desk—like her bones aren’t entirely sure they’re hers anymore. She doesn’t cry. Not yet. But her fingertips graze her lips like she’s trying to remember the kiss, trying to decide if it was real.

Because if it was—if this is—then silence isn’t stillness. It’s the inhale before something finally, finally breaks

SQ

Her fists clenched and unclenched, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t reaching. She hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears were there anyway—just heat gathering at the corners of her eyes, refusing to fall.

She stared down the hall. The walls were too quiet. Too clean. Like they hadn’t just held a war. Like they didn’t know what it meant for a woman to say, “I remember everything.”

She pressed her palm to her chest—Regina’s hand had been there, not even ten minutes ago—and now it was just her own heartbeat, too loud and too fast.

She thought about walking away. Really thought about it.

Then she slid to the floor.

Legs folded beneath her. Back to the wall. Like she was keeping vigil, or punishing herself for believing love might be enough. She pressed her temple to the door, eyes shut tight.

And whispered, even though no one could hear:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

SQ

Emma reclined on the sun lounger, a quilt wrapped tightly around her as she watched the sky ripen—deep night softening into hues of gold and orange.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and Regina startled her from the quiet. Without a word, Emma opened the quilt. The brunette climbed inside, settling side-saddle across the Saviour’s lap, her head resting against Emma’s chest, where the beat of her heart thudded steady beneath.

Emma drew the quilt back around them, tucking Regina in like something sacred. They said nothing for a while, just breathed together, wrapped in morning’s hush.

Regina’s eyes drifted shut.

"You ran."

"You poofed."

"I came home."

They said it in unison. And it felt like truth.

Their lips met once more, not out of habit but need—seeking affirmation, stoking the ache that had long since stopped asking permission. It wasn’t frantic. It was fierce. Intent. The kind of kiss that rewrote truths and lit the corners of forgotten rooms. Regina’s hand slid up the back of Emma’s neck, grounding them both, as if to say: this is real.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, but inevitable. Emma’s breath caught in her throat, that familiar ache curling low in her belly as Regina’s fingers found the curve of her jaw. She wasn’t sure if the heat blooming beneath her skin was need or gratitude or the fragile relief of home—maybe all of it, all tangled up in the way Regina kissed like she was still learning the shape of her name.

Breaking their kiss, Regina straddled Emma with deliberate grace, knees framing her hips, the quilt falling askew in their wake. Emma’s breath hitched—the weight of her, the warmth, the presence—it was grounding and electric all at once.

Regina’s fingertips dragged down the sides of Emma’s throat, mapping the line of her pulse, before settling against her collarbones. Her nails grazed lightly—barely there—but it made Emma shiver like the touch had been seared.

Emma’s hands slid up Regina’s thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing along soft skin beneath sleep-warmed fabric. There was no urgency in the way they moved—just a kind of awe, like they were teaching each other in the language of quiet devotion.

Regina leaned in again, lips brushing the edge of Emma’s jaw. “Still here,” she murmured, and her breath was velvet heat against Emma’s skin.

Emma let her head fall back, a low exhale spilling from her lips, her hands tightening at Regina’s hips. “Don’t vanish on me,” she whispered.

And Regina—steady, breathless—pressed their foreheads together and said, “I don’t know how to, anymore.”

Emma’s hand moved with aching care, her palm grazing the curve of Regina’s thigh, fingers trailing upward like a question she wasn’t sure she was allowed to ask. Her breath stuttered when she reached the delicate fabric—lace soft beneath her touch, but barely a barrier between want and wonder.

She gently eased the material aside, and for a moment—just a moment—she didn’t move. She simply looked. Not out of hesitation, but awe. Reverence. The kind that comes when you finally reach something you’d only ever dreamed of holding.

Regina’s eyes fluttered closed, lips parted, but she didn’t speak. She just tipped her forehead forward to rest against Emma’s, grounding them both in the hush between heartbeats.

When Emma finally moved, it was slow, certain, her touch speaking every promise her voice wasn’t ready to say out loud. That she was here. That she’d stay. That this—they—were not something to be feared anymore.

Regina’s breath hitched when Emma slipped beneath the lace, touch light as silk, reverent as prayer. She didn’t move—not away, not forward—just breathed, steady and shallow, as if grounding herself in the ache of being wanted.

Emma moved with aching patience, mapping where devotion met desire. She wasn’t rushing. She was listening. To the rhythm of Regina’s breath, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin, the flutter just beneath her ribs.

Their foreheads stayed pressed together, eyes closed, mouths parted but not speaking. The silence held everything—grief and gratitude, fear and wonder, the unspoken vow of I’m still here.

Regina’s hips tilted, a breath escaping that sounded like surrender, and Emma’s hand steadied at her back, holding her through it. The quilt around them had slipped, the morning air brushing skin damp with heat—but neither noticed. Not really.

They weren’t chasing something. They were remembering it. Relearning the shape of each other like a story they’d almost forgotten how to tell.

Chapter Text

Regina moved through the kitchen like a shadow—silent, deliberate, unmistakably close. Emma didn’t notice her until a sudden, playful pinch at her side made her flinch. She turned, caught off guard, only to find Regina standing smugly within reach, her eyes glittering with mischief.

“Still so jumpy,” Regina murmured, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of Emma’s T-shirt before retreating.

Emma’s breath hitched, not from surprise this time, but from how easily Regina could unsettle her in the quietest of moments. She folded her arms, trying—and failing—to look unbothered. “You’re lucky I didn’t have coffee in my hand.”

Regina smirked. “I like living dangerously.”

"Leaving my bed without permission?" Regina's voice dripped molasses-sweet, each word deliberate. She reclined against the counter with unhurried grace, eyes trailing Emma like a velvet touch. That slow, dangerous smile curled at her lips—possessive, amused, and far too aware of its effect

Emma didn’t move. She couldn’t. Every nerve was tuned to Regina as she stepped between shafts of early light and shadow, silk-shirted and languid. With feline grace, Regina lifted herself onto the counter, the crisp hem of her button-down sliding up to reveal the elegant line of her thigh—bronzed, effortless, and entirely by design. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her gaze alone pinned Emma in place: a wordless pull.

Regina’s fingers slipped beneath the delicate fabric of her panties, slow and certain. Not rushed, not hesitant—just deliberate enough to let Emma feel every inch of her intention. The air between them thickened Regina’s gaze never wavered, her touch both a question and an answer.

Regina’s eyes never left her. It wasn’t just a look—it was a grip, silken and unrelenting, holding Emma exactly where she stood. Power didn’t have to shout to be felt. Sometimes, it just watched.

“See something you like, Saviour?” Regina purred, her voice a velvet whisper that slid beneath Emma’s skin. The nickname—once teasing, almost affectionate—now felt heavier, sharper. It anchored them in something unspoken; a bond twisted with heat, history, and the quiet thrum of surrender.

“Yes, my Queen.”

Emma barely recognized her own voice—low, reverent, laced with something like hunger. The words slipped from her lips like a vow, like the answer to a question she hadn’t known she’d been asking. Heat twisted low in her belly, sharp and breathless, as if those three syllables had torn something open inside her.

Regina didn’t move. She didn’t need to. Stillness clung to her like a second skin—immovable, unshakable, sovereign. Every inch of her was command. Every breath, a challenge.

Emma’s eyes stung, dry from not blinking. But she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Not now when it felt like worship. Not when surrender pulled at her like gravity, slow and irresistible.

Regina’s eyes glinted—wicked, knowing, a spark of arousal veiled in amusement. She didn’t merely enjoy the effect she had on Emma; she revelled in it. Wore it like a crown. Every flicker of control, every breathless pause, fed something in her. She savoured the quiet dominance she commanded with nothing more than a glance.

“Come to your queen,” Regina said—her voice velvet over steel, soft in tone, sharp in intent.

Emma didn’t move. Not yet. The title curled around her, too familiar. Too dangerous.

“You don’t get to command me,” she muttered.

Regina smiled—razor-edged and amused, entirely unbothered.

“And yet,” she murmured, “here you are.”

Emma hadn’t noticed when she stepped forward—only that she was moving, slow and deliberate, until she stood between Regina’s parted thighs.

Regina didn’t breathe.

Not at first.

Emma was there, sudden and sure—standing between her parted thighs like she belonged there, like she’d always known how to close the space between intention and act. And Regina—Queen, sovereign, storm—could only meet her gaze and hold it. Barely.

Heat curled low in her belly, slow and devastating. Emma hadn’t touched her yet. She didn’t need to.

Regina’s fingers flexed against the counter top. Just once.

And then she smiled—small, sharp, and dangerous. “Careful, Saviour. Some thresholds, once crossed, don’t un-open easily.”

Regina leaned forward, slow and smooth, until her lips nearly grazed Emma’s ear. “I gave you a chance to retreat,” she whispered, voice like silk drawn tight. “You didn’t take it.”

Her hands came down—one at Emma’s hip, the other at the back of her neck—pulling her in with sharp precision. No room for air. No room for doubt. Regina’s nails traced along the hem of Emma’s shirt, dragging deliberately. “Don’t just stand there, Saviour. Show me your bite. Or get on your knees and learn mine.”

Forcing Emma back a half step with nothing but presence. Her hands didn’t follow—yet. They hovered, deliberate, just brushing the edges of Emma’s hips.

“I said show me,” she murmured, dark eyes glittering. “Not tremble for me.”

Before Emma could respond, Regina surged forward gripping the edge of Emma’s shirt and dragging her close until fabric bunched between them and breath tangled at their lips.

She tilted her head, lips barely brushing Emma’s. “Feisty doesn’t flinch.”

Then she turned the tide entirely backing Emma into the counter with a confident press of her body, fingers threading into her hair, grip firm. She didn’t kiss her. Not yet. She simply waited—a silent dare.

Emma didn’t retreat.

She let Regina push—let the counter dig into her back and the Queen’s fingers tangle in her hair—and then she surged forward. Her mouth missed Regina’s by a breath, lips dragging a heated line along her jaw instead. A tease. A warning.

Her voice came low, rough with tension. “I’m not trembling. I’m waiting for you to keep up.”

And then she bit—gentle, precise—just below Regina’s ear. Not enough to mark, just enough to promise.

Her hands found Regina’s waist and held tight, grounding them both in the crackling moment. “You want bite? Then don’t blink, Majesty.”

Regina’s smirk faltered—but only for a blink. Emma was all in now, heat and defiance coiled in every movement. She pressed forward, shoulder to shoulder, lips hovering with just enough distance to taunt. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of Regina’s blouse, not rough, but certain. Claiming ground.

“You’re not the only one who commands, Majesty,” she murmured against the corner of Regina’s mouth. “So, unless you want to lose that tonight—”

She let the words hang like a dare.

Then her grip shifted—one hand sliding up Regina’s back, the other fisting in dark silk hair—and she turned them. Hard. Regina’s spine met the wall with a thud softened only by breathless surprise.

Emma grinned, wicked and breathless. “Your move.”

Regina’s back hit the wall with a soft, startled sound, but her smirk returned razor-sharp. She didn’t reach for Emma. Not yet. She let the space breathe, her pulse ticking steady behind her throat, eyes dragging over Emma’s face like a challenge drawn in ink.

“You like playing rough,” she said, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “But don’t forget whose game you walked into.”

She shifted her weight just enough to remind Emma that, even pressed to the wall, she was still the one drawing lines. Her hand found Emma’s wrist—light grip, deadly control—and she guided it higher, placing it flat against the wall beside her head.

Her smile turned slow. Dangerous. “Hold that pose. Let’s see how long you last.”

Emma held herself there—arm caged above Regina’s head, breath falling between them in shallow bursts. But she didn’t speak. She watched. Studied the curl of Regina’s lip, the press of her spine against the wall, the flicker of triumph and desire dancing in her gaze.

Then, deliberately, she shifted her hips forward—just enough to brush, to claim space that wasn’t hers until Regina let it be.

“Your game,” Emma murmured, voice rasping low, “but don’t think I came unarmed.”

Regina arched a brow, but her hand trailed upward now—slow, wicked, tracing Emma’s throat with featherlight pressure. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Their bodies started moving, the space between them thickened—crowded with every unsaid thing, every wound and want and weapon disguised as touch. They weren’t just dancing now. They were daring.

For half a second, Emma’s bravado flickered—not fading but shifting. Her hand stayed firm against the wall, her body tight with challenge, but her eyes… they softened.

Just enough.

Long enough.

Regina caught it. Of course she did. She always did.

The sharp tilt of her smile faltered—turned curious, almost tender. Not weaker. More dangerous, really. Because this wasn’t just about power anymore. It was about choice.

She leaned in, voice low and unarmoured. “You feel that too, don’t you?”

Emma swallowed—once, hard—but didn’t look away. “Yeah. Scares the hell out of me.”

Regina’s breath hitched on a laugh. Not mocking. Honest.

“Good,” she whispered. “Then we’re finally playing for something that matters.”

Emma didn’t hesitate—not this time. Her hand slid from the wall to cup the line of Regina’s jaw, thumb brushing her cheek with the barest grace… before she pushed, just enough to turn her head. Not cruel. Not soft either. Her mouth landed hot and claiming on Regina’s throat, kissing once—twice—then biting just enough to make Regina hiss and press back harder.

Her voice was a rasp against skin. “Told you I didn’t come unarmed.”

Regina’s response was instant—a hand gripping Emma’s hip, guiding her forward until there was no space left. No distance. No pretence.

“You want the crown?” she whispered into Emma’s hair. “Then take it.”

Emma did.

She claimed Regina’s mouth in a kiss that scorched—hungry, unrelenting, and fiercely sure. No hesitation. No question. Her lips moved like possession, like memory in the making. Emma’s hands roamed, purposeful and unyielding, mapping every curve with reverent precision. Not just to feel—but to know. To memorize. To claim.

Regina matched Emma’s hunger with fire of her own hands gripping, nails dragging down bare skin in jagged lines that stung and thrilled in equal measure. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Her body arched into Emma’s with a clarity that said: I see you. All of you. And I’m not afraid to leave a mark.

The red welts bloomed beneath her touch—not punishment, but proof. Of presence. Of passion. Of two storms colliding, not to destroy, but to remake.

That only spurred Emma on.

Their breaths tangled—hot, uneven, desperate. Each inhale was stolen from the other, each exhale a surrender to momentum. Hearts thundered in sync, not from chaos, but from certainty. Like their bodies had found a rhythm that spoke the truth their mouths hadn’t dared.

Emma’s hands gripped Regina’s hips with intention, not just desire—anchoring her there, with her, for her. The room narrowed to heat, to skin, to motion. But beneath the urgency, something quieter pulsed: understanding, claiming, recognition.

Emma’s hands found the edge of lace and paused—just long enough for Regina to feel the promise in her grip. Not hesitation. Intention. The kind that sent a shiver across skin and left heat in its wake.

Regina’s breath caught, but she didn’t stop her. Didn’t want to.

When Emma moved again, it was with purpose—deft and deliberate, like she was undoing more than just fabric. Like she was peeling back every defence Regina had ever worn.

And Regina let her.

Emma didn’t hesitate—her hands and gaze said enough. Regina opened to her not because she was overpowered, but because something in Emma’s touch made resistance irrelevant. There was no hesitation, no more games. Just that breathless, unmistakable crossing of a line they could never uncross.

Emma didn’t just move with power—she moved with purpose. Each motion deliberate, fierce, threaded with something primal that pulsed beneath the surface of dominance. Every push of her body, every shift of her breath, wasn’t just about taking—it was about claiming. Not possession born from ego, but from something far messier: need, longing, the fear of losing what she hadn’t even fully grasped yet.

She pressed into Regina like she was daring the world to challenge her right to this moment. Her. Them. Her grip was unrelenting, not to control—but to feel, to memorize, to map Regina with the desperate reverence of someone who’d fought too long to pretend they didn’t want this.

“This isn’t a question,” Emma breathed, voice low, rough, trembling with the edge of too much. “You’re already mine.”

Not a threat.

A vow.

And Regina—eyes dark, breath stolen—answered with a kiss that felt like surrender and defiance all at once.

“You’re mine, Regina,” Emma growled, her voice low and rough, barely holding together the storm behind it. “Every inch of you—not because I took it, but because you let me.”

It wasn’t just a claim. It was a confession in teeth and fire. A demand for truth.

And Regina—lips parted, breath unsteady—met her eyes with something fierce and unflinching. “Then hold on tight,” she whispered. “Because I don’t break easy.

Emma didn’t flinch beneath Regina’s stare. She held it. Let it burn. The space between them crackled, thick with things they hadn’t said—but somehow both knew.

“You’re mine,” she said again, quieter this time, like a truth she hadn’t meant to voice twice. Like a prayer she wasn’t ready to stop repeating.

And Regina—God, Regina—leaned in, teeth grazing Emma’s jaw, breath hot as it spilled a whisper right into her skin.

“Then take care of what’s yours.”

No dare this time. No smirk.

Just a gift. Laid bare.

Emma became more urgent—not frenzied, but focused, as if now that the words were spoken, every touch had more gravity. She cupped the back of Regina’s neck and pulled her in, their mouths crashing together with a heat that didn’t ask for permission, only promise.

Regina answered with breathless precision—meeting Emma stroke for stroke, refusing to yield, refusing to just be taken. Her hands moved to Emma’s neck, then lower, tugging her close in every possible way.

This wasn’t a chase anymore.

It was a rhythm. Matched. Claimed.

As Regina broke away just enough to breathe, Emma chased the space, her mouth hovering near the shell of Regina’s ear. The rhythm didn’t falter—it deepened, but now every movement echoed a beat more intimate.

She didn’t growl this time.

She whispered.

“Tell me I’m not the only one who feels this,” Emma said, her voice frayed at the edges, reverent. “Tell me I’m not losing my mind alone.”

Regina’s breath hitched. Then, softly—barely more than breath—

“You’re not.”

A confession. A tether. Not Armour, but truth, trembling between them.

Their breaths slowed in tandem, still tangled from the storm, as if their bodies hadn’t quite registered it was over. Emma’s forehead rested lightly against Regina’s, eyes shut—not because she couldn’t bear to look, but because she didn’t want to break the fragile quiet that cradled them.

Regina’s hand, once buried in Emma’s hair, loosened with a tremble. Her other hand drifted to Emma’s chest; fingers splayed over her heart like she needed proof that something steady still lived beneath the wreckage.

A breath hitched. Then another. Then a sound slipped out—small, broken.

The tears didn’t fall all at once. They came quietly, like rain tracing down windowpanes—slow, uninvited, but inevitable. Regina tried to blink them away, but her throat caught on a sob she hadn’t meant to release.

Emma tensed. Her eyes flew open, pulling back just enough to see wetness streaking down Regina’s cheek. Her heart seized. “Shit,” she breathed, hands lifting instinctively. “Did I—was I too much?”

Regina didn’t answer. Her shoulders had begun to shake, quiet and uncontrollable, and she turned her face slightly as if to hide. Emma cupped her jaw gently, panic rising beneath the surface. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean to push… I thought you wanted- God, I’m so sorry.”

Shit. Shit. That look—God, what did I do?

Her shoulders are shaking. She’s not saying anything. Why isn’t she saying anything?

I thought… I thought she wanted—
No, don’t do that. Don’t make it about what you thought. Look at her.

You broke her.

I didn’t think she could tremble like that. Not Regina. Not the woman who sharpens every emotion into armour. And now she’s just… unravelling.

Because of me.

Regina shook her head, a sharp little motion that didn’t match the softness unravelling in her expression. “Stop,” she whispered, though her voice was nearly swallowed by the tears. “It’s not that.”

Emma went still, breath hitched. “Then what?”

Regina’s hand found its way over Emma’s heart again, just like before—but this time not to ground herself. This time to feel it beating. To remind herself it was real. “You were… kind,” she whispered, like that alone was the thing breaking her. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Emma’s throat closed. The guilt didn’t vanish, but it softened—folding into something else. She pulled Regina close again, not out of apology, but as an answer. A promise.

“I didn’t expect you to stay,” Regina murmured finally, voice small in the hush.

Emma didn’t answer with words. She just turned her head, pressed her lips to Regina’s temple—a kiss not meant to rekindle, but to reassure. I’m here. I meant it.

SQ

Balancing on one leg, Emma wrestled with her sock, wobbling like a drunk flamingo. A hop to the left. A skip back. Then—thwack—her thigh caught the edge of the dresser and sent her flailing, tumbling over the pillows on the bed with a graceless oof!

“Before you even leave the house, you’re an idiot, Mr. Swan,” Regina said, deadpan from the doorway.

Emma’s head popped up. “Cut me some slack—it was a long, energetic night and morning.” She grinned. “I’m a little weak in the knees.”

Regina’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Indeed.” But the smile faded just as quickly. “We need to talk about—”

“No. We don’t.”

“Emma—”

“No,” Emma cut in, firmer this time, eyes averted, sock finally tugged over her heel like it was the last task that mattered.

Regina blinked. “No?”

“I said no.” Sharper now. Final.

“You are completely infuriating.” Regina threw her hands in the air, the staccato of her heels ricocheting off the walls as she stormed to the closet. Coat. Closure.

The walk from Mifflin Street was silent—barely a syllable between them. A stark contrast to the night before, where passion had spilled into the hush of early morning and left everything trembling. Emma still wasn’t sure what had happened in the kitchen—only that Regina had come undone there: bare and breaking, while Emma held on like touch could stitch together what time had torn.

I thought… I thought she wanted—
No, don’t do that. Don’t make it about what you thought. Look at her.

You broke her.

The memory clung to her ribs.

Now, standing outside the apartment she used to call home, déjà vu struck like a blow to the chest. Yesterday’s fight with her parents hadn’t stopped echoing, and the last thing she needed was another dose of Snow White’s righteousness pressing against a bruise still fresh.

At least Regina was still with her. If the last twenty-four hours had proved anything, it was that they were steadier together—even when everything else was cracking apart.

“You gonna knock,” Regina said, casually twirling her wrist, “or should I poof us inside and give the neighbours another reason to gossip?”

The jab nudged Emma from the edge, slicing through the tangle of thoughts she hadn’t realized she’d been drowning in.

“I’ll knock,” she said, echoing Regina’s swirl with a crooked smirk. “Unless you prefer, I start calling it ‘tele-sass-porting.’”

Regina chuckled, a soft fracture in the quiet. “Not poofing, dear. If I were to label it, I’d go with apparition or perhaps materialization. Though, truly, it requires no name.”

Emma huffed out a laugh. “Seriously? We’re standing on death’s doorstep, and you want to workshop synonyms?”

Regina’s smile lingered, warm and worn. “Apparently.”

Emma wiped her clammy palm on her jeans and knocked.

The knock lands, sharp against old wood, and for a heartbeat everything holds—breath, memory, the swell of what might come next. Then:

A muted shuffle. A pause. The unmistakable sound of hesitation on the other side.

When the door finally creaked open, it wasn’t Henry.

It was David.

Hair damp like he’d just scrubbed off sleep or worry—maybe both—he stood in the frame with that familiar tilt of his jaw. The one that used to say I’ve got you, now unreadable.

Emma’s hand froze midair.

“Emma,” he said, and her name landed with too much weight. Not angry. Not warm. Just… full.

She swallowed. Every instinct screamed to retreat, to snap some half-lie and vanish before the storm rebuilt—but she didn’t. Instead, her hand dropped to her side, fingers twitching once.

Regina didn’t move, but she was suddenly closer. Just enough. Not touching, not pressing—only there, a steady silhouette in her periphery.

David opened the door but didn’t step back.

"Emma. Madame Mayor," he said, voice low, like the hallway wasn’t meant to hold this kind of conversation. He slipped out and pulled the door halfway closed behind him, the click of the latch sounding more final than it should have.

"Now isn’t a great time."

Emma stiffened. The words weren’t cruel, but they landed with precision—like he’d marked exactly where she was most frayed.

Regina didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, just slightly

“Then perhaps you’ll make time.”

David’s gaze snapped to hers, something tight flickering across his face. Not quite anger. Not quite remorse. Emma couldn’t tell anymore.

“I just meant…” he began, but it trailed off, unfinished.

Emma shifted her weight, hands buried in her jacket pockets like that might keep them from shaking. “Is he okay?”

A pause. Then: “He’s tired. A lot’s happened.”

Emma bit down a retort that tasted like old wounds. “Yeah,” she said, voice flat. “Tell me about it.”

David sighed, rubbing at the scruff along his jaw like the words might be hiding there.

“He didn’t sleep,” he muttered. “We thought—given everything—it’d be better if he stayed home today.”

Regina arched a single brow, arms folding with the kind of elegance that could slice glass. “How considerate,” she said, dry as a drought. “Emotional disarray clearly outranks algebra.”

Emma didn’t look at her. She couldn’t. Not with the guilt swelling hot and acidic in her chest.

David glanced away, jaw tightening. “We’re doing the best we can.”

“No,” Regina said, voice soft but unmistakably sharp. “You’re doing what’s easiest.”

Silence pressed between them, thick and heavy.

Emma exhaled. “Can we see him?”

That landed like a stone in still water, all ripples and no reply.

“Snow believes Henry should start learning the ways of the Enchanted Forest,” David said, voice low as he rubbed the scruff on his jaw. “She thinks he’ll need the skills to help rule when we return.”

Emma just stared at him.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

David flinched and glanced toward the apartment. “Emma, please—keep it down.”

“There is no way Henry’s being dragged into some fantasy monarchy bullshit,” she snapped. “Not while I’m breathing.”

“I’m not saying I agree,” he said quickly. “I’m doing everything I can to keep the peace. You and… the Evil- Madame Mayor… it’s made things complicated. If you’re not cursed—”

Regina laughed once, dry and unkind. “Yes, David, I enchanted your daughter with brunch, and shared custody.”

Emma’s pulse thundered behind her teeth. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I’m with Regina because I love her. Not because I’m under some fucking curse.”

David looked stunned, like the ground beneath him had shifted and he wasn’t sure where to plant his feet.

But Emma wasn’t done.

She turned—deliberately, unhurried—and met Regina’s eyes. That storm in her chest quieted just enough to let something softer through.

“I love you,” she said again, lower this time, steadier. “No qualifiers. No spells or curses. Just... me.”

For a breath, the magic curling under Regina’s skin flared—not dangerous, not uncontrolled, but luminous. Reverent. As if the air itself had paused to listen.

Her eyes shimmered with something unspoken. She didn’t reach for Emma. She didn’t have to. The space between them felt full already.

“She’s scared,” David said, voice cracking a little. “Snow. She’s not thinking clearly. She says things, and I—I try to manage it. I’m barely keeping her from—”

“From what?” Regina asked coldly. “Declaring a crusade?”

Magic skimmed over her skin, subtle and alive. The hallway lights dimmed for half a breath. Emma stepped closer without even thinking, as if proximity alone could anchor them both.

“Regina—” David began, lifting a hand in warning.

“No.” Her voice sharpened, her control threading thin. “She thinks I’m poison. And now she wants to shape Henry into something… clean. Palatable.”

David’s mouth opened, but he said nothing.

Then, behind him—

“Mom? Emma?”

Henry stood barefoot in the doorway, sleep-rumpled and blinking in the low light. His voice broke through the air like a stone through glass.

Emma froze, heart flipping against her ribs.

Regina’s magic vanished in an instant, as if he’d willed it away just by standing there.

David turned, panicked. “Henry—hey, bud, go back inside, it’s early—”

Henry didn’t move. “Why are you arguing again? Why is everyone always fighting about me?”

Silence dropped over them like snowfall. Emma’s throat ached.

Regina’s voice came first. Quiet. Clear.

“We’re not fighting about you, sweetheart. We’re fighting for you.”

Henry just looked at her. At Emma. At his grandfather.

And in that stillness, it was like the hallway remembered how to breathe.

Emma stepped forward, but only just—a subtle shift, as though any more might spook the moment. Her voice was softer now, roughened by the heat that had burned through her minutes ago.

“I know it feels like that’s all we do lately. Talk around you. Fight over you.”

She swallowed. Regina didn’t move, but her presence felt like a hand at Emma’s back.

“But this—” Emma’s gaze flicked to David, then returned to her son, “—this is because we love you so much, it hurts when we can’t agree on what that love is supposed to look like.”

Henry’s face didn’t change much, but the sharp alertness in his eyes dulled, just a little. Still guarded. Still wary. But listening.

Regina’s voice followed, softer still. “You deserve honesty, Henry. And a choice. Not decisions made in rooms you’re kept out of.”

David finally spoke, his voice quieter than any of theirs. “We were trying to protect you.”

Henry looked at him. “From who?”

No one answered. Not right away.

Because the truth wasn’t a name—it was a fear.

Henry’s brow furrowed, his voice rising with something sharp and unresolved. “It always comes back to this—everyone fighting about what’s best for me like I’m a prize you’re all trying to win.”

Emma flinched. “That’s not—”

“I’m tired,” he snapped, backing away from the threshold. “Of being the reason no one talks to each other like they care.”

Then quieter, the words landing flat: “You all think you’re doing what’s right. But I didn’t ask for any of this.”

He turned and disappeared into the apartment before anyone could answer. The door clicked shut behind him—not a slam, but final enough to close the air between them.

Silence followed. Not peaceful. Just... hollowed out.

David remained where he was, spine drawn tight with tension, eyes on the floor as though Henry’s words had landed somewhere he couldn’t touch.

Regina’s hands were folded now, tightly enough that the faintest shimmer of magic crackled at her fingertips before she inhaled and forced it still.

Emma didn’t move. Her stare was locked on the closed door, breath shallow, jaw clenched against words that had nowhere to go.

“He’s hurting,” David said quietly. “More than we’ve wanted to admit.”

This time, Regina didn’t lash out. Her voice came low, cut from something steadier.

“We all are,” she said, soft enough to bruise. “The difference is—he still thinks it’s his fault.”

David opened his mouth, but the words caught somewhere between breath and apology.

“I’ll keep Henry safe,” he promised, voice low, as if saying it quieter made it more believable.

“You? Keep Henry safe?” Regina scoffed, voice trembling with fury. “You couldn’t even keep your own daughter safe. Or have you forgotten? You placed her in a tree. A tree, David. Hours old and already alone. And now you expect Emma and me to hand you, our son?”

David’s gaze darkened. “You’re right—We made a choice. A desperate one. But don’t pretend this all started with us. That curse—you set it in motion. If it hadn’t been for that, Emma would’ve had the life we dreamed of. We all would’ve.”

Regina’s mouth twitched—not in a smirk, but in restraint. “You think I don’t live with that? Every day, I see it on her face—the years she didn’t get. The love she doesn’t know how to trust. Don’t act like I’ve forgotten what I took.”

Emma exhales sharply, like she’s trying to push the weight of both their guilt out of the hallway.

“Stop.” Her voice doesn’t rise—it drops, raw and steady. “Just… stop blaming each other like it fixes anything.”

She looks between them, jaw clenched, eyes storm-dark with grief she hasn’t figured out how to name. “I know what was taken. I live with it every damn day. But standing here, pointing fingers—it’s not healing anything. It’s ripping it open.”

A beat.

“I don’t want apologies. I want us to stop hurting each other.”

She swallows hard, like the words cost her. “You both made choices. So, did I. And we’re all still here—hurting, yeah—but here. So maybe we stop trying to win the argument and start figuring out how to live with the wreckage.

David shifts, the sharp edge of his defensiveness dulled by her words. His shoulders sag, not in defeat, but in some quiet surrender. “You’re right,” he says, voice low. “We keep circling the wreckage like it’ll change what happened. It won’t. But maybe… maybe we can choose what happens next.”

Regina’s silence lingers—measured, not hesitant. Then, quietly:
“I spent years trying to undo the past. The right spell, the right sacrifice… anything to make it less broken. But some wreckage doesn’t clear. You learn to live around it. Or with it. And maybe that’s enough. Not fixing it. Just staying.

She met David’s gaze, unblinking.

“I swear, if anything happens to our son—I will destroy your happiness, if it’s the last thing I do.”

Regina’s voice cracked like glass under pressure. No threat. A promise.

Emma didn’t flinch. Her grip tightened around Regina’s hand—steadying, solid.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice a little too bright. “Easy, my Queen. I know wrecking my parents’ happiness used to be your thing, but I’m yours now. Remember? Saviour perks.”

Regina didn’t smile. Just blinked, slow, something unspoken catching behind her eyes.

Emma’s tone softened, dropped into the quiet space between them.
“David’s not an idiot. He knows what this costs. And Henry—he’s strong. He’ll get through this.”

Regina let out a shaky breath. Her shoulders fell, tension easing like a tide drawing back.

“I trust you,” she said at last—quiet, unguarded.

A beat.

Then Emma leaned in, brushing her lips against Regina’s—fleeting, breathless. A whisper, not a promise. But enough.

David stood in the threshold like he’d forgotten how to move.

The hallway was quiet—too quiet. Just the faint hush of breath between them, the ghost of a kiss still clinging to the air.

He hadn’t meant to see it. But now that he had, there was no pretending. No retreating into the comfort of denial or the thrum of heroics. This—them—was real.

His eyes landed on Emma first. Steady. Grounded. Not the girl who used to run when things got too close, too complicated. She wasn’t flinching. She was anchoring. And Regina—Regina, of all people—was letting her.

He felt something crack. Not rage, not quite. Something older. Softer. Like grief.

“Emma,” he said. Her name came out small, hollowed. Then, “Regina.”

Neither spoke. Emma’s fingers remained curled around Regina’s hand, like she was daring him to say it—to object. To break this fragile peace, they were clinging to.

“So, it’s true,” he says, not to accuse—but to mourn. “After everything… it’s her?”

Emma doesn’t flinch. “It’s always been her.”

David, for all his stubbornness, hears that ache in his daughter’s voice. Maybe that’s what breaks him—not the love itself, but because he hears the sorrow beneath it. All the years, and all of the fractures that led them here. Love didn’t just change everything—it cost everything.

His gaze flicks to Regina. Her posture straight but eyes wary waiting for the blow. And maybe, once, he would’ve delivered it. Would’ve reached for anger to mask the betrayal, the fear. But he saw the tremor she didn’t quite disguise. And Emma—she shifts, barely, like gravity has changed and she’s leaning toward the one constant in her chaos.

And David… he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t reach for fury. He just stands there, sifting through memories that no longer fit. And what he feels isn’t betrayal.

It’s the quiet heartbreak of relearning what love looks like—and realizing it had always been more complicated than a fairytale ending.

My daughter is in love with the Evil Queen.

And somewhere beneath that, softer still: I never asked who she loved. I just assumed it would be someone… easier.

"You can trust me, Regina," he says finally, voice even but threaded with conviction. "Henry’s my grandson. I won’t let anyone hurt him—or this family. That includes you, Your Majesty."

Something in her breath hitches—so faint it might be imagined. Her gaze drops, not from submission, but as if the weight of his words pulled at something unguarded. When she lifts her eyes again, the frost has returned—but not untouched.

She studies him in silence. Not for lies. For change.

"Then earn it," she says. Calm. Crisp. But without the usual blade beneath it. “Keep Henry safe." Her voice was measured, but something in her jaw had locked tight.

She drew a breath, slower than necessary. "And talk to Blue. I need to know she’s not quietly backing Snow’s plan to drug him."

A pause. Too brief to be hesitation. Too long not to mean something.

"Just… be sure she’s not part of it."

David’s gaze lingered on Emma, then shifted to Regina—a silent tug-of-war in his own hesitation. The hallway buzzed faintly with distant voices, but between the three of them, the air had thickened.

He opened his mouth once, closed it.

Regina didn’t look away. “Say it,” she said, not unkindly.

David’s voice was cautious. “So… Regina calls you Mr. Swan now?”

Emma gave a faint shrug. “She does.”

He hesitated. “But you said it wasn’t her who cast the spell. So… was it intentional? Some kind of magic gone wrong?”

Emma continued, carefully, “It was a spell, yeah. Sort of. Not cast so much as... triggered. I didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did, but I wasn’t exactly pushing back either.” She shrugged, small and tired. “Magic doesn’t always wait for clarity.”

David frowned. “So, it just happened?”

Emma nodded. “In the middle of a choice I couldn’t unmake. The magic answered the version of me that stepped forward.”

David nodded slowly. “Is it permanent?”

Emma exhaled. “As far as I know magic doesn’t do trial runs. But I’m not spending my nights hunting reversal spells. I’ve got other things to fight for.

Regina gave a small nod, then looked squarely at David. “She’s still your daughter. Whether the world reads her differently now or not.”

He studied her face. “You’re really okay with that?”

Emma paused, her smile faint but steady. “I’ve made peace with it. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss who I was. Sometimes, it feels like I’m living someone else’s life—like I’ve stepped into a story that started without me.”

Her gaze drifted to Regina, then returned to David. “I don’t regret where I am. But if I ever had the chance to go back—fully, truly—I might take it. Not because this life is wrong. Just because that one was… familiar. It felt like mine.”

David nodded, uncertain but genuine. “I can respect that.”

Regina offered a small smile. “Good. Because wherever she stands, she never stops fighting for the people she loves.”

Emma exhaled, something quiet and firm settling in her voice. “That part’s never changed.”

“David? David!” Snow’s voice rang out from behind the apartment door—sharp, insistent, too close.

Emma’s breath caught. Her hand brushed his arm, grounding herself. “You need to get Henry to call Regina. Tonight. I don’t care what Snow says.”

David’s jaw tightened, torn. “Emma…”

“No,” she said, voice low but unwavering. “She doesn’t get to erase this. Not again. You know what Regina means to him—to me.”

David held her gaze, something uncertain flickering in his eyes. But then he nodded, slow and sure. “I’ll make it happen. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Her voice cracked just a little before she stepped in and hugged him—brief but fierce, like she was anchoring herself in something still solid.

“Go,” he said, pulling back, already turning toward the door.

Emma and Regina disappeared down the stairwell just as the front door creaked open and Snow stepped into the hallway.

Chapter Text

Buoyed by David’s unexpected grace and the quiet conviction of new love, Regina had promised herself she’d tell Emma everything.

The vault.
The spells.
The ache of old hunger masquerading as control.

But as they stepped over the threshold, the promise faltered.

Emma reached for her first—or maybe it was the other way around. Regina couldn’t tell anymore, not with certainty. Not with Emma this close, her touch collapsing the distance between then and now.

Flesh offered sanctuary.

And she—coward, survivor, lover—let herself dissolve into it. Into her.

The truth hovered, urgent and unsaid, caught like a scream behind her teeth.
But for now, wrapped in the hush of skin and breath and the illusion of time—
truth could wait a few more hours.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Emma’s voice was soft, but it cracked at the edges. She retraced the afternoon like a trail she hadn’t meant to lose. We were supposed to talk. Instead, they’d folded into each other like a story they’d already lived.

She groaned. “Regina, I’m not some lovesick kid. I just… when I’m with you, reason doesn’t stand a chance.”

Regina looked away.

“No,” she said quietly. “You’ve not done anything wrong.”

Emma didn’t let it go.
“But something’s shifted. We’re circling something and pretending we’re not.”

Emma looked undone in the most beautiful way—barefoot, tousled, leaning against the daybed like a memory Regina hadn’t earned.

Then why is this—” Emma’s hand cut through the space between them, sharp with frustration, “us—why is it so damn awkward now? And why won’t you look at me?”

Regina’s breath caught. Her eyes stayed fixed on the glass, a fortress of polished composure starting to crack.

“Because I don’t trust myself not to say something that ruins it completely.”

That landed. Emma didn’t move, but the energy shifted—less fire now, more ache.

Regina drew in a slow breath. “You’re still the only person who makes me want things I promised myself I was done wanting. Things I’m not sure I deserve.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “So, I look away. Because if I look at you too long, I might say too much. And I don’t think I’d survive you walking away from that.”

Silence folded around them—not cold, not cutting. Just quiet. Just waiting.

“The incantation,” she began, her voice low, steady, almost clinical. “It wasn’t meant to do harm. It simply conjured... borrowed moments. With the heart’s desire.”

She hesitated. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Then—

“You, Emma. The spell gave me you.”

Emma stilled. Not breathing. Not blinking.

The words settled between them like a hush before thunder.

SQ

The usual dance of banter between the Sheriff and the Mayor had fractured—replaced by a silence that pulsed, alive with tension. Regina had stepped away, hoping time might sand down the edges of Emma’s temper. It hadn’t.

Now, cradling a glass of cider, Regina took a cautious sip. The cool tang of the drink offered little comfort, its crisp sweetness doing nothing to thaw the frost between them. She risked a glance. Even now, her heart stuttered. Emma Swan—no matter the guise—still left her breathless. Smitten, as Snow had warned. Or maybe, predicted.

“Emma,” she said gently, the name trembling at the edges, “we really do need to talk about our—situation.”

Emma’s scoff broke the silence like a crack in glass. “And since when is it our problem? I don’t even know what you want me to say.”

Regina set her glass down with exaggerated care and closed her eyes. “You could tell me”—a breath, soft and almost startled— “how you feel.” Her voice barely found the last word, like speaking it aloud cost more than she’d admit.

Emma’s laugh was short and bitter. “Because that’s something we’re known for. Emotional openness. Top marks all around.”

“I didn’t say we were good at it,” Regina replied, almost smiling. “But we could try. Be better.”

Emma paused, jaw tight. She let the anger simmer down just enough to speak.
“Okay.” Her breath hitched—half a laugh, half a threat. “I don’t even know how I feel. I think a little vomit just crawled up my throat, but mostly? I’m fucking angry.”

Regina kept her eyes locked on the floor, hands still, like any movement might shatter what was left between them.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Emma’s laugh was jagged. “Would I care to elaborate? No. You know what? You elaborate.” She stepped forward, the air crackling. “Tell me how this is reasonable. Explain how I’m supposed to process any of this like a normal person, when nothing about this is fucking normal.”

“Emma, I understand—”

“No. You don’t.” Emma’s voice dropped, dangerous now. “You don’t understand. This thing—whatever it is—has taken every part of me I used to trust and turned it inside out. I don’t know where I end and this—this version of me begins. I can’t breathe half the time, and you’re standing there like we’re having a civilized disagreement.”

A beat of silence.

“You think this has been easy for me?” she hissed. “You think this is just some mild inconvenience in the middle of your week? I’m unravelling, Regina. And all you do is ask me to explain it better.”

She took a step back, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was holding herself together by force.

“You know what really messes with me?” she said, voice low and cutting. “It’s that I can’t even tell if you regret what you did—or just regret getting caught. Because those aren’t the same thing, Regina.”

Emma stared, daring her to answer. When none came, the space between them thickened, weighted with everything unsaid.

And then—nothing.

Just the hum of a breath held too long.

Regina doesn’t speak right away.

Her mouth parts—once, twice—but nothing comes. It’s not hesitation. It’s restraint. Because for once, she knows that any excuse, any carefully measured justification, would shatter whatever thread is still holding Emma in this room.

She lifts her gaze.

And her voice, when it comes, is stripped of all pretence.

“I regret everything, Emma,” she says. “Not just getting caught. Not just the magic. Everything. Because every time I get close to something good… something real… I ruin it. I twist it into a lie and pretend I meant well. I didn’t mean well. I meant safe. And safe never got either of us what we wanted.”

She steps forward, slowly—like the floor might give way if she moves too quickly.

“I see you unravelling. I see it. And it kills me. Because I want to fix it. I always want to fix things. But this—this is different. This is something I broke that I might not know how to mend.”

Her voice falters, just for a breath.

“But don’t ever think I didn’t choose you. I did. Long before you ever thought to ask.”

Then she says nothing more. Just stands there, the confession hanging between them like smoke—fragile, rising, impossible to grasp.

Emma folded her arms, feet shifting restlessly as though trying to find solid ground. “So. While I was out playing Saviour like some idiot martyr, what exactly did you and conjured-me get up to? How many times did you sneak off for those little secret trysts?”

Regina’s brows lifted slightly, the barest flicker of something—offense, guilt, hurt—rushing under her skin before her voice found its usual calm. “There were no trysts. No secrets. Nothing that needed sneaking. Just echoes. Ghosts I clung to because I couldn’t touch what I actually wanted.”

Emma crossed her arms tighter, jaw clenched. “Right. And what you wanted just happened to look exactly like me.”

“No. What I wanted was you.” Regina’s voice cracked, but only slightly—just enough to betray how close to the surface it all was. “You were out there saving everyone but yourself. And I— I didn’t know how to reach you without breaking something.”

Emma’s breath wavered. “So instead, you conjured someone breakable.”

“I conjured someone who wouldn’t flinch when I couldn’t help needing you.”

That landed hard—too hard. Emma’s voice softened, unsteady. “You talk like I was some impossible thing.”

Regina looked at her then. Really looked. “You were. You still are.”

Emma didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away.

“I made a mistake.” Regina’s voice cracked like old parchment. “The incantation—it was desperation. I was alone and afraid to come to you, to tell you that I love you…” She faltered, glancing away. “I went to the imp. I asked for something to make my heart whole. I didn't know it would lead to this.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Bullshit.”

Regina recoiled like she’d been struck. “Excuse me?”

“You’re lying—or holding something back. None of that explains why reciting your magic mumbo jumbo while I broke a stupid vial turned me into Mr. Swan.” Emma folded her arms. “So come on, Your Highness. Fess up.”

Regina’s hands trembled. Damn your superpower, Saviour. Can’t you just feel what I can’t say?

Her anger flared, cool and cruel. “You invaded my vault. You triggered the spell. And now you dare accuse me?” Her voice hardened. “You really are your mother’s daughter—promises you can't keep, feelings you don't understand—”

Regina paused. Just long enough for the truth to bleed in.

“You think I want this?” she sneered. “To be cursed with some ridiculous notion that you’re my true love. You, the Saviour. Snow White’s daughter.” She laughed—hollow, bitter. “If fate had a face, I’d slap it for the joke.”

But the bile tasted like regret.

Emma blinked once, twice. “You don’t have to love me. That’s your choice. But don’t pretend this doesn’t hurt you too.” She touched her chest. “I’d have fallen for you anyway, curse or not. I love you, Regina. Not because some spell says so—but because I choose to.”

She turned to go.

Regina stood frozen, lips parted, everything she wanted to say scraping against everything she was afraid to feel.

“Running away, Mr. Swan?”

Emma lingered at the threshold, then turned, eyes not quite meeting theirs.
“True love’s kiss was supposed to turn me back.” A breath, barely there. “It didn’t.”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe the truth is… I was never really your choice.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “And somehow, I’ll learn to live with that.”

But Regina surged forward, heart leaping out of silence. “Emma, wait. Maybe the spell is more complicated than we thought. Maybe it needs more than just—”

“Stop.” Emma’s voice was quiet. Spent. “Just… stop.”

She didn’t look back.

The door clicked shut like a verdict.

SQ

Regina stood motionless, her breath shivering in her chest. The echo of Emma’s final words hung in the stillness, settling into her bones with the weight of truth.

“I’m just not your choice.”

Lies. That was the cruellest lie Emma had ever told.

Her fingers curled into fists. Not from anger—no, that would be easier—but from the panic clawing its way up her throat. She had chosen. She always had. From the moment Emma stormed into her life with that defiant scowl and weary heart, she'd been slipping—slowly, irreversibly—into something terrifying and tender.

But saying it out loud? That made it real. Made it hers.

She turned toward the spot Emma had occupied moments ago, half-expecting to see a trace—an indentation, a breath still warm in the air. Nothing. Only silence.

“You idiot,” Regina whispered to the empty room. It wasn’t aimed at Emma.

Regina’s knees gave out, and she caught herself on the doorframe with a bitter laugh. Love was weakness. That was the lesson, wasn’t it? But Emma… Emma made that weakness feel like strength. Like salvation. And now—

Now she was gone. Again. And maybe this time for good.

Unless…

Regina’s gaze fell on the shattered remnants of the vial, glinting in the corner like a dare. There was more to this spell—there had to be. And if she wasn’t strong enough to say it, maybe she could still show it. Break it. Prove it.

Not because fate demanded it.

But because love did.

SQ

The bass from the Rabbit Hole reverberated through Emma’s chest like a second heartbeat—louder, angrier. With every step closer, her pulse synced to the rhythm: hot, chaotic, avoidant.

Inside, the place was half shadow, half strobe. Humid air clung to her skin like a challenge, laced with the unmistakable tang of spilled beer, body heat, and something sharp—recklessness, maybe. Girls danced in fevered clusters, laughing like they had nothing to forget. Must be nice.

She spotted Ruby through the bodies—red streak in her hair catching the light like fire, lips wrapped around the rim of a glass with careless grace. Emma could practically hear Regina’s voice in her head: “The slutty wolf cub strikes again.” Only now the nickname felt less like judgment and more like envy. Ruby looked free.

Sliding onto the stool beside her, Emma shot her a crooked smile. “Hey, Rubes.”

Ruby turned with a wicked grin. “Well, well. Mayor Mills let you off the diamond leash? Or are you skipping curfew, Mr. Tall, Blond, and Emotionally Wrecked?”

Emma snorted. “Screw Regina Mills. Screw her throne. Screw the Evil Queen and her goddamn secrets.”

Ruby leaned in, nose scrunching. “You say that, but you still smell like her.”

The bartender passed by with a shout. “What’s your poison?”

Emma glanced at Ruby.

“Shots?” she offered.

Ruby raised a brow. “Obviously.”

Tucked into the back booth of the Rabbit Hole, Snow cradled her drink like a secret. Her gaze skimmed the room—unfocused, until it wasn’t.

Mr. Swan.

Lounging at the bar beside Ruby, laughing too loud, swaying offbeat. A hollow sort of joy. The sight coiled tight in Snow’s chest, cold and barbed.

You should’ve stayed buried in the vault.

Her lips curled, glass-fragile.
Let Regina cling to her little rewrite. Fate has sharper teeth.

At the bar, Ruby leaned in close, breath sweet with liquor and mischief.
She trailed a finger down Emma’s chest, grinning like sin. “How would you…” hic “…like a religious experience so intense you’d swap ‘Oh God’ for ‘Oh Ruby’?” hic

Emma barked a laugh—too loud, too sharp. It fractured into giggles, then wheezing.
Ruby collapsed forward, boneless, forehead thudding gently onto folded arms. Already half-asleep. Already gone.

Emma blinked. The room swam.
“How many shots did we…?” Her voice slurred. She clutched the counter. “Didn’t feel like…”

She swayed. Stopped mid-thought.

Something in her eyes slipped. Her body folded—no drama, just a hush like breath leaving a room.
A soft thud.
Then stillness.

Behind the buzz and music, no one noticed how quiet it got.

SQ

Regina stood in the doorway like wrath incarnate, her silhouette sharp against the hallway light, eyes burning hotter than any fireball she could conjure

“Madame Mayor, you can’t just barge in here,” Ruby croaked, collapsing back onto her pillow. Her mouth tasted like regret and tequila. “Seriously, it’s too early. My brain’s still doing dial-up. I thought hangovers came with some kind of diplomatic immunity.”

“Where is she?” Regina's voice was low, deadly.

“Regina, what the—who?”

“Don’t insult both our intelligences.” She stepped into the room like the floor owed her something. “Emma. The Saviour. Where is she?

Ruby rubbed her temples. “I don’t know, okay? Maybe she finally decided you weren’t worth the emotional whiplash and skipped town. I’m just the ignored best friend, remember?” She waved vaguely toward the window. “Or maybe she turned into a dove. Who knows with your spells. “She rolled onto her side. “All I know is my skull’s doing Riverdance, and my sheets smell like sin.”

Regina’s tone dropped an octave. Dangerous. “Pull back the quilt, Ms. Lucas.”

Ruby cracked one eye. “What?”

“Now.”

“You’ve lost it.”

A fireball ignited in Regina’s palm, flickering with promise.

“Whoa! Okay! No need for a spontaneous combustion situation.” Ruby sat up slowly, limbs aching and brain sluggish. One glance beside her told her all she needed to know—and not nearly enough.

“Oh hell.”

She yanked the blanket back.

Emma lay on her side, still, her bare shoulder rising gently with each breath.

Ruby shot to her feet like the bed had caught fire. “Regina, I swear—I don’t know how she got here. I don’t even remember closing the bar!”

Regina’s stare didn’t waver. Her voice dropped into something quiet. Something cold.

“Ms. Swan.”

And just like that, the room forgot how to breathe.

Chapter Text

Emma burst through the doors of the Mayoral Mansion, duffle slung over her shoulder, rage barely contained. She stormed toward the Bug, nearly wrenching the driver’s door from its hinge. The bag hit the back seat with a thud. Bracing her palms on the car’s roof, she sagged forward, breath coming in jagged bursts. Then—her fist crashed down, denting the metal with a sharp crack.

She climbed in, slammed the door, twisted the key. The engine roared to life. Shoving the stick into reverse, she peeled back down the drive. Tires shrieked.

Her hand hesitated on the gearshift. Through the open window, her eyes flicked back—just once.

Regina sat on the steps, legs drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them like armour. Wind played through her hair, clinging strands to tear-streaked cheeks. She looked broken. Small. Beautiful.

Emma’s heart stopped.

For one lurching second, she wanted to run to her. To cradle that shattered shape, to murmur apologies into her hair, to promise forever. But instead, her grip tightened on the wheel. She faced forward. Hit the gas.

The yellow Bug screamed into the night.

At the quay, she didn’t stop.

She left the car running, headlights casting long, white fingers over the edge of the pier. The door hung open behind her.

She ran.

Past trawlers and tourists’ yachts, past the old Cannery. Her chest burned. Her legs ached. But she didn’t stop until the metal barrier slammed into her thighs and the sea yawned beyond.

There, under the hum of distant gulls and the gnashing wind, Emma collapsed.

Fingers tangled in her hair. Her scream splintered the dark. She sank to her knees, fists clawing at her shirt, ripping it open like it was the only way to tear free the ache inside. Salt stung her lips. Her body curled in on itself.

And for a moment, the ocean looked kinder than anything she’d left behind.

SQ

Emma barely registered Ruby’s presence until her voice sliced through the quiet.

“Hey, Rubes,” she murmured. Her smile was a faint flicker—more muscle memory than anything real. Heavy black circles dragged beneath her eyes like bruises from a fight she hadn't won. A long breath hissed through her teeth.

Ruby tilted her head. “Really stupid question, but… you okay, Em? You look like someone ran you through a tumble dryer and forgot the fabric softener.”

Emma huffed something between a laugh and a groan, eyes dropping to the mug in her hands. “That obvious, huh?”

“You’re wearing yesterday’s hoodie, your hair’s doing this… aggressively abstract thing, and I’m pretty sure your aura just told me to back off and bring a defibrillator.”

Emma let her lips twitch—barely. “Charming as always.”

Ruby slid onto the stool beside her, elbow landing with a practiced thud on the counter. “You know,” she said, glancing sideways, “you keep showing up here with that kicked puppy look and I’m gonna start charging you emotional rent.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Can we not?”

Ruby snorted. “Sure. We can pretend this isn’t about Regina. We can pretend you haven’t been haunting this place like some sad, leather-jacketed ghost. We can even pretend I didn’t see the mascara streaks when you ‘accidentally’ face-planted into your bear-claw on Tuesday.”

Emma finally turned to her; mouth pulled into a dry grimace. “Subtle as ever.”

“I contain multitudes.” Ruby leaned in, voice softer now. “Look, Em—I know we didn’t sleep together. I’d have smelt it; you’d have felt it. No Spidey sense. And I know that’s not what this is about. Regina experienced something real, something she wasn’t ready for, and now you’re both so busy licking your wounds no one’s making a move.”

Emma blew out a breath, gaze dropping to the steam rising off her mug. “It’s like she erased me. And maybe I deserve that.”

Emma’s lips twisted, part grimace, part regret. “I hate that I can’t explain it. That I can’t tell her exactly what didn’t happen. It’s like trying to fix something through a fog, and all I keep doing is bumping into sharp edges.”

Ruby let out a slow breath, softening. “You’re both still bleeding from the same place, Em. Only difference is, she’s hiding hers behind silence and eyeliner.”

Emma gave a humourless chuckle. “You always did have a poetic streak.”

Ruby smirked. “What can I say? Pain makes me profound. That—and three years of reading your broody diary entries behind the bar.”

That earned a raised eyebrow. “You read my diary?”

“You left it open next to your nachos. I had to check if the dip was the only thing getting cheesy.”

Emma finally smiled—small, but it stayed a little longer this time. She looked down at her drink, fingers tracing the rim. “What if it’s already too late?”

“It isn’t.” Ruby’s voice was firmer now, steady. “If she didn’t still love you, she wouldn’t be this angry. She’d be indifferent. Silent storm clouds don’t gather for just anyone.”

Emma blinked hard, jaw shifting.

“Talk to her,” Ruby added gently. “And if your words fail, bring chocolate. Or a heartfelt playlist. Or I can stage a fake medical emergency. You know—something subtle.”

Emma looked up, the vulnerability in her eyes raw and unguarded. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

“You already started. You showed up. You didn’t shut down.” Ruby bumped her shoulder gently. “And hey, lucky for you, I’m fluent in tragic sapphic angst. So—what’s the plan, Swan?”

Emma shook her head, frustration flickering beneath her exhaustion. “None of this makes sense. We had a fight—ugly, raw. Said things we didn’t mean. I was giving her space, blowing off some of my own frustrations. That’s all I meant to do.”

She dragged her palms down her face, voice hoarse. “Next thing I know, we wake up with a hangover big enough to flatten a small town and no memory of what went down. Just... static.”

Her eyes found Ruby’s, pleading and hollow. “I know what it looked like. I saw her face. And yeah, I get why she’d think something happened between us. But I swear—something else is going on. Something important. I can feel it.”

Emma’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm against her mug. “And I can’t explain it because I don’t remember any of it. All I know is, it wasn’t what she thinks. And the worst part is—if I’d done what she believes, I’d feel different. But I don’t. I just feel... her. I feel Regina. And I feel like I lost something I never got the chance to hold.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow, lips quirking like she'd been waiting for that exact sentence. “You ever consider that maybe it wasn’t the tequila that did the damage, but the truth bleeding through?”

Emma stared at her, a little thrown.

“I’m serious,” Ruby said, tone gentling just enough. “That night wasn’t just chaos—it was emotional whiplash with a side of unresolved sexual tension and a few gallons of guilt. You two cracked open something big, and your brilliant solution was to slap duct tape over it and walk away.”

Emma huffed. “Thanks for the insight, Dr. Phil.”

“I try. But listen—whatever happened that night, it didn’t just happen to you. You made choices. She did too. Something pushed both of you over the edge. And yeah, alcohol might’ve thrown gasoline on it, but I think the match was already lit.”

Emma’s eyes dropped to her mug again, thumb tracing the chipped rim. “I didn’t want to lose her.”

Ruby’s voice softened. “Then don’t. Fight for her. But do it clearheaded. Honest. Whatever it is we’re not remembering, it’s already eating you alive.”

She nudged Emma’s elbow with a crooked grin. “And hey, worst-case scenario, turns out we did sleep together and I’m secretly amazing.”

Emma barked out a real laugh this time. “Please. I’d remember that kind of tragedy.”

“Plus, I couldn’t smell myself on you,” Ruby said, nose wrinkling with a teasing grin. “Not in the way I smell Regina on you.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Not anymore, Rubes. It’s been nearly six weeks.”

Ruby leaned in, sniffed theatrically, and made a face. “You’re wrong, Em.”

“About what?”

“Her scent.” She crinkled her nose. “Ugh—she’s still all over you. Like emotional cologne. You stink of heartbreak and unresolved tension.”

Emma snorted. “Bullshit.”

Ruby tilted her head. “You love her.”

Emma finally looked up, eyes guarded. “Does it matter? You can’t force someone to love you. And Regina doesn’t.”

Ruby groaned. “Oh my god, seriously? Could you be more emotionally constipated? Mayor Mills is drowning in feelings for you. If she were any more in love, she’d be writing your name in cursive across city permits.”

Emma let out a slow breath, rubbing at her sternum like her chest ached beneath her ribs.

Ruby watched her. Watched the way Emma’s fingers kept drifting back to her chest like she could press the ache into silence. Watched the way her shoulders stayed curled, like the guilt was etched into her bones.

“Then how do you think she felt?” Emma finally said, voice barely audible. “Walking in on us—me, drunk, unconscious, half-dressed, next to you?”

Ruby didn’t flinch. “Devastated,” she said simply. “Same way you would’ve been if the roles were reversed.”

Emma’s nod was almost imperceptible, but her fingers kept tracing that same small circle over her sternum, over and over.

Ruby didn’t tease this time. No smirks, no dramatic flourishes. Just quiet certainty.

“Give her time.”

A beat passed. Then softer still, Ruby’s voice nearly lost beneath the clatter of the diner behind them:

“She’ll find her way back to you. You just have to be worth it when she does.”

And for the first time in weeks, Ruby watched something shift behind Emma’s eyes—tiny, flickering, but real. Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe the space where hope could live again.

Ruby was quiet for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought. Then her voice cut through like a match strike.

“We need to figure this out. You’ve wallowed long enough. Time to put that Saviour–Sheriff badge to good use—prove to Regina it was all some cosmic misunderstanding. Maybe then she’ll at least look you in the eye.”

Emma let out a humourless laugh. “Wouldn’t count on it. I blew it.”

Ruby got up, grabbed a bear claw, and set it in front of her like it was some sacred offering. “Eat. Your face is making my coffee taste sad.”

Emma took a bite, rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the support.”

Ruby smirked. So, what’s it like shacking up with Mommy and Daddy again?”

Emma chewed, and huffed a laugh, the sound small but real. “This morning, Snow told me, ‘Pain is just love trying to grow.’ I almost stabbed myself with a spoon.”

Ruby snorted. “Okay, that’s either a line from a greeting card or a cult.”

“Hard to tell in that apartment,” Emma muttered. “Between the throw pillows, scented candles, and David’s relentless need to bond over scrambled eggs, I’m one motivational quote away from a full personality collapse.”

Ruby grinned. “You want me to kidnap you? Stage a dramatic rescue? I’ve still got my red cloak in storage—we could really lean into the chaos.”

Emma laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like days. “You’d get halfway through a dramatic monologue before tripping over your own sass.”

Ruby gasped, mock offended. “Excuse you, I’ve survived wolves, heartbreak, and one very awkward attempt at karaoke with Whale. I’m basically unkillable.”

“Yeah, but subtlety’s never been your strong suit,” Emma said, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

Ruby shrugged. “Please. If I’m staging a rescue, I want glitter. Smoke bombs, and possibly a kazoo.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “A kazoo?”

“Emotional resonance,” Ruby said solemnly. “No one forgets a kazoo.”

The laughter faded, leaving only the hum of the diner and the soft clink of ceramic. Something heavier settled between them—something truer.

Ruby watched her carefully.

Emma stared into her mug like it might hold answers she hadn’t earned. “At least Henry’s with Regina,” she said quietly. “Where he belongs.”

Ruby said nothing, waiting.

Emma's grip tightened slightly around her cup. “Snow dropped him off at the mansion like he was clutter in her fairytale finale. Just smiled and said she was happy to have her ‘little princess’ home.”

“I guess she got what she wanted. But it hasn’t felt the same since… since she scared the hell out of me.”

Ruby blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She threatened to drug Henry. “

Ruby choked on air. “She did what?”

You didn’t know?” Emma’s expression didn’t shift, but her fingers curled against her palm. “She said she had a potion. One that would erase Henrys memories, erase his love for us, unless I left Regina and moved back into the apartment.”

“Jesus.” Ruby raked a trembling hand through her hair. “That’s… that’s sick. And Snow White—the fairest Queen of all, my Queen—she said this?”

The words clung to her tongue like they didn’t belong anymore. For the first time, the title didn’t feel safe.

“Yeah,” Emma gave a hollow laugh. “Nothing says unconditional love like emotional blackmail and strategic amnesia.”

Ruby stared at her, like trying to rewire everything she thought she knew. “You don’t think—” She stopped herself.

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Think what?”

“Nothing,” Ruby said too fast. But something in her face screamed it wasn’t.

Emma didn’t blink. “Think what, Ruby?”

“I said forget it.”

“No.” Emma leaned in, voice soft but razor-sharp. “You froze mid-sentence. That wasn’t nothing.”

Ruby looked away, arms crossed tight across her chest like she could hold herself together. Emma watched the strain settle in her jaw, the war between fear and truth dancing behind her eyes.

“You think she already did something—to us,” Emma said quietly. “Is that it?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby snapped, voice too quick, too loud. “I don’t want to know.”

Emma didn’t move. “But you do.”

Silence.

“I just…” Ruby’s voice cracked. “I keep trying to remember, and it’s all fog. Like someone painted over the parts that mattered.”

She closed her eyes—and the memory broke through.

A clink of glasses. Laughter that sounded scripted. Snow’s hand, light on her arm. “Drink up, love. Let it go. It’s easier that way.” The scent of apple and something bitter, trailing into quiet. Velvet silence. Then—nothing.

Ruby opened her eyes, her breath shallow. “She smiled when she said it. Like she was helping.”

Emma’s voice was low. “Do you remember what happened after?”

“Just the quiet. Like I blinked and woke up in a different version of myself.”

Emma’s face didn’t change, but something behind her eyes darkened. “She took something from us.”

Ruby hesitated. Her voice was barely a whisper. “She’s my Queen… she believed in me when no one else did.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “She wouldn’t… would she?”

Ruby hesitated, “That’s ridiculous. Snow White doesn’t play those kinds of games. She’s supposed to be—”

“Good,” Emma finished, voice flat. Her laugh barely lifted. “Then explain the look on her face when she and David barged into the mansion. Right when Mr. Swan and Regina were mid-tussle for bedroom tickle champion status.”

Ruby blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Emma shook her head, a flush blooming across her cheeks. “There were pillows. Laughter. Regina had this look—unbuttoned, smug, completely wrecked from laughing. And I was just... happy. We both were.”

Ruby started to laugh, then stopped—something in Emma’s voice caught her.

“She didn’t look shocked,” Emma went on. “Or embarrassed. She looked betrayed. Like we’d stolen something. And the more I sit with it, the more I think it wasn’t about me and Regina being together. It was about Regina being free. Being... loved.”

Ruby’s arms wrapped tighter across her ribs, like the warmth had drained from the room. “You think she wanted to erase that?”

Emma’s voice dropped. “I think she saw a version of Regina that didn’t belong to her story. And she couldn’t stand it.”

The door to the diner slammed open on a gust of stubborn spring wind, scattering the last of the blossom petals across the tile like confetti from some long-forgotten celebration. Conversation faltered. The warmth drained from the room.

Stiletto heels clicked through the hush—sharp, deliberate, and far too familiar.

Emma flinched. Her shoulders curled in as if she could fold herself into invisibility. Eyes shut tight, she exhaled a slow, ragged breath. Then, as the footfalls stopped just behind her, she squared her spine and stood, bracing for impact.

Six weeks of silence, and she picks now to show up?
Of course she does. Regina always did know how to make an entrance.

Behind the counter, Ruby froze.

“M-Madam Mayor,” Ruby blurted, eyes pinging between Regina and Emma like a deer at a tennis match. “I was just—I mean, I wasn’t—I mean, obviously I was talking to the Sheriff, not like talking, talking just—you know, friendly. Work-friendly. With coffee. Which is my job. Waitressing. Which you definitely know. Because you’re... you.”

Her laugh was dry and panicked, and her hands fluttered at her sides like they hadn’t decided what to do with themselves.

“I wasn’t flirting with Emma—those pickup lines were for Mr. Swan! Wait, that sounds worse—not like that! I didn’t know it was her, okay? They were just dumb jokes. Stupid, harmless, tragically unfunny jokes! I mean, who even tries to flirt by complimenting someone’s…? I panicked! And not because I wanted them to work, because they didn’t! Obviously! Not that I was trying to—ugh—why is my mouth still moving? Do you—um—want a drink? Water? Tea? Coffee?”

She reached for a mug that didn’t exist, nearly launching the napkin holder into orbit. “Because coffee,” she muttered, cheeks flaming. “Coffee is neutral. Coffee is Switzerland. In a cup.”

Regina stood just behind her.

Close enough that Emma could feel the weight of her presence, the faint stir of breath against her shoulder. Arms folded, voice low and precise, she didn’t need volume to command the room—just proximity.

Ruby’s words died mid-spiral. Her eyes darted from Emma to the shadow behind her, panic blooming like wildfire.

Regina arched a brow, slow and surgical. “How… diplomatic,” she murmured, each syllable brushed with velvet and warning. “Though I must say, I’ve never heard neutrality explained through caffeine before.”

She leaned in, just enough for Emma to feel the shift in air. “Tell me, Miss Lucas—does that coffee come with asylum… or just plausible deniability?”

Emma didn’t turn. But her jaw tightened, and her fingers curled slightly on the counter—like she was holding something back. Or holding something in.

“Ruby. I’ve got this.”

Emma’s voice barely rose above a breath, tight with something she refused to name. She turned—slowly, deliberately—drawn not by duty, but by gravity. Her eyes fell first on the stiletto: black, patent, merciless in its rhythm against the floor. Each tap struck like a countdown.

Her gaze climbed.

Calves like sculpted marble, thighs wrapped in fabric that knew too much. The pencil skirt—flawless, form-fitting—held secrets in its seams. Higher still, the cinched waist, the sharp line of a jacket that dared anyone to undress it with their eyes. Emma did.

By the time her gaze reached Regina’s face, her breath was gone. Lips parted, heat flooding her chest, her fingertips aching with the urge to touch—something, anything.

Then pain exploded.

Her head snapped sideways, the world fracturing into light and sound. The sharp slap echoed, but it was the silence that followed that hollowed her out. Emma reeled, hand rising to her cheek. It burned—God, it burned—and not just from skin.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She just stood there, jaw trembling, lashes heavy. Her pulse thrummed in her throat like it wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

And Regina—Regina hadn’t moved.

Slack jaws. The clatter of cutlery. Gasps cracked the hush like lightning splitting a stormless sky. Granny’s held its breath.

Emma didn’t flinch again. She stood frozen—shoulders locked; hands curled at her sides—while the sting on her cheek throbbed like something personal had been branded into her.

The slap still echoed in her bones, skin tingling with heat that wasn’t just pain. It was memory. Shame. Want. Her fingers curled tighter, the air too thin, too thick. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her eyes lifted.

Slowly.

Those familiar green eyes, always so quick to spark or steady, now swam with unshed tears and something rawer—something desperate. They reached for Regina’s, pleading for... she didn’t know what. Forgiveness? Recognition? A hint that this wasn’t all unravelling for nothing.

But Regina’s gaze didn’t flinch. Didn’t flicker. Just bored into her—dark chocolate, sharp around the edges, molten at the core. No soft gold. No quiet yielding. Only fury, frozen.

And not the kind that begged to be matched.

The kind that dared her to break first.

Emma’s breath hitched.

This wasn’t a fight. It was an ending.

And the room—God, the room—watched it happen like it meant something sacred. Something profane.

Someone at a back table whispered her name like it was a prayer or a warning. Emma didn’t turn. She stared back into that furious silence, cheek burning, spine locked, pulse crashing against her ribs like it wanted out.

She didn’t know if she wanted to cry, scream, or fall to her knees.

She just knew she wanted.

Her.

Still.

The silence had its own weight now. Not just a hush, but a presence—thick, unyielding, like the room itself was holding its breath around them.

Emma could feel the eyes. All of them. Some wide with pity, some narrowed in judgment. But none of that mattered. Not really. Only she mattered.

Regina hadn’t said a word.

She didn’t have to.

The imprint of her palm still burned on Emma’s cheek—a brand, a boundary, a wound. And Emma stood there like someone waiting to be forgiven but too proud, too wrecked, to ask.

Her throat tightened. Everything inside her was coiled—shame, desire, grief. It all sat behind her ribs like a scream that wouldn’t come out.

The slap wasn’t what shattered her.

It was the stillness afterward. That terrible, deliberate stillness. Like Regina was daring her to feel it all at once.

And she did.

Her knees threatened to buckle. Not from the pain, but the weight of everything they’d never said. Every touch misread. Every moment they let something real curl beneath the surface and rot.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Slow.

Still no mercy in Regina’s eyes.

If anything, she looked...calmer now.

And that was the cruellest thing of all.

“You.”
Regina's voice sliced through the air as she advanced, a finger jabbing with punishing precision into Emma’s chest.
“You. Did. This.”
Each word detonated between them, brittle and sharp.

Emma barely managed a breath. “Regina, please”

“No,” Regina snapped, each syllable unravelling her composure by degrees. “You don’t get to speak. Not after I walked in and found the two of you tangled in her sheets—like none of it ever meant anything.”

Regina’s voice cracked—not from weakness, but from the quake of something splintering at the centre of her. She stepped closer, a tremor tightening her posture, her fury barely contained.

Her lips curled with something between disgust and disbelief.

“In her bed,” she whispered, like saying it again might make it make sense. “I can’t unsee it. I can’t unknow it. And you—” her eyes burned into Emma’s, furious, aching, aching— “don’t get to rewrite what I saw just to make it easier for you to live with.”

Emma dropped her gaze, but Regina wasn’t done. She turned, eyes locking on Ruby like a fresh blade.

Ruby’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“You didn’t catch her. You caught the pieces. And you held onto them like they were yours to keep.”

She turned back to Emma then, slower this time. As if even that movement hurt.

“And you let her.”

Ruby opened her mouth, but no words surfaced—just the hollow silence of shame.

Regina whipped back to Emma and closed the space between them in a heartbeat. Her fingers clamped around Emma’s chin, jerking her face inches from her own.

They were eye to eye. Breath to breath.

Emma’s green eyes sparkled with tears and shattered guilt. Regina’s searched her face—every flicker, every twitch—until she found nothing but the wreckage of what used to be.

Then her grip faltered.

She gasped—low, wounded. Her hand flew to her chest, trying to catch a heart that had just fallen through her ribs. She staggered back, shaking her head in quiet disbelief.

“You broke everything,” she whispered, barely audible. “And you did it together.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but her voice stayed sharp.

"Regina—wait. Please." Emma surged forward, her voice rough with urgency, but it was too late. With a breath that trembled like a held goodbye and a flick of her wrist, Regina disappeared in a spiral of violet mist.

The scent of lilac lingered in her wake—sharp, floral, haunting. It curled around Emma’s boots like a phantom touch, then rose, unravelling into the stillness. Emma stood frozen, fists clenched, breathing the air that still tasted like Regina.

“Huh,” Emma breathed, eyes locked on the swirling trail of lilac as it bled into the air. “That’s… new.”

Ruby hovered, restless and pale, her voice barely holding. “Regina’s gonna kill me. I mean—God—us. I didn’t mean to—”

Emma cut in, not unkindly, but hollow. “She won’t kill you.”

A beat. Her smile ghosted and fell apart halfway, jaw tightening.

“Me, though?” She touched her cheek like she could press the moment out of her skin. “Yeah. That’s a different story.”

Ruby didn’t speak right away. When she did, it was almost a whisper. “You still think she doesn’t love you?”

Emma’s laugh was small and sharp, like something breaking.

Ruby met her eyes and nodded once. “After that? She loves you. No doubt. Not even a little.”

The diner was hushed. Not the peaceful kind—the brittle, stunned kind. Forks hovered midair, conversations frozen, eyes darting like maybe someone else could explain it first. But no one moved. No one spoke. Everyone was still chewing the aftertaste of what had just taken place.

"I knew she hadn’t changed," Leroy muttered, stuffing another fry into his mouth. The crunch was too loud in the stillness, a jarring sound that made more than one person flinch.

Emma didn't respond.

She stood like she'd forgotten how to sit. Her palm still cradled the side of her face where Regina’s hand had landed—warm and stinging. The shock hadn’t worn off. Not really. It was layered in her skin now, threaded through her ribs.

That silence stretched. Not empty—pregnant with things unsaid. With disbelief. With guilt. With too much history bleeding into the present.

Leroy took another bite, but slower this time, like even he felt the weight of the room shift.

Emma blinked, lips parting like she meant to speak, but nothing came out. Just breath. Just the sound of something breaking—quietly, internally.

Then her voice: fragile, cracked. "I deserved that."

Nobody believed her.

Especially not herself.

He scoffed. "Whatever. I’m just glad we got that guy out before the Queen hollowed him out completely."

The words didn’t register at first. Emma’s thoughts were still back there, replaying the slap, the silence, the way no one looked her in the eye.

She looked up. Eyes sharp, glassy with something unspoken. The air tightened—wire-thin, straining.

"What guy?" Her voice didn’t just crack; it fractured—like ice splintering under weight. "Which Queen?"

Leroy hesitated. Blinked once, twice caught between guilt and gall. Then he shrugged, the gesture empty, defensive, too casual to be real. "What’s it to you?" he muttered, like a kid lobbing stones at a lion’s cage just to prove he could.

And then—soft, smug, cruel:
“Fallen Saviour.”

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way they landed—like he'd thrown a match into something soaked in sorrow.

Emma didn’t flinch. She didn’t speak. But something behind her eyes closed off, quietly—like someone pulling a curtain shut mid-scene. Not rage. Not yet. Just that awful stillness before something gives.

She took one step forward. Just one.
It thudded through the space between them like a gavel. Final.

"Leroy."
She said his name like a sentence.
"Say that again."

No tremor now. No break.
Just quiet steel. A voice burnished sharp by betrayal. Colder than cold—the kind of cold that remembers warmth and grieves it.

Leroy’s grin twitched. Faltered.
And for a second, the silence between them looked a lot like regret.

Emma was on him in three steps—sharp, surgical, inevitable.
The quiet in her voice had teeth.

"Leroy."
Each syllable a locked trigger.
"Unless you want to spend the next ten years getting intimately acquainted with the inside of a cell, tell me..."

He raised his hands, chuckling too quick, too thin—like it might buy him time.

"Okay, okay! The guy who rocked up at Granny’s in nothing but a towel and a stupid grin. The Evil Queen had him totally under her thrall."

The words landed—and time skewed.

Emma didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.

The name wasn’t spoken.
It didn’t have to be.

Her stomach twisted. The room buckled at the edges—slanting sideways, slow, and cruel. Reality tugged at her like a wave pulling under.
No.
It couldn’t be.
But the ache at the base of her throat said otherwise.

Her silence wasn’t numbness. It was recognition.

"What did you do?"

Her voice didn’t waver. That was the worst part. No fury. No heat. Just bone-deep stillness, like a wound right before it begins to bleed.

Leroy snorted a laugh. “Man, we had to haul him and Ruby back to her place, Queens orders, she’d roofied them—they were both plastered. Out cold. We stripped ‘em down, tucked ‘em in. Doubt he got lucky, if you catch my drift, sister.” He jammed another fry into his mouth, grinning. “Ain’t seen him since either. Ruby must’ve been pissed.’ A pause. He gave a brittle laugh, tried to pass it off like the punchline of a bad joke. "She said it’d teach the Evil Queen a lesson. Now is that all? I’m tryna eat here.”

The words clattered into the space between them like broken glass.
Emma didn’t move.

But her silence wasn’t stillness anymore. It was containment. The kind of quiet that warns of aftershocks. Her jaw flexed once. No tears, no breath—just the slow collapse of something sacred.

He’d said nothing happened
But too much already had.

Her expression held. A still portrait in a moment that begged to shatter.
But her breath trembled—quiet, uneven. Betrayal didn’t scream. It seeped.
Her fingers curled in, nails biting deep until crescent moons bloomed red across her palm.

“Just to clarify.” The words came slow, rusted at the edges like they’d torn their way out.
“Queen Snow asked you to orchestrate some sordid little meeting… just to destroy Regina’s happiness?”

Emma didn’t shout. Didn’t flinch. She just stared—with something colder than rage.
“tell me this isn’t you. Tell me you didn’t strike the match and then walk away, hoping no one saw the smoke.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. More like an autopsy of loyalty.

Leroy didn’t look at her.
His silence swelled, heavy and ugly—pregnant with a thousand things he would never dare say.

"I don’t ask questions," he muttered into his fries “I follow orders”
A shrug in his tone. A coward’s armour.
"But yeah... that’s about the size of it."

Then—like punctuation on a confession he didn’t understand—
He took a swig of beer.
Loud, casual, oblivious.

Emma didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
But the damage was done.
And inside, something sacred was quietly, methodically crumbling.

"You should have."

The words didn’t lash. They didn’t scream.
They just… existed.
Cracked.
Empty.

“I want all of you to listen—and listen well.”

Emma’s voice sliced through Granny’s like broken glass, sharp and deliberate. Her posture was rigid, trembling on the edge of shatter, but her eyes burned—furious, unflinching.

“Regina. Madam Mayor. Is not responsible for this.”

She gestured—to the bruised bloom of her cheek, to the space Regina had occupied moments before like a ghost still echoing in the air. The absence ached.

“This? All of this? It’s my fault.”

Her words weren’t a confession. They were an exorcism.

“There will be no retaliation. No whispered threats. No back-alley justice. Regina has clawed her way back from the edge too many times to be dragged down because of me. If you need someone to hate—fine. Hate me.”

She turned then—slow, dangerous—and locked eyes with Leroy.

“If I find out anyone, and I mean anyone, lays so much as a verbal hand on Regina or provokes her into using her magic…”

The threat hung like a guillotine.

“We hear you, Sheriff,” Leroy muttered, a poor attempt at snide retreat. “Hands off the Evil Queen.”

Emma was in motion before the air caught up.

She crossed the space between them like a stormfront, standing so close he could smell the ozone of her anger.

The diner went deathly still.

“Regina isn't the Evil Queen anymore,” Emma snarled, voice shaking with a fury that came from bone and blood and too many battles fought side by side. “And anyone who says otherwise will have me to answer to.”

Her words built like thunder.

“She’s proven herself—again and again—saving all of your asses while you stood there and judged her. What’s it gonna take? Her corpse on your doorstep? A fucking gravestone to satisfy your righteousness?”

Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure of what she was holding back.

“She’s mine.”

It slipped out like a secret too long buried. Not a possession—a tether. A vow wrapped in regret.

“The mother of my son. My Queen. And so, help me, if anyone dares to hurt her or take her from me or Henry…”

A pause—raw, ragged, infinite.

“I will destroy their happiness. If it’s the last thing I do!”

The words weren’t shouted. They were delivered with the quiet, calm certainty of someone who has nothing left to lose and everything left to protect.

Then she turned—abrupt, like a wound snapped shut—and shoved through the exit, chest heaving, fingers digging at her sternum like she could claw the ache out.

The bell above the door jangled innocently. Behind her, silence swelled.

Muted murmurs followed in her wake like dust after a collapse. No one moved. No one dared breathe too loud.

And then it began—slow, uneasy.

Whispers snaked through the room.

Why had she called Regina hers?

What had she done to lose forgiveness?

What could make their Saviour choose the Queen?

It wasn’t a speech they’d just witnessed. It was a reckoning.
And for the first time, they didn’t know whose side to stand on.

SQ

Emma hunched behind her desk in the Sheriff’s office, launching another crumpled memo toward the bin. It missed—again—joining a scatter of paper ghosts that refused to disappear.
1 week.
7 Days.
168 Hours.
604,800 Seconds.
Since she walked out of Granny’s and left everything burning behind her.

Not like she was counting.
Except she was. Every breath since had tasted like ash.

She slumped back into the chair, jaw clenched against the memory. She hadn’t just walked out of a diner. She’d abandoned belief—in herself, in second chances, in the idea that she could be someone worth staying for.

The ache in her chest hadn’t dulled; it had metastasized. A constant thrum under her ribs, echoing with all the things she should’ve said, should’ve done—should’ve been.

“Idiot,” she muttered, dragging both hands down her face like she could scrape away the guilt. “Coward.”

“Finally, something we agree on, Sheriff Swan.”

Emma flinched—not from the words, but from the voice. Low. Icy. Familiar like muscle memory and just as unforgiving.

Regina stood in the doorway, a flame flickering to life in her palm with an almost lazy grace.

Emma didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Go for the heart,” she said hoarsely. “Nothing else left worth breaking.”

The flame in Regina’s palm shivered—then dwindled to a dying ember, as if her fury had forgotten its script. Her gaze sharpened, not with wrath, but with a grief she hadn’t given herself permission to name.

“You don’t get to play the martyr,” she said, low and lethal. “You lit the match. I just stood there while everything I cared about burned down around me.”

Emma rose—slowly, like the world might fracture under her feet if she moved too fast. Her voice didn’t waver, but something behind it splintered with each word.

“Only I didn’t,” she said. “Ruby and I... it wasn’t like that. If you’d just let me, explain—five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was brimming. Regina’s breath faltered, just once. It wasn’t a sob. Wasn’t even a gasp. But it cracked something open.

“You think five minutes is enough to unmake betrayal?” she whispered. “You think time bends like that, for you?”

She turned slightly, like even looking at Emma had become an act of self-preservation.

“Everything I’ve rebuilt,” Regina said, softer now, “I did it with hands that still smelled like you. And you want to hand me reasons?”

Emma didn’t flinch. Didn’t plead. But her hands curled slightly at her sides, like they were grasping for something that wasn’t there.

“No,” she said, not louder—but with more weight. “I want to hand you the truth.”

She took a step closer, slow, careful. Not to close distance, but to show she wasn’t running. She looked at Regina then, really looked—like she was searching for a way back she didn’t believe she deserved.

“But I never stopped wanting to explain. Not because I think five minutes will fix this… but because if I don’t, then you’ll never know what didn’t happen. And that lie will hurt worse than the truth.”

Reginas voice came crisp, measured—like steel polished to gleam, not to shine.

“You’re here in your capacity as sheriff,” she said. “Not as someone entitled to personal explanations, and I am here in my capacity as Henrys Mother.”

Emma blinked. It wasn’t harshness in Regina’s tone that caught her—it was the absence. That deliberate hollowing-out, like Regina had swept emotion off the table and set professionalism in its place like fine China.

“I’ve made it clear where we stand,” Regina continued. “You’ll liaise with my office when necessary. Otherwise, let’s keep our paths as separate as possible.”

She turned then—just enough to let the silence underscore it.

“Unfortunately, we are both mothers to Henry. So yes, I’ll remain civil. But don’t mistake that for forgiveness.”

She finally looked over, just enough for Emma to see the cool efficiency in her expression. Not contempt. Not anger. Just… closure. Dressed in protocol.

“For the sake of this town,” Regina added, “I will always work with you. But I won’t pretend there’s anything left to salvage.”

Emma didn’t move. Didn’t speak right away. She just stood there, letting the words settle like dust after an explosion no one saw coming.

Then, quietly—gently, even—she said, “I wouldn’t ask you to pretend.”

Her voice was steady, but worn at the edges, like a favourite shirt gone thin at the seams. “I know I can’t fix this. I just… needed you to know I’m still me. Even if that doesn’t matter anymore.”

She didn’t step forward. Didn’t try to close the space Regina had so clearly drawn. But she stayed.

“That’s all,” Emma added. “You don’t have to say anything.”

And then she gave the smallest nod—one of acceptance, not defeat—. No drama. No lingering glance. Just the quiet dignity of someone who still shows up, even knowing the door won’t open.

“So… what’s going on with our son?” Emma asked, her voice low but not steady.

Regina didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her smile was measured—too sharp, too polished. “My son, dear.”

Emma’s breath caught like a bruise blooming behind her ribs. “Regina—”

“I thought we had an understanding.” The calm in Regina’s voice was deceptive, laced with precision. “You handle patrols. I handle parenting.”

“That wasn’t—” Emma’s throat tightened. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“No?” Regina angled her head, gaze cool and unblinking. “Because from where I’m standing, that’s what it became. Quietly. Consistently.”

Emma stepped forward. “I never stopped being his mother.”

Regina’s laugh was soft, but it landed hard. “And yet, somehow, you managed to vanish with the efficiency of someone who meant to.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Regina said, too quickly. Then softer, almost to herself: “But it is true.”

A breath hung in the space between them.

“We are not doing this here,” Regina said. Her voice didn’t rise, but it turned brittle, like porcelain under pressure. “Not in this hallway. Not like this.”

Emma didn’t move. “So, you get to rewrite it all?”

“I get to protect him,” Regina snapped, the control cracking for half a second. “From confusion. From pain. From people who don’t stay.”

Emma flinched. “That’s not what I did.”

“But it’s what he felt.” Regina’s tone dropped to something more tired than angry. “And right now, his clarity matters more than your guilt.”

There it was. The kill shot. But it didn’t land cruel—it landed tired. Earnest. Almost kind.

Silence stretched.

Then softer than either expected:

“…He still asks for you,” Regina said, eyes somewhere over Emma’s shoulder. “But I don’t give him answers I can’t stand behind anymore.”

Emma didn’t answer.

She just looked at the door.

And Regina left, quietly this time—no flounce, no click of heels. Just the sound of distance being made.

SQ

Emma sat alone at the booth in Granny’s; her hand wrapped around her phone like it still had something to say. The screen stayed dark, its silence louder than the clatter of dishes and distant conversation. She wasn’t waiting. Not really. But if Regina cancelled now, it would be the last thread snapped—and Emma wasn’t sure she had it in her to knot anything back together.

The bell above the door chimed.

Emma didn’t look up at first—but something in the air shifted, thickened. Storybrooke wasn’t subtle. It felt when ghosts walked in wearing familiar skin.

Regina entered first, Henry beside her, and they moved like punctuation—like the end of something that never got said out loud.

Regina’s hand landed on Emma’s shoulder before she could stand. Warm. Grounding. Intentional. It lingered—not a restraint, exactly, but not comfort either. Something in between. Emma didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe. Not while that hand stayed.

It slipped away a beat too late. Enough to leave heat behind.

Regina sat opposite her, spine straight, fingers folding as if she were bracing to deliver a sentence. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

Emma’s throat tightened. “Mayor… Mills.” Her voice caught on the name like it wasn’t hers to say anymore. She turned to Henry, struggling for warmth. “Hey, kid. I’ve missed you.”

His stare cut right through her. “Whatever. Ten years without you—what’s six more weeks?”

Emma’s breath snagged in her chest. She tried to speak. Couldn’t

Regina’s hand on Henry’s shoulder steadied him like a paperweight over storm warnings. He calmed. Only just.

“Henry,” she rasped, “I’m sorry.”

His reply was cold steel. “For what? For leaving? For proving, again, that when things get hard, you vanish?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Henry’s scoff was bitter. “Sure, it is. Grandma told me all about Mr. Swan. The vault. The mess you left us to sweep up like it was just another bad memory.” He leaned forward, voice quieter now but sharp enough to cut. “Didn’t you think it was weird I didn’t react when I saw you at the apartment?”

Emma’s head jerked toward Regina. Her eyes flared—not just with fury, but something rawer. Betrayal. Like the air had been knocked from her lungs. Her fingers clenched the edge of the table.

Regina didn’t flinch beneath the weight of that look. Her reply came soft but resolute, even as something flickered behind her eyes. “I’ve told him the truth.”

A beat.

“We’re both still processing.”

Emma’s jaw trembled. “You told him everything?”

Regina met her gaze—steady, almost painfully so. “I told him what mattered.”

Emma’s laugh was low, broken. “And what did you leave out? That I tried? That I loved—”

Regina’s hand lifted slightly, like she might reach again. But it settled on her lap instead, fingers folding tight.

Henry cut back in. “You don’t get to spin this. Not now. You made your choice.”

And for a moment, Emma looked ready to argue—to plead, maybe—but the words wouldn’t come. Just the hollow rise and fall of her chest as she sat surrounded by the wreckage of things once known, now named.

Emma blinked too fast. “Life’s not a storybook. There’s no spell to fix this. Sometimes… sometimes love’s just two people who keep breaking each other by trying to hold on.”

Henry’s fists curled. “I hate you,” he said—small, honest, and irretrievable. “I hate you for leaving. For hurting her.”

Emma didn’t flinch.

“You are true loves” he still believed, his voice cracking like ice underfoot.

“Henry,” Regina warned, soft but fraying.

But he didn’t stop. “And you broke her.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence. It was collapse—the kind no one rushed to catch.

Regina sighed. “Not here,” she said, and there was something cracked in it. Like here had once meant family and now meant fallout.

Emma opened her mouth. Tried. The word didn’t make it past her throat. Home.

“I don’t want to see you again,” Henry whispered. “We gave you everything. You don’t know how to love.”

He stood. Left. No slammed door, no storm. Just the cruel elegance of absence.

Emma didn’t move. Technically, she was breathing, but it felt like memory more than function.

Regina didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her. Not yet.

Then she rose—quiet, deliberate. Moved behind Emma again.

Her shadow folded over Emma’s shoulders before her hand did. The fingers brushed the back of her neck delicate. Cruel. Known. And they stayed there, just long enough for Emma to think please.

Then came the lean—close enough to steal warmth, or offer it, though it wasn’t clear which.

“Hurts, doesn’t it,” Regina murmured, her breath stirring the hairs at Emma’s nape, “when your son looks at you and sees nothing left to love.”

Her hand didn’t fall away.

Not right away.

It lingered.

Pressed in.

Then gone.

And Emma—

She inhaled, sharp.

That was the break.

Not a sob. Not a sound. Just the way her fingers began to tremble against the tabletop. The way her body tipped forward a fraction, like the weight of almost reaching back had thrown her off balance.

The seat across from her was empty, but not vacant. It echoed. It ached.

Her phone lit up once.

Not a message.

Just a low battery warning.

And Emma Swan—who had weathered curses, death, magic—stared at it like she couldn’t remember what full ever felt like.

Chapter Text

Henry curled close to Regina’s side, her arm cocooning his shoulders in a gesture that asked for nothing and gave everything. The television played one of his favourite Marvel films—Captain America—but neither of them was truly watching. The hum of the screen filled the silence, a fragile veil over the bruised quiet between them.

Regina pressed a soft kiss into his unruly brown hair, her fingers tightening just slightly as she recalled the outburst at the diner. Henry’s words had cut sharp, not just at her, but at the sheriff he once idolized. There would need to be consequences—firm ones—but not tonight. Tonight, his anguish rang louder than his defiance, and Regina knew that any discipline now would only deepen wounds neither of them were ready to look at.

Instead, she held him tighter, letting the weight of his small body tether her to something still and warm. Her lashes drifted shut, breath syncing with his, and her thoughts pulled backward—past the diner, past the sting—to something that had begun unravelling a week before.

One Week Earlier

The locks were checked, the lights dimmed. Regina climbed the grand staircase with a weary determination, her hand trailing the banister as though anchoring herself to the house she no longer had the energy to command. Six weeks of relentless demands had worn her thin, and tonight, every step felt steeper than the last. By the time she reached the landing, a wave of dizziness forced her still. She gripped the banister hard, knuckles white, the other hand bracing low against her abdomen. Closing her eyes, she drew in slow, measured breaths until the spinning dulled and the corridor steadied beneath her feet.

From inside, drawers banged open and shut, punctuated by the pitchy screech of a pop song whose charm would likely wear thin within the week. He sang along with fearless abandon. It should have annoyed her. It didn’t. Not even a little.

Her fingers brushed her sternum, resting there as though she could contain the well of emotion rising beneath her ribs. He was so much like Emma—rambunctious, headstrong, already rewriting the rules without permission. It used to scare her. Now, it just... hurt.

She stepped away. Not because she wanted to leave him, but because she couldn’t quite bear how much she missed something she couldn’t name.

The bathroom was a disaster. A war zone of adolescence. Towels in surrender, laundry casualties scattered in odd clumps. She gathered the clothing, one sock at a time, the bend of her spine slower than it used to be. Pain whispered again at the base of her spine, low and constant.

At the sink, she wiped away the aftermath of toothpaste battles and tossed the squashed tube into the bin with a soft plunk. She murmured, three points, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Then she opened the cabinet.

Her hand hovered.

Stilled.

The tremor in her fingers betrayed her. The moment dilated—soundless, suspended. She didn’t want to count. Didn’t want to know. But she already did.

Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat. Her body remembered what her mind had avoided.

Suddenly moving again, Regina hurried downstairs to her study, flicked on the lamp with shaking fingers, and dragged open the drawer. Her leather-bound planner, elegant and precise, opened obediently. She flipped back—one week, two—seven, eight and stopped.

A red circle stared back at her.

She counted forward, lips moving, silent.

Then she called.

“Henry. Henry!”

There was a pause, and then the creak of a door.

“You okay, Mom?”

She swallowed. “Perfectly, dear. I just wondered... would you be alright on your own for a bit?”

He frowned. “Mom. I’m not a little kid.”

“I know.” Her voice was light, too light. “Just finish your homework. I won’t be long.”

“Okay. I love you.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I love you too.”

Then, without hesitation, she vanished—lilac smoke curling in the shape of a woman unravelling quietly.

SQ

Sleep had proven elusive again. Regina turned beneath the sheets like driftwood in a restless tide, the weight of her thoughts pressing harder than the mattress beneath her. For six weeks, night had become a cruel ritual of half-sleep and racing thoughts—always too much, never enough.

By dawn, she abandoned the pretence altogether. The sky outside bled rose and ash, casting long streaks across her bedroom walls. She moved through her morning routine as if underwater, every motion muted by exhaustion. Her silk robe clung coolly to her skin; the floor chilled her bare feet with each step to the bathroom. Chilly water splashed her face, but it did little to erase the hollows beneath her eyes.

She dressed without hesitation—tailored slacks, a crisp white blouse, and her usual power heels. The ritual of dressing to perfection was a kind of armour. As long as the seams aligned and the collar stayed stiff, she could pretend things were not unravelling beneath the surface.

In the kitchen, she prepared breakfast for two: poached eggs, sliced avocado, and whole-grain toast arranged just so. The act was mechanical, precise—an echo of a mother clinging to what she could still control. The smell of coffee was rich and promising, but the first sip betrayed her. Bitter. Thin. A poor imitation of the hit she craved.

Henry tore through the mansion moments later like a miniature cyclone, shouting last-minute questions to himself as he flung books into his bag. The scent of his shampoo trailed behind him—green apple and something unnameable bright—and her heart squeezed.

He paused long enough for a kiss to his mop of hair, and just like that, the door shut behind him.

She stood alone on the stoop, the echo of his footsteps fading into the still morning air.

Everything was different now. She could feel it—like a held breath, like the soft hum of something growing quietly in the dark. One hand drifted to her abdomen, her palm light, reverent. Her body still felt foreign—off-balance, uncertain—but the warmth beneath her fingers was real.

A smile ghosted across her lips, unbidden and unreadable. Not joy. Not relief. Something quieter. Something complicated.

Something beginning.

SQ

Regina pulled into her usual spot outside Granny’s, the low hum of her Mercedes idling for a moment before she cut the engine. The leather interior, still warm from the sun, clung to the back of her thighs as she stepped out.

She smoothed her black pencil skirt, fingers gliding over fabric already flawless. A swipe at invisible lint on her tailored jacket followed. Ritual. Precision. Armour.

Then came the pause.

Hand poised on the door, she caught sight of the scene inside—Emma, leaning against the counter in casual communication with Ruby, who nudged her playfully, their shared laughter unfurling like cigarette smoke in a locked room. Regina’s stomach tightened. Something sour climbed her throat. The Sheriff’s grin—unguarded, youthful—was a rare thing. And far too easily given away.

For a heartbeat, Regina simply stood there, the pressure in her chest sharp and hot, an ache that knew too many names. The bolt of fury that followed was silent but absolute.

She hadn’t meant to come. And yet the door flew open like it resented her hesitation. Spring wind burst in first—feral, impatient—pulling petals along in its wake. They scattered across the tile like confetti from a party she’d only learned about in its aftermath.

The room shifted. Not the clatter of movement—something quieter. Denser. As if the space itself exhaled and forgot how to draw breath again.

Regina stood in the doorway and watched the warmth drain from the air. Eyes found her. Shoulders stiffened.

She stepped forward. Each heel-strike echoing like a verdict. No rush, no apology—just presence, deliberate and cold. She was the shadow they all thought they’d outrun.

And then—her. Emma. Turned away, tucked small like a secret. That posture told a story Regina hadn’t asked to read. Arms tight. Back bowed. Like guilt had weight and she was wearing all of it.

Her breath fogged the air. Shallow. Fraying at the edges. Good.

Behind the counter, Ruby fumbled noise into the silence. Coffee. Sugar. Something about Emma. It didn’t matter. Her voice was a dam trying to hold back the inevitable. Mr. Swan. Mr. Swan.

Regina's focus slid through the words like a knife through fog. They weren’t speaking to her. They were speaking around her.

Until she spoke.

“Tell me, Miss Lucas,” she said, voice butter-soft and dagger-honed, “does that coffee come with asylum... or just plausible deniability?”

Silence fell like ash.

Ruby stammered and shrank, and the room remembered it had no script for this. Emma turned.

It was involuntary—like a plant toward light, like a wound toward salt. Her eyes dragged upward, slow, reluctant. Stiletto. Knee. Hip. Waist. Throat. And then face. The quiet in them was worse than tears. Like something waiting to be punished.

And maybe that’s what she wanted. To pay.

Regina didn’t warn her.

The slap cracked the air wide open. Emma's head snapped sideways, hair lashing across her cheek. She didn’t speak. Hand rising to reddening skin. Just stood there—sketch-faint, trembling. Every muscle pulled tight to keep from shattering.

Regina’s hand throbbed. Still raised. Still burning.

It wasn’t the sound that satisfied her.

It was the silence after—the collective holding of breath. The knowledge that Emma felt it. Not just the pain. The message.

And then Emma looked at her.

Really looked. No shields. No charm. Just pain, unedited. Regina felt her own breath hitch—gutted, guilty, God, still wanting.

Emma whispered, “Regina Please.”

A single syllable. Small. Ruined. A white flag made of breath.

Regina ignored the part of her that wanted to touch her. To forgive her. To stay.

“In her bed,” she said, voice low, almost reverent. “I can’t unsee. I can’t unknow. And you-” her eyes burned into Emma’s, furious, aching, aching— “don’t get to rewrite what I saw just to make it easier for you to live with.” “

Words followed. Messy. Sharp. More pain than syntax. She let it spill, cut herself on it. Let everyone watch.

She stepped close again, too close. Cupped Emma’s chin like she was something precious once. Looked for a lie in her face and found nothing but truth. And that was worse.

Her hand dropped. Her breath didn’t come.

You broke everything,” she whispered, barely audible. “And you did it together”

And then she left.

Because staying would mean something she couldn’t survive. Because if she stayed, she'd touch her. Forgive her. Fall again.

Because she still loved her.

And that was the worst wound of all.

Present Day

Regina startled awake to the hush of a silent TV and the weight of a quilt pulled delicately to her chest—Henry’s quiet kindness stitched into every fold. The living room was dark, save for the soft glow that edged around the curtains. Her limbs ached with exhaustion, but her mind refused to still. Sleep would not return, not tonight.

She rose, careful not to disturb the quilt’s careful placement, and slipped out onto the veranda. The wood was cold beneath her bare feet. She wrapped the quilt tighter around her shoulders and pressed her palms to the railing, grounding herself as the horizon began to burn—a quiet riot of amber and rose bleeding into the edges of the sky.

Behind her, the boards creaked. A voice followed—low, sleep-rough, and warm like bourbon poured slow on a winter night.

“There’s something about the start of a new day,” Emma said. “Like it hasn’t decided who it’s going to hurt yet.”

Regina didn’t turn. Her grip on the railing tightened. The ache behind her ribs eased, but only just.

“I find the quiet before sunrise… tolerable,” she murmured. “It doesn’t demand anything from me.”

A silence, deep and deliberate, settled between them. Not quite comfort. Not quite confrontation.

“You haven’t used my name in weeks.”

“It’s a deliberate choice,” Regina replied, a flick of cold steel beneath the weariness.

Another pause. Then soft movement. Emma knelt beside her—not touching, just close enough for Regina to feel the heat of her presence. Her head bowed. Her words were nearly a whisper.

It was time to remind Regina-her Queen of her fealty.

Emma’s voice scraped out of her throat quieter than she’d intended. “My Queen. You once asked if I were yours…”
The words tasted like the past—salted with everything she hadn’t dared speak then.
“You warned… if I ever let another touch me, you would destroy my happiness.”

Regina hadn’t moved. Not a twitch. But something inside her cracked. Not loudly. Not visibly. Just enough to let the ache in.

She remembered the night she’d said those words. Not with fury, but with feral desperation. She’d clutched Emma’s wrists then, pressed her mouth to a pulse that trembled beneath her tongue. Told herself it was control. That it meant nothing.

But Gods, it had meant everything.

And now—Emma’s gaze flicking upward, faltering. Emma kneeling.

“My Queen,” she whispered again, and it landed like a knife—reverence laced with something unbearably human: hope.

Regina’s hands tightened in the folds of her quilt. Not for warmth. For restraint. The Queen’s poise was a thread pulled taut—dangerously so. Her breath hitched like a lie halfway swallowed.

“I assure you… my happiness is destroyed.”

A breath she hadn’t meant to take shuddered through her. Her vision swam—not with tears, but with the ghosts of memory: the feel of Emma’s back arching into her touch; the taste of apology spoken through skin.

“But no other hand… no other hand except your own… has touched me.”

Regina flinched. Just barely. Her spine straightened, but not with power. With panic. Because those words were too much like absolution—and she didn’t deserve it.

And still Emma went on.

“No other has ever touched me… as you, my Queen.”

That was the moment. The blade between her ribs. The crown on her head felt suddenly too heavy. She clung to the quilt like it might anchor her, but it only reminded her that Emma had once disrobed her with trembling hands—and that she had let her.

She needed to respond. To rise above this. To draw the line where Queen and woman could no longer blur. But her mouth filled with betrayal—of herself most of all.

So, she laughed. Quiet. Brittle.

“That is not how you petition your Queen,” she said, and her voice did not echo—it folded inward, velveted with guilt masquerading as wit.

But there was no edge in her lips. No mockery. Only the aching silhouette of forgiveness, trying to find its shape.

“Rise,” she said, and though the word belonged to a queen, it cracked like a woman.

Emma didn’t move.

Regina’s gaze dragged over her—this kneeling, unshakable declaration dressed in grief and gold memory. Something ancient stirred in her—older than vengeance, older than rule. Something that knew devotion was a more dangerous blade than betrayal ever could be.

“You think to humble yourself before me?” Her voice curled sharp, but it shook as it shaped the syllables. “After all we’ve scorched into each other?”

She stepped closer—one pace, two—until Emma’s shadow pooled against her feet.

“This is not mercy,” Regina whispered. “It’s ruin. And you offer it like salvation.”

Emma lifted her eyes, and Gods, they were hope-struck.

That was when Regina faltered.

“You think I wanted you untouched?” Her hand twitched at her side, traitorous with memory. “I wanted you unchanged… by anyone but me.”

Her fingers found the edge of Emma’s jaw, ghosted there without contact. Hovered like a promise too dangerous to keep.

“I spoke those words in fear. In hunger. I warned you I would destroy your happiness… because I already had. And I couldn't bear to see someone else fix what I’d broken.”

Silence swelled again.

She let her hand fall.

She rose.

Not with reverence. Not with defiance. With something quieter.

Emma stood before Regina—not as subject, not as soldier, but as the woman who’d never stopped being hers, even in absence.

“I came back to remind you I’m still yours,” she said. “But not to beg. To show you who’s asking.”

Emma stepped closer, until their shadows tangled.

“Do you see me?” she whispered.

And this time, it wasn’t a plea. It was a challenge. A hope. A truth.

“I see you, Ms. Swan,” Regina murmured.

Emma’s voice cracked before her resolve did.

“Ruby and I didn’t betray you.”

It wasn’t a defence. It was a confession—guttural, desperate. Torn from a place so raw it didn’t even bleed.

Regina didn’t turn.

She gripped the railing with both hands like it might hold her inside her body. Her knuckles were ghost-pale. Her fingers curled in jagged tremors of restraint. When she spoke, her voice was the stillness before glass shatters.

“I saw the pictures.”

Not rage. Not accusation. Just ruin—quiet and hopeless, like the last word in a funeral prayer.

Emma stepped forward and stopped, her footfall collapsing into silence.

The space between them wasn’t empty anymore. It was thick with ghosts—unwritten mornings, touches half-lived, the almosts they’d never dared name aloud.

“Pictures?” she asked, voice breaking like a cracked mirror. “There are pictures?”

Regina tilted her head. Not toward Emma—past her. Like she was watching a version of the story where none of this had happened. “The first message came just before dawn. I remember the glow of it. I thought it was you.”

Her fingers flexed once, reaching for a memory she hadn’t allowed herself to grieve.

“I wanted it to be you.”

Emma’s inhale was a wound.

Emma’s breath hitched. “Regina—whatever was in those images—it wasn’t real. Leroy. Six others. We were drugged. Taken to Ruby’s, and images staged.”

Regina’s mouth curled, not in humour—just in disbelief so thick it choked the air. She turned, finally, just enough to put the distance between them into something deliberate.

Emma stepped closer. Deliberate, too. Unflinching.

“The images—they were code. Spliced and staged and weaponized. Someone wanted to break us. And they knew exactly where to cut.”

Regina’s breath caught. It was barely there, but it was everything.

“You think I don’t want to believe you?” she whispered. “I stared at those photos for hours. Until your smile stopped looking like love. Until your hand on her hip looked like seduction. Until I was the villain again—and that meant I deserved it.”

Emma’s voice trembled, but her eyes stayed firm. “There was no betrayal, Regina. Just grief in a costume. Just lies in our skin.”

Regina turned fully now, and when her eyes met Emma’s, they were storm drenched. Wild with rage—but none of it aimed at her.

“Who,” she said, low, shaking, “who would do this?”

Emma didn’t look away.

“You already know.”

Regina’s throat tightened. “Say it.”

Emma’s silence stretched just long enough to bruise. Then—

“Snow.”

And something in Regina stilled. Went very, very still.

“No.” Her laugh was hollow; a thing cracked beyond its shape. “No, Emma. You expect me to believe Snow White—the woman who claps when you breathe—would forge images of her daughter and send them to me?”

Regina froze—not in shock, but in something colder. Something older.

“She never punished her daughter,” Emma continued, voice thick with restraint. “She punished the version of me that didn’t fit her story. The Emma she couldn’t meld into softness and smiles. The one that chose you.”

Regina’s hands loosened at her sides, but her jaw remained tight. “Mr. Swan,” she murmured, and there was a grim twist to her mouth. “She always did prefer the performance to the person.”

Emma nodded once, slow. Like she was surrendering a truth she'd spent years keeping caged beneath her ribs.

“Because the real me—the one with the splinters and rough edges, the one who fell for you the second you looked at me like I wasn’t something to fix—that version didn’t belong in her fairytale. So, she carved me in two. Smiled at the half she understood. And buried the half that loved you like it was survival.”

Regina finally looked at her, and something flickered there—not forgiveness, not yet. But understanding. And maybe a beginning

“You said Snow didn’t target you,” Regina murmured, voice splinter thin. “But maybe that’s the worst part. Maybe she didn’t see you at all.”

Emma’s breath hitched—just once, but enough to tilt the room.

Her reply was a hush, half-ash, half-prayer.
“But you did. You always have. Even when I didn’t know what I looked like.”

Regina didn’t flinch.
“No matter what you looked like,” she said. Quiet. Certain. Like it had never been a question.
Her voice wasn’t soft—it was steady. Grounded in the truth she’d carried for so long it had shaped her spine.
“I didn’t fall for what you were supposed to be, Emma. I fell for who you were when no one was watching.”

Regina’s voice broke like dark water over stone. “She tried to erase our love.”

Emma’s smile was brittle, a thing she hadn’t worn in weeks. “She thought love was a mirror. You knew it was a fire.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it didn’t suffocate. It burned. Steady, slow. Like something sacred beginning to take shape beneath the ash.

Regina exhaled, ragged. Then one word, ragged and resolute:

“Together.”

Chapter Text

The sun had barely crested the rooftops, its light still gold and tentative. The house was hushed—too hushed. Morning usually came wrapped in sound: the soft clatter of dishes, the hiss of coffee brewing, the lazy murmur of someone passing through the hallway.

But today, silence lay across every surface like frost.
Delicate.
Invasive.

Henry stretched—limbs long and loose beneath the quilt, the careless sprawl of a boy not yet shaped by the day. A yawn tore free, echoing into stillness.

It didn’t belong.

The quilt slid from his shoulders with a reluctant sigh. His feet touched cool floorboards. A shiver slipped up his spine, but it wasn’t the cold that unsettled him.

Stillness.

No curtains rustling. No hallway lights flicked on. No scent of chai lingering warm in the air.

“Mom?” he called, voice thick with sleep.

Nothing.

Only the soft tick of the clock in the hallway—a sound that suddenly felt too loud, too certain.

The silence deepened with every step he took. It followed him—into the hallway dusted gold with light, past the open bathroom door with a faucet still wet from recent use.

“Mom?” Again—louder now. Sharper.

He padded down the stairs. The familiar creak on the fourth step didn’t comfort him. The kitchen was still. Plates untouched. Toast left cold. The coffeepot cold and empty.

No note. No routine. No Regina.

“Mom!” he called—and this time it cracked. Came back to him warped. Fear-shaped.

She always woke him first.

Always.

A flash of panic bloomed in his chest.

Then—movement.

The veranda door stood ajar. A breeze stirred the curtain like a beckoning hand.

Henry pushed it open. The screen groaned.

The air outside was warm. Too warm. As if the morning didn’t know what had broken. Birds chirped like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Regina lay curled on the porch lounger, half-tucked beneath a Sherpas blanket. Her breath moved soft and slow, lashes casting small shadows. She looked younger in sleep.

More girl than queen.

And nestled against her chest—
Emma.

Henry stopped breathing.

The sound that escaped him wasn’t a word. It wasn’t even human. Just a hollow gasp tangled in grief.

“Mom!”

Regina flinched awake. Disoriented. Her hand instinctively reached for Emma before sense returned.

Behind her, Emma murmured in her sleep, arms wrapping tighter as she pressed a kiss into dark hair. The gesture was small. Familiar.

Devastating.

Regina rose slowly, careful not to wake her again.

The wind picked up. Leaves whispered along the edge of the porch. Somewhere, a sprinkler hissed to life.

Henry was already trembling.

“What is she doing here?” he demanded, voice brittle. “After what she did to us? What is she doing here?”

Regina’s expression barely wavered. “Henry—”

“No!” His fists clenched. “She’s not my mom. You are. You always were.”

His gaze found Emma again. The way her hand had curled possessively into the blanket. The way her body didn’t flinch from warmth.

She looked safe in sleep.
Like she belonged there.
Like Henry had never stood between them at all—
and that hurt worst of all.

“She never wanted me,” he said, softer—but it landed harder. “You told me that. You promised I mattered.”

Regina stepped forward. “You do.”

“She’s a liar!”

The words rang out and shattered something.

For a moment—everything stopped.

The birds. The breeze. Even the clock inside seemed to skip a beat.

Emma remained motionless, but her hand on the quilt had curled into a fist.

Regina breathed in once. Let it settle in her lungs like she was remembering how.

Then—without heat, without hurry—

“Then it’s a tragedy,” she said softly, not unkindly, “that the woman you doubted is the only one who returned for all of us.”

Henry froze.
And then he ran.
The screen door slammed behind him like an accusation. It echoed too long in the still-waking morning, as if the world itself didn’t want to let it go.

Regina didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Her chest rose and fell with eerie precision, as if she were mimicking breath rather than feeling it. Like any variation would snap the last thread keeping her upright.

Emma sat up slowly, movements careful, like the silence might break if she shifted too fast. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket until her knuckles whitened. Her eyes gleamed—but the tears stayed where they were, held back by something older than restraint.

Regina’s voice, when it came, was threadbare.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Emma exhaled something close to a laugh, but it curled hollow in her throat.
“A perfect storm of our best and worst,” she murmured. “Mostly the worst today.”

Outside, the trees whispered in a hush of wind. A single bird trilled in the branches—hopeful, oblivious.

Then, quieter still:
“Do you think he… felt it?”

The silence after wasn’t empty. It pressed inward, thick with memory and magic and something they hadn’t dared name.

Regina didn’t ask for clarification. She didn’t need to.
Her answer was soft. Absolute.
“Not in words. But yes. Somewhere beneath the skin. He felt us break.”

Emma stood—too fast. The blanket slid from her waist and pooled at her feet with a sound like breath leaving the body.

She was already halfway across the room when Regina spoke again.

“Go to him,” Regina said.
Not an order.
Not permission.
Just… knowing.
“He needs you.”

Emma paused at the threshold.

She didn’t look back—couldn’t. Her body was already pitched forward, caught in the undertow of instinct, the gravitational pull of a boy in pain.

But then—
“Emma.”

Her name slipped into the air like it belonged there—less a word, more a note in a song they’d both forgotten how to sing.
It stopped her breath. Stopped her heart.

Slowly—reluctantly—Emma turned. Not fully. Just enough for the moment to catch its breath, too.

Regina stood barefoot on the hardwood, haloed in morning light and memory. She hadn’t left the spot where Emma’s warmth had been. The blanket behind her still cradled the shape of absence.
She stepped forward—not to plead, not to hold back. Just to be seen.

Two fingers found the inside of Emma’s wrist.
Not to stop her.
To say: I still feel you.

Emma stilled. Something inside her reached back—warm, electric, familiar.
A thread pulled taut. Not between them. Of them.

She turned her hand. Let it happen. Let Regina’s nearness anchor her—not bind, not break. Just remind.

Regina’s voice was low. Steady. Woven only for them.

“We’ll find him. And if the sky falls…” Her lips trembled, but didn’t break. “We’ll hold it up together.”

Emma’s breath faltered—shivered through her like a wave. Then steadied.

She nodded once, already shifting toward the door.

But then—

“Emma.”

Her name. Soft. Threaded with something that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite hope.

Emma stopped.
Didn’t turn.
Just stood with one hand braced against the doorframe, like it might hold up the pieces she didn’t know were falling.

Regina stayed where she was, the blanket still spilling behind her like memory. Her voice reached again—gentle, uncertain.

“…What if this wasn’t the end of what we built?”

Emma’s hand curled tighter around the edge of the frame. Her breath hitched. The air between them stretched—waiting.

Regina didn’t push. She simply touched her abdomen, fingertips grazing across it like muscle memory. Not performative. Just... instinct.

“Have you ever thought,” she asked quietly, “that maybe… someday… we’d have another child? You and me. Ours.”

The question broke the stillness—not loud, but irrevocable.

Emma exhaled. Slow. Wary.

“I can’t want more,” she said at last, voice rough with truth, “until I stop fearing I’ll lose what I already have.”

A silence settled between them. But it didn’t close.

Then—fainter, like breath fogging glass—
“But maybe… I already do.”

And then she stepped forward, not away from Regina but toward the place her son had run.

The door closed softly behind her. No slam. No punctuation.

Only weight.

Inside, Regina remained. The hush held her.

Her hand moved again—absently, gently—to her stomach.

And outside, the morning didn’t rush.
It waited.
Too bright.
Too fragile.
And maybe, just maybe, not ready to let go at all.

**

The click of Regina’s heels wasn’t just sound—it was punctuation. Full stop. Turn the page.

As she stepped into Granny’s, the bell above the door gave its usual cheery jingle—but the sound fell flat. Conversations dimmed—not halted, just muffled, like the whole room had leaned back slightly, deciding whether to watch or pretend not to.

A spoon clinked too sharply into a cup two tables over. Someone coughed. No one greeted her.

Regina didn’t flinch.

She walked the centre aisle like she owned it—straight spine, neutral mouth, her eyes daring anyone to whisper louder. The scent of bacon and coffee clung to her jacket—too familiar, too heavy, like comfort turned stale.

Ruby looked up from the espresso machine, her hand pausing mid-pour. The last time they’d stood this close, Emma’s name had burned on both their tongues, neither kind.

This wasn’t dread.

But it was stillness—the kind that gathers before thunder.

Regina didn’t meet her gaze. She eased onto the barstool, hand lifting to her temple. The vinyl sighed under her weight. She moved like a woman held together by silk and spite.

“Your usual, Mayor Mills?” Ruby asked, soft and uncertain.

Regina’s voice barely lifted. “No. Peppermint tea. Please.”

The word felt strange in her mouth. Too clean. Too safe. But it was what her stomach could bear.

Ruby blinked. The answer felt like a wrong note—but she nodded.

A few heads turned. Belle. Two older women near the window. No one lingered. But everyone noticed.

As Ruby moved to the kettle, she caught Regina’s reflection in the stainless-steel canister—still. Clenched. Hollow-eyed. Not rage. Not grief. Just… absence.

When she returned, Regina accepted the cup like it was sacred. She sipped.

Paused.

Then bolted—hand clapped over her mouth, a heel skidding across tile as the floor tilted underneath her. She caught Leroy’s elbow hard enough to earn a muttered curse.

The bathroom door swung shut behind her.

A second passed.

Then Ruby moved.

—

The bathroom light buzzed low, flickering slightly. The mirror was speckled with age and anxiety. The air smelled of lemon cleaner and something under it—something desperate, scrubbed into the tile.

A flush. Running water. No words.

Ruby waited.

Eventually, Regina stepped out of the stall—pale, composed, immaculate in ways that didn’t fully hold. Her lipstick was blurred. Her collar askew. Her spine, however, held.

“Ms. Lucas,” Regina said, voice like frost on glass. “Is stalking emotionally vulnerable women a new pastime—or am I just the lucky one?”

Ruby didn’t move. Didn’t press.

She just leaned lightly against the counter, voice softer than it had been all morning.

“I’m not stalking you,” Ruby said softly, unfazed. “I’m showing up. That still means something—whether you believe it or not.”

Regina’s jaw tensed.

For a moment, she looked like she might laugh—sharp and scoffing, an old reflex.

But she didn’t.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the crack in the tile near the tap, like the truth might spill if she looked anywhere else.

“You ever feel like you’re unravelling,” Regina murmured, “and everyone just keeps asking why you’re making such a mess?”

Ruby tilted her head.

“No,” she said. “But I’ve watched it happen enough to know that cleaning it up alone just makes you bleed quieter.”

Another silence. This one heavier.

Regina finally looked up, and the way her eyes shimmered had nothing to do with magic.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Ruby said. “Just stop pretending it doesn’t matter.”

And there it was.

Not an answer. But something like relief. Just enough air to breathe without flinching.

The silence that followed was taut, suspended in tile and steam.

Ruby blinked once.

Then—without retort or recoil—she turned on her heel.

“Let’s take this out of the echo chamber,” Ruby said over her shoulder, voice calm but clipped. “I’ll get you a lemon iced water—it’ll help with your morning sickness.”

Regina stopped cold.

For a moment, the sharp click of her heels stalled, swallowed by the hum of the diner beyond the restroom door.

“What did you just say?” Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Dangerous.

Ruby didn’t turn. “You heard me.”

Regina blinked, as if the words had knocked something loose behind her eyes. She caught up a beat later—gliding into motion again, but slower now. Not from reluctance. From calculation.

By the time she reached the booth, her composure had reassembled. Perfect posture. Calm hand on the glass.
But her knuckles were white around the lemon slice.

“Now what Ms. Lucas?” Regina asked, voice like a drawn blade. “Do we smile politely, stir our lemon water, and swap tales about how much fun we had with Mr. Swan between the sheets?”

Ruby opened her mouth—eyes wide—but Regina kept going.
“…and tally who he lied to better while he was still sweating.”

And there it was—the response Ruby had expected.

Regina blinked, startled by the heat in her own voice. She was sure Emma had told her the truth about that night—had sworn the rumours of betrayal were lies stitched together by misunderstanding and Snow. And Regina wanted to believe her. God, she did.

But somewhere in the dark corners of her mind—the ones that used to rule with cruelty and suspicion—a whisper still stirred. A voice that said: She's only telling you what you want to hear.

And sitting now before the supposed other woman— Ruby who had still laughed with Emma like nothing had fractured—objectivity dissolved. Doubt crept in. The edges of her vision narrowed.

Because trusting Emma in the quiet of their bed was one thing.

But trusting her here, under fluorescent diner lights, in the presence of everything that had once threatened to take her away?

That was harder.

Much harder.

Ruby didn’t flinch.

She exhaled slowly—controlled, but ragged at the edges—like the moment had claws and she knew better than to jerk away.

“Feel better now?” Ruby asked gently. No mockery. Just weight. “Got it out of your system, or do I need to fetch another lemon water and let you keep swinging?”

Regina’s jaw tightened. Her eyes darted away for a breath—just long enough to betray that even she hadn’t expected her own venom. Not that sharp. Not that raw.

Ruby leaned back, arms folding like she was bracing for another hit—but not retreating. Not this time.

“Look,” she said, voice low, “if you came here to fight, I get it. I’d probably be a mess too if I loved someone that much and walked in on what I saw… us, in a compromising position, in my apartment.”

Regina’s lips parted, protest loading behind clenched teeth—
But Ruby didn’t let it land.

“…But if you’re here to talk about what actually happened that night…”

The rest hovered in the silence, thick enough to suffocate.

Regina’s fingers tightened on her glass, knuckles whitening. The lemon slice inside had stopped moving. So had she.

“I didn’t come here to talk,” she said.

Not defensive. Not cruel. Just… hollow.

Ruby nodded slowly.

“No,” she murmured. “You came here to bleed. I’m just the poor soul who handed you the napkin.”

That hung between them—delicate as glass, sharp as grief.

Regina didn’t argue. Didn’t blink.

And for a moment, she looked less like a queen and more like a woman unravelling quietly behind her own reflection.

Across the diner, the steely grey gaze never wavered—watching from behind a newspaper with dry pages never turned. The spoon in the watcher’s coffee cup hadn’t stirred in ten minutes. Their eyes did not blink.

They watched.

Catalogued.

Waited for the truth beneath the pain to take shape.

“What improbable alignment of gossip, guesses, and poor observation has convinced you I’m with child?”

“Well…” Ruby leaned back, letting the lemon slice swirl in lazy circles. Her spoon clicked once against the glass—soft, deliberate. “There was the now-iconic Granny’s slap… and that epic ‘touch my Queen and die’ moment from Emma. So dramatic” she smirked.

Regina rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her—twitching just slightly. A hairline crack in royal porcelain.

“Kill thousands,” she said lightly, “and you’re feared. Love-tap a Saviour and suddenly I’m the scandal of the century.”

“That slap was brutal, by the way,” Ruby said, half-grinning. “You could’ve just ripped her heart out—it might’ve been kinder.”

“Duly noted,” Regina returned, darkly amused. “I’ll be sure to adjust my technique next time.”

“Really?”

A beat. Then another. The diner hummed around them—silverware clinking, a baby wailing faintly near the counter, the overhead fan murmuring like it remembered better seasons.

Regina’s brows tightened—not from fury, but from something quieter. Heavier.

“No,” she said at last, her voice smaller than it had been all morning. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Ruby didn’t smile this time.
She just watched her—closely.
The way Regina’s eyes didn’t sharpen but dimmed. The way her hands curled slightly, like her body was shrinking around something unspoken.

The spoon in Ruby’s glass stilled. The lemon slice bumped once against the rim.

“You do,” Ruby murmured. “You just haven’t forgiven yourself for it yet.”

Regina didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she twisted the napkin in her fingers—once, twice—then set it down like it had accused her of something.

Ruby let the silence breathe.

“Uh-huh,” she continued, tone light but razor-trimmed. “Well. When you stormed out trailing judgment and perfume, you left something behind.”

Regina’s eyes flicked up, narrowed slightly.

Ruby’s smile didn’t reach smug. It stopped just short.

“Magical residue.”

Regina blinked. Slowly. “My residue,” she repeated, like the term itself had insulted her lineage.

“It’s lilac.”

There was a pause. Barely a breath. Then—

“Lilac.”

“You’re a purple kind of gal,” Ruby murmured, tapping her glass once with the tip of a nail. The sound rang too loud for how soft it was.

Regina exhaled through her nose—measured and deliberate. Like smoke filtered through iron gates that had once locked kingdoms away.

“I wasn’t always the Evil Queen,” she said, voice quiet but not uncertain. “Since Henry, I’ve tried to... shift. Perhaps my magic reflects the attempt.”

She took another sip—slower this time. The lemon kissed her bottom lip, then vanished behind teeth that didn’t quite clench.

Something in her spine loosened. Not surrendered. But no longer braced for war.

“I assume,” she added, eyes not quite meeting Ruby’s, “that isn’t your only theory.”

Ruby raised a hand, counting off on her fingers.

“Peppermint tea. No more dark roast. Classic morning sickness remedy. Though,” she added, nudging her glass gently, “lemon-ice seems to be stealing the spotlight.”

Regina’s mouth twitched. Not a smile—but the ghost of one born out of irritation and something dangerously close to amusement.

“Dr. Whale believes caffeine worsens my migraines. Peppermint soothes them.”
She leaned in just slightly, voice coiled in silk and steel.
“Unless we’re diagnosing based on beverage preferences now, Miss Lucas?”

Ruby didn’t blink.

“You nearly turned Leroy into a projectile this morning.”

Regina’s laugh came fast and dry—sharp-edged and startling.
Almost fond.
“Bad pizza,” she said. “Henry and I both suffered.”

She reached for her purse—an elegant shift of weight and will, finely rehearsed.
Exit with grace.
With armour.
With the final word still intact.

But Ruby didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t let the silence close around them.

Instead—

“It’s your scent.”

The world thinned.

Regina stilled mid-motion, fingers frozen just above the leather strap. Not trembling. Just... suspended. Held hostage by a truth she hadn’t authorized.

Not a flinch. Something smaller. A breach in breath.
Like someone had dusted off a memory with reverence—and it had answered back.

“…Elaborate.”

Ruby’s voice didn’t rise. It dropped—soft as snowfall, reverent as ash.

“You and Emma,” she said. “Wolves know scent signatures. Yours isn’t separate anymore. It’s not just you.”

She let the last word fall between them, fragile and vast.

“It’s braided.”

The word didn’t echo.

It rooted.

Regina didn’t respond. But in the space between heartbeats, her hand dropped gently to the table. Not defeated. Not conceded. Just... lowered.

Because there are some truths that don’t strike.
They settle.

And this one had already taken root in her blood.

Regina didn’t move. But the stillness that followed said more than recoil ever could. It wasn’t resistance. It was resignation.

Her mask didn’t crack. It sagged.

“You know?” she said—not a question, just a thread pulled from a worn truth.

“I had suspicions,” Ruby murmured. “But you just confirmed them.”

A flick of tension passed through Regina’s jaw. A warning tic. A tell of battles survived.

“And Emma?” Ruby asked carefully. Her voice tilted toward softness again, cautious as fingertips tracing a bruise. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

Regina’s hand curled around the glass like it was the only stable thing in the room. Inside it, the lemon slice had begun to sink. It listed beneath the ice as though surrendering to the cold.

“I wanted to tell her,” she said, nearly inaudible. “I tried. But then I saw you two at the counter. Laughing.”

She swallowed. Looked away.

“For a moment,” Regina said, eyes fixed on the table’s laminate grain, “I thought I was the outsider. The second choice. Again.”

Ruby blinked. Then her shoulders dropped, tension folding inward into something like regret.

“Oh. Regina…” she breathed. “That’s why you slapped her. You thought—”

Regina’s gaze cut over—not sharp. Just unguarded. Bare.

“I may have misjudged the situation,” she said, and the admission landed not as concession, but confession.

A pause stretched, pulled taut by surprise.

“Was that… an apology?” Ruby asked. Too stunned to twist it with humour. Too reverent to let it pass.

Regina didn’t answer.

She just stared at her glass, where the lemon spun one final arc and stopped. Its colour dulled beneath melting ice, a sunken crescent half-submerged in frost.

“You really love her,” Ruby whispered, voice catching.

Regina nodded. She didn’t need to say it.

But she did.

The words came cracked and blazing, edged in something too sacred to polish.

“Apparently, irrevocably. Eternally.”

Ruby leaned back as if the syllables had weight—like the truth of it had struck her somewhere vulnerable.

She inhaled—sharp, brittle, breath fraying at the seams.

And for once, her wit didn’t reach for the cracks. It couldn’t.

“Holy shit,” Ruby whispered.
She said it like the words might fall apart in her mouth. Like if she didn’t say them softly, the moment would crack.

“You’re pregnant. You’re magically braided. You’re her true love.”

Each line landed like a dropped stone in water.

“This… this isn’t supposed to happen.”

She blinked, slow and wide-eyed, as if saying it aloud had summoned something older than either of them—something that heard from beneath the skin of the world.

Regina didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t deflect.

“Exactly,” she murmured.

No mask. No fire. Just the stripped-down ruin of a truth too enormous to carry and too sacred to drop.

Across the table, Ruby didn’t just hear it. She felt it—like a string pulled tight through marrow. The braid wasn’t metaphor. It was heat. It was tether. It was rhythm.

This wasn’t fairy tale.

It was prophesy.

And it had a heartbeat.

Then—without warning, without heat—Regina’s posture shifted. Her eyes slid toward the mirrored sunglasses two booths away. Her voice lowered, but it carried.

“Miss Lucas,” she growled in warning.

Ruby raised both hands—palms up, fingers splayed. “Sorry” she hushed. “But Regina—this kind of truth doesn’t disappear. It waits. And when it breaks the silence, it shatters.”

Regina didn’t respond.

Not with words.

She just stared at the glass again. The lemon had sunk beneath the ice now—dulled, translucent, curling in the cold.

And for a second, her stillness was louder than any answer she could’ve given.

It wasn’t refusal.
It was ache.
And maybe… permission, just barely beginning.

Regina stood.

Not sharply. Not defensively. Just… with care. Like every muscle was being asked for one last effort before it surrendered. She gathered her things with an elegance that looked effortless and wasn’t.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter. Like it had travelled farther.

“Sometimes, Miss Lucas” she said, eyes on the window, on something beyond it, “even true love isn’t enough.”

She lingered. Long enough for the silence to shift.

“Thank you. For the water. And for not making me carry this alone.”

Ruby nodded once. Steady.

“You’ve got my number,” she said. “If you need… someone to stay while you breathe.”

Regina’s lips moved again—barely.

Not quite a smile.

But maybe the start of one.

She turned. Walked away. Her heels made no sound.

And yet Ruby could still hear the echo.
Still feel the shape of Regina’s absence curled into the seat across from her—like heat left in a bed, like perfume still woven through silk.
Lilac. Fear. Pride. A scent with memory beneath it. Something older than pain, and more honest than pretence.

She didn’t move. Not at first.
The glass sat untouched.
The lemon had gone pale.

The booth held its breath with her.

Then—

“How tender. Should I have knocked?”

The voice arrived like a crack beneath ice: sweet on the surface, splintering underneath.

Snow slid into the booth with an elegance sharpened to a point.
Her white coat barely shifted. Her smile was wrong—tight at the corners, stretched too smooth.
Controlled.
Weaponized.

Ruby blinked. Once. The word tasted wrong.

“Huh?”

“You betrayed your Queen,” Snow hissed—quiet and cutting, like it cost her nothing to wound.

Ruby blinked again. Slower this time. Measured.

A long inhale through her nose.

Then—

“Okay,” she said. Her voice was calm, but it carried the steadiness of someone bracing for a storm. “First of all—no. I’m not a traitor.”

Her eyes darkened. Not with rage. With something older. Wilder.

“Second of all… what the hell happened to you?”

Snow didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She tilted her head instead, delicately—as though Ruby had just told a joke she wasn’t meant to laugh at. Her gaze was too still. Her presence too exact.

She looked like royalty painted by someone who’d seen a war up close.

“The Snow I knew,” Ruby went on, lower now, rawer, “would’ve torn through a mountain barefoot if it meant saving her daughter. She wouldn’t drug her into submission and call it love.”

Still no reaction.

Just that slow, arctic smile curling at the edges of Snow’s mouth.

The kind you wore when you already knew how the story ended—and you planned to write it in someone else’s blood.

“You crossed a line,” Ruby said, her voice breaking past restraint. “And you don’t even care.”

Snow’s gaze didn’t flicker. But the chill behind it sharpened.

“Spare me the wolf-pack loyalty,” she said silk-smooth. “You chose her.”

A beat. Just long enough to hurt.

The air in the booth shifted—subtle but impossible to ignore. Like something unseen had leaned forward to listen.

Then, slower:

“Funny, isn’t it?” Snow said, her words pulled tight around the edges. “The Evil Queen cries, and I’m the one cast in shadow.”

Her head tilted, slightly more.

Her eyes narrowed. Not with fury. But certainty.

“You’ve chosen your side, pup!.”

She let the last word land like a mark carved into stone.

Then, quieter. More final.

“When it falls apart—and it will—there won’t be time left for regret.”

She stood without haste. Every movement refined, burnished by grief turned ritual. It wasn’t poise. It was practice. The kind you learned when you stopped reaching for forgiveness.

Her heels didn’t make a sound. But the cold that followed her had weight.

Not metaphor. Temperature.

Frost kissed the rim of Ruby’s untouched glass.

And still, Ruby didn’t move. She sat in it. Let the silence calcify. Let her bones carry the weight of what had just stepped out from behind a fairytale and turned its blade inward.

Because Snow wasn’t angry.
She was certain.

And Ruby wasn’t scared.
She was changing.

The booth breathed differently when she was gone—like the air had to relearn how.

Ruby didn’t move. Not yet. Her reflection lingered in the diner window—half-shadow, half-witness. A wolf trying not to howl.

Then slowly, without flourish, she reached for her phone.

The screen lit her like a secret.

Thumbs moved fast.

what the hell
snow just slid in like arctic royalty and basically hexed me over eggs and toast
Storybrooke is cursed
again
someone check the apples, the espresso, and honestly, the salt

She paused.

Something darker settled in her stomach. Something older than fear, but just as loud.

also—we need a therapist who accepts magic trauma and hazard pay
and a leash for vengeance in white designer wool.

She hit send.

The phone stayed cradled in her hands, the screen gone dark again.

Her reflection stared back—muted, uncertain. Like it hadn’t decided which version of her would show up next.

And in the booth that still smelled faintly of lilac and prophecy, Ruby sat still.

Not waiting for Snow.

Not for Regina.

But for the sound of Storybrooke shifting—imperceptibly, undeniably—toward the storm that had already started.

*

Emma rubbed hard at her chest, like she could dig the ache out with the heel of her hand. It had lived there all day, pulsing slow and steady—a metronome of absence. Not pain, exactly. Pressure. A quiet implosion. Like her chest had been folding in on itself all morning—soft, cruel, relentless.

She tossed the pen onto her desk; the clatter louder than it should’ve been in the half-empty station. Slumped back into her chair, she squinted at the reports in front of her. Words blurred. Names dissolved.

All she could feel was Regina—just out of reach, like breath in cold air.

The door creaked behind her. A familiar hesitation in the floorboard followed. David.

Emma didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. His quiet shuffled presence said everything—still near the filing cabinet, pretending to need something. Letting the pause stretch long enough for her to break it first.

She didn’t.

“You alright, kid?”

Her palm pressed harder into her forehead, grounding more than soothing.

“Just off,” she muttered. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

She kept flipping pages—unread, unregistered. The words swam. Her hands moved. Her brain wasn’t in the room.

He took a step closer. Not physically. Just in tone.

“Emma… You can talk to me.”

That got a breath—short, sharp. Half laugh. Half spike of something else.

“So you can run it back to her?” she said without looking up. “I’ll pass.”

David went quiet. Not wounded. Just… shifted. That quiet way he had when he was about to ask her to come back to herself.

“You can’t stay mad forever.”

Emma’s hand stilled.

“Watch me.”

Her voice was flat. No snarl. Just… empty. Worn.

Then she looked at him—finally—and her eyes weren’t angry. They were exhausted.

“And careful,” she added, softer now. “You're skirting the line, too.”

David didn’t speak.

And in the silence, all Emma could hear was the pulse in her own ears.

Not rage. Not grief.

Just pressure.

Steady and growing.

Outside, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere down the hall, a printer spat out a single, blank page, then stalled—like even it knew not to push its luck.

David cleared his throat. Tried again.

“Maybe you should think about moving back ho—”

Her chair scraped across the linoleum as she stood, knocking the pen holder. It clattered to the floor like punctuation.

“Are you serious?” Her voice cracked beneath the weight. “After what your wife did?”

“She made a mistake.”

“A mistake is forgetting an anniversary. Burning toast.” Emma’s voice dropped to a rasp. “What she did… was take away the only place that’s ever felt like mine.”

David’s eyes flickered—not guilt. Something older. Sadder. Like a memory he didn’t know how to carry.

Emma blinked hard. Her voice trembled, but her spine didn’t bend.

“You know what it’s like to grow up unloved?” she asked. Not rhetorical. Not waiting for an answer. “Invisible. Fighting for scraps and calling it enough. And then she showed up—Regina. And suddenly I could breathe.”

Her fist pressed to her chest again, harder this time.

“She’s it for me,” Emma whispered. “God. She always has been.”

And David saw it—not rage. Not rebellion. Just longing. Raw. Unhidden.

He opened his mouth.

Didn’t get the chance.

The station door opened, a hinge in the fabric of things. Not loud. Just final
And the air changed.

Not with wind. With knowing.

Regina stepped inside like she’d always belonged—like the building itself had been waiting to exhale. The floor seemed to steady beneath her heels. The shadows rearranged around her shoulders like silk bowing to command. Her coat moved with her—less fabric, more intention. Her boots whispered across tile as if the ground already knew her rhythm.

Her blouse caught what was left of the spring light bleeding through the blinds—pale gold tracing the line of her collarbone. Her lipstick was faintly smudged. Not messy. Human.

She didn’t glance around.

Her eyes found Emma—and held.

And the ache—
The slow, constant, marrow-deep ache—

Vanished.
Not softened.
Gone.

Emma stood before her thoughts did.

And in that breathless beat, where space collapsed between them, something older stirred.

Regina moved like prophecy walking its final line—silent, sure.
Her palms rose, careful as prayer, to cradle Emma’s face.
Fingers trembling just enough to betray how long they’d waited for this permission.
Thumbs brushed high along cheekbones—like retracing a geography she’d only touched in dreams.

Then—

She kissed her.

Not rushed. Not pleading.

But whole.
Consecrated.
The way ancient things recognize their name.

And that’s when it happened.

Regina’s magic—deep violet, laced with memory and fire—rose like smoke curling around truth. Emma’s—luminous, white-gold, and stubborn as dawn—surged upward to meet it.

Where they touched, the braid aligned. Not spell. Not accident.

Anointment.

Magic bloomed between them—not violently, but reverently. The air shimmered. The light turned soft-lilac. Violet folded into white. White curled into violet.

And together—
They became something else.

Not power.
Not miracle.
But bond.

The station blurred—keys, files, movement—all dimmed like a chapel bowing to its gods. Dust motes hung in place. The blinds stilled mid-sway. And the only thing that moved was that braid of magic spiralling gently around them, cradling the kiss like it, too, had waited long enough.

Emma didn’t notice her hands fisting Regina’s coat.
Didn’t notice the tears.

She only felt—finally—home.

All of it fell back.

They parted slowly. Breath shared in the space between them.

Behind them, David hadn’t moved. Still braced against the filing cabinet. Still staring like a man who’d just watched the constellations shift—old stories redrawn mid-sky.

Regina turned to him with the kind of composure kingdoms were once built on. Calm. Measured. Regal down to the bones.

The moment held, suspended between breaths and legacy.

Regina met David’s gaze—not as a challenge, but as a statement. Quiet and unwavering. A woman forged in fire, choosing softness not as surrender, but as proof of her evolution.

“Sheriff,” she said, the word crisp but warm, “I trust you’ll see things remain... orderly.”

David blinked, like waking from a dream that felt more myth than memory. He nodded—slowly, reverently—because anything louder might shatter the weight of what he'd just witnessed.

Emma turned slightly, still anchored to Regina by the lingering press of fingers and breath. Her voice curved like a smile not yet formed.

“He reorganized my case files by weapon type last week,” she murmured. “It was almost criminal.”

Regina arched a brow, amused. “I thought you preferred chaos with charm.”

“Depends on who’s charming me.”

That earned the faintest tilt of lips—an expression not meant for kingdoms, but for rooms like this. Small. Sacred. Real.

Regina reached for the door.

David didn’t speak, but his eyes followed her like a man catching sight of prophecy passing through mortal hours.

Boots met tile. One step. Then another.

And then the hush returned—thicker now. Like the walls themselves had heard something holy.

When the door closed behind her, it wasn’t an ending.

It was.

Legacy.

It echoed.

Resonated.

And in that quiet part of him where battle prayers once lived, David recalled older stories. Whispers from the blood of kings. Tales told when the wind sounded like it was breathing, and bonds were forged not in rings—

—but in braids.

The Braid.

A rare entanglement of soul-magic. Not a bond. Not a tether.
A weaving.

Energy fused so tightly it couldn’t be unravelled without tearing the cosmos at its seams. The last time it had been spoken of, the stars were still aligning kingdoms—not destinies.

And now… it was here.

Braided between his daughter
—and the woman who had once stood on the other side of every war he’d ever fought.

David blinked. Once. Twice. Each slower than the last.
He swallowed—tight, audible—like the truth had turned to stone mid-throat.

“This isn’t just true love,” he said softly. Reverently. Like the words weren’t his, but carried through him.

Emma looked up. Wariness flickered behind her eyes. “What?”

David didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her—like looking too long was the only way to believe it.

“It’s more,” he finally said, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re…”
He paused.
The word rose like something old waking from deep water.
“Braided.”

Emma’s brow knit. Her breath caught.

“It’s been eons,” David whispered, as if even remembering was dangerous. His eyes gleamed now—not with certainty, but memory. “Not since…”

But the name snagged in his throat—burnt to ash before it reached the air.

A queen of flame. A Saviour of starlight.
The pair who once braided power so tightly, the sky unravelled behind them.

But the name didn’t matter anymore.

Because the magic had already begun to bloom.

Emma watched him, something shifting behind her ribs—like a puzzle piece sliding into place after a lifetime upside down. No sparks. No wings. Just a widening quiet. A steadiness.

She exhaled.

And didn’t feel hollow.

Her shoulders dropped. The tension—years of it—uncoiled beneath her skin like a tether cut loose.
Not all at once. Not dramatic.

But like home easing into its original shape.

She didn’t light up.

She settled.

And then—
She smiled.

Not wide. Not bright. Not brave.

Just true.

Like someone who had finally seen the shape of what was holding her—
and believed, for the first time,
it wouldn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Gold's smile curled, serpentine and expectant, as the formidable Madame Mayor stormed through the threshold of his pawn shop. Her heels struck the old wood floor with regal defiance, each step thunderous. Outrage flickered across her face, her upper lip trembling with indignation. She was every inch the incarnation of her former self, the Evil Queen brought to life once more.

"You knew," she spat, her voice honed like a blade tempered by betrayal.

Gold responded with a chuckle, guttural and low, the sound of something mischievous and ancient. "Now, now, dearie. Is it wise to let such fury consume you in your delicate condition?"

Regina's eyes blazed. "Forgive me. I must have missed the moment I took out a front-page notice in the Storybrooke Mirror to trumpet the stork’s upcoming delivery."

She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. Her poise was firm, but irritation bled through in waves. Gold’s laughter twisted into a titter, gleeful and nearly melodic, mischief barely contained.

"Perhaps," he said, dipping into a theatrical bow, "a temporary truce. And some tea. Hmm?"

Regina’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion hung in the air, yet she gave a slow, deliberate nod. Gold turned toward the door, his movements stylized with the flair of ceremony, and flipped the wooden sign to Closed. The soft tick of it settling in place felt like fate paused. With a graceful limp, he guided her deeper into the dusky corridors of the shop's back room, a place soaked in memory and the scent of forgotten time.

"Peppermint?" he asked, his tone casual to the point of dishonesty.

Regina’s brow tightened. The warmth was false. Politeness from Gold was rarely offered without strings.

"Yes," she answered, measured and cautious. "That would be... nice."

"No need to fret, dearie. It’s not laced with poison. That’s more your style, wouldn’t you agree?"

"Touché."

They exchanged a glance, brittle and knowing, shaped by years of shared treachery. The kettle hissed with impatience as he brewed the tea in silence. Gold studied her like an archivist revisiting a prized relic, one layered with ruin and beauty. When he finally passed her the porcelain cup, she took it with guarded grace and placed it gently onto the antique table between them. The sip that followed held ceremony, a ritual born of fragile alliance.

Gold tittered, his eyes gleaming with impish delight. Regina lifted one perfectly arched brow, intrigue flashing beneath practiced disapproval.

His grin stretched wider, seasoned with wickedness. "You’ve been the finest theatre, dearie. Watching your heart pirouette—soaring, faltering, tumbling into the arms of fate time after time. I must admit, it never grows old."

Regina exhaled slowly, weary but regal. Her gaze settled on him with the weight of centuries. "Tell me, trickster. How many more lifetimes must I waltz through this cursed choreography?"

Gold's tone softened, rippling with the ancient rhythm of forgotten lore. "The Fates," he murmured, letting the weight of their name settle like dust on sacred parchment, "three sisters who govern the tapestry of existence. Clotho spins the thread that begins each life. Lachesis draws the length, the measure of a soul's journey. And Atropos, the cold and final, cuts with shears that show no mercy."

He leaned in, his eyes deep with centuries of knowledge, voice draped in shadow. "But one day, Atropos faltered. Just once. A single misjudged snip. In that breath of error, she wove your thread into your Saviour's, tangled them together in a braid too intricate to unmake. Since then, your souls have twisted through lifetimes, inseparable, relentless in their pursuit of one another."

He tapped a finger lightly against his teacup. "And the phrase they cling to—I will always find you—it never belonged to the Charming’s, dearie. It was etched into your fate from the moment Atropos dropped her shears."

Regina scoffed, her gaze steel. "You expect me to believe destiny has orchestrated this entire sordid entanglement? That every twist, every death, every betrayal, is the design of divine fingerpainting?"

Gold's smile softened into reverence. "Believe what you will, dearie. But the braid exists. The pattern holds. And no matter the obstacles, of which there have been many, you always find each other."

Gold tilted his head; voice dipped in something that resembled pity. “Daniel? That lion-marked illusion? A tender ache, dearie. But no more than the sting of youthful affection and the tricks of unrefined magic.”

He raised his teacup and took another sip, letting the silence bloom between them like smoke unfurling in candlelight. When he spoke again, it was with reverence.

“The braid... it is the thread of radiance that pierces the mire. A quiet mercy braided into madness. Your Saviour’s love, it burns with a heat that refuses to fade. Eternal. Steadfast. The unwavering lantern in the maze you build around yourself. And every time, her light finds you in the dark.”

His voice faltered, only for a breath. “It always leads...”

Regina felt the familiar churn in her stomach. Her voice barely whispered. “To where...?”

Gold met her gaze, eyes gleaming with something ancient and unyielding. “Because of the braid, your love eclipses all others. Even the Charming’s, with their beloved declarations, pale beside the storm you and the Saviour conjure together. Their spark is charming. Yours... is cataclysmic.”

Regina’s voice wavered, soft as twilight but burdened with centuries. “Were we ever truly free? How many lives have we lived that were never ours?”

The question didn’t demand an answer—it mourned one.

"Countless," Gold whispered, as though speaking to ghosts. "Souls cast adrift, only to be drawn back together. A fragile heart, yours, shattered by one mistake, fated to search again and again."

He watched her closely, eyes tracing the anguish etched across her face, though neither of them spoke of it. Silence swelled, thick with memory and regret.

"Countless..." Regina repeated, the word falling from her lips like ash. "All of them empty. All of them... meaningless."

Gold’s smile curled, tempered with old sorrow. He had seen this moment before in other lifetimes, and still, it gripped him.

"And now, dearie..." he said softly, "what is it you truly desire?"

Regina’s voice trembled; each syllable laced with rawness and clarity. “This lifetime… Emma.”

Her hand drifted to the gentle curve of her belly, fingers splaying with reverent protection. It wasn’t just a gesture. It was a promise.

“For Henry,” she whispered, the name carrying the weight of memory, hope, and the fragile threads of redemption. “For this child… for the life I’ve yet to nurture. No more wandering. No more ruin. I choose her.”

Gold tilted his head, expression unreadable, yet touched by something almost akin to solemnity.

“The Queen surrenders her crown of shadows for love,” he murmured, voice glazed with awe. “A mother forging fate not for herself, but for her children.”

The braid pulsed faintly in the silence. Somewhere beyond that dusty room, destiny stirred.

Gold’s finger danced in warning; voice laced with theatrical glee. “Careful now, dearie. Once the Fates bind the braid, the game ends. No more mischief. No more mayhem. Are you truly ready to surrender every ounce of yourself… for a lonely little orphan?”

But he already knew her answer. He had always known.

Regina vanished in a plume of lilac smoke, her magic rippling through the air like the tension before a lightning strike. The scent lingered, floral, rich, final.

Gold sighed, the sound almost tender. “At last,” he murmured. “The debt is settled. The braid shall be tied. And the final sacrifice begins, your Majesty.”

His laughter fluttered in the stillness, light and sharp, echoing like a prophecy fulfilled.

*

Regina sat in her dimly lit study, wrapped in quiet, her thoughts folded like parchment across her lap. Her fingers pressed lightly to the bridge of her nose, a gesture she’d adopted in place of more potent comforts. No cider tonight, no tumbler of something stronger. Just Eros Ramazzotti whispering through the speakers, his voice weaving Italian, and English like silk through shadow.

How could she possibly explain the braid?
And even more impossibly... the child?

Lost in this fragile reverie, she didn’t hear Emma enter the mansion. The Sheriff moved quietly, shedding her scuffed work boots—hobnail horrors, as Regina once dubbed them with her usual theatrical flair, and leaned against the doorway with the ease of someone who belonged.

Emma stood there for a long moment, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching the woman she loved. Regina’s eyes were closed, her lips forming silent words to lyrics that tugged at something deep and tender. Emma didn’t recognize the song, but she didn’t need to. She felt it. Felt it in the slow curve of Regina’s shoulders, in the way the melody seemed to nestle in the room’s hush, and especially in the way her own heart shifted.

That familiar lopsided smile bloomed across Emma’s face. It was the kind of smile she reserved only for Regina, soft, full, undeniable. Because in this quiet moment, in this flicker of stillness, Emma saw every version of herself reflected in the woman swaying gently before her. And she loved her more for it.

"You have a beautiful smile, Ms. Swan," Regina murmured, her eyes still closed, her voice carrying through the room like a soft breeze over glass. "I’ve found myself missing it more often than I care to admit."

Emma edged closer, a coy smirk curving her lips. "So, this is you being sentimental, huh? Your Evilness has a soft spot after all."

Regina rose with effortless grace, the quiet rustle of her movement like the turning of a well-worn page. She rounded the desk, her gaze lifting to meet Emma’s with deliberate care. A soft curve tugged at her lips, knowing, tender, and just shy of mischief.

"And if I did miss you... Mr. Swan," she said, voice silk-lined, "would that shatter your carefully held grasp on reality?"

Emma gasped in playful drama, her hand flying to her chest like she’d taken a blow. "Careful, your Majesty. One more outburst like that and I might start thinking you actually enjoy my company."

Regina’s smile deepened into something quiet and secret, the kind of smile meant only for one person. "Perhaps I do."

Emma lingered, then moved closer, her lip caught between her teeth. Each step toward Regina felt inevitable, pulled by a force older than memory. Green eyes held fast to rich, deep brown. The space between them pulsed with something electric, familiar, and unspoken.

Their breathing fell into sync. One moment passed, then another, and still neither moved to speak. Silence hung heavy, not with discomfort but with promise.

“Dance with me,” Emma murmured, her voice barely rising above the music. She slipped her hands around Regina’s hips, fingertips brushing against silk and warmth. She drew her closer, guiding her body into alignment with her own until they moved as one, joined not by choreography but by quiet recognition.

Regina responded without hesitation. Her hands found Emma’s chest, just above her heart, the fabric soft under her palms. She could feel the rhythm thudding beneath, strong, and sure. Her own heartbeat stirred in response, echoing the tempo in Emma’s chest like a duet neither had rehearsed.

She lifted her chin just slightly, gaze unwavering.
Words crowded the space between them, but none were needed.
The silence spoke of lifetimes. Of choice.
Of the braid—known by one, sensed by the other—binding them in quiet rhythm, undeniable and unnamed.

Regina’s voice slipped into the hush like silk.

“Adesso no, non voglio più difendermi...”

Her lips hovered near Emma’s skin, not touching—still, the warmth clung.

“Supererò dentro di me gli ostacoli...”

Emma leaned closer, drawn by gravity she no longer questioned.
Their bodies moved in effortless rhythm.

“I miei momenti più difficili, per te...”

Regina's hand rose delicately, fingertips resting over Emma’s chest. Right where her breath deepened—where heartbeat and devotion met.
Her voice didn’t waver.
“For you.”

Emma held her close as the music folded around them, faint and pulsing like memory.
Her hands steadied at Regina’s hips—not guiding, just being.

They danced slowly. No steps.
Only presence.

Lilac light flickered, rising from the curve of Regina’s palm. It shimmered like breath warmed by longing, trailing gently toward Emma.

A pale white glow bloomed in response, faint at first, at the base of Emma’s throat. Then, like recognition, it unfolded toward Regina, drawn to what had always called it.

Neither noticed.

But it was there.
Like starlight before the sky darkens.
Like truth before it’s named.

Foreheads touched. A shared breath.
Emma’s grip tightened, emotion stirring in the space that used to feel empty.

I belong to you; you belong to me.

Regina’s whisper landed like inevitability.
“You do,” she said softly. “You always have.”

You’re the wind that’s underneath my wings,
I belong to you, you belong to me.

Emma pressed a kiss to Regina’s temple—slow, deliberate, anchoring.
The music was no longer around them.
It was inside them.

Adesso io ti sento.
Regina’s voice barely carried.

“Now I can feel you.”

I will belong forever to... you...

The final note lingered, then vanished into silence.

Regina leaned in, and softly kissed Emma. She had never been more certain.
A vow, quiet and complete.

But…

Emma’s breath caught. Something flickered behind her eyes, fear, maybe, or memory.
She stepped back. Not far. Just enough to let the night rush between them.

Regina’s brows drew together, confusion tightening into something sharper. Her heart ached, but her voice found steel.
“So that’s it?” she said, low and precise.
“You kiss me like a promise, then flinch like I’m the mistake.”

Emma reached for her instantly, hands trembling.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. You're not a mistake. Not ever.”

Her gaze rose, green eyes finally meeting brown. Her throat tightened. She brushed Regina’s wrist with aching tenderness.
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

She faltered.
“It’s just…”

The words wouldn’t come. Not fully. Not yet.

Regina said nothing, but her silence wasn’t empty. She watched, waiting—not with judgment, but longing.

Emma stepped closer, their foreheads nearly touching. Her voice broke through the stillness.
Her thumb traced the curve of Regina’s cheek, soft and reverent.
“I didn’t pull away because I don’t want you,” she said.
“I pulled away because…I…there…”

And between them, magic stirred.

Lilac shimmered at Regina’s collarbone, faint but luminous.
White light flickered at Emma’s throat, hesitant yet sure.

Regina stepped forward, closing the space between them with quiet purpose. She could feel the tension radiating from Emma, the hesitation, the longing, the fear. It didn’t deter her. If anything, it pulled her in closer.

She pressed herself against the saviour’s lithe frame, steadying them both. Her hands found Emma’s waist, guiding her gently toward the couch. It wasn’t force, it was promise.

As Emma sat, breath stuttering, Regina watched the flicker of emotion dance across her face. Desire, yes—but buried beneath it was something sharper. Shame. Uncertainty. A secret that wanted to be told but didn’t know how to ask.

Regina didn’t push. She simply followed, settling across Emma’s lap, thighs draped over denim. The position was familiar now—hers. It felt like claiming and surrendering, both at once.

“Emma,” she murmured, voice low, catching the way the blonde’s eyes darkened. Fingers gripped the curve of Regina’s hips, needing something to hold onto. “I’m—it’s—I need to—”

Regina silenced her gently, leaning in, her lips brushing Emma’s in a kiss that asked nothing but offered everything. Their mouths moved together, searching without urgency, tasting what had already been promised in magic and silence.

She felt Emma’s hips shift beneath her, a hitch of friction that sent warmth, and moisture spiralling through her core. A sharp, breathless gasp slipped from Regina’s lips as she pulled back from the kiss, chest rising, lips parted, her gaze searched Emma’s face like it held the map to all her unspoken fears. But Emma’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers, hey flitted to the floor, the wall, anywhere but the woman in front of her.

“Emma?” she asked quietly.

Her gaze dropped, and paused.

A quiet tremor passed through Emma, her breath shallow as Regina’s eyes dropped, not out of disrespect, but from sheer disbelief. The curve of her brow tightened as she registered something unexpected, something unspoken, and something undeniably intimate.

A new truth stared back at her from beneath denim. One Regina hadn’t expected, but she knew magic. She knew consequence. She knew Emma.

Regina blinked, then lifted her gaze, her eyes locking with Emma’s. The room went still.

Emma’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, lips parted but silent, the air between them humming with unasked permission.

Regina’s hand reached out slow, and deliberate as if testing the shape of trust. Fingers brushed denim and paused, waiting for resistance. But Emma, cheeks burning and heart open, lifted her hips without a word.

In that tiny motion, all the fear folded in on itself.

Regina eased the buttons undone, each metallic click loud in the hush that followed. She guided the fabric down—not hurried, not careless—but reverent, as if honouring something sacred rather than revealing something secret.

And as the last layer fell, leaving skin to shiver beneath her hands, Regina didn’t speak, her stomach clenched as chocolate feasted upon Emma's magnificence, as it twitched and pulsed against her sticky abdomen.

 “All magic comes with a price… Dearie” Emma deadpanned, rolling her eyes, in her best Rumpelstiltskin impression.

Regina’s breath caught—but she didn’t flinch.
She didn’t move away.

Instead, she stayed close.
Her fingers brushed Emma’s cheek, coaxing her gaze back.

“You thought I would turn away because of this?” she asked softly.

Emma didn’t answer. But the look in her eyes said everything.

Regina smiled gently.
“Ms. Swan,” she said, voice tinged with wonder and affection. “You truly are my idiot.”

She kissed her again, tender, and deliberate.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered, lips still brushing Emma’s. “In every form. In every truth.”

Regina leaned in slowly, her hands ghosting over the edge of Emma’s shirt before slipping beneath the hem. With careful ease, she lifted it over Emma’s head, the fabric whispering against skin before landing forgotten on the floor. Their lips found each other again—hungrier now, threaded with heat and want.

Settling into Emma’s lap, Regina moved with quiet urgency, the gentle sway of her hips making her sleek black dress inch higher. Warm lamplight caught the curve of her thighs—olive-toned, graceful, and trembling slightly beneath the tension that danced between them.

Emma’s breath hitched, a soft exhale escaping her lips as Regina shifted against her, the friction between them sparking heat and memory. Lace grazed along flushed skin, deliberate and unhurried, and Emma’s eyes fluttered closed, every nerve alive with anticipation and ache.

No words passed between them, but every movement spoke volumes, desire threaded with trust, gravity bending them closer with each shared breath.

Regina’s lips curved into a wicked smile as her hands slipped behind Emma, deftly unfastening the clasp of her bra. The fabric joined the shirt on the floor in a soft heap, forgotten in the haze between them.

She leaned back slightly, her breath catching as she took in Emma’s bare form, eyes darkening with awe and something deeper. The flicker of firelight danced across Emma’s skin, and for a moment, Regina could do nothing but marvel at the strength, the softness, the sheer magnetism before her.

Emma met her gaze at last, cheeks flushed, expression open. Regina's chest rose with something electric. Admiration. Hunger. And the quiet, overwhelming certainty that this was exactly where she was meant to be.

“Mr. Swan was magnificent, but Emma… you are simply… divine." Regina husked.

Regina’s hand slid lower, deliberate, and reverent. Her fingers closed around Mr. Swan with a quiet certainty, and the weight of the moment pressed between them like a held breath.

Emma’s head tilted back, lips parted as a soft sigh slipped free. Her lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks, every nerve responding to the slow rhythm of Regina’s touch.

Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.

Everything they felt pulsed between them—slow and charged, quiet but undeniable.

Regina’s voice broke the silence, low and velvet-soft, threaded with breathless gravity.

“Take me to bed… Em-ma.”

The name lingered, drawn out like a promise.

And Emma, heart hammering, didn’t hesitate.

*

Regina’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as Emma stepped up behind her, quiet, certain. With measured care, she reached for the zipper of Regina’s black dress, drawing it down in one fluid motion. Warm breath brushed her skin, followed by a trail of soft kisses along the nape of her neck, each one sparking heat that shimmered just beneath the surface.

The dress slipped easily over familiar curves, pooling at Regina’s feet in silent surrender. She shivered, more surprise than chill, as Emma’s hands found her arms and gently turned her to face her.

Their eyes held fast as Emma lowered her mouth to Regina’s collarbone, pressing soft, deliberate kisses along the elegant curve of her neck. She lingered at the rise of her chest, then continued downward, slower still, each kiss tracing reverence along the firm plane of her abdomen.

Regina’s breath hitched as Emma knelt before her, hands steady, gaze unwavering. Green met brown, devotion and longing threading between them, thick with the weight of what neither dared say aloud. Regina bit her lip, her voice caught somewhere behind the ache in her throat, as Emma’s fingers brushed gently against her hips, finding the edge of her final barrier. She paused.

Not rushed. Not uncertain.
Just ready.

Regina parted her legs slightly, and the air between them shifted, charged, expectant. Emma drew in a slow breath; her senses steeped in the warmth and scent of the woman before her. With deliberate grace, she leaned in, her lips brushing tenderly along the inside of Regina’s thigh before trailing upward in broad, languid strokes that trembled with promise.

Her mouth found its place, gentle, unhurried, each flick of her tongue a whisper of intent. Regina shivered, her breath catching as Emma kissed her again, lips lingering with quiet reverence. The rhythm unfolded slowly, tenderly, Emma exploring with subtle flicks and patient devotion. Every so often, her gaze flicked upward, catching the telltale flush blooming across Regina’s cheeks.

Fingers threaded through Emma’s hair, urging her closer. The space between them felt suspended, each heartbeat stitched with want and wonder. Regina trembled beneath every flick, not from cold, but from the unbearable beauty of being seen… and worshipped.

“Oh… Em–ma,” Regina breathed, her voice thick with sensation, each syllable catching somewhere between surrender and awe. The second time Emma’s name left her lips, it was softer, fractured on a gasp, shivering with something that stole the breath from her body as she arched into stillness.

Emma’s lips met hers again, catching the moans that spilled freely from Regina’s mouth. Their kiss deepened, slow, knowing, tongues moving with practiced rhythm, each stroke a negotiation of desire and need, tender and unrelenting.

Regina’s fingers moved lower, slow, deliberate, tracing smooth, languid circles that stole the breath from Emma’s lips. The blonde’s body responded instinctively, tension coiling low as each stroke stoked a rising flicker of heat beneath her skin.

Emma moaned softly, the sound swallowed by Regina’s kiss. With effortless command, Regina drew her down onto the bed, their bodies meeting in a seamless press, nothing between them but reverence and want.

“Regina,” Emma whispered, her voice trembling as her fingers curled, closing the final breath of space between them.

Regina trailed kisses along Emma’s sculpted legs, lips brushing the inside of each knee before gliding upward with deliberate care. She lingered at every inch, reverent in her worship of toned, yielding thighs. Her hands moved in harmony, one slipping lower, featherlight in its exploration; the other cradling Mr Swan gently, guiding a rhythm as slow as it was sure. Inch by inch, Regina descended, breath warm, lips parted, her devotion steeped in every quiet exhale against sensitive skin.

She paused, letting the tension build. Her tongue teased in slow, deliberate strokes, circling and tasting with purpose, each movement met with a quiet shiver from the woman beneath her. Emma’s fingers threaded into Regina’s dark hair, steady and yearning.

There was no urgency. Just closeness, curiosity, and the promise that neither was holding back.

Emma’s breath came fast and uneven as Regina moved with practiced care. Her lips traced across warm skin, slower now, deliberate. Every motion was a silent promise.

Emma’s head fell back, fingers curling tighter in Regina’s hair, pulling her closer, deeper in the way only trust allows. Regina responded, eyes dark with focus and fire, her mouth speaking the language of love without a single word.

Groans pressed from Emma’s chest, raw, quiet. She clung to the moment, unwilling to let it slip, as Regina moved with precision and reverent control.

“Regina,” she whispered, the name half prayer, half plea.

Regina smiled, lips curling with wicked delight as she let Emma slip free with a gasp, and a wet, delicate pop that lingered in the air, brief and breathless. The loss sparked something in Emma, who shifted swiftly, reversing their positions with practiced ease.

Emma crawled the length of Regina’s body, forearms braced on either side, her gaze steady and full of quiet hunger. Their lips met again, slow, tender, the taste of shared desire lingering between them like a secret only they could decode.

Emma’s hands tangled in Regina’s hair, tilting her head to bare the curve of her throat. Open-mouthed kisses followed, branding heat into flushed olive skin. Her tongue teased a sensitive peak before blowing gently across it, drawing a shiver and the slightest arch of Regina’s back.

“Emma,” Regina whispered, breath catching. Her hands found Emma’s hips, tugging her closer until they were eye to eye, skin to skin, heart to heart. Emma’s body brushed hers, electric in every inch.

Regina’s breath hitched as she whispered, “Please… I need you.”

Without a word, Regina parted her thighs once more, silent in her invitation. Emma moved slowly, deliberate, reverent. Regina gripped the linens, trembling with anticipation as Mr Swan eased closer… deeper.

Emma paused, concern flickering across her face.

Regina caught Emma’s lower lip between her teeth, her voice low, feral, and trembling on the cusp of a plea. “Please…”

Their rhythm found a pulse, steady, quiet. A shared breath. A soft moan. Their foreheads nearly touching, eyes half-lidded as they moved together, gravity drawing them tighter with every breathless stroke.

“Emma,” Regina gasped, her voice cracking on the edge of a plea. “Don’t stop”

Emma adjusted, her movements deeper, more urgent. Regina arched beneath her, nails trailing slow, trembling lines down her back, breath spilling in fractured syllables.

Emma met every call with quiet devotion, her lips brushing sweat-kissed skin, whispered praise slipping between gasps.

Their connection crested, bodies trembling, breath uneven, hearts in freefall. Regina’s vision blurred, her thoughts dissolving into one truth: Emma’s name, and everything it held.

They reached the edge together, drawn forward by rhythm and trust, the world shrinking to the press of warm skin and the thrum of overflowing love.

Emma collapsed against her, cheek resting above a heartbeat steady and real. Their skin cooled, breaths slowed, arms folding around each other like promises.

“Mine?”

Regina’s voice was soft, almost tentative.

Emma’s answer came without hesitation.

“Yours.”

Chapter Text

The rusted brown Ford sat in silent vigil across from the Mayoral Mansion. Its paint had long since surrendered to time and weather, dulled further by the evening’s drifting mist. Under the dim pulse of streetlamps, the truck appeared more relic than vehicle, a forgotten sentinel with purpose yet to unfold.

Inside, Snow sat rigid in the driver’s seat, jaw tight, breath shallow. Her fingers moved in a restless, staccato rhythm against the steering wheel. Until they didn’t.

Across the street, a door opened, and there she was.

Emma Swan. Shoulders relaxed beneath her worn leather jacket, hands in pockets, head tipped back as she hummed something off-key and unaware. She moved toward the mansion like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t upended everything Snow had fought to protect. There was ease in her. Familiarity. And worst of all, softness.

Snow felt the rage bloom without ceremony. It bloomed like old magic, dark and relentless, flooding her chest and crawling up her throat. The door closed behind Emma, sealing her inside that house. That place.

Window by window, the story played out. A flicker of light in the foyer. A glow in the stairwell. The master bedroom alight.

Snow’s hand flew to the door handle. The old truck groaned as she climbed out, but her footsteps made no sound on the pavement. Mifflin Street remained mercifully empty, cloaked in mist and silence. Perfect. She didn’t want an audience. Not tonight.

At the mansion’s threshold, the door turned beneath her hand with disconcerting ease. No wards. No resistance. She slipped inside like something inevitable.

Up the stairs now. One step. Then another. The wood creaked beneath her deliberate tread. Her fingers curled into fists. Nails bit deep into her palms. Blood welled silently.

At the bedroom door, she stopped.

The sounds on the other side were unmistakable. Quiet moans. The shift of breath. The intimate hush of two women who had stopped speaking because the language between them had become skin and safety and shared pulse.

Snow felt no shock. Only cold.

When she entered, she did so without a word. No insult. No raised voice. No warning.

Only the soft snap of leather

The cuff latched around Regina’s wrist with ruthless certainty. Magic dampened in a rush. Regina inhaled sharply, a gasp stolen from half-sleep and turned into dread. She instinctively pressed herself against the body beside her, seeking cover from the intrusion. From the legacy that had never truly let them be.

“Emma.” Her voice cracked. Barely audible.

Emma stirred. Still on the edge of sleep, she moved closer, lips brushing Regina’s shoulder with unconscious tenderness.

“I’m right here.” She murmured “I’m yours.”

That’s when the voice cut the room apart.

“You are most certainly not hers.”

Snow stood at the foot of the bed; her expression twisted into something cold and righteous. Her tone bore the weight of inherited scripture. Her eyes gleamed with fury.

“You are a Charming,” she hissed. “We do not lie with miller’s daughters dressed in stolen crowns.”

Emma jolted fully awake. Her body moved on instinct. She shifted over Regina, shielding her as if her own frame could stop all the venom in her mother’s words. Her breath came hard and fast. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Across the room, Snow stared back with something far more violent than sorrow. She looked upon Emma not as a daughter, but as a defector.

Emma looked down to Regina. A brave little smile met her there, trembling at the edges. But it was the cuff—the cruel metal clasped to olive skin—that undid her.

Everything inside Emma went quiet.

Her jaw locked. Her shoulders squared. When she met Snow’s gaze again, her voice landed low and heavy, as if drawn from something buried long ago.

“Say that again and I swear I’ll teach you who a Charming truly bleeds for.”

The words landed like steel. Clean. Final.

Emma sat forward, her spine straightening, every muscle tight with focus. Her body no longer trembling with adrenaline, just braced in certainty.

"I’m tired, Snow. And I’m done bleeding for your legacy."

No raised voice. No drama.

Just truth.

*

Emma rose from the bed, every inch of her movement deliberate. Her eyes never left Snow. She reached for the comforter at the foot of the mattress, wrapping it around her hips with calm precision. Not in shame, but in quiet defiance. She reached toward the side of the mattress, her hand finding the familiar drape of Regina’s silk bathrobe. Wordless, she passed it across the short space between them.

Regina’s fingers trembled as she took it. She wrapped it quickly around herself, cinching the sash with more force than necessary. One hand flattened against her chest, where she clutched the bunched fabric over her heart. The gesture had nothing to do with modesty. It was armour, protection from the cold knot of shame twisting through her. Not for her nakedness, but for how easily this woman could make her feel like something hidden again. Like something wrong.

And still, Emma hadn’t flinched.

Snow had.

“It’s no use pretending,” Snow said, her voice pure winter. Frozen edges with no thaw.

“There’s no hiding it, not from me. Your shame follows you like a shadow, Your Majesty. I watched what you did to her. I saw it with my own eyes—the corruption, the perversion. You defiled my daughter with your filth and called it love.”

The words slithered through the room, thick with poison. They landed with weight, with history, with intent.

Emma took a single step forward. Her voice didn’t rise, it deepened, steadied into something unshakable.

“You saw defilement. I saw devotion. You call her filth, but she’s the only one who’s never asked me to be less than I am.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. They held.

“You don’t get to name our shame, Snow. Not when she’s the reason I survived yours.”

Snow flinched, as if the words had struck her.

“How dare you speak to me like that,” she snapped. Her voice shook, not with grief, but with outrage barely contained. “She’s twisted you. Bewitched you. That’s the only explanation.”

She stepped forward, breath trembling with fury.

“The Queen’s poisoned your heart, and warped your instincts until you can’t tell enchantment from affection. Because nothing else would make you betray your family like this. Not unless you were already lost.”

Her voice dropped, colder now, cut from marble.

“You risk your future. Your name. True love,” Snow hissed. “And for what? That woman in a stolen crown who made you forget who you are.”

Emma’s gaze snapped to Regina. Something flickered, recognition, ache, a sharp edge of panic, then darkened. Her mouth parted.

“Regina is my true—”

Snow interrupted, her lips curling into a smile that reeked of false tenderness.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she crooned. Her tone shifted, syrupy, sinister.

“You really don’t remember, do you? Your true love isn’t The Evil Queen. It’s never been Regina. It’s Ruby.”

Emma blinked. The sound she made wasn’t laughter, not really. Just a dry, broken exhale, strangled and sharp, stripped of all humour.

“Ruby,” she repeated, hollow. “You think Ruby is my true love?”

“Of course, darling.” Snow stepped closer, her voice smoothing into something coaxing, deceptively kind.
“You weren’t yourself that night, I know that. The potion took its toll, left you raw, vulnerable. But I saw you. I saw the truth.”
She smiled, warm and cruel.
“You and Ruby... it was real. Uncomplicated. Pure. And when the curse lifted the next morning, you were back. Whole. My daughter again.”

Emma didn’t move.

Not an inch.

She stood caught between memory and recoil, her face unreadable save for the slow, horrified narrowing of her eyes.

Snow let out a giggle.

The sound was wrong, too light for the room it tried to occupy.

“I saw it,” she went on, her voice gleaming with self-satisfaction. “You were tangled up in each other, the magic humming around you. And when you woke, the creature you’d become was gone. I had my Emma back. My perfect, proper Princess.”

Regina exhaled, slow, deliberate. But there was nothing calm in it. Her voice came low and cutting, brittle with fury held in check.

“Your recollection of that night,” she said, “isn’t just flawed. It’s a lie. A convenient little fantasy stitched together from ignorance and bigotry.”

Her eyes blazed now, fixed on Snow like a curse remembered.

“You saw what you wanted to see. You always have. And if erasing me makes Emma easier to control, then by all means, carry on. But don’t pretend it’s about love. You wouldn’t recognise love if it stood bare and unashamed in front of you.”

Somewhere beneath the noise of the room, the braid stirred.

It wasn’t loud.

Not yet.

But it was listening.

Emma didn’t blink.

“That night wasn’t magic. It was a setup.”

Her voice sharpened as the heat rose.

“You laced our drinks with magic and sent lies to the person I loved most. Doctored images. Manufactured proof. You couldn’t stand that I chose her, so you rewrote my memories and handed Regina betrayal wrapped in your idea of truth.”

She stepped forward, no longer trembling.

“And you dare talk to me about defilement?”

The silence that followed settled like snowfall, soundless, weighty, refusing to melt. It expanded into the corners of the room, pressing beneath skin and bone. Emma stood within it, breath shallow, her mind sifting through memories that had never quite belonged to her.

For weeks, if she was honest, Emma had wondered what exactly had rewritten her body.

Not just reshaped it.
Unmade Mr. Swan.
Stitched together something not quite Ms. Swan in his place.

It hadn’t been a choice.
She never asked for the magic.
And no one had explained the cost—not Snow, not Rumpelstiltskin, not even Regina.

Ruby had been kind. Gentle. Familiar. Her presence came easy, but there was nothing intimate between them. No pull. No tremble beneath skin. Just friendship, and laughter softened by enchantment. Proximity dulled by confusion. A bed shared only because the world had spun too fast, too loud, too long.

And yet somehow, that moment rewrote everything.

By morning, her body had shifted.
The curse had cracked.

So, what had the magic responded to?

It hadn’t been desire.
Hadn’t been touch.
Hadn’t been Ruby.

It had moved in the space left behind.
In the ache where Regina should have been.
In the quiet throb of longing.
In love that hadn’t needed to be spoken to be heard.

Across the room, Regina sat with the robe pulled tight around her. Her face was a portrait of practiced restraint. The woman who had always met Emma’s gaze—always—now looked away.

That silence, that deliberate refusal to speak, carried more weight than prophecy.

Emma’s breath stuttered in her chest, then steadied. She turned from the bed, limbs moving not with urgency but with resolve. She reached for her jeans; the comforter still knotted around her waist. Then, without drama she shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor.

She dressed in layers of cotton and denim, brushing off the fragments of memory that still clung to her skin.

And then:

Snow’s voice. A piercing shriek, not born of confusion, but pure revulsion.

“What is that?”

Her eyes had dropped the moment Emma stood bare, searching for an answer in the shape of truth. When they snapped upward again, her face was pale, features drawn tight with horror. One hand flew to her eyes, blocking out whatever she believed she shouldn’t have seen, fingers spread like she could hold the room at bay.

"I don't want to see it. Why do you still have that?"

Emma's hands stilled mid-motion.

The accusation hung in the air. It was not a question. Not a plea. It was a verdict passed without trial.

Regina didn’t flinch. She adjusted her robe as if reassembling herself, jaw lifted, spine aligned. Her expression was unreadable, but regal.

"Really, dear," she said, the words smooth and precise. "Breaking into my bedroom seems to be a habit you've yet to outgrow. And if I recall correctly, you were far less scandalised when Mr. Swan stood right where Emma is now, wearing my red lace knickers and clutching a throw pillow for modesty."

Emma didn’t laugh. She barely reacted.

"Regina."

Her tone was quiet. Not stern. Not chiding. Just tired.

Regina glanced her way, eyes softening slightly. "Noted. My apologies."

Emma tugged her jeans into place, buckled them without ceremony, then straightened. She placed one palm lightly over her abdomen and spoke without flourish.

"This is awkward. Obviously."

Her fingers tightened slightly, a gesture that acknowledged more than it revealed.

"But as your beloved Rumple used to say, magic always comes with a price."

She looked down once more, then raised her eyes to meet her mother’s.

"This is mine," Emma said, her hand resting briefly over the place where old magic had reshaped her. "The cost of casting a spell I didn’t understand. Becoming Mr. Swan was never part of the plan."

Regina inclined her head, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "The incantation."

Emma exhaled. Her shoulders sank with the weight of memory. "Right. The thing that started all of this."

She paused, fingers curling slightly into the denim at her hip.

"I messed up," she admitted. Her voice was raw now, unprotected. "I didn’t believe Regina was changing. I didn’t trust that she could be on the path to redemption. And instead of reaching for her, I reached for control."

Her eyes found Regina across the room, still composed, still quiet.

But Regina would not look back.

Emma's chest tightened. The silence between them throbbed with something old. Something unfinished.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "For not seeing you."

Her shoulders dipped, breath thinning in her chest. The apology didn’t rise. It didn’t ripple or reach. It simply lingered, resting in the stillness between them like a candle untouched, its flame waiting.

Then, slowly, she straightened. Her spine drew long. Her face shifted, not closed off, not mourning. Just certain. A kind of clarity that did not beg forgiveness or permission. Only presence.

Snow’s face contorted. Her voice stretched thin with fury.

"Regina," she spat, trembling with conviction. "You did this to her. You cursed her. Turned her into something unnatural. A monster."

Regina did not rise to meet the venom. She remained still. Her voice was soft, untouched by rage.

"That will do."

The words did not strike. They settled. Like a verdict delivered in quiet. Like a door closing that would not open again.

Silence followed. Not the kind that invited response, but the kind that hollowed out the air. It pressed in from all sides, thick with consequence, cold with memory.

Something shifted. Not in sound. Not in light.

But in the braid.

It pulsed beneath skin and knowing. Barely perceptible, yet no less real. Not visible. Not loud. Just there.

The room had heard the accusation.

And the magic, old as time and woven deeper than blood, did not forget.

It waited. It watched.

It remembered.

Regina’s fury ignited with precision. It didn’t explode outward. It honed. It silenced. Her restraint had been mistaken for surrender, her magic shackled, but not her spine.

She stood without hesitation, a queen by instinct more than birth right.

She stepped forward until her body met Emma’s, the familiar curve of her chest pressed to the blonde’s back. No words passed between them. Only instinct. Their hands found each other, fingers entwining with practiced ease, a grip that did not tremble.

The contact steadied Regina’s breath. Quieted Emma’s pulse. In that narrow space between them, rage and resolve braided into something older than magic. It wasn’t a shield. It was a vow.

"I will not endure your cruelty any longer," Regina said, her voice trembling at the edges, though her resolve held fast. "Emma is not some flaw to be corrected. She is not damaged. She is extraordinary. Despite every misstep I’ve made, despite the pain I caused you and her father, she became someone more noble than I ever deserved to stand beside."

She glanced at Emma, just briefly, then returned her gaze to Snow, steady and sharp.

"And yes, to my eternal frustration, she carries the Charming inability to see the storm before stepping into it. That’s what brought us here. But I never meant to harm her. I only wanted to guide her. Offer what little wisdom I had..."

Her voice faltered, catching on the weight of confession.

"...I never expected to care for her. And I never imagined I would fall…” Her lips pressed shut, slicing the sentence in half. She inhaled once. Sharply. “In love with her."

The braid stirred.

Not in rage. In recognition.

It pulsed against Regina’s wrist, straining faintly beneath the leather cuff that bound it. Not violently. Not in defiance. But as if trying to reach—through silence, through centuries, toward the one presence it still remembered as safe.

Emma felt it before she saw it. The flicker. The shift in magic that hummed just beneath the surface of Regina’s skin. Her hand moved slowly, almost without thought, and settled over Regina’s wrist.

Right over the cuff.

Her thumb brushed the leather. Gently. Without pressure.

Regina’s breath caught, audible only to Emma.

And the braid calmed.

Not gone. Not dormant.

Just waiting.

Anchored now by more than magic.

Anchored by touch.
By choice.

The moment held. Barely a breath. Something steady pulsed between them, unspoken, unshaken.

Then Snow’s voice broke the stillness, brittle, and scalding.

"To offer your wisdom?" she repeated, her tone steeped in venom. Each word dragged slowly through judgment. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

She stepped forward. The cold in her eyes was more unsettling than rage.

"You dragged her into something corrupt. Something unnatural. You didn’t guide her. You steered her off course. You stripped her from the love meant to save her. From the family that tried to hold her close."

Her breath caught. Then hardened.

"You seduced her. Spun lies around her like silk. And you call it love?"

Her lip curled.

"You’re a queen without a throne, hiding in silk and stolen names. You never knew love. You never earned love. You mimicked its shape. Wore its voice."

She turned fully to Regina, gaze glittering with finality.

"No matter what kindness you impersonate, the truth remains. The Evil Queen cannot love. She was never meant to be loved."

Emma’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between fury and heartbreak. The last thread of restraint frayed inside her chest.

"Stop," she said. Her voice trembled, but the intention was clear. "Just stop."

She shifted, not turning fully, but just enough to press Regina’s hand more firmly into her own. Their grip held. It did not shake.

"I’ve had enough of trying to justify something you refuse to see," she said, her tone thickening with grief. "You don’t want truth. You want a daughter carved out of old stories and obligations. One built for display, not for choosing."

Her throat tightened. She swallowed it down.

"Regina is the woman who raised your grandson with devotion. She showed him patience when no one else knew how. She protected him like he was hers before anyone believed she could. She is my true love. I love her. And she loves me."

Regina lifted her chin with quiet defiance. Her eyes met Snow’s with something almost tender—worn sarcasm softened by loyalty.

"I understand this isn't what you hoped for," she said gently. "But I love Emma. And for reasons I will never question, she loves me in return."

The silence that followed felt more human than magical. It didn’t crackle or hum.

It simply waited.

*

Snow moved with unsettling grace. Her body slipped into motion, as though the choice had been made long before the moment arrived.

Her hand reached behind her back, fingers closing around the hilt of David’s sword. The weight suited her more than it should have. It didn’t tremble. It didn’t resist. It simply belonged.

In one clean movement, she drew the blade and raised it. Steel met skin, delicate and chilling, the tip resting just beneath Emma’s chin.

"Mary Margaret." Emma’s voice broke. Not in fear. In disbelief.

She did not flinch. Her body held its shape, but her breath vanished from her chest.

Regina still pressed close behind, gripped Emma’s hand with violent tenderness. Their palms were slick with tension, anchored against whatever might come next.

Snow remained silent.

But the room did not.

The air thickened. The magic stirred. Something ancient pressed against the walls of the moment.

It listened.
It remembered.
And it did not approve.

Red mist erupted from the quiet like a wound torn open. It surged across the room, curling and climbing, hungry with purpose. The shape of it twisted around Snow’s rigid form until her outline blurred. The air shuddered with it. Each breath came harder.

A voice rose from within the mist. It did not belong to Snow.

“The Evil Queen cannot love. She was tailored for power, not tenderness, and you, my darling, were stitched too tightly for sentiment.”

Regina stumbled back as if the words had struck her chest. Her hands faltered. Her voice broke.

"No," she whispered. "Impossible."

"Not impossible," the voice said, now silk-soft and unmistakably real. "Merely inevitable."

The room held its breath.

The mist didn’t vanish.

It pulsed, not in silence, but in warning.
It pressed against the walls, thick and deliberate, like a heartbeat buried beneath regret.

Regina’s breath caught as the voice returned, silk-soft and steeped in cruelty. It didn’t echo. It invaded.
A thread pulled through old wounds.

She knew that voice.
Not by sound. By ache.
It carried every choice she thought time had absolved.

And now it whispered again. Not to speak. To claim.
"You thought you could shed me," the voice purred. "Trade vengeance for vulnerability. Power for love. But you forget, darling... I was forged from your grief. And grief does not vanish. It waits."

Regina staggered a step back, her grip tightening around Emma’s fingers, not out of fear, but preparation. Because the voice hadn’t arrived.
Not yet.
It was circling.
Choosing its shape.

Emma remained motionless, steel brushing dangerously close to her chin, but her eyes burned into Regina’s, searching and steady.

The voice returned, silk-soft, steeped in certainty.
"You gave up the crown, thinking love would rewrite you. But I was born from your fury, your silence, your truth. And truth does not disappear. It waits."

Snow blinked once, unseeing. Her body stood poised beneath the influence, trembling on the edge of violence.

Regina straightened slowly. Her hand did not leave Emma’s. Her fear did not leave her eyes. But something older than fear began to rise inside her. Something that knew how to burn.

"You don’t speak for me," she said. Her voice still cracked, but it found shape. "Not anymore."

The mist shivered.

“Are you certain?” the voice asked.

The braid wrapped around Emma’s wrist gave a quiet hum. Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough to be felt.

Not everything lost remains buried.

The mist folded into itself, its edges curling like breath held too long. It hovered in the stillness, then settled, dense and deliberate. The room felt tight, like it was bracing for impact.

"You clung to this illusion far longer than I expected," the voice murmured, wrapping itself through the room like smoke curling around bone. Each syllable slipped into the air with silk-soft cadence, then cut deep where it fell.

"Hope once looked graceful on you, like a veil pulled over ruin. You convinced yourself it could soften your nature, that sentiment might dissolve what was built from hunger and flame. You thought if you hesitated long enough, power would wilt on its own. That love would cauterise what vengeance left raw."

A pause settled, aching in its finality.

"I waited. I watched. I allowed you time to unravel. But you did not. You could not. And now the cost has ripened. You will pay it in full."

Snow did not blink.

Her hands stayed firm around the hilt of David’s sword. The blade lifted with eerie precision, the tip now grazing the soft skin beneath Emma’s chin. It pressed, not enough to break flesh, but enough to mark intent.

"Love is weakness."

The words did not echo. They didn’t need to.

Emma stood motionless, caught between breath and blade. Her body was still, but her gaze moved, cutting through the fog to find Regina.

It held there.

She did not look away.

Regina’s lips parted. The question emerged in a whisper, more instinct than thought.

"Love is weakness?"

The answer came without hesitation.

"You heard me, darling. You always do."

The mist fractured. Not shattered. Not dispersed. It peeled back slowly, like skin over bone revealing the shape memory refused to forget.

From its core stepped a figure carved from memory and malice. Her silhouette shimmered with something unnatural, not light, but the residue of forgotten power. Her eyes held no warmth. Only precision. Cold. Exact.

She moved to Snow’s side with eerie grace. Snow did not flinch. The figure’s presence stitched itself into her stance, into her bones, until they were no longer separate.

Regina knew her the moment she breathed. Knew her not by name, but by ache.

"Surprise," the woman said, her voice honeyed and cruel. A smile bloomed, brittle along the edges. "Did you truly believe you could wrap yourself in sentiment and pass for one of them? A lovesick Charming?"

She stepped forward, gaze trained on Regina alone.

"You are the Evil Queen. That crown is not theatrical. It does not gather dust in a chest of relics. It breathes. It waits. It lives in every choice you swore you would never make again."

Her head tilted slightly, as if studying her reflection in Regina’s stillness.

"And one does not walk away from what was born in fire. Not power. Not grandeur. Not destiny."

“Mother."

The word struck the air with the weight of memory and dread. Regina’s voice trembled. Emma said nothing, but her eyes snapped toward the figure, body coiled with disbelief.

"You..." Emma started, the shape of the truth catching in her throat. "You were banished. The portal, the spell. Snow was certain."

Cora’s smile unfurled slowly, like smoke finding its shape.

"Oh, do try to keep up, dear. I finally understand what you meant about the Charming naïveté—sweet, certainly, but so painfully slow. Now then, let’s not waste time. There is much to arrange if I am to walk this world again. And that exquisite little spark of true love flickering inside your womb..."
Her smile widened, cool and unhurried.
"...will serve my return beautifully."

She turned her gaze toward Emma, voice dropping to something almost reverent.
"The power you carry, dear Saviour, is not merely sentimental. It is sacred. It is strong. And it is precisely what I need to restore myself—completely."

Regina stumbled a step back. Her arms folded protectively around her middle, as if instinct alone could shield what lay beneath the surface. Her skin turned ashen. The room tilted. Her thoughts scattered like ash into wind.

“No,” Regina whispered, the word trembling at the edges. It was not defiance. It was a vow. “Mother… no. That kind of spell cannot live on force alone. It is written in blood. Bound by love. True love.”

Her breath stuttered. The rest came fragmented, as if each syllable hurt to speak.

“I won’t allow it. You will not lay a hand on what belongs to us.”

Cora’s laugh drifted across the room like perfume laced with arsenic—sweet, almost delicate, and utterly lethal.

“Oh, Regina, must we always perform the same tired drama? I am not asking. I am declaring. And we both know your death holds no value in this design.”

Her gaze shifted toward Emma. Slow. Intentional. Delighted.

“But the death of the Saviour…” she purred, her tongue curling around the words. “Now that is an entirely different kind of spellbook. One etched in gold. One begging to be opened.”

She stepped forward, movement fluid, the glide of someone returning to a throne she never truly relinquished. Her eyes glimmered, not with light, but with hunger dressed in grace.

“This moment, this choice, it’s stitched into the marrow of the world. So many paths stretch before you. So many endings. Tell me, can you feel it? Even fate holds its breath to see which way you will break.”

Regina’s fists clenched, but her arms never dropped. They remained crossed protectively over her abdomen, defensive, defiant, trembling with barely contained emotion. Grief and fury clashed beneath her skin, sparking like lightning in her eyes.

“You are pure evil,” she spat, each word sharpened to cut.

Cora’s smile deepened. The glint in her eyes caught the dim light and turned it sharp, cruel, but beautiful.

“No, darling. I am not evil. I am what waits when you bury the truth for too long. I am what stirs when power is left to rot in the shadow of love.”

She tilted her head, mock-sweet, a mother’s lullaby twisted into something profane.

“I am what remains.”

"Regina," Emma gasped, barely breathing. "What are you both talking about?"

Her throat burned. Her voice came out thin and frayed, barely belonging to her.

"She’s smiling like she’s already won. You’re shaking—like I wasn’t supposed to hear any of it. And I... I don’t understand."

Her gaze locked on Regina’s arms, still crossed protectively over her stomach. A gesture that made no sense. A gesture that hurt to look at.

"Just tell me it’s manipulation. Please. Tell me she’s bluffing."

A flicker pulsed in the braid coiled around her wrist, soft, slow, strangely warm.

Her stomach twisted. Not with fear. With recognition.

Only Regina didn’t answer.

And that silence began to scream.

The blade pressed harder beneath her chin.

She winced, recoiling into Regina’s warmth with a sharp intake of breath. The sword tip kissed skin. Blood welled, bright and unforgiving, tracing down her neck like a promise etched in crimson.

Regina’s arms locked tighter around her, instinct driving protection even as her own body trembled. Neither of them moved beyond breath and blood and the terrible knowledge closing in.

The air held them still, thick with the weight of things unspoken.

Cora's grin slithered into being, slow and deliberate, like a serpent uncoiling after a long and satisfied sleep. Her eyes gleamed with the kind of delight reserved for puppeteers who’ve just discovered their strings still hold.

"Oh, this is divine," she murmured, her voice a purr soaked in poison. "You mean to say she hasn’t told you? That sweet little secret she keeps wrapped in all that noble silence. And tell me, dear heart—why do you think that is?"

Emma didn’t answer. Her grip on Regina’s hand remained tight, but her body stilled in quiet anticipation, dread blooming behind her eyes.

Regina drew in a breath that barely filled her lungs.

"I imagine," she said, her voice too low to be steady, "you’ll be more than happy to share it."

Cora’s voice shifted, lilting with an unsettling sweetness.

"It seems true love has developed a curious little flaw," she sang, her tone threaded with mockery, each note delicate as silk and twice as binding. "Secrets, my dear. Omissions. The charming little lies we tell when love becomes more frightening than loneliness. How human of you."

Regina’s voice barely surfaced, fragile and fraying at the edges.

"Please." The word fell from her lips like a leaf loosed from a dying branch. "Mother, don’t. I am begging you."

Cora’s smile stretched, slow and indulgent, like a cat settling in the sun with something helpless between its paws. Her gaze drifted to Emma and lingered, cold, and calculating.

Behind those storm-washed green eyes, pain had already begun to bloom. Not loudly. Not fully. But it was there, spreading like ink through linen.

Betrayal did not need a storm to be felt. Sometimes it only needed a whisper.

"There it is," Cora purred, her voice steeped in cruel delight. "That beautiful sting. Nothing cuts quite like betrayal. Not fire. Not steel. It slips in quietly, but it never leaves. And you, dear Saviour, wear it with such... tragic elegance."

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her voice dipping into something almost tender.

"But don’t be fooled. I’m not here to destroy."

Her smile curled at the edges, too calm to be kind.

I’ve come to take back what was always mine."

Her gaze slid back to Regina and locked there. Cold. Precise. Unforgiving.

"Isn’t that, right? A life owed for a life stolen."

Cora cackled—sharp and splintering—the sound tearing through the stillness like a jagged blade.

"Snow White had no idea what the black candle was truly capable of," she said, her voice syrup-thick with glee. "Your precious mother believed she was tapping into vengeance. What she got was something far less... manageable."

She moved forward, each step unhurried, her presence blooming like poison in the lungs.

"And when you performed your darling séance, wrenching me through the portal with all that sentimental firepower? Well. Let’s just say not everything went according to plan."

Her smile warped, pleasure curling at its corners.

"A newly corrupted heart isn’t just wounded. It’s potent. It anchors. It listens to things older hearts forgot."
Cora leaned in, her voice lowering like a secret.
"So perhaps I’ll do away with the slow, sentimental unravelling. Perhaps I run you through right now, Saviour, and we let the braid choose where it blooms next."

"Braid?"
Emma’s voice cracked through the rising pressure. It scraped raw at the edges. She blinked past the sting of blood at her throat, barely registering the warmth as it traced down her skin.

Cora’s delight unfurled like silk stitched with thorns. Her eyes gleamed.
"Oh, this is too delicious. The Saviour hasn’t the faintest clue. And yet, look at her, repeating the same tired gesture without knowing the cost. Noble sacrifice. Guarding what she loves. So predictable. And you were nearly there, darling. So close to shattering the curse."

"Curse?"
Emma echoed the word, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a plea. A thread unspooling beneath the surface.

Her voice thinned. It tangled in blood and bone and a thousand tiny fragments of something she couldn’t yet name.

Her eyes flicked to Regina’s arms. They were still crossed, still trembling, still hiding.
She swallowed hard.

The braid pulsed.

"What curse? What cost?"
The words broke like glass between her teeth.
"Tell me what I’m missing."

Snow shifted. Her posture sharpened. The hilt in her grip pulled downward.

The blade pressed forward. It moved slow, deliberate.

Its tip carved a deeper line into Emma’s skin.

Emma groaned, low and guttural, defiance clinging to her voice even as pain shimmered behind her eyes. The blade had traced its crimson path, but she refused to yield. She leaned into Regina—not in surrender, but in trust—skin trembling where steel kissed it.

"Mother." Regina’s voice cut through the moment, torn and threadbare. She lunged forward, hand rising, desperation bleeding into motion. Sparks flared at her fingertips, weak, scattered, and died before they reached air. Nausea coiled through her abdomen, dragging her body sideways, untethered from strength.

Cora turned, amused and unimpressed. Her gaze danced across Regina’s faltering form, glinting with something colder than mockery.

"There you are," Cora said, her voice draped in velvet and poison. "Awake at last. This tedious little overture was beginning to fray my patience. And you look wretched, darling. Pale. Trembling. Let me guess... your charming little cuff has clipped those wings of which you were so proud?"

Regina’s breath caught in her chest, shallow and ragged. She swayed, every part of her aching with defeat. Her voice emerged low and broken, words dragged from beneath grief, from the hollow where pride used to live.

"Alright," she said, barely more than breath. "You win, Mother."

Cora’s smile unfurled—rich, indulgent. Satisfaction shimmered in her expression like a crown made of ash. The moment belonged to her, and she intended to savour every crack Regina gave.

"Don’t I always?" Cora purred.

Her gaze flicked to Snow, steady and hollow. The air shifted as her command landed.

"Snow White. Sheathe your blade. The Saviour stays untouched. For now. Her fate rests in my daughter’s hands."

Snow moved without hesitation. No emotion. Her hands found the hilt, slid the blade into its sheath with eerie precision. Her eyes were vacant, unblinking, as though her soul had been folded and tucked away.

"As you wish, mistress," she said, voice empty and distant.

Emma turned sharply, her breath uneven. Pale and wide-eyed, she searched Regina’s face for something steady. Something real.

"Regina... please. What’s going on? Why are you letting her win? None of this makes any sense."

Regina’s eyes lifted slowly, drawn to the streak of blood along Emma’s throat. A thin line. Barely more than a scratch.

But it shouldn’t be there.

Not on her.
Not ever.

She stepped forward, arms slipping around Emma’s shoulders, gathering her in as if she could shield her from a world that had already taken too much. Her lips found Emma’s in a kiss, fragile and consuming. An apology. A farewell. A lifeline.

Emma didn’t hesitate. She leaned into it with everything she was, every bruise, every hope, every unspoken promise pouring through her mouth into Regina’s. Love, fierce and clear. Defiance, unyielding. And devotion, carved from bone.
Cora’s words had crumbled in the space between them. Whatever seeds she had planted, they refused to take root here.

When they parted, Regina didn’t just hold Emma. One hand settled low, shielding her abdomen. Not from habit. From instinct.

Emma didn’t fully notice. But something shimmered inside her. A thrum beneath her ribs. A flicker behind her sternum.
The braid pulsed quiet, deliberate, as if responding to something more than love.

If Regina looked into green eyes now, everything inside her would break open.
If she saw love there, true, and whole, she might never find the strength to let go.
So she held still. Held hands. Held breath.

And in that hush, the braid pulsed again.
Not loud. Not urgent. But charged. Knowing. Waiting.

Then Cora’s voice shattered the quiet—

"Oh, do stop with the theatrics. Sentimentality never suited you, Regina. This isn't your first parting, and with my return inevitable, I doubt very much it will be your last."

Regina folded herself closer to Emma, pressing her cheek to the blonde’s chest, eyes closed, fists curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself to the only truth she had left.

"I love you," she whispered, voice lost in cotton and skin, her breath trembling where it landed.

Emma’s words came quiet, buried in confusion and the knife-edge of hurt.

"Then trust me with your truth.”

Regina drew back with aching deliberation, as if the act itself might shatter the fragile thread between them. Her fingertips traced the curve of Emma’s jaw, lifting her face with infinite care until green eyes met brown and the world around them stilled into silence.

"This isn’t the moment…" she said, voice low and trembling at the edges. "But I need your trust. I need it now more than ever."

Emma’s breath faltered. Her body shifted, the beginnings of retreat inching across her shoulders.

Regina reached out, a single finger pressing gently to kiss-bruised lips. A pause. A promise. Something unspoken passed between them, something ancient, familiar, trembling at the edges.

Emma didn’t speak.

She just breathed—shallow and trembling—then steadied. Her pulse still thundered in her ears, but something behind her eyes had cleared. Not panic. Not confusion. Resolve. As if she’d heard more than words. As if she’d felt the shift beneath them, the subtle turn of intention in the air.

Regina hadn’t bought them safety.

She’d borrowed time.

And Emma knew what to do with it.

Emma didn’t answer aloud. She leaned into Regina’s touch, eyes unwavering, and let reverence shape the words she mouthed, soft against skin.

"Ours”

It settled between them like starlight catching in still water. No spell. No flourish. Just truth.

Regina’s breath caught. Her chest rose in an uneven swell, grief, and wonder threading through her ribs like wire pulled taut. She hadn't expected to be claimed. Not like that.

And yet, here she was. Held. Chosen. Named.

The air didn’t shatter. It thickened, warm and reverent.

The braid coiled inward at first, then stretched—slow and fluid—toward Emma’s chest. Not aggressive. Not hungry. Curious.

It brushed the base of her throat, paused over the streak of blood Cora’s games had drawn.

And pulsed.

Emma inhaled sharply, not in pain, but recognition.

Light bloomed beneath her skin, ancient and unhurried. Not a flare. A memory reawakening.

Cora’s smile faded. Just for a breath.
Her gaze snapped to the braid.

“No,” she said, low and brittle.

But the magic had already chosen the shape of its loyalty.

It curled around Emma like a crown rediscovered. Not gifted. Not taken. Claimed.

For one suspended second, the room did not breathe.

Then Cora’s voice detonated, shattering the stillness—

"Enough. I’ve permitted this nauseating display long enough. It’s time, Regina. Return to your place. Come home to me."

Regina hesitated, the command pressing against her like iron to bone. Her hand lingered in Emma’s, fingertips clinging, desperate to delay the inevitable. They trembled between them, not ready to break.

But under the relentless pull of her mother’s stare, she let go. The contact fell away, quiet, and final.

Emma pressed a palm to her chest, the ache blooming again with merciless intensity. It clawed through her ribs, hollowing the space where Regina had stood.

"I will find you," she said, voice low and steady, the vow etched in sorrow and steel. "I will find you"

Regina’s lips lifted, soft and defiant, a trace of bravery dancing behind the grief.

"I’m counting on it, Charming."

Then the world shifted. A plume of red enveloped them—Regina, Cora, and Snow—and they were gone.

The air fell silent.

Emma stood alone in the echo, heart burning, promise heavy against her skin.

Chapter Text

The nausea rose in waves, deep, relentless, almost ritualistic in its cruelty. It curled beneath Regina's ribs like some ancient tide summoned by a name long forgotten, bitter with memory and too familiar to ignore. Her arms folded instinctively across her abdomen, not for comfort but as a defiant act of preservation. She remained upright, breath thinned into shallow fragments, while the red vapour swirled around her, slow as malice, deliberate as a curse too old for language.

When the fog retreated and the cavernous shape of the mausoleum bled into full view, her gaze lifted toward the ornate ceiling. A sigh escaped her lips, weary and acerbic, stitched with the kind of disdain reserved for ghosts one never truly buried.

"Of course," she murmured, the words brittle and bruising, a shard of sarcasm she barely tempered. "Back to the tomb. How poetic, Mother."

Cora's presence unfurled beside her with the grace of smoke and the glee of something long returned to its throne. She was delighted; voice steeped in reverence that rang false even in echo.

"A location rich in sentiment," she replied, watching Regina with that polished cruelty she wore like perfume. "Your mausoleum has remained untouched, precious even. And now, with the Saviour's reckless intrusion unlocking your blood-bound magic, the stage is mine. When she finds you—if she finds you—she'll be granted no more than the privilege of witnessing my ascension. It will be nothing short of magnificent."

A quiet tremor slipped through Regina's spine, subtle but raw. Emma's vow echoed inside her like breath caught in cathedral arches.

I will find you .

The words rang against her ribs as if memory itself refused to loosen its hold. The ache folded her inwards, her knees giving way as her hands met the icy mosaic below. The stone offered no sympathy. Her heart did.

"Please…" The word broke like glass in her throat, shattered, sharp, raw. Her voice barely rose, scraped thin beneath breath that came in frantic, uneven fragments.

Her body swayed but held. Shoulders quaked with effort, and her spine arched beneath the weight of grief too long contained. The tremble wasn’t performative. It was the unravelling of someone who had worn crowns made of fire, learned to bleed beneath silk, and survived without kindness for far too long.

"Don’t take this from me," she begged, voice cracking beneath its own weight. "Not her. Not our child. I have nothing left to become if you rip this away."

She did not reach for power. She reached for mercy.

And mercy had never come easy to queens.

Above her, Cora stood with serene disdain, eyes gleaming with something colder than judgment.

“Do you truly believe this grovelling suits you?” she said, voice calm and cutting. “You were never destined for softness, Regina. I raised you to command, not to beg. And now look at you, crawling, trembling, pleading for scraps of affection like the disappointment you’ve always been.”

She leaned closer, the air around her thickening with spite.

“Every time you’ve touched happiness, you’ve ruined it. Every flicker of love turned to ash beneath your grasp. Because you were not shaped to be loved, you were forged to be feared. And I will not let you embarrass me with this simpering display any longer.”

Regina lifted her face, slow as sorrow, gaze locking onto eyes that had never known mercy. Her voice trembled with restraint but never faltered.

"You’ve dismantled my joy in every existence I've dared to hope. And still, against reason, against history, I loved you. I do. But why do you treat me as if I were born broken?"

Cora tilted her head, her expression reworked into something distantly maternal, though it held no warmth.

"Broken?" she echoed, the syllable rolling from her tongue like a relic. "Darling, you misunderstand. You were not broken. You were forged. Crafted for sacrifice. And love? Love is merely the currency that makes such arrangements possible. Your happiness—always fleeting—was simply the price. Our ending demanded payment."

A cold stillness spread through Regina’s gut. It moved without haste, anchoring her in revelation.

"Our ending," she repeated softly, more question than declaration.

The quiet that followed pressed in like prophecy waiting to be rewritten.

The word struck the air like a curse spoken in silk.

“Mine,” Cora said, her voice sweetened with possession. “And the Dark One’s.”

The revelation did not pierce Regina’s heart; it spread through it. Like venom. Like betrayal folded inside breath. Every moment flickered before her eyes: Gold’s hollow encouragement, his velvet-toned whispers about Emma’s transformation, the almost fatherly nudges toward understanding the braid’s evolution. Each interaction disrobed itself beneath memory's ruthless light. No compassion. No wisdom. Only architecture. Only control.

She rose slowly, as if her limbs had forgotten grace. Her breath came uneven, her body trembling, but fury laced through her spine like iron. Her voice, when it came, was frayed but full.

“He used me,” she said, the syllables sharp with grief. “He played us both. Emma’s change. The braid. Every part of it, crafted with intention. Constructed. Curated. For his balance. His symmetry.”

Cora’s smile did not soften. It sharpened.

“Love,” she said, each syllable pressed like perfume behind a predator’s ear. “Love is distracting. Foolish. You chased sentiment. He needed results. I supported you when no one else dared.”

Regina’s mouth curved. Not in forgiveness. In recognition. The shape of her grief reshaped itself into rage, carved into resilience.

“No,” Regina said, her voice steady despite the tremble beneath it. “You didn’t support me. You controlled me. You stripped me of softness, carved me into something you could parade. You taught me that vulnerability was shameful and that love was a liability.”

Her eyes did not waver.

“You told me emotion was weakness, but it isn’t. It’s survival. It’s the voice we use when fear tries to silence us. And I’m done being silent.”

There was no retort. Only mist. Cora dissolved into the ether, her command lingering like perfume in a tomb.

“Miss White,” she commanded, the syllables draped in velvet and malice, lingering in the stone-swept chamber like a stain that refused to fade. “Assist my daughter.”

Snow moved. Not with purpose, but with precision stripped of soul. Her limbs followed orders her heart could no longer shield against. Hollow eyes found Regina’s wrist with quiet cruelty. Her grip held without compassion, fingers clamped down hard, a gesture of possession rather than aid.

Regina inhaled sharply, the breath shallow and frayed.

She was dragged forward, bare feet skimming over mosaic tiles that glittered like shattered glass. Each step was a wound. Each scrape beneath her soles bled a memory. The apothecary loomed ahead, untouched by time and untouched by mercy.

“Snow,” she gasped, her voice raw from silence and pain, threaded with urgency only love could conjure. “Fight this.”

She stumbled once, and Snow did not steady her.

“You are more than a vessel. You were a rebel before you were a queen. Do not let her unmake you.”

But her voice shifted, softening not with weakness, but clarity. The armour of defiance unravelled with tenderness, and something quieter emerged.

“I am sorry,” she said.

The words did not crash. They trembled, unpolished, unprepared. Honest.

Snow’s face did not change, but something behind her gaze flickered. Briefly. A shadow, or perhaps the trace of recognition.

“I am sorry,” Regina repeated, voice scarcely louder than a heartbeat. “With Henry... and with Emma... I found something I never thought I deserved. A family. Something worth surviving for. Something worth protecting. I didn’t understand before. Not fully. But I do now.”

Her voice broke into quiet.

Snow remained silent.

Regina was shoved down into the velvet chair, not offered a place, but forced into it. The fabric welcomed her like velvet might welcome thorns. Splintered bindings found her wrists again, biting with cruel familiarity.

Pain bloomed sharp across bone and skin.

She did not cry out.

She looked up.

Her gaze was steady, her breath uneven, her body aching, but her spirit. That refused to shatter.

She had known the loneliness of a throne. She had tasted fire and worn a name that echoed in fear.

But she had also learned how to love.

Even here. Bound. Still.

“What do you know of love,” Snow said, her voice splintered, raw from something deeper than possession. “You poison everything you touch and call it devotion. You didn’t build a family, Regina, you captured one.”

Her grip tightened, fingers bruising flesh with deliberate contempt.

“You think the braid and a few soft words can rewrite every wound you ever carved? You think motherhood erases bloodshed?”

Her face leaned in, a breath’s width from Regina’s own.

“You don’t understand love. You only know ownership.”

Regina's breath faltered, a trembling hitch that curled deep within her chest, yet her gaze held fast, unwavering in the face of pain. The bindings cut into her wrists, splinters biting through skin and sinew with cruel precision. Her arms trembled with the effort of composure, but her voice rose gently, calm, deliberate, and unbroken.

“I know love does not arrive flawless,” she said softly. “It is not born dressed in gold. It is shaped—slowly, painfully—through the choices we dare to make and the mistakes we refuse to run from. It finds form in the spaces where rage softens into mercy, where grace is learned breath by breath.”

She let the words linger, let them settle like petals falling onto water.

“And family,” she continued, her voice deepening with truth, “is not lineage. It is not the echo of inherited names. It is found in those who remain when the light dims. It lives in the hands that reach for you after you have shattered, in the eyes that see more than the damage. Emma did not inherit me. She chose me. And Henry… Henry did not stumble into my arms by accident. He stayed. He stayed because something in me, despite everything, still knew how to love.”

The silence that followed did not threaten to break. It widened instead, a hush given permission to listen.

“You see a crown and a curse,” Regina said, the words quieter now. “But it was love that unravelled the curse. Love that gave me a son. Love that taught me how to be more than what the world expected. More than the throne. More than the title. More than the shadow.”

Her throat tightened, her breath catching, yet she let the stillness absorb her sorrow without apology.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” she said at last. “Nor absolution. Only truth. Because you’ve seen it, Snow. Whether you admit it or not.”

The words lingered, soft and aching. Snow stood motionless, her hands still fixed to the bindings as if afraid to release them, her knuckles pale with strain, her eyes distant and unreadable.

Then something shifted.

It arrived quietly, nothing sharp, nothing loud. The braid stirred beneath Regina’s skin with intimate certainty. It pulsed once, a gentle thrum. Then again, brighter, richer, as though blooming in response to all that had been spoken aloud.

From the bruised hollow of her wrist, light began to unfurl. Soft as snowfall. Warm as candlelight. The glow threaded outward like breath weaving through silk, curling over fractured wood, and climbing the velvet arms of the chair until it reached Snow’s fingers.

She recoiled at first, breath halting. Her gaze fell to her hands, where the light gathered, not in heat, but in recognition. It did not wound her. It did not scold.

It revealed her.

The magic hummed, distant and tender. In it lived the memory of laughter spilling from Henry’s small body. The quiet steadiness of Emma’s gaze across a battlefield. Regina’s fingers brushing sweat from a child’s fevered brow. Not power. Not grandeur. But care. Devotion. Love in its most unassuming form.

The braid spoke no prophecy.

It reminded.

Its light did not demand belief.

It asked to be seen.

Regina breathed in, her voice barely a thread.

“That is what you said I could not understand.”

Snow’s grip weakened, not with surrender, but recognition. Just enough for breath to return to the room. Just enough for silence to feel less like judgment, and more like grace preparing to arrive.

Her hands clamped tighter. The bindings bit deeper. Regina stifled the sound of pain, nausea rising again as the cuff caught fire against her wrist.

She glanced instinctively toward it, toward the red marks blooming beneath her skin.

Snow moved away, her silhouette folding into shadow. But Regina remained rooted, eyes burning, breath shallow.

She knew what love felt like now.

And she knew where it lived.

*

The scent of old coffee and worn leather lingered in the station air, too quiet now for comfort, too saturated with memory to offer silence. Outside, the wind clawed at windowpanes with restless fingertips, the storm brewing in tandem with the woman standing at its heart.

Emma stood at the centre of the room, not speaking yet. The fluorescent light overhead cast a pale gold halo across her tangled hair, and the strands clung to her cheeks like threads pulled from fray. Her boots still damp from early morning dew. Her breath refused rhythm. Her fingers twitched at her sides as if grasping for magic that refused to answer.

The war council, called without preamble, summoned by urgency alone, had gathered in scattered reverence. David stood nearest, jaw tight, heart bruised in places no blade could reach. Granny adjusted her weapon with the quiet authority of someone who had fought too many monsters to fear the next. Archie sat with hands folded; his silence stitched to his spine. Blue hovered like mist, unreadable, composed. Leroy paced near the door, eyes hard, mouth clenched.

Emma didn’t speak. She trembled.

Her voice arrived not as a shout, but as rupture.

“She took her.”

The words clung to the walls.

“Cora came through like fog split by thunder. No warning. No flash of light. Just… her. And Snow. Both vanished. And Regina… she didn’t fight. There wasn’t time. Her body didn’t even fall. She was just gone.”

Her breath fractured, the sound dry, shallow, barely contained. She pushed a hand through her hair and winced as if even touch had turned against her. Her magic curled inward, unwilling to pulse. Her heartbeat thrummed in panic, not rhythm.

“They’re gone,” she said again. “And I don’t care about enchanted thresholds or blood-bound doorways or tactical portals. What I care about is how we get Regina back.”

David stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the tile muted by the heaviness in his voice. The strain rippled through each syllable, cracked with guilt worn thin.

“Snows changed,” he said. “I saw it. And I ignored it.”

Emma turned, slow and exact. Her gaze didn’t blaze, it chilled. Steel threaded through her posture, not in defiance, but in conviction she refused to surrender.

“She was always like that,” she said, her voice steady as stone. “You only noticed when the light dimmed.”

David flinched, a breath hitching between instinct and regret.

“Don’t,” he said, but the word didn’t land with authority. It barely held.

Emma stepped closer, not with threat but with clarity. Her voice dropped, quiet with fury, the kind of rage tempered not by impulse but by grief.

“Do not try to parent me right now,” she said, each word careful, deliberate. “This isn't a wound for reassurance. This isn’t a war for forgiveness. I am not here to be consoled.”

Her hand drifted instinctively across her forearm, as if reaching for the braid beneath the skin, an enchantment threaded between her and Regina, quiet and unseen. It did not burn. It did not bind. It anchored.

“I am here to rescue Regina.”

The silence that followed didn’t scatter.

It settled.

Like something ancient remembering how to kneel.

Granny cleared her throat.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that, love?”

Emma exhaled. Her magic sparked, barely. The faintest shimmer curled around her wrist, golden and uncertain. Her fingers twitched. The braid beneath her skin stirred once, slow, and soft.

“I called you all here because this isn’t a negotiation. It’s an extraction.”

Her voice found rhythm again.

“She chose me. She trusted me. And I will not let her vanish beneath someone else’s narrative.”

The map unfurled across the desk, stained with candle wax and crumbs and desperation. Emma pointed, not at a location, but a sensation.

“She’s still somewhere in this town. Or near enough that her magic hasn’t gone silent. I can feel it. The braid hasn’t stilled.”

A hush settled across the room.

Blue moved first, stepping close enough to observe the shimmer.

“She’s speaking,” she whispered. “The braid. Not with voice, but memory.”

“What do you mean?” Emma demanded.

Blue didn’t answer immediately. She lifted Emma’s hand, delicately, as if handling glass warmed by heartbeat. The light pulsed.

“She’s reminding you. She’s showing you how to find her.

Emma’s breath caught, low in her throat. The golden shimmer across her wrist thickened, pulsing once, then again, steadier now. It didn’t glow like magic preparing to strike, it glowed like something trying to be remembered.

Blue leaned closer, eyes narrowed, as if listening to a whisper the room couldn’t hear.

“She’s showing you,” she said again. “Moments. Anchors.”

The light rippled outward, catching the edges of the map, crawling over lines and markings like water seeking its source. Candle wax melted backward. Ink shifted, swirling, reorganizing itself until shapes reformed into memories, images only Emma could see.

Regina in the vault, hand resting over her heart.

Henry asleep against her shoulder, trust heavy as breath.

Emma’s own fingers brushing snow from Regina’s temple in some long-forgotten storm.

Not instructions.

Not spells.

Just truths.

Archie cleared his throat, voice hesitant. “You said the braid hasn't stilled. What if it's not just tethering you, it’s testing you. What if this is how she’s guiding you through the fog?”

Emma didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze fixed on the glow now pooling around her wrist, spreading into the corners of the station with quiet determination.

“She’s not asking me to fight,” she said, voice soft. “She’s asking me to remember.”

And that, perhaps, was the first step in finding her.

David shifted his weight, the worn leather of his jacket releasing a soft creak that punctuated the quiet. The air between them thickened, not with conflict but with the slow accumulation of grief and doubt. His gaze met hers, unsteady and searching, as if trying to gather something he’d misplaced in the dark.

“Emma,” he said, his voice shaped by worry and worn by too many regrets. “You speak like someone who already found the answer. Like her magic was left for you alone. I’ve seen what magic does when it turns on love. It twists good intentions into wounds you can’t heal.” He hesitated, then added, “I just don’t want it to break your heart.”

Emma didn’t move. The golden shimmer coiled along her wrist, pulsing slow and sure, its light nesting into her palm like breath drawn by memory. It held no fire. Only recognition.

“You saw the braid,” she said quietly, a whisper that felt like invocation.

David nodded. His voice arrived tentative, pressed into shape by the fear he didn’t want to name. “I did. Maybe it is reaching for you. Maybe it’s real. But what if it isn’t? What if all this light is just grief echoing back at you? A ghost dressed as guidance.”

Her jaw tightened. The shimmer stirred again, curling against her skin as if rising to meet his doubt.

“It isn’t,” she said. No sharpness. No flourish. Just truth.

Still, he continued, the careful tread of a man hoping words could anchor what belief could not. “You want to trust that she left you signs. That she wove a path through memory and magic for you to follow. But we’ve seen what enchantments can do. They don’t always honour love. Sometimes they mimic longing. Sometimes they answer only to fear.”

Emma turned slowly. Her posture was not armoured for battle. It was shaped by revelation, softened and sharpened by certainty. The light deepened across her wrist, hue shifting to a gold so rich it could not be mistaken for grief.

“What do you fear most, David?” she asked, voice steady and low.

He faltered. His breath caught against silence. Then the words arrived, shaped by sorrow and the ache of too many almosts. “That we’ll follow these memories like constellations. And they’ll lead us to a version of her that doesn’t exist anymore.”

The hush that followed did not settle like doubt. It held its breath, heavy with something sacred.

Emma stepped closer. Not with fire, not with demand. With certainty carved from love.

“Regina is not gone,” she said, each syllable stitched with belief, anchored in something deeper than hope. “This magic, it doesn’t flicker. It doesn’t pretend. It remembers. Not impressions. Not warmth borrowed from the past. It remembers her.”

She lifted her hand. The shimmer pulsed, bright and deliberate, curling through her fingers like breath returned.

“And I do too,” she said. Her voice carried no tremble. “I remember the pulse beneath her fingers. The way her silence held weight. The look she gave me when she believed I would stay.”

She stood taller, breath quiet but grounded.

“She isn’t lost. She isn’t gone. She’s waiting.”

Her eyes didn’t soften.

“And I will find her.

Blue stood still, draped in robes that seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. For a long moment, she did not speak. The braid shimmered faintly between Emma’s fingers, its pulse rhythmic as breath, deliberate as grief made holy.

“You are right to trust it,” she said at last, each word careful, shaped like incense pressed into ritual. Her voice did not rise, yet the room responded as if a hymn had begun.

“This magic was not conjured from chaos. It was braided from choice, from pain, from the kind of love that refuses silence. It remembers not because it was instructed to, but because Regina loves you with intention.”

The council remained still. Even David, wearied by fear, seemed tempered now by something older than doubt.

Blue reached forward, her hand hovering above Emma’s wrist where the light gathered like candle flame atop water. She did not touch. She listened.

“You speak of memory,” she continued. “But this braid carries more than that. It carries truth. Not the truth written in spellbooks or passed down in prophecy, but truth forged in defiance. Regina placed a part of herself into this—into you—not because she was desperate, but because she believed it would be seen.”

Blue withdrew, her robes folding like dusk around her ankles, the braid’s glow dimming into something reverent. The words she’d spoken still hovered in the air, weightless and weighty, less command, more confirmation.

“She believed you would come,” she said, “So go. Go, and be her saviour.”

The map pulsed softly beneath Emma’s gaze. Ink trembled along its borders. Shapes rearranged themselves, curling into patterns only memory could decipher. Her wrist shimmered in answer, gold light wrapping her skin like breath held too long. The braid tightened, not against her, but with her. Not resisting. Preparing.

Emma exhaled.

No rage. No flourish. Just breath returned to its centre.

Her voice followed.

“Fine,” she said, each syllable crisp, flattened by intent. “It’s time to pay the imp a visit.”

Across the room, David’s head snapped up, a flicker of disbelief shadowing his features.

“I thought no deals,” he said, weariness threading the words.

Emma turned slightly, fingers brushing the sleeve of her coat, posture folding into motion. Her expression didn’t shift, just sharpened.

“No deals,” she repeated, quiet and clear.

The braid flared again. Not warning. Not recoil.

Permission.

Across the map, a single mark ignited, small, deliberate. A pulse carried through parchment and memory. And somewhere, in a shop lined with relics and secrets, a teacup rattled on its shelf.

*

Snow entered the chamber with a quietude that bordered on reverent. She carried a narrow wooden tray, its surface stitched with small glass phials and trembling tufts of wild herbs, each element glinting beneath the torchlight like fragments of fallen stars. The mortar nestled near the edge chimed with anticipation, its rim kissed by the clink of vials as she crossed the threshold. Her steps pressed softly into the mosaic tiles, the air behind her folding into hush, as though unwilling to disturb the silence that grew dense with implication.

Regina watched her from the velvet chair; her posture bowed into something neither regal nor broken. She did not rise. Her gaze remained fixed, thoughtful, and sharp, like a blade softened by long use. The discarded cuff lay near her bruised ankles; its dull metallic sheen blended into the stone like a wound losing its voice. Her fingers moved, tentative and slow, brushing the tender crescent where magic had once lived, now replaced with a silence that pulsed just beneath her skin.

“Snow,” she said, the name caught in a whisper that balanced between hope and caution. It floated outward, unembellished, drawn from a place too raw to cloak. Her eyes searched the pixie-haired woman’s face, hungry for proof that her quiet plea—woven into that earlier apology—had found its way through Cora’s enchantment and into something still human.

Snow did not offer reply. She placed the tray upon the low table with precision carved from habit rather than ceremony. Her hands moved with tempered focus, lifting the pestle and guiding it into the bed of dried petals and crushed root. Each circle was steady, a rhythm born of restraint rather than clarity. The contents became dust, grey and fine, twining together like memory ground into powder.

Regina’s gaze lingered on the mixture. She could not read it. Its intention remained veiled, an elixir of healing or one of subjugation. Her breath shortened. The tension gathered behind her ribs, curling into shape like armour she hadn’t chosen to wear. She settled deeper into the velvet; her frame edged with composure. It was the stillness of someone preparing to be hurt again.

The chamber cooled. Somewhere in the shadows, a draft whispered through stone, curling the flame of a nearby candle into a dance of uneasy light.

“Cora’s voice no longer whispers,” Snow murmured, her focus never straying from the mortar. Her words fell like ash, soft, unannounced, but lingering.

Regina did not answer. Not yet.

Because she needed to believe that silence had become safety, not merely strategy. And in that pause, something ancient stirred, the notion that liberation might bloom not through magic, but through memory reclaimed.

Regina stilled, her body responding not with defiance, but with a kind of weary grace. Her eyes flickered, catching a trace of sharpness, then softening into something more familiar, sarcasm drawn like thread from a frayed spool.

“Well,” she murmured, the syllables light but precise. “You took your time, dear.”

There was no venom in the remark. Only relief. Quiet and folded, stitched beneath layers of composure that had been worn too long.

Snow continued grinding the mixture in the mortar, her movements steady, almost ritualistic. The sound of crushed petals and powdered root whispered against stone. She did not glance up.

“Save your sharpness, Majesty. Whatever spell she cast may have fallen silent, but I doubt she’s truly gone. She lingers, I think. In walls. In candle smoke. In breath too soft to name. Best to behave as though she's listening.”

Regina inclined her head, the gesture subtle, shaped by both exhaustion and reluctant agreement. Her palm traced the curve of her thigh again, fingers skimming the place where magic had once lived, where it still trembled, muted but present.

“You could try,” Snow suggested, her hand lifting into a slow flourish, fingers sculpting the air with exaggerated elegance. “Just... whisk yourself somewhere safer.”

Regina raised an eyebrow, arched, and calculated.

“If we’re being precise,” she said, her tone sharpened into dry amusement, “Emma prefers poof.”

She drew a breath, held it, let it unfurl.

“But if escape were an option, do you think I’d still be warming this velvet? The cuff didn’t just bruise. It lingered. Its imprint isn’t confined to flesh; it’s woven through the threads of what remains, besides… I won’t leave you.”

Her gaze shifted, narrowing toward Snow’s wrist. A flicker stirred there, delicate and fleeting. A shimmer not caused by torchlight, but by something older. Something intentional.

“I think the braid intervened,” she said, the words spoken slowly, reverently. “When I spoke to you, not for show, not for strategy, but from truth, it responded. Not with a burst, not with brilliance. With a flicker. A thread of memory, a pulse of connection.”

Snow faltered. Her hand stopped mid-circle, resting against the rim of the bowl. Her eyes widened, startled not by fear, but by recognition.

“There was a warmth,” she said softly. “Faint. Out of place. But it didn’t frighten me.”

Regina nodded, her breath no longer frayed but deliberate.

“It wasn’t asking you to believe. It was asking you to remember. To look again.”

Snow’s grip around the pestle tightened. Not in resistance, but resolve.

“Regina,” she said, voice low and laced with urgency. “You need to leave. Alone.”

Regina’s reply came without hesitation. Quiet. Firm. Unshakable.

“No. This is not a strategy, Snow. It’s a promise. Emma would never forgive me for leaving you to Cora’s hands. And truthfully, neither would I.”

The silence that followed did not press against them with weight. It wrapped around them with care. Firelight flickered along the edges of glass and tile, painting soft halos across Snow’s forehead, casting golden shadows across Regina’s cheekbones.

Their eyes met, holding neither apology nor resistance, only understanding.

What they had survived had not erased what stood between them. But it had reshaped it.

If fate allowed them to walk free of this chamber, the rest would come. In stories retold over slow breakfasts. In confessions shared through moonlit hours. In moments not yet earned, but waiting.

For now, there was no need for words.

Trust had stepped forward.

And in this moment, that was everything.

*

David’s voice swelled in waves, each declaration louder, sharper, more fervent than the last. His hands carved the air with desperate conviction, each gesture meant to rally hearts around Snow’s rescue. The war room pulsed with urgency, thick as smoke and twice as suffocating. Emma remained motionless, eyes hollow, jaw set. With each syllable uttered, it became unmistakably clear, her father’s desperation belonged to one woman only, and it was not Regina. Around the table, loyalty shifted like sand. No one spoke her name.

Only Emma.

She slipped Blue’s pouch of protection into her pocket. The leather pressed cool against her palm, a small promise in a world that had grown careless. She moved silently, boots kissing the frost-laced stone with measured grace. Not a single gaze followed her exit, not David, not the council, not the memory of Snow stitched into their battle cries.

Outside, the night breathed in fragments. The bell above Gold’s shop rang with delicate defiance, a cheerful lilt that mocked the hour. The door shut behind her, sealing intention into darkness.

No deals.

Gold appeared without sound, as if conjured from shadow. He leaned into his cane, one finger brushing its carved handle, the gesture serpentine and slow. Shadows swirled around him, drawn as much to his presence as to his promise.

“Ms. Swan,” he purred. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Emma’s jaw tightened. Her shoulders squared.

“Of course you have.”

Gold tilted his head, amusement flickering behind dark eyes. “I had presumed Cora’s demise was permanent. But life is ever fond of second acts, wouldn’t you agree?”

Emma stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the chill clinging to her breath like smoke swallowed by fire. Her voice landed in the hush between them, sharp with bitterness but shaped by something older, disappointment carved into resolve.

“Cora’s return splinters your future, doesn’t it?” she said. “The neat arc of power you’ve stitched together, cracked open by her hands. That disturbs you.”

Gold tilted his head with feline grace, a smile curling where most would flinch.

“You give me far too much credit,” he murmured, the cane’s polished surface catching the candlelight. “This miracle belongs to Belle. Pain stitched into hope; longing refined into permanence. She wanted me to endure, and I obliged. Cora?” His smile tilted, sharp as glass. “She’s news that’s already yellowing.”

Emma’s laugh was hollow strangled.

“A miracle?” The word curled in her throat like poison. “Is that what we’re calling this nightmare now?”

She moved closer, fists curled, breath shallow, eyes flaring with fury that bordered on grief.

“Cora stole Regina,” Emma said, the words thick with fury. “Tore her from everything, her home, her son, me.”

She stepped closer. Her fists were trembling now, not from fear, but from restraint fraying into desperation.

“She took her to gods know where. Left her vulnerable to gods know what.”

Her voice dropped, but the intensity sharpened.

“And once again, Regina pays for your bargains. For your riddles. For every curse you left to rot beneath someone else’s skin. She suffers while you grin behind your cane.”

Gold didn’t move.

“You speak of miracles,” Emma continued, breath staggered. “But what miracle demands the woman I love disappear into silence?”

She paused, chest tight, the weight of unspoken words pressing like stone against her ribs.

“Tell me. Where’s the divine mercy in that?”

Her voice cracked, no longer able to mask the quake beneath her composure. Heat rose to her throat, sorrow gathering behind her eyes, but she didn’t look away.

Because this wasn’t weakness.

It was love with its teeth bared.

It was a vow, spoken as threat.

It was everything she was willing to burn to get Regina back.

Gold lifted one hand, fingers pale and deliberate, each movement calculated with the weight of centuries. Silence thickened in the air between them, heavy as prophecy, curling with menace.

“You know what I require,” he said, each syllable rolled in velvet and venom. His voice moved slowly, purposefully, shaped like a blade wrapped in silk. “And you know what you seek, though you may not yet admit it aloud.”

No deal.

Emma’s throat tightened, each breath scraping against something raw. Her heartbeat thudded with the force of a promise she was not ready to betray.

“Let them love again,” she said, her voice scarcely rising beyond breath. The words slipped from her lips like something unearthed, not summoned, but remembered. They trembled with the weight of longing pressed into silence, fragile and deliberate.

She did not speak for herself, not truly.

She spoke for Henry, whose heart had stitched itself to both of theirs with thread spun from hope.

She spoke for Regina, whose absence clawed at the corners of her soul with quiet insistence.

And she spoke for the braid. That quiet, ceaseless ache lodged behind every moment that had faltered into regret, every apology born too late to be soothed, every truth that had gone unspoken because courage had arrived just one breath shy of belief.

Gold’s smile lengthened, slow and predatory. He tapped the head of his cane against the floor. The sound rippled outward, thunder encased in velvet.

“Deal?”

No deal.

Emma flinched.

Her lips parted before conviction could catch them before love could rise and interrupt.

The word escaped, a whisper, a tremor, a betrayal.

“Deal.”

It landed like a stone inside her mouth. The taste of ash spread across her tongue, bitter and grainy, as if the syllables themselves had been burned before they were spoken. Shame crept beneath her ribs, slow and insistent, curling around her lungs until each breath trembled with guilt.

Her hand drifted to her chest, the braid pulsing beneath her sleeve. Not in anger. Not in recoil. But in mourning.

Forgive me, she thought. Regina, for every moment I hesitated.

Forgive me, Henry, for this promise I’ve bartered like coin.

Let this betrayal bloom into grace. Let it carve a path toward love, if not clean, then honest. If not blessed, then chosen.

Gold turned away, satisfied, his silhouette languid and poisonous beneath the lantern glow.

“Em-mah.”

Her name unfurled from his mouth, reverent and vile all at once, each syllable strung with precision like pearl on wire. It crept across the room and curled around her spine. She froze.

The sound stopped her breath. Her hand gripped the door, but her pulse had become a storm. Her body remembered every deal she’d vowed never to make. Every thread of fate she’d sworn she’d cut before it tangled her again.

Gold stepped forward, voice dropping, soft now, deliberate. Almost tender.

“When evil walks in flesh but lacks a vessel,” he said, each word etched in air, “even the smallest sliver of virtue can undo the storm it carries.”

Emma turned, slow and deliberate, her gaze dark with something older than fury, something shaped by loss and tempered by memory. The shadows cast by Gold's lantern seemed to lean inward, as if listening. Her voice, when it came, didn’t rise. It emerged from beneath the storm, low, hushed, hollowed by truth.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Gold’s smile stretched, not gleeful, not cruel, but almost tender. The kind of smile that blossoms when the final move has already been made, and the board holds no more surprises. It lingered like perfume from a shuttered door.

“When the moment arrives Saviour. You’ll know.”

The clock responded, its voice cold and measured.

Tick.

Then again.

Tock.

The room dimmed, not by flame, but by pressure. Magic folded inwards, an invisible hush pressing against the walls, cradling the floor in quiet anticipation. Even the cane in Gold’s hand seemed less an object than an extension of intent.

He looked at her with eyes that held no mercy, but something deeper, knowledge aged into inevitability.

“Now run along, dearie,” he said, voice threadbare with satisfaction. “And save your Queen.”

Emma stepped into the night, the door closing behind her with a whisper that echoed like a vow. Her breath moved through her like water laced with flame. Blue’s pouch thudded gently against her ribs; a heartbeat borrowed from hope. Beneath her skin, the braid stirred, not wildly, not urgently, but with steady resolve, each pulse a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

The moon threw a pale light across the street, painting the path ahead in silver and sorrow.

Inside the shop, Gold remained.

Alone.

Still smiling.

“My debt is repaid,” he said softly, as if speaking to the dark itself.

“Saviour.”

Chapter Text

The Vault did not awaken with force. It welcomed her through recognition.

Emma moved toward its threshold slowly, the air crisp with frost that folded around her coat like breath meeting fabric. Her exhale rose in quiet spirals, gathering briefly before vanishing. Each footstep landed with solemn softness, muted by stone worn smooth from centuries of mourning. This was not a place summoned by conquest. It was a sanctum stitched by memory.

She had not crossed Regina’s vault since a lone incantation severed silence from legacy, naming her without spectacle as Mr Swan: braided in intention, steeped in grief. Now the chamber waited again, listening for the echo of that choice.

Somewhere beneath the surface, breath shifted.

And Regina screamed.

Not loud. Not wild. Torn.

Emma froze.
Not in fear.
In recognition.

The scream tore through the stone, not like a warning, but like something sacred being fractured open. Emma’s breath faltered, caught between instinct and reverence, the frost in the chamber curling tighter around her sleeves as if trying to brace her for what was coming.

Her hand shot out to the wall, grounding herself.
Not for balance.
For presence.

She didn’t call out.
Didn’t run.
She listened.

Because what she’d heard was agony.
The sound of something ancient, something loved, something known, being rewritten inside Regina’s body.

And then her feet moved.
Not fast.
Certain.

The braid pulsed once, like it felt the scream too.
Then tightened
Not to protect, but to prepare.

*

Regina’s cry fractured the vault, splintering the silence. A ceremonial dagger, etched in old iron and vengeance, sliced a star into her flesh, five points bleeding legacy: Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water.

Snow turned sharply, bowl clutched uselessly in her hands as Cora’s form unravelled. What had once passed for ethereal now collapsed into red vapor. Thick. Gleeful. Sentient. Five tendrils split outward, dancing across stone with predatory joy.

She didn’t scream.

She winced.

Not from pain. From recognition.

Because she saw it clearly now, no enchantment, no haze, no mother-shaped illusion to soften the act. Just violation, threaded in red, poised to carve legacy through Regina’s flesh.

Her grip tightened on the bowl.

It made no difference.

Regina levitated.

Snow’s feet stayed rooted, body braced as though it could absorb impact from a distance. But no protection lived in her limbs. No spell leapt to her lips.

She watched the tendrils coil and pierce.

And did nothing.

Not out of cowardice.

But because there was nothing to do.

*

Regina levitated.
Just inches.
But enough to strip away safety.

The vapours coiled around her midair, tight, deliberate. Each tendril found its mark, searing against the star’s edges. One by one, they slipped inside.
Through biology.

Snow gasped, breath catching. She had witnessed possession. She had felt corruption. But this was different. This was anatomical conquest, and the vault pulsed with it.

Regina’s body buckled.

And the braid surged, not blindly, not in panic, but with purpose. It did not brace against pain. It shielded their child. Thread by thread, its light folded inward, wrapping the unborn in a protective rhythm tuned to one truth: Regina was still choosing.

There was no flinch in her breath. No fracture in her resolve. The vault felt it.
So did the braid.

And the chamber waited.
Not for defence.
For arrival.

*

Emma’s palm hovered against the door. She did not touch it as a command. She asked, fingers grazing stone with the reverence of someone returning to the ground where devotion had once knelt.

The vault opened.

Its groan stretched softly into the air, not with resistance, but release. The enchantment woven from Regina’s blood offered no flare of rejection. It responded with subtle pull, familiar and strange, like a breath drawn from a memory buried deep in the bones.

Beneath Emma’s skin, the braid stirred. Its pulse did not blaze. It moved gently, coiling around the curve of her wrist in a rhythm so quiet it felt inherent.

She stepped inside.

Candlelight painted the chamber in amber arcs, stretching across the floor with the melancholy of a room accustomed to ritual. Smoke hung in the air, neither oppressive nor benign. It lingered as a witness, perhaps too wary to flee, too faithful to dissolve.

But something in the air shifted.

The scent of iron lingered beneath the smoke. Not fresh. Not gone. Just enough to remind Emma that harm had lived here, even if it no longer ruled. Her breath faltered. It rose in uneven rhythm, caught between presence and memory.

There at the centre sat Regina.

She was not collapsed. She was not crowned. She was simply present. Her form was folded into velvet, the fabric spilling like dusk around limbs shaped by exhaustion rather than defeat. The bruises on her wrists had faded to lilac, no longer loud with pain, no longer angry in hue. They had become part of her skin, not as wounds, but as testament.

Her fingers rested against her thigh, curled not in tension, but in quiet memory. That space once saturated with command, now held nothing but breath. Power no longer thrived there. It waited.

Emma’s gaze dropped lower.

A star had been carved into Regina’s abdomen. Five points. Uneven in healing, precise in intention. The flesh had sealed, but the magic had not truly left. At each tip, faint shimmer swelled threads of vapor twisted upward, red, and reluctant, unsure whether to vanish or remain as witness. They curled above her like regrets softened by time. Then, with silence, they dissolved.

Panic did not take Emma loudly.

But it arrived.

Sharp. Immediate. Her spine pulled taut, her vision narrowed, and the braid responded. Its pulse flared beneath her skin, not chaotic, not ablaze, but concentrated. It tightened, and coiled with deliberation. Not defending. Listening. Its rhythm aligned itself with something deeper than fear.

Regina looked up.

Snow remained at her side, kneeling not with obligation, but choice. The bowl before her sat heavy with ritual, powder crushed from petal and root, its arrangement reverent but not rigid. Her fingers traced silent paths above the rim, her movements shaped by remembrance. She did not raise her eyes. She knew the chamber’s silence belonged to others now. She had stepped back, not in absence, but in devotion.

Emma steadied herself.

This was not an intrusion.

It was consequence.

Regina’s gaze met hers without tremor, without urgency, without plea. It was steady, unapologetic, and ancient in its expectation. Like a cathedral window that had waited through seasons and siege, unbroken in its purpose.

You held on," Emma whispered, voice steady, too steady. Like if she wavered, she’d fall apart. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she kept it there, for Regina’s sake

Regina answered without hesitation. Her voice was pared down to its essential note, neither guarded nor yielding.

"I knew you would come."

The chamber absorbed the words and exhaled.

No tension rose. No sparks danced. The silence did not press, it stretched. Every breath in the room began to lengthen, as if the very stone had chosen to slow its pulse. The walls, so long steeped in incantation and fire, seemed to soften, not toward surrender, but toward memory. The floor beneath them warmed slightly, like it remembered two other bodies, two other vows, and had been waiting ever since.

Somewhere behind the stone, the vault listened.

Not for command.

Not for power.

But for the story they were finally ready to tell.

Regina’s silhouette whispered of resistance fought at the cellular level, a war not raged, but endured. Her ribs lifted with caution, each breath drawn not from impulse, but from practice, measured and reverent, as though the air itself had learned to move around her, not through her.

Magic still clung.

Yet her eyes remained steady.

They rose when Emma entered, not seeking, not pleading, but recognising. No flicker of hope. Only instruction. A warning delivered in silence. Not for herself. For their child that moved quietly within.

Her hands rested low.
Not in protection. Not in invocation. Simply there, cradling a truth too sacred for language. The braid pulsed faintly against her skin, a quiet perimeter, a shimmer that knew how to shield without flourish, how to remain without demand. It did not ignite. It did not retreat.

It simply remembered.

Regina did not speak again.

Because speech would splinter her balance. And balance was the last gift she could offer to what grew quietly within her womb.

She was not shattered.

She was waiting.

I’m still here.
I’m holding her.
Don’t let me be the last thing she remembers.

Emma didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She felt it first in her chest. A low thrum. No flare. No alarm. Just possession. The braid stirred again, pressing inward, not wild, but focused. A rhythm like heartbeat translated into instinct. A claim made without demand.

Regina flinched.

Barely.

Her shoulders tightened. Her breath caught mid-inhale. Beneath her ribs, shimmer responded, not in pain, but resistance. The braid had answered. Across bodies. Across blood.

Emma’s fingers brushed her skin.

Heat bloomed there. Not scalding. Not frightened. Just known. As though the magic had stopped resisting and begun remembering.

The chamber leaned inward.

Not darker. Denser. As though the air had thickened into witness, and the silence had chosen to wrap around them, not like fog, but like fabric.

Snow looked up.

Her eyes didn’t widen. She didn’t speak. But her hands, so steady before, drew back from the bowl just slightly. She felt it too. The shift. The permission. The line that wasn’t magic yet, but would be if they let it.

Regina met Emma’s gaze again.

Her lips didn’t part. Her eyes didn’t plead. But the braid shimmered brighter beneath her skin, and Emma saw it, really saw it. The pulse wasn’t reacting to danger.

It was preparing.

The halves were reaching.

Emma’s fingers curled tighter around her wrist as the braid surged again, not violently, but with decision. The pulse that once nestled quietly now extended through her forearm, up to her shoulder, as if the magic had begun mapping her body with intent. Not a flare. A summons.

Across the chamber, beneath the weight of candlelight, and silence, Regina inhaled too sharply. The shimmer beneath her skin bloomed, not with spectacle, but with urgency. Her hand instinctively moved to cradle low against her abdomen, as though the pulse had brushed against the child it protected.

Emma’s throat tightened.

She knew that feeling. Not from spellbooks. Not from battle.

From Henry.

The braid wasn’t illuminating, it was remembering. It was connecting.

The pulse grew stronger. Not frantic. Precise. It pressed beneath her ribs, rolled against her spine, and Emma felt it, not as heat or pressure, but as direction. Like the magic inside her was no longer reacting to Regina, but reaching for her.

Snow shifted. Her hands dropped to her knees. Her eyes met Emma’s.

“It’s starting,” she said softly. Not with fear. With awareness. With reverence.

Emma took a slow step forward.

The braid followed. Each movement matched by a pulse that wasn’t just magic, it was emotion. Anger. Love. Loss. Devotion.

And Regina’s gaze didn’t falter.

Her silence was no longer resistance, it was offering. She had held on long enough. Her body ached, her soul braced. She had kept their child safe. Kept Emma’s part of her alive.

The braid surged once more.

This time, Emma swayed. Not from pain. From recognition.

She knew now.

The braid wasn’t preparing for war.

It was preparing to complete itself.

She stepped forward, one breath at a time, the braid coiled tighter around her wrist, not as adornment, but as instinct given form, woven into her like marrow, pulsing in sync with something deeper. Not with her own heartbeat, but with someone else’s.

It wasn’t a surge of magic. It was a rhythm. Measured. Steady. Nested somewhere low and deliberate.

She looked at Regina, really looked.

At the way, her hand rested near her stomach, not with desperation, but with quiet purpose. At the light flickering beneath her skin, threaded with the braid’s shimmer, more pronounced now. Protective.

Emma’s chest constricted.

Not with dread. With clarity.

She didn't ask.

She knew.

The braid hadn’t just split to defend legacy or stall Cora; it had divided to guard the new beginning carried inside Regina. Their child. The embodiment of every choice they'd made. The vessel Cora needed to rise. The heartbeat Emma had unknowingly fought to protect.

Regina didn’t cry. She didn’t tremble. She just met Emma’s gaze, and held it.

And Emma finally understood.

She felt it, the braid tugging through her veins, responding to truth. Her body wasn’t preparing for battle. It was preparing for bonding. Completion. Sacrifice, if needed. But only once every truth had been laid bare.

She inhaled slowly, her gaze never leaving Regina’s.
When she spoke, it was not to break the silence, but to belong to it.
Her whisper came like memory meeting breath.

"You held her through everything."

Regina's throat shifted. No sound followed.
She nodded once, the gesture nearly imperceptible.
Not reluctance. Not confirmation.
Just truth made visible.

And the braid surged.

Not like fire.

Like recognition

Emma didn’t mean to fall.

It wasn’t collapse.

It was gravity.

Her knees met the stone with a quiet thud, like the earth itself had agreed she didn’t need to stand for this. Not for Regina. Not for the truth now blooming across her skin like fire held in glass.

The braid surged again, hot, steady, like it had been waiting for this. Not magic. Alignment. Every thread within Emma’s body recoiled from formality. It wanted presence. And presence demanded devotion.

Regina’s breath hitched.

Not at the braid. At Emma. At the way she didn’t hide her gaze. At the way her body, so often braced against control and chaos, now bowed, not in ritual, not in supplication, but in complete devotion.

Emma saw her.

She saw the bruises, the posture, the pulse beneath Regina’s ribs protecting their child. She saw the fear not as failure, but as proof of love too large to contain.

And something inside her broke.

Not painfully.

Beautifully.

She reached for the edge of Regina’s seat, not to hold, but to anchor herself. Her forehead dipped forward, close enough for her breath to reach the space between Regina’s knees.

She didn’t whisper anything poetic.

She just said:

“You’re incredible.”

Regina didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. Her fingers curled near Emma’s temple, tentative.

Snow turned away, giving them silence not out of etiquette, but respect.

And the braid pulsed between them like a heartbeat finally threaded whole.

*

Snow didn’t rise.

She knelt still beside the bowl, her hands resting in her lap, fingers no longer moving. The ritual’s preparation had paused, not because magic demanded it, but because truth had.

Her gaze lifted, slowly, drawn not by sound or spell, but by the shift in the room’s breath.

She saw Emma first, on her knees, forehead near Regina’s thigh, body bowed not out of pain, but devotion.

And then she looked at Regina.

At the burn marks along her wrists. At the faint shimmer of the braid still pulsing beneath her ribs. At the protective way, her hand hovered over her stomach. Not instinctively. Intentionally.

Snow’s breath caught.

And everything she had ever misunderstood unfurled.

The fear she’d once mistaken for cruelty.

The silence she’d once seen as defiance.

The pain she’d once condemned without context.

It was all love. Fierce, unbearable love. Between Regina and Emma, yes, but now beyond them. Woven into the child who waited, into the braid that had held the line longer than any spell.

Snow didn’t speak.

She simply looked at them, really looked. And for once, saw not enemies, not opposites, not complications.

She saw family.

The bowl in front of her shimmered softly, its crushed contents lifting slightly into the air. The ritual was ready now. Not because they summoned it.

Because Snow finally understood

Snow’s breath stilled as the truth settled.

Regina, bruised and burning, barely upright, was carrying Emma’s child. Not a vessel. Not a prophecy. Her grandchild.

The ache in her chest wasn’t shock. It was recognition, of every moment she’d misjudged Regina, every silence she’d assumed was spite, every choice made from love that she’d mistaken for power.

She looked at Emma, still bowed, head near Regina’s thigh, breathing reverently as the braid pulsed in quiet devotion. And she looked at Regina, whose body had endured invasion, suppression, and hollowing, yet still shielded the most fragile piece of them all.

Snow didn’t rise.

She moved slowly.

Her knees touched the stone one at a time, beside Emma, not in obedience, not in ceremony, but in grief and gratitude. Her gaze didn’t search for answers. It simply rested on Regina’s face.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I didn’t understand.”

Regina didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

The braid shimmered again, brighter this time, pulsing between the three of them. Not as warning. Not as preparation.

As blessing.

The ritual hadn’t begun.

But the moment already had.

*

The chamber was quiet now, not from absence, but reverence. Snow had stepped back, her hands lowered, her gaze cast downward. This was no longer her space to witness. The braid had claimed it. So had the silence between Emma and Regina.

Emma remained kneeling, fingers curled into the cold stone, her breath measured not by fear, but by awe. Every part of her, every splinter of past and pride, had bowed. And still, she didn’t feel small.

She felt home.

Regina didn’t speak. She hadn’t since Emma entered. But something about her gaze had shifted, no longer guarded, no longer bracing for pain. She looked at Emma like she might reach forward and cradle the apology neither of them needed to say.

The braid pulsed again.

Steady. Heavy. Ancient.

It threaded warmth up Emma’s arm, into her chest, across the space between them in memory. It pulled on the magic that had once split the sky above this vault, the echo that named her Mr Swan not in title but in vow.

She looked up.

And Regina let her.

Their eyes met with no filter now. No posture, no role, no protection. Emma didn’t see a queen or a survivor.

She saw Regina.

Terrified. Unbreakable. Quietly extraordinary. Regina.

“You’re not just fierce,” Emma whispered, voice cracking. “You’re... you’re everything.”

Regina blinked once. Her lips parted like a response might come, but the braid answered first.

It surged.

And in that moment, the ritual began, not with incantation, not with magic flung into air, but with Emma’s kneeling form and the braid beginning to stitch itself whole between them.

Snow watched, silent.

Cora waited, hidden.

The braid moved.

And Emma didn’t rise.

She belonged here.

At Regina’s feet.

Where love once became vow.

Where magic remembered what it was made to protect.

Where their child pulsed softly, held by both halves of a bond too sacred to fracture.

The shimmer that had pulsed beneath Regina’s skin began to stretch, not violently, not with flair. Just slowly. Intimately. As if the magic itself had found the rhythm of her breath and chosen to follow it.

From Emma’s wrist, the glow extended outward like golden thread pulled taut, not toward the ceiling, but towards Regina.

The braid was threading.

Not through gesture. Through choice.

It snaked along Emma’s forearm, lifted in soft coils through the air, reaching, not for dominance, but for completion. It curved downward, kissed the space near Regina’s knees, and pulsed once.

And Regina spoke.

Her voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Not fragile. Held.

“You saw me.”

Not a question.

A statement.

Emma’s breath stilled.

Regina’s fingers lowered slowly to brush the edge of Emma’s jaw, trembling, not from weakness, but from restraint finally loosened. She looked down at the woman kneeling before her. Not with authority. Not with pride.

With love.

“You saw all of it. Even the part I buried. The part I carried for you.”

The braid surged again, not bright, but deeper now. Like it had rooted into something older. The kind of magic that remembers silence, and threads it into devotion.

Emma didn’t move.

She just nodded. Once. Slow.

And Regina whispered—

“I love you.”

Emma’s breath quaked, not from doubt, but from the weight of what Regina had just given her. A truth unspoken until now. A recognition that had stitched itself into every bruise, every silence, every pulse of the braid.

She looked up slowly.

Her eyes weren’t wet, but they shimmered, as if even her magic understood this wasn’t a moment for power, but for presence.

She shifted, inching closer on her knees, until her hands came to rest gently against Regina’s thighs, not possessive, not pleading. Just anchored. Her voice when it came, cracked on the first word, but steadied in its truth.

“I did see you. I think I always did.”

The braid shimmered between them, a fine thread that now curled softly around Emma’s knuckles, pulsing in time with something deeper.

“Your solitude ends here. Your strength doesn’t have to be silent anymore. From this breath forward, I see you, and I’m staying.”

Emma’s thumbs brushed softly against the fabric draped across Regina’s legs, not for comfort, but connection. The final wall between them had already fallen, this was the reach.

She swallowed; gaze still locked to hers.

“You held her for both of us. But now... I hold you.”

The braid pulsed once.

Then twice.

Then folded inward, as if the magic itself had nodded.

And somewhere inside Regina—beneath rib and ritual—the child kicked. Just once. Just enough.

Just in time.

Regina’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t magic stirring. It was the unmistakable pressure low in her belly, soft, deliberate. A kick. One pulse against her ribs that didn’t ask for protection.

Her hand dropped instinctively, pressing lightly against the space just below the shimmer of the braid. The room didn’t react. The magic didn’t flare. But the air shifted, as if something sacred had nudged reality back into shape.

Emma felt it too.

Not with sight. Not through the braid. Through Regina’s silence, her sudden stillness, the way her jaw unclenched, and her hand trembled beneath its own gravity.

Regina looked down.

Not in fear.

In wonder.

She wasn’t ready to speak. Not yet. The moment wasn’t built for language. It was built for knowing.

The braid shimmered warmer now, coils drawing inward toward Emma’s wrist and outward into Regina’s abdomen, like it had finally mapped the bond between them and decided it was time.

Time to begin.
Time to remember.
Time to make whole what love had protected.

Regina’s voice cracked through the quiet, not sharp, not sudden. Just barely there. Like something too sacred to speak had finally asked to be heard.

Her hand still rested low, fingers trembling faintly over the spot where the movement had fluttered. Not a kick. Not pressure. Just presence.

She didn’t lift her gaze. She didn’t shift her body. Her breath stayed shallow.

But the whisper came.
“She knows us.”

The braid pulsed once, wrapping that truth in light. Not showy. Not loud. Just confirmation.

Emma’s head dipped lower. Her fingers curled tighter around Regina’s legs.

And Regina’s whisper returned. Not to explain. Not to name. Just to honour.
“She knows what your silence sounds like when you love me.”

Then silence again.
But it wasn’t empty anymore. It was filled.
With magic waiting.
With a heartbeat tethered.
With two mothers on the brink of transformation.

The pulse steadied.

It no longer flickered across Emma’s wrist or shimmered beneath Regina’s ribs; it settled. Like magic had found its rhythm. Like love had chosen its shape.

Emma’s braid glowed softly, no longer reaching or searching. It lifted in delicate spirals through the air, golden light curling like smoke in reverse. Not overhead. Not outward, but towards Regina.

The shimmer beneath Regina’s skin responded instantly.

It didn’t resist.

It opened.

The strands met halfway, threaded through silence and memory, stitched through sacrifice and breath. No words were spoken, but the chamber bent around them, stone, and air folding to acknowledge what had always been true:

They were never separate.

Not the braid.

Not the bond.

Not the love.

The light between them sharpened, not blinding, not loud. Just... whole. A soft arc that stretched from Emma’s wrist to Regina’s abdomen, then rested there. As if marking the moment, the child inside was no longer shielded by halves.

But by unity.

The braid hummed low.

Not a sound.

A heartbeat.

Magic didn’t erupt.

It anchored.

The shimmer beneath Regina’s skin had steadied.

Until it didn’t.

The braid’s pulse narrowed, flashing beneath Emma’s skin like a protective grip. And the whisper slithered through the stone again, not louder than before, just closer.

Regina felt it. Beneath bone, beneath memory.

Something foreign.

Something claiming.

She curled forward, hand pressed low against her abdomen, trying to shield what was already woven in devotion. Her eyes flicked to Emma, and there it was. A second wrongness.

Not in the air.

In Emma’s face the shimmer of defiance had gone still.

Her posture had braced. Her fingers had curled, not to cast, but to give. And Regina saw it: not fear. Not readiness.

Resignation.

Regina’s body shifted, instinct cutting through shock. Her voice rasped, raw with panic.

“What did you do?”

Emma blinked, braid flickering against her pulse. She didn’t say a word just gave Regina a taught half-smile.

Regina’s fingers dug in, sharp with urgency.
“The deal. Emma… What did it cost?”

Emma didn’t flinch.
Her gaze fell, not bowed, or broken. Just quiet.
Then a shrug. Small. Unbothered.
Like she’d stopped expecting the world to care what it took.

Regina’s throat closed.
That gesture—more than words—told her everything.
Not shame. Not defiance. Just the bone-deep truth of someone who’d spent too long being spent.
And chose it again.

“No,” Regina whispered, her voice brittle.
She shook Emma’s arm, trying to shake the meaning out of her.
“That’s not nothing. You are not—”

Emma looked up then, and her smile was worse than the shrug.
Thin. Kind. Already gone.

Then the whisper surged again, stronger this time.
It didn’t slip. It struck.
Through the braid, through the marrow of Regina’s ribs, laced with ice and old power.
It didn’t grin.
It claimed.
A mother’s voice hollowed by ambition, curling tight around Regina’s breath.

So eager to play saviour, my darling. But what will they take when they decide you’re expendable?

Regina staggered, just slightly. Just enough.
The sound wasn’t a whisper anymore.
It was Cora. It was truth. It was her worst self, dressed in memory.

“What. Did. It. Cost.”

Emma didn’t answer.

She folded.

Her forehead dipped toward Regina’s legs, voice breaking

“Me. It cost… Me!”

Regina's heart clenched. She reached for Emma, grip tightening, not to demand answers, just to keep her from disappearing inside that stillness.

“You didn’t have to,” she whispered.
It wasn’t anger.
It was grief wearing her voice.

And Emma blinked once.
“I love you.”

There was no crescendo. No flourish. Just that. Simple. Irrevocable.

Regina’s breath caught. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not with words. Instead, she leaned in, framing Emma’s face between her hands, feeling the heat of tears on her skin and the pulse of the braid humming beneath her own palms.

She kissed her.

Not with caution. Not with doubt.

With everything.

With years of unspoken longing. With the ache of sacrifice. With the fury of witnessing Emma give herself away again.

Emma’s hand rose slowly, then clutched at Regina’s back, grounding them both. Her breath hitched, her fingers curled, and the magic around them dimmed, not in warning, but in quiet respect.

When they rested forehead against forehead, neither spoke.
The silence held.
And in it, everything they hadn’t said had finally been understood.

*

Regina hadn’t let go.

Her fingers still cradled Emma’s face, thumbs resting just beneath damp lashes. Their foreheads still touched, softly, firmly, like the connection itself was a barrier. A vow. A warning.

Emma lifted her head only enough to feel the shift in Regina’s breath, clipped and shallow, no longer flowing with ease. The braid pulsed once, then again. Slower. Focused.

Cora’s red tendrils curled where love resides, where fear pulses, where Regina built herself after the ruins.

And now, the braid’s magic is all that’s protecting her and their unborn child. Its tight grip underneath Emma’s skin doesn’t just protect, it pressurises, holds the boundary between devotion and descent. But it’s faltering. Cora is learning the contours of Regina’s silence. The timing. The vulnerabilities. She speaks not into air, but along the curve of Regina’s spine. Right where memory aches.

The voice is colder this time. Closer.
“You always break for love,” Cora murmured from within. “And this time, you won’t know what piece you lost until it’s too late.”

Regina’s jaw locked. Her fingers trembled against Emma’s cheeks, not from weakness, but effort.
Holding back.
Holding on.

She shivers.
It isn’t fear.

The tendrils don’t lash. They wait.
They want choice. They want invitation.
If Regina fractures, if she wavers, they’ll know it’s time.

But she doesn’t.

She exhales and drops her hand to Emma’s shoulder, grounding them both. The pulse inside her is wrong, familiar, and false. But the touch beneath her fingers is real.

Cora can whisper all she wants, she thinks.
But love was never weakness. And she will not get the chance to name it sacrifice.

Regina still hadn’t let go of Emma’s face, foreheads resting close, their magic humming low between skin. The braid’s pulse had steadied again, tight, rhythmic, expectant. Cora was quiet now. Too quiet.

Then the heat shifted.

Not a surge. A snap.

Regina’s spine arched sharply, not by choice. Her hands twitched against Emma’s cheeks, not from tremble but fracture. The whisper didn’t return; it lunged. Not into thought. Into blood.

“Enough.”

The tendrils coiled hard, red, and ancient, erupting from within, bypassing words and pain. They didn’t reach for Regina.

They shot through her, a jagged burst of bloodline magic veined with ambition and maternal wrath, straight toward Emma’s chest.

She was kneeling, still pressing into Regina’s thighs, her hands grounding them both when the air cracked open.

Regina screamed, not out loud. Inside.
Every piece of her magic surged reflexively, wild, and protective.

But the tendrils moved fast.
Too fast.

One slammed into Emma’s shoulder, searing against flesh. Her body shuddered, silent, but her head fell forward.

Regina caught her before she hit the floor, arms wrapping around her, braid thrumming violently beneath Emma’s skin.

“No,” she gasped. “No no no—Emma!”

Her magic flooded outward, uncontrolled now, furious, maternal, divine. It didn’t target Cora. It targeted the tendrils themselves.

Red light hissed where skin met spell. Smoke burst outward.

The braid flared white.
Then gold.

Emma groaned softly, eyes fluttering, pulse staggering, but present.

Inside Regina, the voice raged.

“She was the gate.”
“She was the anchor.”
“She was mine .”

The braid snapped taut, light flaring between them, but not in bond.

In warning.

And in that exact breath, their child kicked.

Hard.

Not a flutter. Not a tremble.

Refusal.

Regina gasped, clutching the surge of life that pushed back against the intrusion, against the deal, the shadow, the claiming.

Emma reeled, braid pulsing erratically as Cora’s magic stuttered.

And then, as though stitched by breath and birthright, the chamber exhaled.

The braid steadied.

The magic shimmered whole.

And Cora?

She screamed.

Silent. Splintered. Expelled.

By the child’s will.

By the bond forged before the price was ever named.

Regina’s lips parted.

She looked down at her abdomen.

And whispered

“She said no.”

The chamber didn’t explode.

It breathed.

Stone shimmered faintly, the torchlight folding inward like it had been taught reverence. The bowl, untouched, rose from Snow’s side, drawn by the pulse now surging between Emma and Regina.

The braid unfurled fully, a final halo of light looping between them. It no longer pulsed against danger. It sang. A low, harmonic hum, threaded through Emma’s skin, and across Regina’s abdomen where the child moved again, not defiant now, but calm.

The contents of the bowl lifted into the air, twisting slowly into a spiral. Not above them. Between them. Like the ritual had found its axis.

Regina’s back straightened, shoulders no longer braced but open. Her hand never left her stomach. Her breath came deeper now, not staggered. Accepted.

Emma’s wounds had closed, but she remained kneeling, her head bowed, not from pain, but from alignment. Her hands lay rooted in place, not by force, but by quiet vow

And then

The light folded.

Not dimmed. Not gone.

Integrated.

Into skin.

Into womb.

Into legacy.

No one spoke.

No words were needed.

The chamber held the silence as the ritual claimed its final beat, not in thunder, not in fire, but in remembrance.

The braid had crowned them.

Not as protectors.

As parents.

And somewhere in the hollow where Cora had tried to stake her claim, there was only memory now.

The kind not left by destruction.

The kind left by refusal.

*

Snow didn’t rush to speak.

The bowl still hovered, suspended in quiet reverence, its contents now folded into shimmer, memory threaded into bond. The ritual had crowned without invocation. Only truth.

She stood.

Her movement was gentle, deliberate. Like she feared noise would disturb the thread of magic now curled between Emma and Regina. Her eyes, wide but not wet, searched the space with something beyond awe.

She stepped forward slowly. Not toward the centre. Toward its edge, where she could still witness, but no longer shape.

Her voice came soft.

“I thought this was about protection. About legacy.”

She looked at Regina then. At the steady way, her hand remained over her abdomen, even now, not shielding, not bracing. Cradling.

“But it’s love.”

She turned to Emma, kneeling still, braid pulsing soft under her skin.

“You anchored it. And she... she answered you.”

Snow exhaled, and there was something like grace in the breath.

Not absolution.

Acceptance.

“She chose you both. Not because of the ritual. In spite of it.”

No one spoke.

Regina bowed her head slightly, not submissive, just still. Emma looked up, fingers tightening once around Regina’s legs.

Snow stepped back.

No ceremony.

Just reverence.

Regina exhaled slowly, still cradling the warmth pulsing through her abdomen. The braid shimmered faintly across her skin, no longer bracing, just holding.

Emma shifted slightly, gaze soft, reverent.

Regina studied her for a moment. Her lips twitched.

“You know, I endured a cursed childhood, a sociopathic mother, and five decades of emotional repression…”

Emma blinked, head tilting.

Regina raised an eyebrow, voice dry.

“…and apparently all it took to fix it was you grovelling at my knees with a glowing wrist and a martyr complex.”

Snow nearly choked on a breath behind them.

Emma blinked again.

Then snorted.

“You’re welcome?”

Regina smirked.

The braid pulsed once, like even it was amused.

Regina leaned slightly forward, palm warm over her abdomen.

“She kicked the curse out of herself. Our daughter. I knew she’d be dramatic.”

Emma laughed softly.

Snow grinned.

And the chamber finally felt, lighter.

Emma wasn’t going to let that stand. Not after all this.

Still kneeling, she lifted her gaze with the kind of mock-seriousness only Regina deserved.

“Well, if I'd known devotion cured trauma, I would’ve started kneeling five curses ago. Saved us both the psychological trauma.”

Regina huffed, but it was more like a laugh strangled by pride.

“And yet you waited until I was visibly combusting.”

Emma smirked.

“Timing is everything, your majesty.”

Snow, wisely, said nothing, just looked like she might excuse herself from this increasingly domestic magical repartee.

The braid pulsed once, low, and golden.

Regina didn’t miss it.

“She likes you cheeky.”

Emma raised both brows.

“She’s literally your kid. Of course she does.”

Regina leaned back, hand still firm over her abdomen.

“She’s, our child.”

And this time, Emma didn’t throw back.

She just nodded.

Soft.

Real.

*

The chamber had stilled.

Magic no longer pulsed in threat or response, it simply lingered. Soft, like dusk. The braid’s glow dimmed into a gentle shimmer, more memory than weapon now. The air folded around them, less like ritual, more like home finding its shape.

Snow moved first. She bowed her head once, then quietly walked toward the door.

The sound of her steps was the only sound that followed. Not because silence was heavy, but because peace had arrived. Not loudly. Not with triumph.

With choice.

Regina exhaled, head tipped slightly toward Emma, one brow lifted, one hand still warm over her stomach.

Emma looked up.

And slowly, finally, she rose from her knees.

Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just... quiet. Her braid glimmered once as she stood, the light folding inward like it had finished its story.

She didn’t speak.

She just reached out.

Fingers met fingers.

Regina’s hand, still bruised from protection, curved easily into Emma’s. Their grip wasn’t tight.

It was honest.

And in the stillness of a chamber that had held curses, bargains, blood, and bone…love stood tall.