He notices the low beam of light coming from the front window indicating she is probably still awake. God, he isn't sure if that's a good or a bad thing, and he grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, wishing he could be doing anything than what he is about to do.
There are times that he hates his job.
The ground is still damp from a previous downpour, but he finds no relief in the scent of clean air, the night's humidity as oppressive as the message he must deliver.
Shit. She doesn't deserve this. Any of this. She deserves so much more—a man who appreciates her, who cherishes her, who would look after her and her daughter with care and tenderness rather than treating them as if they are no more than an afterthought in a sorry excuse for a life.
Rein it in, Locksley—she's married, he instructs himself, knowing he is far too personally attached to this woman for his own good. He hesitates before knocking on the solid panel, exhaling with force as he sees her peer through the side window before opening the door.
"Sherriff Locksley," she acknowledges, the defeat in her eyes slicing into him with precision. "To what do I owe the honor of tonight's visit?"
"May I come in, Mrs. King?"
She moves back wordlessly, and he notices the impeccable state of her dress for the lateness of the hour. She motions him towards the comfortable sofa, and he sits with a sigh, wondering what has happened to the exquisite vase that had been perched on the coffee table when he had last paid a call only a few nights ago.
"What has he done this time?"
He looks into eyes he wishes he could see smiling for once rather than pinched in frustration and regret.
"Started a brawl," he answers, and she drops her head, shaking it as her expression morphs into one of disgust. "I got a call about an hour ago from the proprietor. Lee is at the station being processed as we speak."
"Where did it happen?"
She won't let him off the hook—he knows this and respects this about Regina King. Her spine is made of sterner material than those of most of the men and women on his police force, but that fact shouldn't condemn her to a life chained to a man who treats her like shit.
God, he would like to beat her husband to a pulp right now. His fist flexes in his lap.
"The Rabbit Hole," he responds, noticing the slight twitch of her lip at the mention of the notorious strip club. It is then he sees the suitcases in the corner of his vision along with a pink tote stuffed with a toddler's memorabilia. "Going somewhere, Regina?"
The use of her first name catches her attention, and he watches as some of the starch leaks out from her shoulders.
"I have to, Robin," she breathes, her brow creasing as her lips tremble. "I can't live like this anymore."
Admiration merges with fear at the thought of her moving somewhere out of his reach.
"Where will you go?" he questions, leaning in closer, seeing her hands actually tremble.
"I have no idea. I just can't subject Lily or myself to this kind of life anymore."
What possesses him, he cannot say, but his hands envelop hers, clasping them until the shaking subsides, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. A stubborn tear burns down her cheek, and it strikes him that in all of the times he has had to deliver bad news to Regina King, he has never seen her cry.
"You can stay with me."
Her eyes fly open at his audacious suggestion, and his gaze falls to their hands, still joined, neither of them making any move to disconnect from the other.
"I have a spare room, you know," he continues, attempting to sound as causal as he can. "You and Lily would be safe with me until you can decide what you need to do."
He wonders if he has pushed to far as her mouth opens silently and her brows creases in thought.
"Wouldn't we be in the way?"
Eyes are locked now, filled with sentiments too charged to voice at a time like this.
"Never," he whispers, and she nods, quickly wiping away yet another stray tear that has managed to get away from her. "Go fetch Lily, and I'll take your bags to my car."
She stands wordlessly, making her way upstairs as he stares around the room. He spots a wedding photograph, noting the frame is now cracked, wondering just when and how that damage had come about. Then he hears her footfalls, and he turns to see her cradling a tousled, raven-headed two year old close to her chest, wrapped snugly in a sage blanket. The girl stares at him with wide eyes that match her mothers, and he caresses her warm head, the scent of sleepy child hitting his heart right where it shouldn't.
He hoists their bags with little effort as they make their way to the front door.
"Are you alright?" he asks just before they walk out into the night, seeing her pause before stepping boldly into an unknown world.
"Yes," she states flatly, her tone precise and clear. "Finally."