Her sculpted brows are on a mission to meet in the centre of her forehead and her voice is low and dangerous, but the anger is secondary. Before the frown, before the fury, there was a moment – just a moment – of disbelief and hurt. My eyes had met with those two chocolate orbs, misty and laced with unmasked pain. Her voice had wavered as the question departed from her lips: "You did this?"
I want to say something – anything – to dry those dark, expressive eyes. Eyes that hold stories of worlds and kingdoms and pain and anger and hope and love – a beautiful paradox of darkness and light. I want to go back through that damned portal with Marian and find some other way to save her. I want to undo these last thirty seconds. I want to un-see the mixture of surprise and hurt on Regina's face at the very notion that I have ripped away her second chance at happiness. I want to hold her close and whisper never-ending apologies in her ear, because shit, I am so far beyond sorry. Not for saving Marian's life, but for the ripple effect it's already having. Because Regina? She's been through more than enough; she is truly the most resilient of us all. And she deserves to have happiness with someone – even if that someone isn't me.
And I know that I can't tell her the truth – maybe not ever. I can't tell her how often I imagine kissing the deep scar above her lip; or twirling a lock of her hair around my finger; or messing up her kitchen as she attempts to teach me how to make lasagne; or fighting over what movie to watch with her and Henry. I can't explain to her that she is like the brightest galaxy – powerful and complex and all encompassing. That all I want is to be tangled amongst her 1000 thread count sheets with her, mapping out constellations on her skin, as strips of afternoon sunlight filter in through the window. I can't tell her any of these things, because why would she want to hear it from the woman who stole her second chance?